in her own chair

i see her

in the chair.
the one by the window,
the side door.
an oxygen tube
running up
to her nose.

her walker nearby.

her lap warmed by an old
blanket.

a scarf around her
bird like shoulders.

glasses on, tipped downward
to do a puzzle,
or to knit.
the ball of yarn

has rolled across
the floor.

ten miles away.
some light

comes in, sparingly as if
there isn't enough

left to give.
weary from a life she didn't
choose.
she'll die in that chair.

the husband asleep in his
room.

a daughter will call and there
will be no
answer.

her tea will be cold.
her eyes closed.

decorating with new money

I don't like art
deco

I hear the woman say, as she
nibbles on a long strip

of brittle bacon.

contemporary is not for me,
i'm more
of a traditionalists,

right, Elwood?

beats me he says, scraping
eggs from
the black pan.

we need more color, a splash
of red,

or green.
don't you think, dear?

okay, he says. sure, why not.

maybe some wallpaper, and a new
chandelier.

one of those marble grey hound
dogs
by the door.

yeah, I like them too.
maybe get two, for balance.

yes, she says. two, one for me,
one for you.

a box, a vase, a shoe

we talk about burial.

a stone?
a bench?

a cross, perhaps.
an angel
standing tall made of marble.

something on a hillside.

a view
of the water. yes.

trees and geese,
she'd like
that,

we presume.

a brass coffin,
or hand carved, she loved wood.

hard wood, mahogany, perhaps.

how much? oh, that much.

what about cremation.
a box.
a vase.

a shoe.

a day of work

is there anything better

than a days work
in the boil of a july sun,

at end.
walking home
with friends. the dust
still

alive on your skin.
the rash
of sweat, the leathered grin.

wages in hand.
the hot meal
awaits. a loved one at the
door
who will welcome you in.
missed,

and waiting your return.
the cool
shower, the soap, the weary
bones

alive, and will be ready
in the morning

to do it all over again.

but first there's dinner,
there's love.
there's

the stars at night,
then dreams.

good times

there's no traffic.

no lines. no rush to get anywhere.
there's a nice
quiet

and calm
about the world.
no crowds.

no yelling into phones.
no arguments or curses.

people are staying home.

inside.
taking their chaos
indoors
for a while.

time to get out
and enjoy this rare peace
and quiet.

the woods, the lake.
to sit

on a bench and read.
throw bread

to the ducks who also
look
happy.

the benefits of a cold shower

i grimace
as i jump into the cold
water
shower.

it takes a while to adjust,
it's startling,
but after
a minute or so

it's almost not cold enough.
when i get out

ten minutes later
i feel young
again,

more vibrant, alive,
awake.

everything is cleared up.

it's like the clocks
have been turned back,

i'm almost an hour younger
than i was
before hand.

I've lost weight. i'm
a better person
than i was ten minutes ago.

which is a good thing.
i should take more.

there's no place like home

if she'd been born

three hundred years earlier
they would have

burned her at the stake
I tell

my therapist. she laughs
and crosses

herself, amen, she says
then writes something
down on
her legal pad.

remember a year ago, she says. how
discombobulated you were.

I love that word, I tell her.
people should use it more often.

but yes. I had basically lost
my marbles after
being married to
that crazy woman for a whole year.

the lying, the cheating, the betrayal.
I think back at how
sick she made me...

calm, down, she says. calm down
breathe and repeat after
me,

she not your problem anymore
and she's out

of your house.

say these words after me
and click
your heels together.

there's no place like home
there's no place like home
there's no place like home.

a night out with ruby

I met this
homeless women for a drink one night
about

seven years ago.
she was using the county
library
computers to

go on match dot com.
she called her self ruby,
although

there were no ruby slippers.
she had two green
trash bags beside her.

gloves with no fingers.
a wool hat,

three thin coats draped
around her thin
shoulders.

she was a human scarecrow out
in the cold.

she had a bowl of soup,
crushing crackers
into the steam. cold water.

she told me her favorite book
was by Charles dickens.

we talked about Robert frost,
walt Whitman. what a poem
did mean.

at the end, I asked her
in which direction she was
headed,

and she replied I can go
in any direction.

freedom like that few know,
a place
where few have been. I watched
her disappear

into the night, under
the blowing force
of snow and wind.

later, she thanked me for
a wonderful time and asked
if we should do it again.

the same with us, you'll see

there is the back forth.

the pendulum
of good and bad, sweet

and sour
that the young don't quite
understand.

whether it's
money or love, it goes

then comes
back again.

nature, stare at a tree
for a year

or two and tell me what
you see.

exactly, death and decay,
then green.

it's the same
with us.

you'll see.

church bells

the ego heals

last.

it's a slow go with that.
the heart
is fine.

the house, the things you
possess,
all is well.

it's the inner clanging of
an old bell

that's hard to stop.
but slowly.

like distant church bells
ringing.

you get far enough away,
that they
begin
to go soft,

then at last there is silence.
and finally you can
hear the proverbial
pin drop.

anarchy at the grocery store

there's a long line at the register.
ten carts maybe.

all full of everything.
a weary person at each cart
but

one.
the one in front of me.
every five minutes or so the woman
returns
and puts

a gallon of milk in it.
or toilet
paper,

or lightbulbs.
then she disappears to do
more shopping,

leaving her cart alone,
unattended.

the line moves, I go ahead of her,
the belt cleared,

more people come.
she's still not back.

they too go ahead of her.

finally she returns with
pork chops under her arm
to put
in her cart.

hey, she says, to all of us
now ahead of her cart.
I was next in line. not you.

you can't do that. it's against
the rules of society.
humanity.

you can't shop and leave
your cart, what kind of a world
are we living in?

i'm going now

i'm going away for awhile,

she says,
bags at her feet,
a cab idling out front

in the cold wind.

where to, I ask her.
sitting in
a chair

with the cat in my lap.

i'm not sure. maybe my sister's
or a hotel.

how long?

I don't know that either.
I just need to get
away.

I stroke the cat as it purrs,
it's tail
straightening, her
back arched
in a blissful
just scratched sort of way.

good, good for you, I tell
her.
take all the time you need.
in fact,
no need to come back.

i'll send the rest of your few
things
when you get to wherever
you're going.

that might be best for
all of us.
oh, and do you mind closing
the door
on your way out,

I've got the cat here in
my lap.

small madness

there is large madness.

wars.
disease, pestilence
and plagues.

floods and fires.
famine.

and then there are small
bits
of madness, no

less disturbing
to the world we're in.

a broken lace,
a lost
ring,

a lie
found out, uncovered
again,

or even the sun in retreat
due
to rain.

and the beat goes on

the maid is a week

early. so many cancellations
with people
staying home.

avoiding the bug.

I tell her come, come and clean.
bring
your crew

and have at it.
cash is on the counter.

water in the fridge.
put some music

on dance, if you feel like
it.

take your time.
the key is under the mat.

as that great philosopher
sonny bono

once sang,
the beat goes on.

the red stain

it's a red stain,

that I shake in the can, pour
its
slippery

content into a larger bucket,
then stir.

with a new brush
I begin to change

the doors
of these old oak cabinets,

once new, but now
dried
and warped behind
repair.

latches loose,
hinges rusted.

this will help for
a short while. like a new dress,
lipstick,

thick mascara,

dyed hair.

a bad dream

I wake up
in the middle of the night

and wonder
if the dream is real.

did that really happen?
I look

out the window, there is no
snow
on the ground.

her car is no longer there.
I reach over
to feel the empty space
beside
me to make sure.

it's warm where there was
once coldness,
a human drift of ice and snow.

I calm myself down.

just a dream
I say to myself. go back to
sleep,

it's just a dream,

her reign of terror
is over.

they'll make more

i reach for the last
slice
of
chocolate cake
at the bakery
when i feel the sting of a wooden
cane
against my forearm.
grandma?
i say out loud,
letting out a cry.
my cake,
she says.
i won't have long to live
if i catch this bug.
but you,
you have a lot
more cake ahead of you.
now get out of my
way.
where's the milk
aisle?

in a far away country

i look at her

on the edge of the fountain
in a far away country.

a calm smile upon her face.
her hands folded before her.

i should have been there.

her brown eyes, her white dress.
the sun
on her shoulders

as she brightens
for the camera.

if i had been there, maybe
it could
have been different.

but i take the blame.
it wasn't right just yet.

perhaps now.
there will be more fountains
to sit
at.

more sun to shine upon
us. we shall see.

history begins now

we talk about suffering,

as if suffering was all there was.

we go late into night,
sharing our stories

under the haze of moon,
vague stars,

the blur of wine and too
much food.

each takes a turn at it.
the mystery of it all.

childhood
then school.

parents. friends and lovers.

my turn, then hers. we get to
know one another
as strangers

try to do.

her in one chair,
me across the candle lit room.

will we make love,
that's another matter altogether.

but we begin to realize
that the past
is just that.

the past.

and history begins now.

the silver spoon

some have the smooth

thimble cup
of a silver spoon feeding

them their first taste
of food,

while others
take it in on a plastic fork

or a wooden
stick,

a finger, maybe, stuck
in the thick

of it.

it doesn't matter. it's how
you
live,

treat others that counts
most.

not where you've come
from

or where you've been for in

the end.
there is no difference
as we too

return to where we began.

the end of the world

my survivalist friend
jimmy, my next door neighbor,

is smiling from ear to ear.
He looks happy.
I see him getting ready to go into his
bunker that he dug
underground in his back yard.

he's raised the American flag
over the hole in the ground
and
is wearing his army pants
and a bandolier of bullets

around his chest. he waves, I wave,
then go over to say hey.

I see about three hundred rolls
of toilet paper stacked
up next to the hatch entrance.

hey, he says. you ready?

for what? I ask him,
licking my ice cream cone
that I just got from baskin and robbins.
a double
scoop of rocky road and chip mint
on a sugar cone.
what's up, I might go to a movie
later,
great new zombie movie out, wanna go?

what, he says. are you nuts?
this is it, the bug is out there. this is
the end, this is it baby, he says.

I've been preparing for this my whole life.
it's the end of the frigging
world.

oh right I tell him, licking my
ice cream cone, trying to catch the drips
before they run onto my hand.

I did see something on the news the other
day.

you got to get ready man. I've got water,
food,
I've got a honey baked ham
and omaha steaks in my freezer.
I've got sunscreen, chap stick,
cigarettes, gum.
a case of baked beans.
three hand grenades.
i'm like so ready.

do you mind if I tear off a small
piece of that toilet paper,
I need to wipe this ice cream off
my hand?

no man. you've got to get your own.
this is all mine, but you'd better hurry,
the stores are running out of everything.

I had to wrestle some old woman
for the last jar of creamy peanut butter,
they were out of crunchy,
can you believe that?
no crunchy peanut butter, like when
has that ever happened?

I lick the dollop of ice cream
off my wrist.
wow, no crunchy?
what about tv and wi fi, do you have
that down there in the bunker?

of course man. you name it, I've got it.
Netflix, Amazon prime,
batteries, candles. air freshener.

beer?

oh yeah, he says. bought six kegs
of beer, all cold, ready.

my friend betty is coming over
later tonight to go over our plans.
she might bring her friend
Amanda. you should stop by.

maybe i will. I remember Amanda.
she had the skull and cross bones
tattoo on her back, right?
fish hook in her lip?

yeah, that's her, she's cool.
great shot with a pistol, by the way.
you should see her throw a knife.
you definitely want her on your side
when this all does down.

Is 8 o'clock okay? I was going
to cut the grass and
take the dog for a walk before hand.
maybe get a nap in.

sure sure, but knock three times real
fast on the hatch, then two slow knocks,
that's the code.

got it, three times, then two.
sort of like that tony Orlando song...knock
three times on the ceiling...

what? get serious man.
what are you talking about?

nothing, nothing, never mind. i tell him,
i'll see you later.

okay, eight's good, how do you like your steaks?

medium rare, please.

you got it bud.
by the way, you ain't been coughing
or anything,
no fever?

i'm good I tell him. good, i'll bring
dessert. i have some new jello molds
i want to try out.
oh, what should I wear?

fatigues are good, if you have them.
anything camouflage
is fine.

got it! see you later. as i walk away
i start singing,

twice on the pipe, if the answer
is nooooo.

a miracle

I put a record on the turntable

and click
the button.

it's 1968 all over again.

laura nyro. it's gonna take
a miracle.

I put my shoes up,
and pop

a beer. here we go again.

a world full
of fear.

the sneeze

this too
will pass. this new madness.

this wildfire
of fear

and wonder.
but for now,

what can't be seen
has

taken
over. no army, guns or tanks,

the invisible is winning
a war

without a shot fired,
a bomb dropped.

just a sneeze or cough
is enough

to change life as we know it.

hunker down
it's going to be rough.

clean closets

I clean out a few
closets

to rid
the junk and smell of a previous
tenant.

I pull up the carpet,
the tiles,

sweep clean the shelves.
so much

was hidden and found,
a treasure trove of her lies

and betrayal.
dumb as a rock

always caught,

each closet holding a
secret in boxes

in bags,
pound after pound.

I wipe, I sweep, I use a blow
torch

to wipe out every germ,
then spray
holy water all around.

may she rest in peace
wherever

she plans to die.

fat broke and busy

why is everyone,

well not everyone but so many
people
fat

broke and busy.
working all hours, staring

into their phones
incessantly for every answer

to every questioned proposed.
sugar is the new drug.

eat, sleep, work, work, work.
rinse and repeat.

is anyone having fun.
anyone reading
books,
writing, singing,
or just racing around like rats
in a maze,

smelling the cheese at the end
of a mythical
rainbow,

but getting

none.

live long enough

we circle back

to it.

to the cradle. to being
fed
and taken care of.

we come around, if we
live long

enough to be dependent
on
the kindness of others.

spoon fed
and changed.
tucked in and read to.

too weak to go outside,
to walk,
to move
no longer

knee deep in dirt with
the roses.

or on the porch remembering
when
with laughter.

live long enough
and
you'll be back in the crib,

the cage
the basinet of youth,

being looked upon by others,

quiet and still with tears
in their eyes.

just my imagination

my imagination

took hold and carried the day.
I wanted
so badly

to believe what I was told.

for awhile i suspended disbelief,
nothing was
going to stand in my way.

if it's too good to be true...
well

you know the rest.
trust your gut, your instincts,

don't let them
fool you,

they are actors at best.

if they lie to you once,
there's at least a thousand

more that you don't know about.
that's a fact,

not a guess.

the cost

I try to get a straight
answer

out of some people,

but it seems impossible.

those that lie and lie and lie,
cannot
speak

a word of truth
no matter how hard they are
pressed

to tell it.

everyone but them is at fault.
lies
bind so terribly,

at such a cost.

the bandaged ear

it's a Van Gogh
kind of
dusk,

the clouds in a blue
grey
swirl.

the stars coming
out in

vague clusters.

you can see the arm moving
in small
sweeps

of his brush.
the bandaged ear,

bundled in the cold
before his
canvas,

the broken heart. stranded
in his
unrequited love.

sunday payday

everything closes
because of the virus

that's spread
through out the world.

schools,
theaters.

restaurants and bars.
sports
are cancelled.

stores close early
if they open

at all. people are warned
to stay home.

only the church on the corner
keeps
its doors open

for all five masses.

not telling people that they
can pray
at home.

they don't want the secret
to get out

that God is everywhere.

god forbid if they miss a
payday.

some love

some
love can take the sweetness

out of sugar, it will
sour

the cream, make mold
of
whatever bread

was once fresh and warm.

the milk goes
bad in their hands.

all the fruit is bitter
on the tongue.

some love isn't love
at all,

but a lie,
sung over and over
again on
an out of tune piano

with every wire
unstrung.

my friend mr. lincoln

throw in an extra shot

I tell the barista, jimmy,
covered in tattoos
and earrings.

I show him

my friend mr. Lincoln,
waving the bill
into the air.

i'll drop the whole five
on you today

brother.
make it strong. make it
boiling

hot.

give me your best four

or five dark drip shots.
grande.

drop a sleeve and another
cup around it.

you're my man, jimmy.
let me introduce you

to my friend mr. Lincoln.

spell bound

at times we are spellbound,

caught in the fog
of our
life.

the work we do, the money,
the home,

the yard, friends who aren't
really friends,
the cheating wife.

we are tethered tightly
to who
we think we are,

our identities woven
into

a false fabric, so easily
pulled apart.

one thread tugged on,
and there is nothing left

to cover up who you
they really are.

the spell is broken
and now inside the darkness

that controlled you,

there is light.

the middle of march

the needle
of the clock presses forward.

into the new year
already march.

the ides of.
so many reminders here.

so many old memories,
now faded

return, then quickly
disappear.

what joy there is in being
so far

down the road.
away from her.

the ways of others

we escape

best in our own thoughts
or into
a dust laden book,
turning

off the tube.
we can easily retreat

without others.
drink

or food. the long walk
through

old woods.
we need to fast on
the news.

let it do what it does
best,

cause panic and confuse.

we need to refuse
to
be worried, to be caught
up

in the mess of others.
to let them
be who they are,

they will never change,
they were sick
before the virus arrived.

the world each day grows
increasingly,
and horrifyingly
more strange.

stuck windows

the windows stick
closed,

painted in, shut from all sides.
unmoving.

while outside
is where you want to be.

but these thoughts,
these
old
dreams

have kept you from
being free.

you need a hammer,
a chisel

and the muscle of love
and
redemption

to get out. so you bang
and bang
and bang.

until that day comes,

know that once out
you'll never go back
again.

I need a Favor

my father calls me
and says, I need a favor.

I start to think, what could that favor
be.
he's 92 with bad vision,
high blood pressure,

he can't hear, he can still move
around, but it's more like waddling now.

I can't imagine what this
favor could be.

a lightbulb changed, a chair
moved,
groceries at the store.

what, I say. what do you need.

I need some Viagra, he says.
I met someone on the internet
and she's
coming over for dinner

after meals on wheels leaves.
can you get me some on your phone.

I laugh at him thinking my phone
is a pill
dispensary. type the words
in and out comes
the pills

like a slot machine.
I don't want to start something
I can't finish, he says.

to which I say no.
how long have you known this
woman?

how do you even know it's a woman,
it's the internet.
I refuse to be the person that
finally kills him,

although many have tried, mostly
ex wives.

come on, he says. please. just a
handful of pills.

these are not fred flintstone
vitamins, I tell him, you can't keep
taking them
by the handful and expect
immediate results.

there's more to it than that.
whatever he says. will you or
wont you get me some Viagra.

no. you have to go to your doctor,
I tell him, so he hangs up the phone
and calls my sister.

when the other foot drops

I was wondering how
many eggs to buy,

how much water,
how much

montreal seasoning
and pepper,

apples and lettuce.
I read the label for expiration
dates

on meat and cans
of beans.

if it's the end of the world
as we know it.

I don't want to over shop
and have too
much

when the other foot drops.

grey rock

the stone
has no
blood in it.

squeezed dry of sympathy
and understanding.

solidified in silence
which

is a good tact to take
after

a long history of unlove
and abuse.

go stone, go grey rock,

go silent
and be done with it,

be finished
with her or him.
hang them out to dry

and let them sink, or
swim

on their own volition.

an agreeable end

the warm
grey breath of the train trails
behind the line
of cars
as it rolls
eastward on the silver
rails.
I wave, she waves
until there is nothing left
to see.
we leave each other again.
our lives
circling, intersecting,
but never joining,
or reaching
an agreeable end.

things happen

i go to the local
dive
diner for breakfast.

my usual waitress
mandy
is on the slow take
today. i haven't been in here
for a few months.

i see her in her pink
uniform
with a black apron,

her back to me.
then she turns around.

she's pregnant.
she waddles up to me.
usual, she says, snapping
a wad

of pink gum in her mouth.
yup, i tell her.
then say,

congratulations.
oh this, she says, pointing
her belly
with her pen.

it ain't nothing.
things happen, ya know.

went out with this trucker
dancing one night, and well.
you can guess the rest.

he was delivering a big
load of those orange
marshmallow peanuts to
the Walmart.

nice fellow, funny guy.
oh well. what are you gonna do?

coffee?
yeah, sure. leave the pot,
i tell her.
and no toast today, or hash browns,
trying
this keto thing.

good for you she says.
good for you.

be awhile before i'll be slimming
down, honey.
she laughs, then off
she goes.

blood is a sticky business

i go get the bail
money.

all of it in large bills.

i look over my shoulder for muggers
and ex wives.

it will be a long day.
courthouse
to jail

do not pass go, around and around.
stand on your head,

touch your nose. repeat after
me this solemn oath.

the lives
of others

are a part of yours,
for better or worse,

blood is a sticky business.
it's how the story goes.

panic in the streets

there is panic
in the streets, in the stores
in the woods.

I saw a squirrel the other
day

carrying nine nuts in his little
arms,
fear in his eyes.

his wife wearing a little
cloth mask
as she carried a basket
of toilet paper
to their oak tree.

the sun cancelled it's rising.
the moon
is nowhere to be seen.

the tide stopped coming in.

fish are swimming in circles,
although that may
be normal, not sure.

i take lunch

I take lunch

in the park.

this is how I talk now.
I get on line
when I get in line.

etc. etc. i'm in the queue,
taking the trolley,

going around the roundabout.

I take on a rather british air
about me.

top hat, coat and tails.
tea
and butter pies at 4.

I take lunch in the park
and observe

the world at large.
the women in their summer dresses
too soon,

dogs being walked.
old men

asleep under trees not yet
in bloom.

the startling blue sky.
the chill
of march in the air.

I sip my earl grey and thank my
lucky stars

then tap my cane against my knee,
I think of the blitzkrieg.

it could be worse.
it always could be worse.

what about netflix?

I go up to the local
grocery
store

to stock up on supplies
before the end of the world
occurs.

water, butter, meat.
spinach. baby leaf.

it's coming,
the paper says, the news
man
says.

the neighbor, the doctor,
the
mailman.

the town crier is crying
on the corner, the end is near,
the end is near.

repent. repent.

I look up at the blue sky
and everything looks
okay.

there are no dead birds
on the ground.

no dogs in the street,
or zombies
running free

with blood running
from their eyes.

will this too pass and we'll
have an early
spring,

or do I have to board up the
windows
and hunker down.

is this the end of Chinese
food delivery. have I eaten
my last

box of kung pao chicken
from hunan west, delivered?

what about Netflix?

the public pretender

the public pretender, I mean
defender,
says I don't know
to every question I ask him.
how much,
when, where, how long,
whose fault,
what next,
what do we do now,
is there somewhere else
we can
go, or to
find out anything
new that we need to know.
is there anything else
we can do?
it's the same answer over
and over and over
again.
I don't know.
hmmm, I don't know.
good question. I don't know,
but the good news is
that there's no charge, no fee.
so all this
information I either give
you or don't
give you
is absolutely free.

the harley love birds

the guy next to me
on the Harley
with his Harley jacket
and his Harley
belt
and his Harley helmet.
tubby
and seventy,
a rat tail grey strand
of hair
out the back.
his babe hanging on,
her skeletal arms around
his belly.
two peas in a pod.
he looks over and revs
his engine.
smiles, then off they
go.
Romeo and Juliet
ready for the senior home,
in a cloud of fumes
and noise,
the roar
of death approaching.

i resign

I send in a letter of resignation
to my family.

I revoke my membership
and will no longer be attending any
family

gatherings, whether Christmas,
Easter,
thanksgiving or other

assorted holidays, or birthdays.

I will no longer attend weddings,
funerals and reunions.

or be sending gifts,
greeting cards,

or fruitcakes to anyone I am
related to by blood.

I will no longer be bailing you out
of jail,
or visiting you in the hospital,
or clinics.

and I hope that all of you will respect
my decision
and lose my address and phone number.

i'm done.
it's over. it's been nice knowing
most of you,

but I can't take it anymore.
you people are on your own

with your multitude of troubles,
drama, unsolvable grudges
and gossip.

check, please. i'm out.

cash it all in

the stock market
reminds me

of someone I used to know.

high one day,
low
the next.

all fun and games, and then
it's the end
of the world,

depressed.

the slightest breeze
sets it

off it any direction.
you think all is well,

then it tanks
and hits rock bottom.

it's just like her.
making you think it's time

to cash it all in.

but on a high day.
to get out while the gettings
good.

lower expectations

i'm thinking I need a big
cast iron
skillet.

black as night, heavy as
a barbell.

something like what momma
used to have.

well, not my momma,
but somebody's momma.

a big ole frying pan,
for eggs

and meat,
bacon

and pork chops.

that's my one mission for
the day.

get myself a big ole black
frying pan.

if I can get that done, I will
have had a good day.

keeping my ambitions
low
these days.

go here, go there

the jail lady
laughs.

she gets a kick out of you
running

all over town with your check book,
trying
to spring

someone from the slammer.

go here, no go there,
she says
on the phone.

keys on her belt.
gun in a holster,

sandwich in her hand.

open all day for misinformation.
try this,

she says, or this number.
I think you might have

some luck there.

nothing to report

there are some days

when there is nothing to report.
nothing to write about.

no words to align in some
poetic form.

no muse has visited.
no lost loves, old or new

melt your butter anymore.
to hell with all,

or most of them, you've wrung
the life out
of their toxic souls,

wrung them dry.

some days are like that.
which is fine.

you could use a break every now
and then.

more crazy stuff will happen,
more
half baked
souls will arrive.

not to worry.
just give it time.

dow jones blues

the market falls apart,

so what.

most of the money you saved will
be passed
on

to someone.
a child, a dog, maybe the zoo.

who breaks even when they take their
last breath?

so, when the chips are down.
drink.
make love.

find something decadent to eat.
life

is increasingly short.
withdraw
that dough and bake a cake

with someone you care about,

or with someone
who just happens to be
passing by.

spring forward

sometimes even the arc
of water

coming out of the fountain,
a calm
breeze,

the curve of an arm,
the shape of eyes,

a warm ray of sun against
your face,

the passing by of a women
in a skirt,

or the click of heels
against the floor

will get your heart going.
it's always

been that way, since the first
time
you really looked

at a girl, and then a woman.

it never ends.

thank goodness.

a slippery world

it's slippery this world

in these shoes.
you have to watch your step.

there's always a wet spot somewhere.
a crumbling
brick
going up the steps.

a loose handrail,
the broken
floor board,
there always some glass

in your way,
a pot hole,
grease, oil, something spilled.

you have to be careful
and watch your step at any age,

especially now,
where's my cane?

fun for the whole family

everyone's

family is dysfunctional.
from top
to bottom,
although the level

of dysfunction varies on a scale
of one
to a hundred, and beyond.

there are no norman Rockwell
families.
there is no little house
on the prairie.
no brady bunch.

no father's knows best.
or wally and the beave.

there are no family dinners without
hell breaking
loose,

or grudges being acted out on,
knives pulled,

guns pointed. family reunions.
forget about it.

is it the world we live in?
maybe.

technology, tv, videos, sugar?
who the hell knows
anymore what
makes so many people

fucked up and unable to change.
the list of psychological
disorders

could fill a Chinese menu.

they are
forever trapped in their
crazed world, making those
close

to them a bundle of hot nerves.
the best you can do

is run, avoid contact, or bail
out
before it all goes down
in flames.

lovers?

it's too warm

for this food, this stew.
this hot

bowl.

I look out across the patio
and push

away from the table.
I finish my drink

and look at my phone.
I put the phone down
and mumble

something to myself, a curse
best
not said out loud.

I see a young woman and her
boyfriend, husband?

at a table, holding hands
staring into one another's eyes.

there's a flower beside her.

it could be love, or like,
or lust, who's to know
these days,

but I prefer to think that they
love
each other
and will be
together until the end time.

I love fairy tales like that.

I leave and go on my way.

al the butcher

my new best friend Al,
the butcher
up at the new
butcher shop in the plaza
says
what's it gonna be today pal.

I look
at the all the red
and white
meats cold and raw
behind the glass
counter.
two rib eyes, I tell him.
a pound
of bacon.
and a pound of that sirloin
ground beef.

he smiles, you got it he
says.
the usual.
so how's that keto diet going.
you look like you've trimmed
down.
not bad I tell him, and you?

business is booming, he says
and wraps up
all my meats in a white
roll of paper.

the lunar pull

some

are always under the spell,

the lunar pull
the gravitational tug of
a full moon.

it's as if they've permanently
lost their

way, their mind,
their moral compass.

they have no rudder,
one
oar,

to which they use to circle
and circle

in the swampy muck.
forever stuck.

it might rain

it smells like rain, I say

to her, as we swing on the porch,
side by side,

back and forth against
the light kiss of summer wind.

not a worry on our face.
tea in hand,

cold tea set out all day
in a pitcher
in the sun.

we see a stripe of lightning
far away
against the blue

arms of mountains.

maybe, she says. maybe not

and
I agree.

survival

the slender
fox, thickened with
a bush of blonde
and red,

so light on his paws
as he

hurriedly crosses

the white mirror
of the ice

crusted lake.
shiny as a blue coin
below the winter

sun.

swiftly he moves to the other side.
he's onto
something.

survival and death
come
naturally.

he won't be late.

charlotte's web

i find
an old dvd in the dvd player.

yes. i still have one.

in it there is charlotte's web,
the animated cartoon

version, (are there any others?)

the ex left it behind, along
with searching for nemo,

or where's nemo, or something like
that.

she'd been carrying these dvds around
for years,
watching them

like some holy grail
over and over again.

watching them with her 80
year old
stroke ridden husband
and then her

married boyfriend,
the water skiing santa claus
of old town,
when he could sneak away from his wife.

she knew every line the spider
or the pig said.

I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue
as best I could. how in god's name
did I end up
with someone like this?

a grown man
watching cartoons on a Saturday night
with his new wife.

i find the case to charlotte's web
and stick the dvd
back in it,

then toss it in the garbage.

it was the last thing we watched
together.

charolotte's web
and where the hell is nemo?

whew. lord have mercy.
it said everything there was

to say about her maturity
level, or lack thereof.

she was a walking cartoon.

fast food

he tells me stop him
if I've heard it before,

which I probably have,
but he goes on and tells

me about the man being asked
by his wife, if he'd like

some escargot to which he
replies, no thank you.

I prefer fast food.

I laugh, he laughs even
harder. at 92 it's good to
laugh.

so little in the world
to laugh
about these days.

the upside down tuba

as Picasso got older
and more
famous
he stopped carrying money
around.
instead when he went
into a café
and ordered food
and drink
and ate with his friends,
the bill was paid
by him sketching
a picture onto a napkin.
quickly he'd draw an upside
down tuba,
with a woman's breasts
and the head of a goat
coming out the other
side, or a triangular
house
with cat's eyes,
and that was it.
bill was paid
in full, including tip.

l'anniversaire

se lie lier
mais la verite vous liberera
pas de mots plus vrais n'ont
jamais ete pronounces
que ceux-ci qui ont change ma
vie.
decouvrir que ma femme etait
une menteuse, une adultere
un diable tropeur
dans le
deguisement Angelique delie
ces liens de trauma et
c'etait la fin.
j'ai eu fini, l'a envoyee sur
son chemin,
retour au petit ami marie
au mari paralyse
et quiconque d'autre etait un
adorant
et l'adoration des fans.
il y a un an jour pour jour
la verite de qui elle etait vraiment
est devenu limpide
son masque narissique glisse
hors
et son vrai moia pris sa place.
la verite m'a libere
le porte un toast aux cieux
en ce jour anniversaire
et celebrer
une nouvelle vie, sans elle
sans douleur ni soulfrance,
sans doute, sans crainte,
sans nonte.

aren't we cranky today?

i used to be young

she says to me, wistfully,
as we stand at the bus
stop

waiting for the cross town A-1
to take us

to Farragut square.

me too, i tell her, looking into
her ice blue eyes, me too.
funny how time goes by, isn't it.

it's not funny, she says.
not funny at all.

well, i don't mean funny in a
Rodney Dangerfield sort of way.

i mean funny in the sense of
feeling odd about getting older
when you feel so young at heart.

the hair turning grey, wrinkles,
all that good stuff. aches and pains.

she looks at me and shakes her
head.
are you on something she says?
you're scaring me.

please don't sit next to me
on the bus. you men are all alike,
you just want one thing.

well, aren't we cranky today,
i say to her.

yes, i am cranky, she says,
raising her
umbrella to possible strike
me. of course i'm cranky,
i'm old, my leg hurts, all
nineteen of my cats
are sick,

and i'm
standing here in the rain

waiting for the bus to come
and talking to the likes of you.

a run on the banks

the stores have run out of masks
to protect us from
the latest

black plague,

so
I wrap a bandana
around my face

before going to the bank
to exchange my rolls of pennies
into cash.
strangely the teller

puts all the money from her
drawer into a
burlap bag

and says, please, just leave.
don't hurt me.

I accept her kind donation.

wow, I say. thank you
and have a good day.

maybe i'll open accounts
at more
banks today.

beats working.

spring forward

I am exactly one hour behind

schedule.

but I have more time to plant
and sow
the seeds

on the farm.

that extra hour of springing forward
is good for business.

more daylight, since we don't
have electricity.

i'm lagging behind though.
usually

i'm still in bed right now,
telling myself

ten more minutes, ten more
minutes before

going out to milk the cow.

almost blue

I hear the eerie

tone
of chet baker's horn coming out
of the radio

like smoke.

almost blue, by
Costello.

the long silky piece,

bitter sweet and longing
for love

lost, love gone.

almost blue,
almost you.

it goes on and on.
chet baker

in his low quiet
way of

singing, almost a whisper
above
the notes.

almost blue.
almost you.

you can see the darkened
bar,

the shot glass.
the piano keys with a hand
upon

them.

quit joking aorund

I can never tell when you're joking
she used to say,

or being serious, or sarcastic.

I never know when to laugh or cry
at what
you're telling me.

can't you be like me, without a pulse.

flat lined
and dull, always a victim, always
without a smile.

sad and depressed,
emotionally drained, physically
starved.

at least you know who I am, or at least
who i'm

pretending to be.

quit joking around and be like me.

whatever that is.

vote for me

if elected none of this will actually
happen
but I need every vote
there is, so this what I plan to do.

I will put a chicken in every pot,

raise the minimum wage.
lower taxes.

i'll reinvent the wheel.

free tuition for all.
free healthcare for all.

fusion? I got that.

i'll lasso the moon.
pigs will fly.

i'll cure cancer. i'll make the blind
see,
the deaf hear,

i'll make sure the unhappy
are happy, and the unkind kind.

i'll install a mandatory happy
hour in every work
place. 3 o'clock.

holidays like valentine's day will
be against the law.

every cow will have grass to eat,
every chicken
will have a full name with a middle
initial.

there will be no looking at your
phone more than

twenty four times a day,
that's once every hour for you
math majors.

old people will be respected.
young people will shut up
and wait their turn.

babies will no longer be permitted
to cry in public.

i'll cut carbon emissions.
i'll save the whales.

there will no longer be anything
made of soy or carob
or bonded leather.

whistling at women will be forbidden
unless it's your wife,
or your current girlfriend.

I will provide 24 hour
protection from snakes, sharks
and lawyers.

no salesman will ever visit your home.

i'll lower the cost of living.
make peace
with the world.

i'll insist on casual Fridays
and wear shorts around the white house.

i'll have a team of smart people
to educate me on what the hell
a caucus is.

i'll take down the walls
and put up amusement parks where
they once were.

i'll ban clowns and mimes
from public areas.

i'll reintroduce the goullotine 

for telemarketers. 

everyone can have a gun but
ammunition will be illegal.

three day weekends every week.

i'll arrest every televangelist
and put them to work in hospitals
and refugee camps.

everyone will have a pony
and a dog, or cat. your choice.

you will have to take a written
and verbal psychological test before

getting married.

divorce will cost one dollar
no matter whose fault it is.

narcissism will be punished by
public dunking
in the local lake.

same goes for rude people, liars,
cheaters
and nitwits
of any race creed or color.

no more kindle, just books
with pages you can spill coffee on.

i'll shorten the lines at the dmv
and Starbucks.

i'll make every man a king,
every woman a queen.

i'll make all of your wildest wishes
and dreams come true.

i'll put a chicken in every pot.

vote for me, please?

all those lemons

they call it a lemon,

the car that won't start
ever again
once it's driven off the lot.

new, the sign says, still stuck
to the windshield.

the vacuum that won't
pick up a feather.

the toaster that burns
a slice of bread
every time you pop it down.

the microwave that blows a fuse
when you hit a button.

the lawnmower
leaking oil, catching fire

after one short use.

lemons. even people can be like
that.

they look lovely on the showroom
floor.
but then there's an endless
hell
you're about
to endure.

keep the receipts.

what were we thinking

they want to get away
from it all after they retire,

after the work is done,
the kids are grown

and out of the way.

they want peace and quiet.
they want to
hear

crickets chirping, bullfrogs
on the pond.

they want to hear their hearts
again

beating for one another,
away for the traffic,

the hectic life, the smog

they want to look up into
the sky at night and see stars.

Nerbraska seems like a pleasant
place,

but then they get there
and they look out the window

day after day,

at nothing but corn fields.
soy fields.

flat roads and hay.
a lifeless scarecrow in the distance.

they look at one another

and say, what we're we
thinking.

to the mailbox

before he leaves
the house

he finds his hat, his boots.
his gloves.

his cane behind the door.
an umbrella.

he wraps a scarf around his neck,
takes his
keys from

the counter, then looks out
the window, down
the short driveway.

where are you going dear, his wife
asks,
sipping her tea,
a book in her lap.

a green ball of yarn on the floor.

to the mailbox, he says.
i'll be back shortly.

the dog years

sit beg heel

roll over,
play dead, fetch

good boy
good boy

walk? let me put you
on the short leash.

go there, go here.

stop, go.
no barking.

treat? maybe, we'll
see.

i'll be back,
I have to leave again
without you.

go sit by the window

and wait for me,
don't get into

my trash.

under the shady tree

if my father
wasn't drunk, he was sleeping
or in a rush
to get out
of the house to a side
job, or a side woman,
or something
or somewhere to where he didn't
have to be around
seven children
and a wife
needing him to hammer
a nail.
maybe he had to wash
and wax
his turquoise impala
Chevrolet
again, out in the sunshine,
or under a shady tree
with his white t shirt
on his muscled chest,
a cigarette
dangling
from his lips. his blue
eyes catching a glimpse
and winking at any
girl who happened by.

tomorrow

how easy it is to say

tomorrow.

i'll get it done then.
I just can't get to it today.
tomorrow.

you promise yourself or others.
you give
them your word on
tomorrows.

sometimes they come,
and other times they never appear.

and you regret what you
could have
done today.

two men walking

as i walk down the pathway,

heading south, along
the creek

i run into a guy about as old
as i am.

he has a dog with him,
not on a leash.

but he's a good dog.
he listens
and obeys.
we start talking.

remember before the bridge?
remember

when the water rose up
to the fences?

remember this, and that.
we chat

the whole length of the walk.
no names.

no handshakes, but we connect
in some human
way

that's rare these days.
just a talk with two aging men,

through the woods, then home
again.

I'm Done

how many lines in the sand
do you need to draw,

how many lies do you need
to hear,
one two three,

a dozen?

how many times do they
need to cheat and deceive,

hurt and abuse you
before you leave,

how many times will you
forgive and excuse
their behavior

before you say enough,

enough,

you've shown me who you are,
i'm done.

you don't deserve me.

the wealth of work

it's good to be tired.

to have your body ache with the pain
of work.

your hands cramping, your legs
heavy.
the day is done.

the dust is off.
the boots are in the closet.

gloves
in the trunk.

it's good to be tired.
a week
gone by.

a drink in hand. a meal in front
of you.

no drama, no trouble, nothing
unplanned.

it's good to be tired.

not rich, not poor, but wealthy
in the fact
of

having a job well done.

doctor renovation

she's on another mission.

this time it's
the bathroom.

she shows me her hammers.

the claw, the mallet, the sledge.
I see her chisel

on the edge of the sink. her goggles.

she wraps her tool belt around her
and goes at it.

I think she likes doing this as much
as she likes
healing the sick,

being a real doctor.

tear it down, then build it up.

I may get her a twenty foot ladder
for Christmas
and a chain saw.

the top branches need trimming, 

and the gutters

need cleaning.

rewrite

we revise, we edit, we rewrite.

it's our history, we'll do whatever we
want with it.

damn right.
damn wrong.

who's to know in a hundred years.

so you sift through the debris
of what wars
you've been in.

sticking mostly to the truth.
sometimes a good lie works better.

we add, we subtract, we make it
of interest, at least to us.

it's our story. go write your
own

if mine isn't good enough.
here's a pen,

a pad of paper, hop to it.

at last

there is a sweet sigh

of at last

coming from the mouths of drivers
going home.

of children
leaving school.

the elderly waiting on a meal,
or to be
taken

to the park.

at last.

at last love, at last peace.

at last the end
of what bores you, what ails

you,
what's brought you to your knees.

at last.

two words that roll softly off
your tired

lips. you're home. you're
in the arms

of someone you love
and loves
you back.

at last.

worry is for the day

when the man
comes to see what's killed you,

he leans over
your bent body on the street

draped in the glow of red
light,

and you look into his eyes.
you see the worry

on his young face.
the concern.

you want to tell him, it's okay.
you've done nothing
wrong.

this is life.
the end of life.

there is nothing right or
wrong to say.

just carry me from here.
take me,
peacefully

to my grave. worry is for
the day.

not night.

get lucky

let's go have some fun

I tell her,
putting the top down on
the convertible.

hitting the pedal as we
whoosh
out of town.

let's spend some money,
get a bottle

of good red wine.

go on a picnic, lay out
in the sun.

we're both way over due
for a good time.

a fun night or two
on the eastern shore,

or head west to the hills.
I love that song, turn
it up.

let's watch as the sun
sets,
and then kiss like lovers
do

when that silver moon
appears.

let's get lucky
together.

it's not a second too soon.

the thrill is gone

I open the closet door
in the basement

and see the old art that once
hung on
my walls.

dust covered, no longer giving
me that
desire

to hang them up again.
i'm sort of done with them.

there is no joy in these

pictures, art, paintings
from the past.

the ex is part of this too.

done and out to the curb they
all go.

the end of the world

word gets out on the street
that the black

plague has returned.

it's the middle ages once more.

eyes are falling out.
blood

runs deep.
people are dying in droves.

(a word I've been longing to use)

there is panic.
heads are covered

mouths are masked. it's the end
of the world

as we know it.

signs go up all over town, closed
because of the plague

stay in your homes, hunker
down.

be brave. this too shall pass.

repent, repent the church crier
yells

from bell tower,
while he blows his nose.

there's a line at the liquor store,
that circles the block

and goes and goes.

sweet blackberries

the sign says

sweet blackberries. I can read English.

so I buy
three small plastic containers.

ten dollars. whether that's low
or high,
who knows.

but they are black and ripe,
plump would be the word
to use.

they look delicious in the cold
light
of the supermarket

at this late hour.

but sweet.
oh my.

hardly. I pucker my lips
and look

for the sugar bowl when
I get
home

and pop one into my hungry mouth.

everything but a window

there are intermittent showers
expected.

a killing frost.

a hard wind.
a cold front.

the weather man in his sharp
suit
and red tie

is a maestro at the big board.
a wand
in his hand

predicting with casual ease
what doppler
radar
tells him.

where the moon will be.
how quickly
the sun will rise.

it's by satellite, by the almanac,
the guess
and feel.

a phd in meteorology.

everything but a window
showing
us what is real.

on my way

i'm on my way.

just need to shower, change.

get gas,
brush my teeth, find
my keys

my wallet, my brain,

a clean shirt,

my brown shoes and and
and

I think that's it.

but really, honestly the second
I hit

the button on this
poem

i'm no my way.

is the key under the mat?

Adieu Ma Belle

s'cartent de moi, prendre
qui vous etes.

avec toi, pas la personne que tu
as prentendu etre.

pretendre l'obscurite de votre ame
et drape autour d'un autre.
j'ai vu le jour,

et vous n'en faites pas partie
tu ne l'aurais jamais ete,

ne le serait jamais.
Gardons-le comme ca

je suis tombe amoureux de
quelqu'un qui n'existait pas.
un coeur creux,

un loup en vetements de
moutons.
s'ecarter de ma femme malade.
aller et partir,

vous n etes pas recherche ici.
je n'ai pas plus de sang a saigner

aller mentir aux autres.
trahir et tromper. c'est qui vous

etes.
qui vous etes, qui vous serez toujours,
s'ecartent de moi ma belle.

mais en verite, vous n'avez jamais
ete que

belle pour commencer.

yelling up the stairs

okay, okay

I tell myself. get in the shower.
get dressed.

go get your coffee.
get going.

but the kid in me wants
to hit the snooze
button

on the day.

linger, lolly gag,
procrastinate,

delay.

I need a mom yelling up the stairs
yelling at me.

you're going to miss
the bus.

and another day of school, you'll
be a complete

failure
if you don't get moving.

you'll be just like your father.

that does it.
off I go.

the horse in the field

back at the old house.

three hundred years old,
i look

at the job before me.
the wallpaper that has to come down.

the cracks in the walls,
the gaps
in the baseboards,
the crown

moldings.

the wobbly rails, the shaky
lights.

you can almost feel the dead
in here.

the ghosts
long gone tenants.

the children that lived here.

you can hear the conversations.
see the woman

in the kitchen
starting her day, a long day

depending on sunlight
and candles.

the horse outside in the field.
the smoke house.

the outhouse.
the chimney with its slender
ribbon
of white and grey.

the night shift

I wasn't good at the night shift.

going to work
when everyone else was going
home.

what was I missing.
what thrills
of that age

would slip through my fingers.
what girl
would
my friends meet without me.

but I needed the money.
who couldn't

wash dishes,
set tables, mop floors

in a restaurant in the wee
hours of night
into morning?

it lasted one night.
then I threw my apron

covered in grease and ketchup,
the slop
of diners,

on the table, and said.
I quit after getting paid
in cash

for a nights work.

old town

as I ride through the streets
at this hour,

left turn, then right,
over the cobblestones. I see
the yellow

squares of windows.
the movement of shadows.

is there love up there.
what's going on

in darkness. who's sick,
who's dying.

what baby is in a crib, new
born
into this

crazy world?

I roll slowly through the quiet town,
the sidewalks
rolled

up tight on a Wednesday night.

I think that everyone who's
alive right
now

in a state of worry or joy
will be dead in a hundred
years or less.

so what's the point?

but i'm hungry and I have no more
time for

thoughts like this.

filing single

the tax lady, betty,
calls and says are you sitting down.

you have to pay this year.

I take a seat.
you made more money last year,
she says.

pausing.
I can almost hear her stroking
the cat
on her desk.

yes? I say. go on.

well, for state, it's this much.
hardly anything.

but for federal, well, it's a lot.

I tell her okay.
it's just money. money that i'll
probably never

even spend.
we'll good she says, let me know
when you want to stop

by and pick them up.

oh and by the way, she says,
of course you're filing single again,
right?

yes. forever and ever and ever,
I tell her,
both of us laughing loudly.

call me before you make that
stupid mistake again,

she says. I will, I tell her.
I will, and then hang up.

monday wednesday

the sun has no trouble
getting
up
and going at it.
doing what it needs to do
to warm
the earth,
to bring the light.
I actually like the sun,
but not at
the moment.
putting a pillow over
my head
to block its
yellow
voice, telling me to rise
and shine.
I have no shine in me
at the moment.
it feels like Monday
and yet it's only Wednesday.
I reach up
and pull the blinds
tight, but to no
avail.
it's found the other rooms
as well.

if only it was that easy

I see the yoga mats.

the meditation books. the candles.
the quiet

rooms
for meditation.

hot yoga, cold yoga.
indian yoga.

small town, big city yoga.
there's a new guru on every corner,

and yet, how rare it is to meet
anyone

that's calm
and spiritual, relaxed

and accepting of the life
they are in.

new age spiritualism
seems
to be a scam, a trick,

another way in selling
things.

buy this and get enlightenment,
if only

it was that easy.

bad lettuce and the flu

I know I know,
I don't mean to diminish the pain
and suffering

of anyone who gets the flu,
whatever flu

it happens to be, and after dozens
of people
die from it,

it's truly tragic, regardless of age,
nationality, race
or creed.

everyone should live a long and healthy
life.

but the media
sounds the alarm over and over again
until there
is virtual panic

in the streets.

600000 people a year, in this country
alone

die from the direct result of cigarette
smoking.

not a peep. not a whistle, not a church
bell rung.

six people get sick from lettuce
or jalapenos

and they shut down the industry.
the hypocrisy is insane.

kiss mary

from an aerial view

everything is small. the houses,
the buildings.

the bridges. mere toys,
sticks
across water.

the cars, bugs crawling across
the curve
of the blue earth

into
the ant farms that we live in.

insects from high above.
even our
issues.

our problems seem small
from the heavens.

our troubles seem insignificant
compared
to the vast universe
beyond.

whether money, or love,
death.

all of this will pass, and
even the universe
itself will one day run out of steam,

collapse.

so why worry. why be bothered.
eat drink, find someone named
mary

and kiss her.

it's all relatively
small stuff.

I guess.

the doctor visit

the doctor hits my
knee
with her rubber mallet,

to which I say, ouch.
what the hell?

reflexes are good, she says,
writing that down.

then she
hits me on the back.

thumping me with her fist.
breathing is good,
she says.

then she pokes me in the stomach
with her stethoscope.

what's that for
I ask her.

you forgot my birthday, she
says.

no flowers, no chocolates,
no gifts.

time for a shot, she says.
this will hurt, a lot.

roll over and unbuckle.

the vandellas

have you ever had
peruvian
chicken my friend martha asks me

peeking her head around
from the kitchen.

I ask her where the vandellas
are these days.

she looks at me and say I have no
idea what you're talking about.


she's too young for the song,
heat wave.

she claims to be a magician
with the chicken
though.

so I stuff a napkin into my
shirt
collar

and dig in when she brings
us out a plate of chicken

with a big ladle of rice.

it's good. spicy, hot. just
right.

tender and juicy. I start singing.

like a heat wave and she says,
yeah, yeah.

I know that song. who sings it?

homeward bound

three flights of stairs,
up
and up and up.

I carry everything in
from the truck.

then move the truck because it's Monday
and the right

side of the street

is being swept clean
by the city today between

noon and two.
I find a spot on Georgia avenue,

across the street
from a tattoo parlor,

a rib joint, a strip club and
a 7-11.

there's a drug deal going
down in the alley.
there's a car

on cinder blocks.
something in the park
is on fire.

cops are nowhere
to be found.

business is booming.

I get my job done.

half surprised that
the truck is still there.

i'm homeward bound
again.

stray birds

I've had no visitors

in the bird bath for some time now.
the grey stone

shallow
trough is full of rain

water,

but no winged creatures
have ventured in

at least when i'm looking out
the window.

too cold?

too windy? maybe,
or maybe they've bathed
elsewhere.

we all stray at times.

who's to know.

five new chairs

I buy five new chairs

for the round dining room table.

the old ones of bonded leather
have had their
day in the sun.

crinkled and strangely old
despite
rarely being sat on.

so I find new ones. genuine
leather,
I insist

to the blonde woman with a
phone
and a pen, and a pad.

eagerly stretching out her hand
for my card.

let's go with sand, I tell her.
five.

Saturday delivery, please.
sure she says,
not a problem.

I take a picture of the new chairs
and send it along
for
agreement, or disagreement.

she says, why five, why not four?

and I tell her, five will be
good

when we have a party to celebrate
us being back

together again. to which she laughs,
and says

I have to go, but I do like the color
sand.

your favorite color

she asks me what my favorite
color
is.

blue, indigo,
a shade
of either

is nice, I tell her.

and you?
celadon, she replies.

where it goes from there,
is
unknown.

but life is full of surprises.

colors though,
are out of the way now,

at least for now,
I suppose.

don't chase love

to call
or not to call. i pick
the petals
clean off the daisy.
decisions
decisions.

text or not to text.
email
or not email.

just stop by perhaps.
a spontaneous hey,
i was passing by,
or not.

send flowers?
maybe.
a nice card saying
all

is forgiven. send her
a recording of al green
singing

back together again.

maybe a gift basket.
no.

an edible bouquet of fruit.
hell no.

i scratch my head, put my hand
on my chin.
and ponder.

nothing seems right.

nothing is right.

love can be like that

i push the basket around

the store.

i put in a new set of sheets.
blue

of course.

a bowl for the table.
towels,

who doesn't need new towels?

i see a picture,
an abstract of indigo paint
splashed

incoherently on a white
short
canvas.

i like it. in the cart it goes.

a bar of soap.
a fake
plant that looks really
real

in a certain light.
a corner perhaps.

i circle, then circle again.
but this time

putting everything back.
somehow

I've lost the urge. the desire
for new things,

love can be like that.

it's my nature

it's my nature
to destroy, burn, crush,
delete,
block
and completely cleanse
all things
connected
with the past when things
have gone
wrong.
when the truth is known
and there's
no turning back.
it's darkly fun.
it feels good.
vengeful.
but deep inside I feel
the shame
of being
so ego driven, so hurt,
so affected by
the sins of others
thinking somehow that
they'd come around
and at last be who they
pretended to be,
if given enough time.
but again,
it's not me, not in my
nature
to stick it out once
the truth is found.
fuck that.
where's the hammer?
where's the saw,
the scissors,
the scalpel. the axe.
the barrel of fire
to burn it all,
to get this done,
where's
the shovel to put it
all in the ground?

the things i used to know

I follow the path down to the stream.

and stare into
the blue grey sleeve
of water

rushing to where it needs to go.

mindless and yet correct.

I bend
to the edge of the water
and let my hand

fall into the cold flow.
I feel

the numbness in my hand,
down to the bone,
but keep it there.

I want more. I want to feel
the pain,
feel
the things that I used to know.

safeway has fish now

i see them at the river bank
their rods
extended over the rocks,
casting,
baiting the hooks,
sinkers in place,
a basket beside them,
a bucket for any fish
they might catch.
i yell out and tell them
that Safeway
has fish now.
filets, salmon, trout,
you name it.
no need to stand here in
the cold
any longer trying
to catch those elusive
fish, which makes
them shake their heads
and give me a one
finger wave.

a sunday washing

they sing,
dressed in their sunday
clothes.

they have ashes on their forehead.
they kneel.

they pray.
confess and repent.

they drop a coin into the basket,
shake hands

and say, peace be with you.

it all sticks for an hour or two.

made holy
again.

then the day moves on

and it's back to being
who they really are,

untrue.

third warning

your red
door is painted the wrong red.

you must conform.

the legal document is stamped
and sealed

delivered through the U.S.
mail
to me.

you've been warned time and
time again.

conform.

get it right or there will be
hell to

pay.

you have fourteen days
and then the wrath of God

will be upon
you if you don't obey.

have a good day.

the condo board.

the hidden prose

fear leads
to wonder, to answers.

you become a detective.
you learn

the code,
passwords, you know where
to look

where to go
to uncover the madness

that darkens your soul.
your gut tells you all,

but the truth has not yet
set you free,
you need more.

you are light on
your feet,

savvy in the ways of others.
you read
body language, the long
stare,

the anxious pose. sherlock
holmes has
nothing on you.

you read between the lines,
listen to
the untrue words that unfold.

you find out everything you
need to know.

you find the fingerprints,
the gun, the knife,

a trail of blood,
the hidden

prose.

quiet being gold

refreshing, this February air.

this arctic blast.
how it stings gaily at my face

as I go down
through the woods, the lake,
a familiar

and well worn path.

the water is more blue than
ever.
a shimmering sheet of metal,

the sky and green, the cold
rocks
and sand below.

few are out in this wind.
even the birds are lying low.

which makes
it even better.

quiet being gold.

Weekend Work

work is her salvation.
burrowed in behind the locked

door of the office.

she needs the desk, the screen
the phones.

the quietness of Saturday
and sunday

alone.

no office mate to close the door
behind.

no boss wondering where
his glasses
or keys are.

she finds strange solace, bent
at the cold machines,

texting, or talking to whomever
she wants to.

no guilt, no fear, no worries
anymore
about being caught

with all her lies.

her long hands on
on the keyboard
she wiles away the hours.

wishing dark would come.
it's not about money, or ambition.

it's about having nothing
else to do

with her life.
and the years trickle by
like a cold

rain, as she sits
and looks out window,

knowing sadly, that
there is no place better
to hide.

her in arizona, me here

we talk
for two hours.

the conversation goes everywhere.

she in Arizona,
me here.

her with green cabinets.
that santa fe

look.

the golden sky.
the dry
field.

the dust and weary cacti,
horses
running loose.

we talk. we talk. we eat.
we drink.

we rest the phone between our
shoulders.

two strangers
on the wire, on the line
in the air.

silence is rare, then we go
on about

our lives. finally hanging up.
her in arizona,

me here.

the other world

the other world

comes to us in dreams.
in

brokenness. in heartfelt
prayer.

submission and surrender
are doors

to it.
to answers.

for love and understanding.

the other world,
don't laugh, is real.

it's not easy, but

I've been over there
many time.

paying dearly for a glimpse
through pain and suffering,

in gaining the ephemeral
knowledge
of it all,

the absence of fear.

saying no

if you truly
care about yourself,

love yourself, respect yourself.

want the best for yourself,
you have to say no

on a regular basis.

no to anyone that comes into your life
with bad
intentions.

no to anyone that lies to you.

anyone that gaslights you,
charms you.

manipulates you.
any sort of intentional or
unintentional abuse.

no, not for me. go and leave.

you have to say no, and no again.
this is the only

way to stay healthy and happy,
keeping the sheep
in wolves clothing

away. say no. don't let
them in.

self love

I normally get up at seven thirty,

but this morning, I treat myself and sleep
until

seven thirty five.

then finally sit up,
refreshed and alive. I stretch
and yawn.

a sweet extra few minutes. but I deserve
it.

I work hard.
we all need that extra bit of time
to unwind

and relax.

self love, baby. self love.

playing with fire

we all have a relationship with fire.

the fireplace in your parents home.
the blue light
of logs burning.

some idyllic memory
of the family gathered, the dog,
etc.

a mythic Rockwell painting.

the teenage smoke behind the school,
the struck match
held to the cigarette.

the house on fire, the engines,
red
and loud,
the hoses spraying the roof.
the sirens, the sirens.

the barrel in the woods
or on the street with the homeless
gathered,
hands rubbed over
the yellow heat.

the campfire.
the marshmallows on sticks.

the stove, with a pot of water
above
the flames
that swim and lick.

and then the trashcan in the yard
full of leaves
and sticks.

all the memorabilia and pictures
that never
really did exist.
tossed in one by one.

all of it up into the sky.
sweet gray ashes going
bye and bye.

catholic guilt

your catholic guilt

rises
on occasion.

you feel bad and sorry,
and apologize

for any harm, or misunderstandings
that may
have
occurred.

so much is your fault,
along with hers.

but you try
to do better

the next time. to be honest,
and true.

to be kind
and compassionate. to forgive,

but the other side is a part
of you too.

so guilt is a good thing,
a blessing in
disguise,
it
can throw

you to the wolves,
but it doesn't have to.

the exact opposite

you want romance.

you want words without speaking.

eye to eye.
heart to heart.
giving

and receiving.
you

want not something that resembles love.
not love
lite,

not love washed out.
not
empty love.

you want the real thing from a real
person.

you want romance.
to dance.

to sing, to laugh and cry together.
and see it

through to the end.
whatever end

that might be.

you want romance, not what
came

before.
the exact opposite, in fact,

would be fine.

watching the detective

the neighbor
keeps an eye on the neighbor hood

with his new camera
door bell.

his cameras
in the front and back,

inside as well.

he's gone dark, gone cia on us.
he knows all.

our late night endeavors,
who comes

who goes.

he's on top of things.
keeping a list.

he's watching and listening
to every word
spoken,

every snake with a hiss.

raccoons have no chance
at the trash.

the cars are safe.
every sound is heard,

every movement captured.
there is nothing left to chance.

the ink well

i'm out of stamps.

out of envelopes.
empty of paper to write on.

save me from going paperless.
save me

from online banking.
from never seeing a bill in my hands.

save me from paypal
and credit cards,
debit

and bitcoins, (whatever they are)

please,
keep the mail coming.

I need my checkbook,
my

balanced account done under
the desk lamp

with ink and twill.

who's to blame

who's to blame.

my fault, her fault.

the fault of vodka,
the night air. the
music.

a full moon and conversation.

we should stop, but don't.

who's fault is it when things
don't go
the way

you think they should.
it's not always love,

or even like,
sometimes it's a mistake made,

a muddled agreement,
mutual and wrong
to go onward,

an error in judgement,
with shame and regret,

for both, it's
something

done in the dark, without
a light.

on hands and knees

on my hands and knees,

like my Philadelphia grandmother,
Lena Orsini.
i go
out and scrub

the front porch
with a hot bucket of soapy
water,

a brush, a rag,
a towel.

it's a cold day, but the porch
needs cleaning.

i'm out there for an hour
or two.
a raw wind in my face,

going at it hard.
my knuckles bleed into
the concrete

as they scrape across
the slab.
i realize what i'm doing,

i'm not fool, although
others may disagree, i know

that this has nothing to do
with the porch,

but has a deeper more
metaphorical
meaning.

i'll get it clean yet.
i'll remove all
memory

of what was.
my determination is nothing

if not persistent.

that was that

she was nineteen, one year removed
from high school,

I was much older, at twenty two.
scrambling

for jobs, any job. going to
night school.
living

on a dime
in a one bedroom apartment near the race
track.

ground floor, the trash room
conveniently located
on the other side of my door.

we got married.
I wore a white suit, she and her
seven bridesmaids
wore shiny

green dresses.
it lasted six months, or less.

I remember seeing her walking
home to her mother's apartment,

in view from our bedroom window.

she had a single suitcase which
held all of her clothes,

and a blender, still in the box,
under her arm.

a wedding gift. she took the frozen
remains of the wedding
cake too.

and that was that.

everything we need is here

it will be a short day.

a long drive,
but two hours on the job,

then home.

i'll give you a call.
let's

go out, have fun. winter
is no

time to be alone.

bring your lips and legs,
i'll cook.

we'll drink
and sink into the deep
cushions

of the couch.
no need to go back out.

everything we need is here.

February 18th

once upon a time

we went to a bed and breakfast
in west virginia.

a long drive down a ribbon of
wintery roads.

the name of the place escapes me.
it's where she used
to go

with her ex husband and son
and probably
her married boyfriend
of six years.

a pretentious

old house in the middle of
nowhere. a seven course meal.
one potato, nine dollars.

butter? extra.

a room
the size of a closet.
cramped and musty with
the dollar driven lives
of others,

the smell of old money,
new money, decrepit
bones and flesh left
behind.

blue bloods. green bloods.

a rough old bed.

a fireplace.
a broken piano pushed
dust laden into a corner.

I remember looking out
the doll house windows of the stone
walled room

and staring at the ducks
white and fat
on the cold pond.

how lucky they were not
being me.

the black cars arriving.

waiters who had been there for
years. grey faced
and weary
of the patrons,

each one more important
than the next.

I couldn't wait to leave, to run.

bored, no fun. I stuck it out,
knowing that our end

was near.
her lies had caught up with
her,

and now it was just a matter
of time
for the other shoe to drop.

mine.

don't look at me

it's almost rude
to say hello these days.

to hold a door,
to tip a hat,

to help a stranger with
a bag,

or ask the time.
to make eye contact.

the world has changed.
our phones,

our screens, our technology
has

taken the civility out
of our souls

and driven us mad.

pajamas all day

how long, he asks, do you want
to keep
working.

staying at it. day in day out.
the business.
the clients, the calls?

the paperwork and taxes?

he's in his pajamas and it's one
o'clock in
the afternoon.

he's having poached eggs
in front of the tv.

I look at him and say,
two years, maybe three,
we'll see.

it's not about the money
anymore.

it's about something else.

it's about not wearing my pajamas
all day,
perhaps.

the girlfriend

she wanted a husband.

I wanted
a girlfriend.

she had a list of to do things,
relatives to please.
I had
no list.

just a bottle of wine,
and reservations

at a restaurant down the street.
she had
gutters to clean.

dogs to walk.
a world of things that needed
fixing.

I wanted to go to the movies.
the beach.
nyc.

she wanted a husband,
I wanted
a girlfriend.

so it had to end which
was a shame,

because there was love
and it was a beautiful thing.

spice girl

this pepper is
so hot, my head sweats, my
heart
trips faster, as the tongue
swells
and begs
for something cold
and cleansing
to take the heat off.
but I take another bite,
then another.
flush with spice,
my stomach roils,
my brain saying no,
that's enough, but my hands
still saying yes, as
I go for more
with fork and knife.
I've known women like that.
not knowing when to push away
from the table,
and stop.

the roads not taken

I go another way,
today, avoiding the sites,

the trigger
spots that dot this town.

I stray far, going around,
going
out of my way

to get from point B to
point A.

I don't need
the memory

in my head. it's exhausting.
haunting

as I change the wiring
in my brain.

done with hate and regret,
I turn the wheel,

to a new road, one not taken.
it's straight
ahead.

A sandwich in the sun

I watch the old man.

he's in the sun, the sun is on
his face

like a soft yellow hand.

his eyes are blue. the hat, once
white

is bleached
a sour hue of lemon
or lime.

he strokes his ancient mustache,
silver
and thick.

I watch as he leans towards
the table,
the plate
that holds his sandwich.

carefully he cuts it in two,
then again,

into four squares. he says
a prayer,
then eats.

looking down, then away.

I can see that he remembers
someone,
and wishes she was there.

roll away the stone

I have become greedy

and selfish. self centered and
focused

pretty much just on me.

I've waited a long time to get here.
no longer

do I wait for the phone to ring,
the door
to be knocked upon.

the postman holds nothing in his
bag for me.

there is no one that I long to see.
i'm down
to one.

I crave the shadow, the low light.
the safety

of silence, bathing
in the music
I choose, the book I pick
up to read.

the food I eat.

I savor my own space.
the serenity of my own life.

I have cleaned the ruins of
those
gone, rebuilt the walls.

I have resurrected
the dead.
risen from the grave.

the stone has been rolled away.

it's about time.