when the hunt ends

in the beginning

she'd slip into something more comfortable.
something
silk
and transparent.

tied together with fragile thin strings.
she'd be
a walking

whisper entering the candle lit
room

full of al green and marvin gaye,
teddy

music on the speaker.

but in a few months,
she'd clothe herself in burlap,

showerless, her body wrapped
in barbed wire.

game over. the hunt was over.

what was her name?

i tell the masseuse to dig deep.

she hops up onto the table
and puts her
knee into my bare back.

it's still not enough.
am i hurting you, she asks,

kneading and tugging
at my muscles.

no. i tell her. you don't know
what hurt is?

but she can't get to the  spot,
the muscle
tight and knotted
deep within me.

she can't seem to find it
with her elbows, her hands.

i feel the drops of her sweat
falling onto me.

she grunts as she keeps at it.

you are so tight and beaten, she
says. what has happened to you?

what was her name?

finding the middle

there is a middle
with some.

a no man's land, of peace.
of
quiet.

of respecting
each other's  ground.

no bullets, no words
need
to be spent.

just a meeting of minds,
disagreeing

on all things
learned.

a compromise of sorts
before
going back behind

the wire, to reload
and fire.

off the leash

the lost

dog is in the street.

he looks left

then right.

the cars honk their horns.

they swerve to avoid

hitting him.

he's tired.

thirsty. his tongue hangs

out.

his eyes are bloodshot

from the travel.

weary from trying to

get back home.

so many dogs.

lost,

and confused, trying

to remember

where love is.

how you keep warm

your feet are cold.

your heart

hesitates.

you stay put, unable

to move

forward.

love is no longer appealing

to you.

no longer

an unfulfilled goal.

you listen, but believe no

one.

you bundle up.

button your coat up

to your neck

in the brisk wind of time.

this is how

you keep warm now.

thick coats,

a fire.

things are fine.

the court date

i see the neighbor hood
boy
in his new suit.

a dark blue. it looks two
sizes
too large.

a wide striped tie.
white shirt and tennis shoes
with

grass stains
from when he mowed the lawn.

it's  a court date.
his mother waves, dressed

to the nines.
i can almost smell the perfume
from here.

the boy has taken the rings
out of his nose

and combed his hair.

he looks like he could be going
to church
to sing in the choir,

instead of
doing three to five.

the narcissist

there seems to be

no logic

to the bee sting.

you have no anger or acrimony

towards

it.

and yet it flies upon

you

and stings your arm.

she looks at you,

you look at her.

what is there to understand?

she shrugs and goes off

to die.

it's what i do, she says

without apology.

no reason, or explanation.

it's who i

am. it's how i fly.

frankly my dear

i feel  guilty about not
feeling
more empathy for certain people.
one person in
particular.
i got nothing.
no tears, no remorse
or regret.
i just don't care anymore.
she's ancient history.
a book
of lies tossed to the trash.
i'm rhett butler.
and that's that.

it's early in the game

as i stand
at the kitchen sink with a ham
sandwich

drinking a glass
of cold milk,
breaking
a pickle in two.

i gaze out the window
at the kid
on his bike

talking happily to the
girl
next door, in pigtails.

i feel happy
that it's early

in the game for him.
that he has no clue,

at least not yet.

letting things in

i think about all the bugs
i've swallowed
as i ride
my bike through the wooded
path.
across streams
bridges,
through the dark caves
of trees
thick and green.
it's too late to spit them out.
they're in.
they're down.
they're a part of me, for
better or worse.
such is life, and the words
that people
tell us.

this is the year

this is the year, 

she tells me.
this is
the year i quit, retire
and start my next life.

she's been saying this for
five years now.

she looks off into the distance
as we talk,
quiet for a moment.

there is nothing but air

between us.

maybe i'll travel, she says,
as if the idea just came into
her mind.

see the country. see the world.
i look at her.

she's tired.
she's lonely.
she's lost. her cat jumps

into her lap,

knowingly.

i've never seen the grande
canyon, she says.

maybe i'll go there.

why not, i tell her. why not?

the white album

we were listening
to the white album
in dana's basement
when henry sadowski
pulled out his works.
a rubber band, a syringe
a spoon
and some white powder.
we watched him
tap out a vein
and shoot the boil
of heroin into his arm.
he was an A student.
a boy scout.
an athlete. he had the world
by a string,
but everything was about
to change.
ob la dee ob la da.

no where to go

there's too many hours
in the day.

too many minutes to fill.
the weeks
are backing up.

i've got a month of sundays
with
nothing to do.

i've got a new suit on
with
no where to go.

no one to see.
i'm waiting. at the bus
stop.

wave, if you drive by,
give me a shout out,

if you see me.

the cutlery from montgomery wards

i remember squeezing open

the slats of our venetian blinds,

peering out the window
of our one bedroom apartment
in maryland

and watching my first
ex wife

walking up the street with a toaster
oven under her

arm and a pink suitcase in her
other hand.

heading back to her mother's house
a stones throw away.

the toaster oven was brand new,
hardly a slice
had been buttered or browned.

a wedding gift from her uncle

Felix from a month or two ago.

i've always wondered
about the oven. why that?
why not the mixer, or the blender?

why not
the afghan her grandmother knitted
for us
that i was yet to ball
up and put into the trash room

right outside our front door.

what about the fine cutlery from
Montgomery Wards?  

i discovered later that she took

the last piece

of the wedding cake too, 

wrapped in foil in the freezer.

i'll never forgive her for that.

i can still taste it

till this day.

this new storm

in this new storm

the lights go out, but i'm prepared.
i have

batteries and water.
candles.

i have bread.
i have chocolate.

and i have you in the other
room

half asleep
beautiful in your dreams,

unclothed
between

the clouds of cool
white
sheets..

in violation once more

the woman,
i think her name is
eva braun,

is standing
with a clipboard
outside

my window.
she's writing something
down
in indelible black ink.

i see my name at the top
of the ledger.

my address,
she's writing something down

that's going on to my
permanent record.

she shakes her head as she
writes. she sighs
and draws a deep breath
exhaling

a cloud of flies.

i am in violation again

of something. it's always
something

that i'm in the dog house for.
that i will be punished for.

she reminds me
so much of my dearly departed

ex wife.

have a nice day

i try to go a few hours
without telling
people
boy, it's hot out.
it's hard though,
not saying useless things.
but it's what we do.
being personable
and friendly,
being the humans that we
are trying
to fit into an imperfect world.
boy, it's hot out.
the humidity
is killing me.
i'm a ball of sweat.
i see the mail man coming
up the street
with his heavy bag
full of mostly
ads and fliers, his blue
shirt is soaked with sweat.
he's wearing his pith
helmet.
he gives me the look,
like don't even say it,
when he hands me an
envelope from my lawyer.
so i don't.
instead i say, have a nice
day, then go

into to open the letter

of good news.

back to the drawing board

my friend
jimmy

calls me at six am.
he's been up for an hour
or so.

well, she did it, he says.
she finally

did it.
stabbed me in the back
and left me

for that loser
physics professor
over
at Cornell.

that's a shame, i tell
him.

yup, he says.
back to the drawing
board.

going down to have her
name removed
from my arm

once i finish mowing
the lawn.

the ink is dry

the ink

is dry. the sky too.
as is
the well.

some days, it's all you
have in
you

is to get up
and shower, find coffee

and sit
with a book off the shelf.

the wonder
of the world has frayed.

the fabric
is faded.

the birds chirp
nonsensically.

the day is a glacier

melting towards
night.

i dream of Ireland

i dream

of Ireland.

of green.

her eyes. the blue sea.

the steely rocks

off the coast.

i dream of her pale skin.

her black

hair.

her rose petal lips,

slightly parted,

awaiting mine.

i dream of Ireland

and what

could have been,

if not so far away.

if not so far away.

those rare souls

there are certain
writers,
poets and what nots
that inspire you.

you can barely get through
a page,
or hear a song
they've sung
when you have
to run to the keyboard
and get it down
in ink,
before the thought fades.

there are some people
like
that in your life too.
rare intuitive souls
who know
what's what.

you listen to them speak,
to them ramble on
with their vision
of life and death,
and you
can't get enough.

and in the end

some people will always be poor.
no matter how much
money they make
or have
it will leave them in the blink
of an eye
and they'll have to start all over
again,
from scratch, from zero.
a dollar burns a hole right
through their pockets.

and the same goes for love,
no matter how many women
or men they sleep with, in
the morning they're all gone.
the lovers add up over the years,
but at some point
they're alone, looking at
themselves in the mirror wondering
who's next. will there even
be a next.
will there be more?

fainting

in the tightly knit
rooms
stuffed with items marked
on sale,
last chance
the ac is broken.
i see a sign on the wall
that reads,
smile.
you have one life to
live.
live it as a blonde.
my eyes are wet
with salt.
my mouth is dry.
i step gently upon
the ladder
to reach the ceiling.
the fuzziness of fainting
arrives
as i tumble to the floor.
it's a sweet
passing out.
with dreams, with nothing
left to worry
about.

living on the edge

it's eerie.
strange and bizarre
to be in a room with someone
who wants
to end it all.
curled in
a wet ball.
rocking back and forth
in the dark room.
muttering their dire
needs.
they are unreachable.
there is nothing you can
do.
but call who needs to
be called.
let the doctors know.
the priest.
the family.
you are not equipped to handle
this kind of crazy.
this kind of
lost. you have been
on the edge yourself,
but never
never quite this far.
you say nothing as she
teeters,
not a single word,
even a whisper might
make her fall.

letting the mob go by

i stand aside

and let the sheep pass.

they are armed with disinformation.

armed

with

naivete and inept

education.

without morals,

without a code.

without faith

they strike and burn, tear

down

what disagrees

with their hurt.

i step gently into that

good

night.

lock the door and find a

good book

to read.

they have lost their

love

of life.

lying in the ashes

with nowhere
to be she travels far
inside
her mind.

she goes where she's been
with others.

this
will
be her life.

all the cards have been
played.
there is only shame

and the ashes
of sin.

the good sleep

when
entering bed, alone.
the cool sheets, the windows
open
to a breeze
to a moon full of wonder,
i laugh
to myself.
true love
is this.
quiet with arms
draped lightly
around
me.
my arms.
there is no absence
of anyone, just the fullness
and joy
of being whole,
being one.
being free.

the sketch

i remember staring
at her elbow,

her arm.
where it led.

and beyond. i was taking
stock of
her

for memory.
a sketch, a photograph,
an image

impressed upon my mind.
i knew
it wouldn't be
long
in coming,

the necessary end that i
welcomed
and prayed for,
but

i wanted to remember this
arm
this elbow
and the places it led

for reasons
unknown.

she wore a red dress

for her sister's wedding
she wore a bright red
dress.

she did not go unnoticed.
she bloomed

while the sister withered
and
aged, gone
brown

in her white lace.

she wore red and made a speech.
a long
sonnet
from shakespeare.

memorized
and acted out for the attentive
crowd.

she won.
she wore a red dress.

no ring, no beau.
but victorious.

the queen at last despite

no crown.

apathy

apathy is home now.

the broad cool
room of uncaring.

the past
no longer mine to be concerned
about.

i smell
the perfume of new love.
the innocence

of fresh starts.
i taste the peaches of lips.

my chin drips with desire.

apathy
wins the day.

no attachments. no suffering.
join me,

or don't
i'm fine either way.

agree to be agreeable

religion
politics

let's throw in love
too

as subjects to be avoided
amongst friends

with drinks
poured
and the long hours of
night
ahead of us.

let's leave as we arrived.
friends
who talk of nothing

of consequence.
it's better that way.

we preserve the past,
protect
the future, and make it

easier to live in this day.

the spare key

there was a spare
key
on a nail
in the lightless
damp
of the shed.
but how were they to know
that?
how could
they possibly know
anything
other than
the doors were locked.
she didn't
show up at work
and no one would
the answer the phones.

was it a surprise
after entering through
the broken
glass
to find her in her bed,
reaching sky
ward
in death to some unseen
figure.
an angel
perhaps, or someone who
arrived
before her. hands stretched

out in

agreement

that this life was over.

there was a spare key
in the shed.
i told them that, afterwards
when
the body left under
a  white sheet
in the throes of winter,

the tree adorned in the corner,
christmas to come
in barely a week.

from what i've been told

yesterday.
she was not grey.

she was not asleep in the chair
facing
the window.

a book in her lap.
the tea beside her cold.

she was not
old.
we were in love.

yesterday
seems so far away.

she was not grey
and neither,

was i from what i've
been
told.

the memes

i'm

memed out.

is that even a word?
how do you pronounce meme?

shouldn't there be an accent
grave, or aigu
somewhere over
a letter?

does anyone actually say something
clever

or unique, or original
that hasn't been

posted on the internet.
are we
sheep

or what?
incapable anymore of reading
books,

writing books.
thinking and creating
from our own

souls.
we need for others to tell
us what
our morals

should be. how we should think,
what
we should believe.

i'm all
memed out. yo.

the unfixable

you think of people
at times

as fixable.
turn a screw here,
tighten

up a bolt, a belt.
put a new plug in.

change the oil,
wash
and polish.

we think we can put
a new
shine

on them.
pull out the manual
and figure them out.

put air in their tires.
wipe
them down.

fill them up with gas.
but it doesn't

work that way,
you can't fix the unfixable.

be thankful that
they're gone,  gone
at last.

at the end of the day

life is busy

until it's not.
and at the end of the day,

the end
of living

you lie there and wonder
what was

that all about.

when you know it will never work

i came home from work
early
one afternoon and saw a dozen
boxes

all taped and closed. ready
to be carried out
to a truck in front of the house.

i asked my wife, what's up.
what's going on,
what are in these boxes.

she stood there, hands on her
hips and said. i packed up
all your books.

i need the shelf room for nick
knacks
and things.

i have no where to put my

porcelain pig

collection.
your books are taking up
too much space.

and besides you've read
them all.
we should give them away so
that poor people can
have the chance to read
them too.

i told her about this place
called the library and she
she said. yes, but it's not
the same.

slowly, i unpacked the boxes
and put my books,
my life long friends back
onto the shelves.

waiting to read once more.

each drop a work of art

the uncertainty
of life is with you when

you open
your eyes in the early morning.

the sun, a yellow melt
slipping
geometrically through the blinds.

the warmth of july
has her arms around the house.

the tomorrows arrive too quickly.
the yesterdays
fade

with nothing to write about.
the dull razor

is the only thing that brings
excitement.

the trickle of blood like a wet
firework
against the porcelain
sink.

each drop
a work of art.

the deep clean

i had the priest
come over

and swing his metal box of incense
all

over the house.
he rang some bells

and said things in latin.
he went room

to room
exorcising the demon that was once
here.

i followed him
around in his white robe
and tall

hat.
he seemed to really know
what he was doing.

i'd suggest you
open the windows, he said
when finished,

and have your maid
scrub
deeper,

using bleach or something
like that.  a pine cone smell

might be nice.

the big family

the big family myth
is that you

all love each other and can't wait
to be gathered
together

in a small room
to celebrate some holiday
or event.

not true.
i've stared holes into the clock
waiting

for such ordeals to end.
in laws,
out laws

siblings, crazy friends.
with a plate

on my lap,
dogs running wild.
the blare

of the tv
the voices talking loud.

grudges and misunderstandings
have a shelf life

of a thousand years.
is there a window

i can jump out of?
is there a back door i can
quietly slip away through?

only 364 days
until next christmas.

breaking news

news

is fear. wait for it.

we'll tell

you after the commercial

break

how the world will end.

how your

life will come to a close

you won't

believe what we've been

told.

breaking news.

stay tuned.

you'll want to hear this.

don't touch

that dial.

call your friends and family

gather around

the glow and sound

of our fury.

we have more fear per hour,

more than

any other station,

any other show.

we're breaking news,

all

day, all night. wait for it

and then

you'll know.

i am the fitted sheet

i stare at the fitted sheet
balled
and bundled
upon itself, warm from the dryer.
there is no way
to properly fold it.
no way to make it fit
upon the shelf and lie
there, to behave like the others.
the towels,
the washcloths,
the flat sheets, all neat

and organized

in colored stacks.
the fitted sheet is a rebel.
it refuses to join in.
to conform.
i am
the fitted sheet.

let's not talk anymore

it's no longer a discussion.

it becomes an argument.
swords are out.

verbal sparring ensues. we have
different opinions
on everything.

varied views.

there is no middle ground.
where once
we talked about sports

or women, or jobs, or books
and movies,
we've suddenly

become political hacks
debating
a world no longer round,
we can't escape

the news.

the highschool queen

he tells me too often
about his
wife.

how beautiful she was in high
school.

how gorgeous. how lean,
how
desired she was.

he takes out a folded picture
of her
in his wallet

and sets it on the table.
black and white,

the corners crimped.
look at her, he says, looking

into my eyes for approval.
was she something else,
or what?

she's wearing a cheerleader

outfit, her leg kicked

high in the air

in the stadium lights.

and then she returns with a drink
in hand

she smiles. a tooth is missing.
one black.

she's limping. her blouse is out.
a tent
about her.

her hair is a reddish silver,
thinned. her arms
are fish

that wobble as she pulls out
a chair.
like her legs, they swim.

there's a small blue smudge

of a crab

on her hand.

he takes away the picture before
she sees it.

and we go on with our laughs,
we pretend.

the false self

for some
it's the mirror. the image of
the body.

the face.
the hair. it's the false self.
the polish

of the external that keeps
them well.
keeps them safe

from truth.

while others it's money.
it's a green
bouquet

in their wallet.
with money, what can go wrong.
who can
say

less about them.
they have what others don't
and that makes

all the difference.

trying to fly in

boredom
sets in. the sky is a line
of dirty

laundry hanging still
in the pre rain.

the world is cold
despite the ninety degrees
on the red

blood
of the outdoors
thermometer.

i see a dead bird
below the window.

killed by his own reflection.
can we too

die by pondering ourselves
too much?

trying to hard to fly in?

women like that

there was a girl

in the ninth grade whose name
was penny.
she sat in front of me
in biology.

blonde pigtails.
light blue
framed glasses. soft smattering
of light freckles.

i had never seen skin so pale.
she was almost

translucent.
she had a soft voice,
a gentle whisper that made
you lean

in close to her, so close
that you could smell the lavender

soap you imagined she used
that morning.

she was bird like, all feathers
and bones. delicate in nature.

but when it came
to dissecting a frog, pinning
it's

stretched out limbs to the board,
she never flinched or

blinked when taking the scalpel
to cut
and remove

it's heart. i have known and fell
in love
with women

like that. and they too have

removed my

heart without a sound.

going to hell

she told me once
that it was a husband's job

to get his wife to heaven.

i scratched my head and said what?

i have no idea where she got
this crazy idea.

the radio, a book, her ex or someone
she met
on the street. joel osteen, perhaps?

i flipped aimlessly through the Bible
searching
for this idea.

nothing.

it was an impossible task,
to die
not only for my sins,

but hers too. if i'm not mistaken
i think someone
already did this.

i imagined the nails going
through

my wrists, the crown of thorns,
the lashings.

i was not qualified nor did i want
this job.

so hell it is for her, i guess.

the marriage

he cleans

she cooks.
he takes care of the yard.

she dusts
the shelves, hangs paper
on
the wall.

together they make it work.
him

outside,
her in.

they wave from the window.
their

secret lives are hidden
behind

soft grins.

the aging spider

the spider

is hungry. the web though full
catches

more and more.
it's a beautiful thing

wet in the sunlight
tight

and woven
all night. a tapestry.

she's hungry
but the hard work is done.

her beauty
will
bring her more,

but one day, she will age
and there

will be none.

The Chat with Father Smith

I stop by the old church, 

St. Bernadette's,
a stones throw away
from my front door.

I see father smith out on the front
steps
smoking a cigarette.
there's a brown paper bag
with a bottle in it

tucked in his lap.
he's wearing black. a long
heavy
robe,
he's got the white collar going
on and
boots that remind

me of a pair of Cuban boots
I had back in
the 70's made of Spanish leather.

we actually called them Beatle boots.

hey. I say.
walking up. what's up? hot as hell
out today,  isn't it.

how would you know about the temperature
in hell, he says in a snarky non priest
like way.

just a manner of speech I tell him.
sorry.

it's okay, he says. i'm a little
grumpy. he rubs his unshaven

face.

i just went through some
tough confessions.
excuse my French but there are some really
fucked up
people in this congregation.

true, I tell him, but you've got one less
since my ex departed
to another parish.

yeah. he says,
can't say I miss her.

she was killing me with her confessions.
an hour long and the same thing
week after week. not to mention her

perfume.

her and the married boyfriend, 

the water skiing santa, 

what the hell was that

all about?

I think half my robes smell of her perfume.

we had to exhume the entire booth

after she left.

yup. I tell him. oh well. what are you gonna do?

hey, what's up with the black robe,

very nice and stylish, but
don't you guys have summer outfits.
something white, or light blue or green.

maybe with vents in the sides for
air flow or mesh.

oh, this old thing, nah. budget has been
tight with the virus and all.
we're low on wine, on wafers,
and on incense. we're waiting on a shipment

from the Vatican.

I tried to get some on amazon, but no luck.

that Bezo's is the devil, I tell ya.

I take a can of pinto beans out of my
pocket. do you mind dropping this off
in the donation box when you go back in?

the can is dented but I think the contents
are okay. oh and these salmon packs too.
they've been in my cupboard for over a year
now. I can't eat that crap.

former tenant left them behind when i
booted her.

sure he says. sure. thanks. maybe i'll have
them for lunch if that's okay.

hey, it is Friday, right? I assume you're still

doing that fish only thing, aren't you?

help yourself.

the human embryo

there are more laws
in saving
frogs and whales,

eagles,
the eggs of a snake.

the snapping turtle

crawling

in a swamp.

state laws
federal laws
local laws

protecting wildlife,
born

or yet to be born, whereas
the human

embryo is out of luck.

the study of an arm

I studied her elbow

how it
angled into an arm.

the bone
of her.

olive toned and lean, no muscle
no fat

just the flimsy coat
of skin.

a strange unwelcomed
flap.

sticks, perhaps.

this is not an arm, I thought
that i

want around me
anymore.

I can do better than that.

what i like in my man

she said

what I like in my significant
other

is two things.

and I said, a job, money,
status,

power. physique and charm?

no, no, she said, all of that
is fine,

but I like my man to have nice
eyebrows.

what?

that's your specifications
of your new love
interest?

yes. oh, and big man hands too.

calloused, rough and raw.

bitten nails turn me on too.

so, that's your list.
hands and eyebrows.

you don't care if he's a little
person
or a giant,

heavy or thin, or if he's
collecting change at a toll booth

or an astronaut?

nope. don't care.
eyebrows and hands is my kind of
guy.

save the trees

I call the hallmark
card

factory and talk to the man
in charge.

yes. he says. can I help you.
I tell him.

you're killing me.
these cards cost ten dollars now.

I don't want to keep
sending ten dollar cards to everyone.

there are some people that are
only worth a five dollar
card,

or two dollars at the most.

the bells and whistles
are all a waste of time.

how about we have one card
for all the holidays.

and you check off the appropriate
boxes

for the whole year.
people can keep it on the mantle,
pin it to the fridge or

use it as door stop.
but enough with the cards
and these faux

holidays.

good news and bad news

when the phone
rings,

when it dings,
when

it vibrates, I ignore it.
I grey

rock it and don't give
it the time

of day.
things can wait.

no news is good news.
bad

news will keep
all night,

all day.

let the light in

block
block

delete.

slash, burn, discard.
take

out the trash.

my thumb is calloused
from

weeding out
the dark

that clutter the soul.
time to pull

back the curtain
and let the light in.

a thousand miles from shore

it's easier to talk about love
from a distance.

easier
to remember it in more glowing
terms.

those rose colored glasses
still on.

the amnesia of pain settled in.
it's easier to discuss

beauty, and kisses.
of bodies

entwined. lovers
skin to skin.

distance puts a shine on
what it was,

what it wasn't.
in time it looks like a far away
ship

plowing through a blue
ocean

a thousand miles from shore.

between the green

there has to a heaven
you convince yourself over tea

as you sit
outside
amongst the birds

afloat on a summer breeze.
how sweet
and yellow the sun is,

half risen and sparkling
between the green.

there has to be a heaven.

i do concede.

she will remain

we gather at the grave
to see

a friend off.
but to where is she going.

strange
not to wave and say goodbye
and have her

turn with her smile
so bright,
so wide.

it will be odd to not hear
her voice,
the sound of her laugh

across
the line.
but there will be no sadness
in her absence,
instead she will

remain.
perhaps she's only late,
she broke a nail
or heel

as she often does.
maybe she misplaced
her umbrella and ran

back to her flat
in the pouring rain.

while rome burns

i watch

the hot dog eating contest
on tv.

july 4th.

the contestants
are introduced before jamming

Nathan's hot
dogs down their throats

with wet buns dipped
in buckets
of water.

it's sickening.
one man eats 75.
his eyes bulging, his face red.
his stomach
swollen

with the meat and bread.

it's America.

the crowd roars with
gladiator pleasure.

it feels like the end of a good run.

Nero  fiddling
while Rome burns.

coffee in venice

i asked

the Italian store keep for

a cup

of coffee to go.

he stared at me as if i killed

one

of his children.

you want to leave

and drink

my coffee he said, shaming

me in

front of the crowd.

yes i told him.

please, a cup to go.

i want to walk around your grande

city

and drink your wonderful

brew

while doing so.

more laughter ensued.

reluctantly he poured a little

coffee

into

a paper cup, then said, go.

second hand clothes

second hand

clothes.

hand me downs.

borrowed

shoes.

a runny nose.

not all

childhoods are the same.

some

are best

forgotten.

some memories

you

have to let go.

the new business venture

a lady in the supermarket
yells

at me, because I put a hole in my
baby blue
mask

in order to slide
a straw into mouth and sip

on my r.c. cola.

you're going to kill us all she
screamed

running down
the aisle, the wrong way, I
might add,

with her nineteen cans of cat
food.

the manager comes over and i
show him how i
have a small flap that seals

up the hole once my straw is
removed.

he nods, his finger to his chin
and says,

you know what. you've got something
there.
I think we can sell these
things.

can you make me a few a dozen
and i'll split the profit with you.

sure I tell him. no problem. we'll put
them at the front of the aisle

near the hand sanitizers

and the entemman donuts.

changing names

for some strange reason
my mother

gave me the middle name
Lee.

whether she had a crush on the confederate
general,
I don't know.

but I suspect she liked
sarah lee's baked

goods, and when pregnant was
eating
a doughy sweet concoction

of factory processed cheesecake
and named
me Lee

after staring at the box,
while tilted towards
her mouth for the last savory
crumb.

but now I guess I have to change it.
because

of all the political correctness
going around.

I have a short list at the moment.
jimmy, I've always liked
the name
jimmy, or Gordon, after the
tv chef, but

LeBron or maybe Jordan
would be nice too,

because I love basketball so much.
or maybe

Lincoln, that way I can keep the L
as my middle
initial.

someone with girl parts

smart is good.

funny is even better. one usually
comes with

the other.

if they don't get sarcasm
or dark

humor, then they don't have a clue.
run.

kissing skills.
baking skills are on the list.

good manners.

self less, not selfish.
minimal amount of baggage.

carryon. not a trunk with locks.

appearance is nice, but over time
it's
what's inside

that counts the most.
honesty. integrity.

a good heart.
a good soul.

someone willing to give love
as much

as be loved.  someone perfectly
imperfect,

of which I am in spades.
someone like me,

but with girl parts, don't make
me draw a picture.

The Pool Is Open

the pool is open.

I get my three pages of rules and regulations
in the mail slot.

a yellow pass is stapled
to the instructions.

no diving.
no running.
no hanging onto the ropes.

no smoking,
no drinking or eating,
or chewing gum.
no carousing or
talking

loudly about anything,

especially politics,

no gambling.
no splashing,

or swimming with unusual strokes.
no pointing at people
and laughing.

no music.
no peeing in the pool,
that goes for you too grandpa.

anyone wearing a diaper or
depends
will not be allowed in the water

until the last fifteen minutes
before closing.

that includes those with open wounds

or runny noses.

no spitting. respect your 15 year
old just
certified life guard.

obey the whistle, his three hours

of training

could save your life.

if you don't know how to swim,

don't get in the water.

you can dangle your feet in the shallow

end,

but that's it.

you must wear a bathing suit.
a mask
and have a clean bill of health

authorized by your doctor,

or web md. .

everyone must take a three minute
hot shower
using soap before entering

the radiation chamber.

you must remain there until the red
light turns green

then proceed to an assigned
spot on the pavement
six feet apart from the next nearest
towel.

temporary vision loss and vomiting

may occur.

have fun and enjoy what's left of

your summer.

the inflatable castle

it's lord of the flies
out in the parking lot.

kids are running wild
with

water guns. their faces painted.

yelling and whooping.
the parents are in the shade

drinking beer
while the kids pummel each
other

and curse.
making vows of mayhem
at one another.

one of the parents has blown
up a giant

inflatable castle.
orange and red, yellow.

a giant balloon they can run
into
and out the other side.

I want to join in, but I feel
awkward,

like maybe i'm too old to have
any fun.

I look at my watch.
where's betty?

the middleburg fox hunt

she says
let's go on a fox hunt.

she's wearing her riding boots
and sharp

black jacket
with a matching hat.

quite snazzy.
there's a riding crop in her hand

and a bugle in the other.

come on, it will be fun.
the dogs will chase them out of the brush

and then we'll shoot
them.

I don't know I tell her. I don't really
want to eat
any little foxes.

oh no, she says, we aren't going to eat
them.

just kill them and maybe make
a little coat out of them.

come on, it'll be fun, the woods
are full of foxes.

don't be a stick in the mud.

but I don't have a gun, or rifle, or
even a sling shot.

it's cool, I have one you can borrow.
it's loaded

so be careful. ever been on a horse
before.

no. horses scare me, can't I just run
along side you? or get on my bike?

no.

maybe we can just scare the foxes
and not kill them.

hit them with a rock or something,
but gently.

why are we doing this anyway? it's hot
out.

and there's bugs all over the place.

when the deal goes down

my father has  five million
dollars

tucked away in an insurance
policy
under his mattress.

when he passes, which seems
nearly impossible
at the age of 92, the racoons

will come out of the woodwork.
especially two sisters.

but his will is iron clad.
so it's going
to be a wild and crazy

ride, as it always is with families,
when
the deal goes down.

the pie is cut two ways.
not nine. sad to say. I do have
a charity

in mind though.

aren't you a patriot?

my right wing
gun
toting friend who listened
to the radio all day,
turned all the way to the right
used to ask
me
aren't you a patriot?
don't you love your
country?
and now
my left wing
friend,
marching for civil rights,
and
free speech
and occupying the block
while burning
and looting, with
no police asks me
the same thing.
i'm confused. I need a nap.

the 4th of july at jimmy's house

i'm disappointed that there
won't be a pie
eating contest this year

over at jimmy's house for the 4th
of july.

no watermelon seed spitting
contest either.

no rockets in the air, no
sparklers burning the children's fingers.

no yapping dogs, or dives into
the frog infested
pool.

there won't be any hot dogs on
the grill.
or burgers.

or singing, or yelling, or throwing
up.
jimmy won't be wearing his flag
colored

underwear.

oh well, maybe the next year.

parting is not sweet sorrow

it's usually a problem

getting the spare key back.
the parking pass.

getting everything left behind
to the curb

in large lawn bags.
the guitar, the jewelry,
the lingerie.

they can be like gum stuck
to the bottom of your shoe.

no matter how hard
you try to scrape it off, there's
still

some stuck between the treads.
parting is not
sweet sorrow, but just

a pain sometimes, better yet
to throw those

old sneaks away.

and then dessert

my grandmother
would go out

to the bricked back yard
and grab

a chicken
from a coop,
fat and white.

thick with feathers,
and ring

it's neck like it was nothing.
a quick loud snap
and the struggle was over,
then

she'd sit out
in the shade of her olive
tree, sipping red
wine,

plucking, plucking,
until the skin

was bare, dimpled pink,

stark white.

we watched from the window.
our round faces
in our hands.
we saw

the blood, the violence
of dinner.

but it didn't matter, we
had seconds,

and then dessert.

you've had your fill

you reach a point
in life when

the wind of time
has greyed your hair.

creased your brow, darkened
your eyes.

you are no longer the child
you once were.
you have

no patience for fools,
for liars,

for women
who prance by without a heart.

all legs and lips.
breasts

and perfume.

you have no desire anymore
for the likes of them.

for whispers and webs.

you've had your fill of darkness.
of their

false world.
you have sobered up to

their magic tricks.
there is no rabbit in a hat,

everything is remarkably
clear.

the girl that got away

like old cars

rusting in the yard, up
on blocks,

homes for pigeons
and bees.

the men sit
on their porch swings,

and sip from their
brown paper bags of
brown whiskey.

long island tea.
they talk longingly of

some long forgotten dream.
the factory.

the rail road yard.
the roads not taken.

there's always a girl
that got away.

a dollar lost a dollar made.
the stories

are long about
the big fish almost caught.

the gamble.
the roll of the dice,
the wheel spinning,

putting it all down,
the time when they lost.

a fight won in some bar
in Chicago,

or was it Philly?

the bugs die in the purple
light of the porch.

police cars roll by,
but there's no trouble here
now.

none at all, not anymore.

all the dead flowers

the girl crying
on the curb, at the end of the
road

has been there for a while.
centuries.

she's the same girl
believing
in princes, in kings, in

ruby slippers
and crowns.

she's delirious, disillusioned.
she believes

in love.
in the prince charming

on the white horse,
the house,
the home.

the picket fence.
she's swallowed
it all.

she believes in the dream,
even now.

in her white dress, aged

and weak,

head bent, crying, sobbing,
weeping,

she believes, she believes,
despite

all the dead flowers.

people in the ice box

they come, they go.

like seasons.
like leaves on trees.

like
food in the  fridge.

it's there one day, and
gone
the next.

people you think you can't
live without.

lovers. friends. wives
and what

not.

you hang onto them like
like all

the frozen food in
the freezer.

ice cold and covered
in frost.

and why?
beats me. you were doing

just fine before them,
and doing

better without. time to get

the butter

knife out and defrost

the hell out

of the ice box.

scuse me while i kiss the sky

I had the radio up

really loud while driving
around, doing errands,

dropping my mother off at post
office.

purple haze by Hendrix was on.
and the only good way

to listen to it, is full blast.
I played my

air guitar as I  drove,
and beat out the drums on
the dashboard.

at 17 or 70, it's purple haze
to the grave.

I looked over at my mother,
and she shook

her head. you can let me out
anywhere, she said.

you're going to go deaf playing
that music

so loud, you know.

what? I said. can you pick

me up a book

of stamps while you're in there?

slob world

we are in the era

of sweat pants. pajama pants.
shorts
and sneakers,

flip flops.
t-shirts and sweat shirts.

loose fitting,
baggy

clothes that we swim in.
we are lazy,

unshowered unkempt,

disheveled.
in fashion and in thought.

not a book in hand,
just a phone, texting.

the world
is not coming to an end

as we know,
but it feels that way
at times.

home sweet home

it's a wonderful

thing
to come home to no one.

no angry face.
no

sick significant other.
no argument

or lies. no one pushing a button.
no doors

slammed.
no looks, or rolling
of eyes.

it's a beautiful thing to come
home

to no cat
or dog, no gold fish,

or parrot mimicking
your words.

no one needs to be walked.

no plants on the sill
that need attending to.

no water bucket to wet
the soil,
no spinning of the pot towards
sunlight.

sweet solitude, where have
you been

all my life?

jake the snake

I was thinking about old jake
the other day.

he passed away on Christmas day.
lung cancer.

he was basically a pirate who went through
a time portal

and ended up here.

a grizzled beard, a pony tail,

and a new set of teeth.

a great worker when hungry and sober.
funny.

and a chain smoker and heavy drinker.
he was in and out of jail.

shelters, tents under the  bridge,
but
he rolled with the punches.

always landing on his feet somehow.

sure, he'd fall asleep

on the roof of a house,

or hide

behind some bushes when hungover.

but he  worked hard when he had to.
when I ride

by the 7-11 where I used to pick him up
I look
over and half expect to see him,

cigarette in his mouth, a big gulp
in his hand,

his paint splattered work clothes on,
and smiling ear
to ear.

whistling at any woman who walked by.

jake was the man.

I can't go, sorry, Covid

I go through the list

of people that are mad at me.
either slightly

or red eyed mad.

usually it's over something
said.

some small thing, or discussion
about current events.

but then it turns ugly and  feelings
get hurt.

oh well.
what are you going to do?

maybe you don't want to attend
some party

or go some where that you don't
want to go to.

the  annual fourth of july party

with potato salad

and hot dogs. screaming kids

running around

with their hands burned from

sparklers.

they get mad, feel slighted,

that you can't make the party,
but the good thing now is that all

you have to do is say Covid.
it's your get out of jail free card.

can't go, sorry. Covid.
how can anyone be mad about that.

you shrug, put your mask on and
say, see ya. maybe next year.

the new hot tub

have you lost weight

the salesman says to me, as he
pulls out

the paperwork
for a new hot tub in the back

yard.
you look marvelous. you look
a lot younger than your age.

what's your secret?

I look at my stomach.
maybe a pound or two, I tell
him.

but i'm hungry all the time.

so let me tell you about your new hot
tub, he says, while pushing

candy bar across the desk.

it's got nineteen jets, seats
seven. this baby is state of the art.

cup holders. wifi, stereo.
apple play.

low maintenance. it's the gold
standard of hot tubs.

you'll be in this thing all night
and all day

and your girlfriend or wife
will love it. he winks, maybe all
three of you at the same time.

if you like to party, and who doesn't,
there are handles all over that you
can grab onto
if you start to slip under

and pass out.

no one has ever drowned in one
of our hot tubs.
there's an alarm that goes off
if more than ninety eight per cent
of your body

goes under water.
i'm telling you, chicks love
hot tubs.

you'll be living like Hefner in
this thing.

so what do you think?  can I put
you into a hot tub today?

running with scissors

I used to pull right
up

to the curb to let her out.
especially if it was raining.

if I didn't she'd dash across
the street

into traffic like a five year
old,

or a dog with no street
sense.

I got tired of yelling,
look out

to the cars streaming by
with their windows
fogged,

hand pressing at the horn.

what are you gonna do
with crazy people?

do you like my hair?

I go visit my doctor.

she just had her hair done.
girl has a lot of hair.

thick and luxurious in a very
modern
cut.

stylish and hip.

it's sort of reddish brown now.
I ask her
if I can put

my hand through it and pull
it from behind.

she says. sure why not?
so I do.

three hours later
we go out to dinner

and her hair still looks
fabulous.

thank you for your service

did you ever serve
in the military

she asks, as I fill out the form
for

a passport to escape
this country

while it burns and changes
for the worse.

nope, I tell her.
I was in the cub scouts for
a few weeks,

but went over the hill.
the rules
and regulations.

the uniforms and tasks
like
tying knots

and making key chains
out of strips of colored plastic

was killing me.
I went over the hill after

one meeting of cookies
and milk.

ducked out to use the bathroom
and took off
running

never looked back.

Three Rabbits

I think about

planting carrots in the back yard.
I get a trowel

some new soil.
a few package of seeds.

a bright picture is on the front
of the plastic
pouch.

fat orange carrots all bundled
together with a green

tie.
I look at the yard, there's plenty
of room.

I turn the package over
to read the instructions, then
look over

to where the gate is open.
I see three rabbits

looking in, nodding their
heads
enthusiastically,

yes. yes. yes.

We Need to Talk

we used to have these
long

talks after I caught her with
her married

boyfriend, or writing a check
to her ex husband

or lying about something,
anything.

they were circular conversations
going nowhere.

full of dead ends, word salad.

we'd sit down in the livingroom
and talk.

we'll i'd talk. and she'd sit there
texting on her phone
like a fourteen year old.

i'd ask her why
she's still

seeing a married man.
i'd ask her about the visits
to the ex

husband.
i'd go through a list of lies.

my voice would go hoarse.

she'd sit there
and stare at me, or through me

with those dull blank eyes
and shrug.

and? she'd say. so what's the problem?
are we almost done here.

I have to go somewhere really really
important.

this fish stinks

you know when the relationship
is over.
you can smell it.

it's not unlike
when fish goes bad.

it stinks.
you cringe when you unwrap
the paper.
and hold it to your nose.

you know it
when she comes home
through the door.

just hearing the car pull up
and the brake

engaged is enough to make
you sprint for the back

door.
no matter how much you season
that rotted fish,

no matter how you cook it,
fry,
or roast, boil or
steam, not matter what you
do to that
slab of seafood,

it's over. that fish stinks
and it's time

to think of other options for
dinner, not to mention
a few other

things.

Just Doing My Part

I stare at the box of dixie
cups

stacked in my cupboard.

I have more upstairs beneath
the sink.

little paper cups
for rinsing after a brush

or gargle.

nice little cups that old

a mere ounce or two of
water

or vodka if you need a quick
jolt
before

going to church or work.

I might have three hundred
dixie cups.

what do I do? keep them hidden?
I hate to throw them

away, but I feel that I must
do my part

in making America great again.

tonight i'm having Northern
Fried chicken

too. wish me luck on that.

secret lives

i'm always amazed
at how many people have secret lives.

secret boyfriends,
secret wives.

two families, three jobs.
an extra

dog and cat at a different address.
the exhaustion

of all those lies, all that juggling.

I can barely keep one life
straight.

how do they do it? where do they find
the energy

and time to pretend to be other people?
to have fake

lives?

the p.o. box,
the hidden cell phone.

the secret rendezvous. who has the time
for all that

monkey business?

and where does it end?
all these strangers standing over

the grave,
each saying to the other,

who are you? have we met?

facebook update

you stop by

your old facebook profile to see
if anyone is baking

any cakes,
or if their kids are on the honor roll.

there's a few new
cat videos and one with a racoon

going through a bag of trash.

lots of memes about the riots,
about

the virus.
and look there's an old face
in the crowd.

a ghost from the past.
same picture from fifteen years
ago.

the indian vest. the long hair.
the fright mask.

but it beats the old photo shopped

pics.

air brushed to the nth degree.

nobody at sixty

should try to look 23.

delete and block, I mean are we
really friends?

some people never change.
I scroll
and scroll and scroll.

I should post something on there.
but what?

I just scrambled some eggs, that'll
have to do for now.

oh, and there's a worm on the sidewalk.

click and post.

I need to find some more new friends

though.

i'm lagging behind.

the tire store

what can be said

about a flat tire that hasn't already
been said.

a lot.

a nail, a screw, a shard of glass
stuck
into the tread

and out the air goes.

can they fix it, plug it, seal it
back up
and away you go?

hell no.

you need a new tire. no one plugs
a tire
anymore. but it' only has a hundred

miles on it, you tell the man
in his clean blue shirt.

it's the inner lining, he says, stroking
his mustache and tapping
his belly.

damn liner is shot.

so you sit and wait
in the stiff chairs, with the stale
coffee

and people magazines with liz
taylor on the front.

you wait for your new tire.

it's a tire store, but they don't have yours
in stock.

they never do.
they have to send for it across town
or in

Baltimore. but you're welcome
to wait,
or go.

it's up to you. the cab home, walk.
uber.

we'll call you when it's ready,
or maybe we won't.

we're very busy here with tires.
we don't have any

but we can get you one if you want.
have a nice day.

wanting no one

we all need

a safe zone. a home.
a place

of no fear. no anxiety.
a peaceful

island
away from it all.

we all need the silence
of one

in order to regroup,
recharge,

to be not alone, but
to be happy

with oneself.

and for the moment
wanting

no one.

less light

less light

appears. less of everything

draws
near.

less of you. less of me.
we

are all diminished by time,
with each

passing year.

less light though,
is nothing

to fear.

we make love

it's raining out.

a hard rain, thunder.
swift wind.

streaks of lighting against
the far hills.

we make love
and the rain is part of it.

it's tender and sweet.
it's furious.

and when it ends,
we listen

to our hearts and to the rain
still

falling sweetly now
against

the window pane.

we fall asleep.

and when we awaken,

we'll do it again.

counting lies

I used to count

her lies.
write them down on a piece
of paper.

she said this, did this,
etc.

etc.

I used to count them all
up

as if it mattered.
it didn't.

now it's hard to remember
why

I even cared, or took the time
with such

a person.
strange how life takes

a turn for the better once
free

from a toxic person.

sheep

I was protesting

the protests when I was told I couldn't
do that.

who are you to think
you can have free speech

or  a different opinion than
the mob

in the street.

be one of us, a sheep.
quit thinking on your own.

now march with us,
or else,

do not listen to the sound
of your own drum beat.

sleep well

happiness

is not easy. but there are steps
you can

take to get there.
one is to work hard.

educate yourself.
love yourself.

get rid of toxic people from
your life.

eat well. exercise.
read read read.

find a creative outlet.
find peace

in the small things.
let go

of the past. look forward
to tomorrow.

but live in the now.
speak less.

listen more. sleep well.

be true

to yourself.

1939

the world

is walking on eggshells.
everyone afraid

to voice an opinion that goes
against

the mob mentality.
we bite our tongue, speak

delicately.
we censor our minds, unable

to say what we
really want.

it reminds me of another day,
another time,

in another country

1939.

it never happened

I like to erase.

delete and wash clean each mistake
made,
as if it
never happened.

I like to hang the clean
sheets

on the long line,
my bare feet in the cold grass.

I like the blue
sky of april.

the new year arriving in spring.
I keep

no score. no record of the past.

I like to erase.

keeping the blood in

we stop the bleeding

whether
a wound, or a dollar lost,

the market,
love
leaving.

another heart arriving. we stop
the bleeding.

life is about tourniquets.
bandages,

thread and needle.
the surgeon's

scalpel.
keeping

the blood in
for as long as we can.

what lies above

the wind

speaks whispers into
the coffins

of trees.
trees bent towards sun,

towards water,
always grasping,

always in need.
all life is slow dying,

without love.
and even then,

you wonder what lies below,
what

lies above.

beyond belief

we wonder how the wicked
sleep.

how they can lie there
head against the white pillow

with hands folded
legs entwined in sheets.

how can they
sleep, when we stare into the dark
void
of night

and listen
to the woods moving
outside, beyond

the shaded
window, beyond belief.

the way out

you see the way out.

the red exit sign high on the wall.
you see

the steps, the path that leads
to the door.

in your mind, you practice leaving.
slowly.
then you run.

you leave everything behind.
all that is wrong.

your new life

lies beyond that door.
you can get to it when you're ready.
when

courage arrives.
when hope is lost.

when the time is right.

you see the way out.

you rise and begin.

the unwritten future

she tells

me about the babies
that failed.

twins
and one other

that never made it into
the world.

her eyes drift off into some
unwritten

future.
she smiles, a false smile.

it's an offering
that I take

before
bowing out and going
in.

we won't talk of this again.

a reader of labels

I have become a reader
of labels

at this age.

I have become one of them
standing

in the aisle with a can or jar
of something

and squinting at the small
print

examining the contents
of beans,

of fish, of olives.

how much sugar is here,
the salt,

the syrups or carbs.
what am I putting into my

body.

i need a chair to sit and
ponder

this package in my hand.

they believe

they believe.

truly they believe that
if they

make a sign
and go downtown

and march, and yell
and scream.

if they throw rocks
at the police

smash cars and break windows
set fires
to the stores

pull down the statues of
once heroes,

that things will change.

they believe that the world
will right

it self, that the color of
your skin

will not matter, that sin
will end,

that men will at last see
the error of their ways

and make amends.
they believe this with all their
hearts.

well meaning, and naïve.

but soon they tire,
there is work to do. lives
to lead.

they grow old
and grey. their bones turn white,
as the ashes
rise

from their graves.

yelling out the window

I can't help myself,

but when I see two young women,

in the prime of their

precious life

walking

into the bridal shop

with their mother, I can't help

but 

roll down the window

and yell out, don't do it. stop.

don't.

please, just think about this.

they look at me like i'm a crazy

old man,

which is pretty much true.

they don't laugh, but hold their

swatches

of

lime green and peach colored

fabric

in their hands

and run on into the store.

time to protest

my friend asks me if i'm
going

to the protest march today.
I ask him,

what's this one about?
he looks at his schedule.

well, we have one at ten a.m.
for human

rights,
another at eleven for abused
animals,

then one at noon, for books
the we want

banned. there's a lot of words
out there that go against
our liking.

I tell him, maybe.
I have to work,

but if I can break away for a little
while after lunch,

I might be able to do the
animal one.   what should I wear.

black, all white, zebra stripes?

something casual he says,
easy to run in.

okay, I tell him, by the way,

are you bringing bricks and
torches?  or just signs

this time?

the cat walk

I watch the woman
walking

her cat down the street.

the cat's collar is attached
to a gold leash

with little rhinestones.

slowly they meander along
the sidewalk,

the yard.
the cat wants to go under
a car,
but no.

the tree holds interest.
but no.

the woman wants the cat
to walk
on the sidewalk.

but cats have a mind of
their own.

it's a short walk.
the sun is out.

she comes my way, but i
go in before

I say anything about
the cat.

leave me alone

her left leg

is a lot like her right leg.
I can see

that now.
I am a great observer of
legs.

and torsos.
etc.
etc.

it's been a life long obsession.

legs.
i'm sorry. sue me.

I know we're living in
the dreadful

era of extreme political
correctness,

but I don't care.
I like legs.

leave me alone.

the red flags

the body
and the mind

protects itself from harm.
instincts.

self preservation
inborn

from the start.
pain is a warning.

anxiety and fear
are

your friends, listen
to them.

observe the red flags
all around you.

obey them.
get out and get on
the mend.

the illusion

I like

how milagro
stacks

my books. rearranges
the linen

closet.
the eggs.
the tomatoes.

separating, the cheese
from

the rest.
she seems to know where
everything goes.

shoes in the closet.
dishes,

look at how the bed
is made.

the shelves are dusted.

she makes no comment
on what she sees,

what I've left out on
the table

or in the sink.
silently, she goes about
her work.

giving order where there
is none.

keeping the illusion of a
good life alive.

you're looking well

some are always
sick.

the leg, the arm,
the head.

the gut.

the hair falling out.
the knees

sore. they point at a kidney
and wince.

or a scar,

and they never fail
to tell
you so once asked,

to pull out an x-ray,
or form,

from a doctor.
you learn in time to not

ask how are?

instead you say, good to see
you.

you're looking well.

God's Explanation

we know
what we know without speaking it.

we know the truth.
we know

what's a lie.
from birth we know the order
of things

sleep
food
the comfort of love

when to cry.
we take this with us each

year
we survive.

searching for meaning,
for reason,

for God's explanation
of it all,
one day

at a time.

learned fear

as the  two
men work. ladders angled upon
the house,

and the new windows go in,
as the old

ones go out.
I offer water.

I tell them i'll be back.
I think of

hiding things of value.
but why?

there is nothing here
that

can't be replaced.
and why wouldn't I trust

these two strangers?
what is it about us that we
suspect

that we fear?

learned, perhaps.

the cracked egg

if she was
an

egg.
she'd be cracked

and spilled.
gone

sour and sick
within

her own shell.

if she was an egg.
there

would be no
hatching.

no coming to life.
just

part of
a set of twelve

left behind. cold
stored

until later that night.

the summer wind

there is a point in childhood,
half way out,
half way in,

where you wonder,
when will

childhood end. when will
these games

these small
issues,
these playgrounds with
swings,

the slides,
us children, spinning,
like leaves caught
in

summer wind,
come to an end. and then

it does.
and you wish and wonder,
how to get

back there once again.

a serious talk

you have to ask yourself,

she says to me, almost in a whisper,
is this the person

you really want to be with for the rest
of your life?

hmmm.
I say.

hand on my chin, pondering her
question.

then I start to think,
is this the house I want to live in
for the rest of my life.

is this the place I want
to be
forever and a day.

is this the shirt I want to wear today.
these shoes.

black or grey?
an onion bagel or blueberry?

toasted, or not? butter or cream cheese?

do these pants make me look fat?

no one here

we pass one another

in the hall. wordless.
her to her room,

me to mine.
it's early.

sleep was hard. waking
even harder.

I hear the water run
as she steps into the shower.

I get  dressed, make coffee.
I stand by

the window, before leaving.
the woods are
bare.

the grey arthritic limbs
of winter trees
fit the moment.

quietly I leave, there really
is no one

here.

heaven and hell

we talk about the devil,
whether or

not he's real.
if he actually exists,

if there is a heaven or a hell.
how could

God, if there is a God
be so cruel

as to send someone into the flaming
pits of hell,

for eternity?
what kind of a God does that?

i can see the dark aura
around her

as she speaks. I feel the black
vibe
of her soul.

I know the depth of her
history, having watched it up

close.

she's worried about this for
a lifetime

of reasons. heaven yes, but
hell

hopefully no.

the attic box marked done

I place
all the things I have forgotten

and the things
I remember but no longer

need
in my mind

into a box, marked done.

no date, no explanation.
just one word.

done.
which says it all.

I find the deepest part of
the attic

where the cobwebs
have layered
their traps in fine woven

webs. and say, good.
perfect.

I slide the box in, shut
the ceiling door and climb down.

wiping clean my hands
of the whole

ordeal.

everything you need to know

a lie, one lie,

one deception told without
the blinking

of a single eye,
is a thread, a loose thread

on a thick sweater.

pull on it, pull that lose thread
and watch

that life unravel right
before your

eyes.
one lie and then the skin
is laid
bare.

everything you need to know
is there.

the caught fish

as the fish

rises out of the river,
pulled heavy

on my line. I feel
sympathy for him.

the prickly silver hook
caught in his jaw, the awful

air suffocating his
lungs.

he stiffens in  panic
wanting to be back in the water
he was born in.

the blue sky more blue
than

he ever was aware.
what life is this, to be out

here, he thinks,
as I twist the hook from his mouth.

I mourn for his life.
his beauty, the pattern of his
scales

a work of art,
his small heart

heaving towards the distant sun.