lifting rocks

we used to lift rocks

looking

for snakes.

the larger the rock down

by the creek

the more likely

there'd be a snake curled

up under.

wet and cool

in the carved palm

of mud.

we'd watch it rise,

it's body stiffening,

the tongue electric

with  spit

and sizzle, ready

to strike,

but we meant no harm.

we just wanted to see

what evil looked

like.

no need to lift a rock

these days.

just look across the room.

my aim is true

you can't put 

the bullet back

into the chamber

once fired.

the right word said.

there it goes.

spinning in the air,

sending

a message

to one once desired.

it could be an

arrow

or a pie.

or a shoe tossed

across the room.

but it means the same

thing.

hoping for a direct hit,

a bullseye.

one fell swoop

you eliminate

confusion,

reduce doubt and

anxiety.

trouble is pushed away.

you wipe clean

the muddled slate

of fear

and pain.

all in one fell swoop.

one swipe

left, one verbal ousting

and all that's left

is you.

you're sane again.

two apples

i fear for my life

as she drives fast along the back

roads.

the top down as a cold breeze

makes me shiver.

i see the ditches

and fences,

the cliffs inches away from

the front tire.

i see the gravel fly.

i cling to the seat,

push my foot on the invisible

brake pedal that i wish was there.

i begin to pray.

i pull out my rosary beads and start

with Hail Mary full of grace.

i close my

eyes as we approach stopped

traffic hoping we can

stop in time too.

smoke rises from the wheels

as the tires squeal and burn

against the black top.

it's a white knuckle ride home.

but somehow, through the rain,

and wind, the winding roads

we arrive back home.

soaked in sweat i stagger

inside with my two apples

from a roadside stand 

and thank her kindly

for the ride.

yes or no, never maybe

where two or more are gathered

together in His name,

there is God

the Bible says.

pray

and your prayers will be answered.

but not on your clock,

of course.

pace all you want, worry,

wring your hands.

stay up all night.

it does nothing to speed things up.

and the answer might

be a resounding no.

what are you crazy?

I can't do that for you. it'll ruin

everything i have planned.

or it might be yes. yes, with a caveat.

like stop drinking

or chasing women, or move

to France,

but rarely does 

God text, maybe. it's either

yes or no, but never maybe.

let's find another way

it's the dust bowl.

the great

depression.

it's the wind, the heat,

not a single cloud

holding rain. it's

the lack of income.

jobs.

it's the wagon

pulling the lame,

the horses

narrowed by lack

of everything.

nothing is green.

nothing is growing.

our pockets are empty.

our hearts are more

than just broken.

it's today, it's tomorrow.

it feels like forever.

but here, take my

hand.

if you can find 

it in this sand storm

and let's find

another way.

all day

he married

a woman

to keep her

from getting away,

but now to his 

dismay

she's there

all day.

the markers

the markers

are

tilted in the old grave

yard.

brushed

brown in time.

the letters

and numbers fading,

the impressions

smoothed.

below lie the bones

of the dead.

small stones for some,

what they could

afford.

the clerk,

the minister, the woman

who

cleaned the houses.

one who

baked bread.

and 

the governor too

has a corner.

a bench, an angel 

with wings

for him, but

no bigger beneath the earth

than me

or you.

the empty trees

shoes

wear out,

calls get dropped, batteries

die.

laces break,  buttons

drop to the floor.

hair thins,

wrinkles appear.

love fades.

the wind empties the trees.

the world moves on.

each day

things disappear

just a little bit more.

under their thumbs

i hate the phone addiction.

the madness

of the ding.

the continual staring into it.

that

great abyss of information

that does little

but keep you from having

a real life.

real conversations

and connections.

love suffers and is short lived

with phone cradled

in hand.

it's a sad world we live in.

each

click

a hope that the grass 

will be greener

in the next swipe,

the next meme,

the next like.

the next whatever they feed

us to keep us

under their watchful

thumbs.

the queen of desserts

my mother,

the queen of desserts would set

her pies

and cakes

out on the back porch

screened in

but open to the weather

and cold.

and when everything

was left out

over night,

the day before thanksgiving,

and froze, how she cried

and cried.

until we comforted her,

telling her everything

will be alright,

then turned on

the stove.

the office worker

it's job

he says. a way of making a living.

it's money.

all this shuffling of papers

and being in the cube,

it's not who i really am.

i'm really a dancer.

an interpretive dancer.

stand back and let

me show you, let me

demonstrate my true self

and display all my inner

moves. then you'll see 

who i really am, 

not this drab person

punching the clock,

stuck in a grey 

florescent room,

i'm really a dancer,

an artist.

a star yet to be born.

a flower yet to bloom.

sandy point

the sand

fills your shoes as you walk

along

Sandy Point.

the rough waters, blue and bruised

under

a weak sun

continues what it's

meant to do.

the twin

bridges across the fists

of waves

unfolding their steel span.

sailboats

like handkerchiefs

caught in the wind,

lost kites

without strings or hands

to pull them in.

but this sand.

these ancient granules

are underfoot so

you stop and pour them out,

as you do

so often with memories

gone south.

peggy lee

good laughter

not unlike

good sex, despite

the satisfaction,

saddens me

in its wake.

is that all there is

peggy lee,

is that all we

all we have left?

the unreachable sky

some buckets fall, 

they tumble

in tin

cans

from the awful

sky.

the keeper of all things distant

and unreachable.

pours and pours

upon us.

the ping and pang

of rain.

we wipe our eyes.

how unknowable life is,

though so many

seek, so many try.

the late mid life crisis car

she sees me ogling the sports

car

as it slows

to a stop

at the corner.

it's red with the white top down.

it's a piece of candy

on four wheels.

how suave and debonair

the gent behind the wheel

appears.

his dark shades on,

his love beside him with

windy hair.

is that james bond by any chance?

she sees me looking

and smiles. go ahead and

get one.

i nod approvingly.

mid life crisis?  she says.

i laugh,

only if i live to be a hundred

and forty or some

odd sum.

the bayside town

it's a small town

by the bay. a village of

sorts with

cottages of bright canary

yellow

and robins egg blue.

emerald green with white

trim,

gables and screened in porches.

fire pits

and lawn chairs too.

the shops go from one end

to the other.

antiques

and gifts. sea wear,

anchors to hang on some wall.

pictures

of sailboats,

of fish, from mackerel

to trout,

to salmon and herring.

candles and t-shirts,

don't forget those,

perhaps a dress, or a flowing

scarf, jewelry

as well.

confectionary treats abound,

there's a bakery

and three ice cream shops

to peruse.

it's a small town.

women love it.

they can't get enough of it.

while the men get dragged along.

holding small bags,

hiding their frowns,

their long day blues.

the deep sleep

a deep sleep

makes you groggy, but it beats

the tossing

and turning kind

of slumber

where you roll over half

the night to look

at the clock.

into the dream you go

in vivid detail.

dialogue 

and drama.

the plot is muddled,

but so what.

it's your dream and you

can do whatever you

want.

the next morning you wake

up and stagger

downstairs

for coffee, shaking your

head and wondering

what that was all about.

to be continued,

you tell your self.

you'd like to see how

it all turns out.

the loophole

i find a loophole in our 

so called marriage

and

do the paperwork.

it's not really a marriage

if no one was there,

and a Jewish  celebrant performed

the ceremony

in his man jeans and tennis shoes.

there were no vows.

no God involved. no words like

until death do us part.

it was a sham, a mockery of

a sham,

as woody allen might say.

it's not a real joining of two

hearts if one heart

is already lying and cheating

before we even

cut the cake. it was nothing but

a giant,

misunderstanding.

a stupid mistake.

that's what she says

she says

eggs.

i say scrambled?

she says

over easy.

i say toast?

she says

wheat.

bacon?

sausage.

i say hash browns?

she says

strawberries.

i say waffles,

she says okay.

i say tea?

she says coffee,

i say,

I hop?

she says give me

ten minutes.

second hand smoke

nothing and no one

is what

or who they appear to be.

we know that, or at least

learn it early,

if not from the jump

then soon thereafter,

when no longer crawling

but upright on

two.

and yet it surprises us when

we find out

that our parents are just

human

that a loved one

is too.

fallible and full of issues

that they

try or don't try to pass

along,

but it's futile,

like second hand

smoke, if you're

in the room long enough

with them,

eventually you'll be sick too.

the age of discernment

comes last, 

it seems. 

it's what i've learned most

from a person 

like you.

finding the sweet spot

we all have a sweet spot.

a place called

home

and happiness.

it could be the weather

that puts us

there.

an old friend, a book, a poem.

the trees

changing color.

a song, a blue

lake.

there is something in the world

that's good

and perfect.

things you can't hold.

a truth

a joy that isn't fake.

going to california

on our way to california

the car

broke down twenty miles west

of home.

so we never made it.

we were young.

we had nothing here to hold

us.

california here we come.

beaches and girls.

music

and free love. it was a dream

we wanted to hold.

but no.

the crankshaft fell to the road.

and we hitch hiked

back home.

where once nothing kept us

here, and we were free to  roam,

now

everything keeps us in place,

because

we've grown tired and old.

burning down the house

i knew when i met her

that she was trouble.

that i was going to pay dearly for

getting involved

with such a woman.

there was a black aura about her.

a darkness

below the skin.

but she was pretty, she kissed

like she meant it

and she made a mean batch of cookies.

in three months i was

hooked

worse than a crack head in a burned

out row house

with broken windows

and bad plumbing.

the rats ran over me.

it took some time to escape

the needle.

escape the drug that she was.

then rehab.

twelve steps became twenty four

steps. but finally the light came on

and i burned the house down

her photo gallery

she has a lovely home.

i can see that by the pictures that she sends.

the walls are painted

a nice

amber color.

there's a fire place, with walking

sticks

above it.

there's a mirror, a television.

there's a chair

and a sofa.

a photo of the coast of Ireland,

and mum and dad

in black and white beside it.

all the things one would expect

in a home.

she shows me everything there

is to show,

except the kitchen, the bathroom

and the bedroom.

the only places i really want to go.

give me the white sugar pill

pills do not go down

well with me.

vitamin C, makes me queasy.

amoxicillin

and i'm

in a daze.

Ibuprofen makes me sneeze,

i can hardly breathe,

as i sweat and itch the rash

it gives me.

aspirin

closes my throat,

squeezes my lungs.

I'm dotted red with Bactrim.

Zinc and Magnesium

make my stomach churn.

there's not a pill out there

that doesn't make

me sicker than i already am.

give me a placebo, if you

really want to help me, if you

really are my friend.

the stone wall

she would

take rocks, large rocks, ones

that she could carry

from the cold stream

beside her home

and carry them

to the fence.

to build a wall where

the wood had rotted,

the wire broken.

she'd lean

over,  feet in the stream,

and dig out

a round stone from the 

river bed.

for weeks, i'd watch her,

from my porch.

we'd wave. we'd nod

and smile,

saying nothing, too far

away. she was old

and getting older

by the day.

by fall she had built

the wall waist high,

that stretched from the road,

to her well

into the thick woods.

she had her wall

to keep things in, to

keep things out.

and soon she passed away.

friends in low places

i have friends in low places.

high places.

friends in limbo.

friends at the end of their rope.

some hanging

by a rope.

some skipping madly

down the boulevard.

i have brilliant friends.

dumb

ones, like me,

too.

but to have any, to have many,

beats

by a long shot

having none, or 

just  a few.

raised by wolves

we live in a fantasy world

at times.

we ponder what life would have

been like had we gone left

instead of right.

married the brunette

and not the blonde.

if i was taller, or smarter, or

grew up on the right

side of the tracks.

if only i'd  taken the job in

the city,

or gone to a different school.

had a daughter to go along with

the one son.

if only my parents were real

parents and i wasn't raised

by wolves.

if only. but,

you can only go there for a short

time,

before the doctors and priests

come running

to save you from

your delusional mind.

my june cleaver

i'm convinced that june cleaver

was not who she

pretended to be

on the show.

the apron, the dress, the hair

done just so.

her polite demeanor

to wally and ward,

the rascally beave,

was all a hoax.

i think she was a wild woman.

a minx

in the sack.

an angry woman who smoked

two packs

a day. unfiltered.

she liked to dance.

she liked her rye whiskey.

she liked to raise hell and

curse like

a sailor on leave.

in real life she'd have given

eddie haskell a hard smack

across the cheek.

i'd prefer to think of her that

way.

instead of the act.

the brainwashed multitudes

my friend of thirty five years

goes off the deep end.

i hope he dies, he says vehemently.

i've never hated

anyone as much as i hate him.

i can feel the anger coming through

the wires, thorough

the tapping

of his keyboard on his phone.

smoke is coming out of the sides

of mine

as i read what he writes.

i tell him to take a walk,

to get outside, to stop sitting in front

of the tv

all day long and watching the toxic

news.

get a job, a hobby. something.

do something with your life rather

than

be a pawn in the game. this only

makes him madder

and write more vile things

about

me about them,

about him.

i fall in the middle which

kills him, any opinion not his,

is wrong and evil.

i remember when he was carefree

and fun, full of joy

and jokes.

easy going.

young and happy, full of optimism.

but it seems those days are done.

intuition

your intuition

is divine.

a rod

leading you away

from harm.

it's there all day long.

wanting

you to pick

it up

and ask, which way

to go.

which road

to follow,

which way home.

the road trip

she packs her car.

and stares at the map.

only eight hundred miles to go,

with an energy

drink, and a bag of round

pretzels in her lap.

but she likes to drive.

she likes to see

the trees turn color.

she likes the roadside

scenery, the fields and pastures

clicking by

with each long mile.

how strange it is to give hope

to what we can't see or know.

it's human.

it's sad.

it's desperation. 

it's a long drive home when

it doesn't work out.

one percent, maybe

i almost say something nice

about her

to someone, but

catch myself

and laugh.

despite the ninety nine

per cent

of pure chaos

and mayhem, calculated

evil,

there was that one per

cent

that wasn't too bad.

baking cookies for instance,

but that's it, 

and it's certainly

not enough

to ever

go back. 

her rosy cheeks

her rosy cheeks,

her

wet kiss. her mittens

and scarf.

her red

coat,

her boots.

she's a wintry mix

of mirth

and love

with frosted breath,

and heart

of gold.

a snow ball rolling

down my hill

as i wait

with open arms

to catch her.

pumpkins

the world

goes pumpkin crazy this time

of year.

pumpkin latte,

candy,

cakes

and pies.

sweaters come out from

the cedar chest.

orange and bright.

even the moon gets into

the game

turning

its harvest face with an

orange light.

they sit plump and carved

on porches.

in windows.

a candle flickering

for the long hallow night.

the work estimate

it's dark

the addresses are blotted out

by shadow

and

dull light.

it's cold

as i walk searching

for the numbered

placard

on the stone

and brick walls.

hands in

my pocket.

over wet grass,

through

bramble, a breezeway.

i'll miss

the struggle

the hunger, when it's

time to stop.

i'm good now

it's an alley

that i lean my ladder against

before climbing

thirty feet

into the air

to paint the small square

window

in the attic.

it smells of sewage.

dead things.

grime

and mud. black mud.

i step and slide.

i inch along the wet

walls,

looking at the mildew

in the dank narrow

space, full of shadows.

i catch my breath

before climbing,

and look down and see

a small green sprout

with a yellow leaf

growing. it's beautiful.

i'm good now.

the singles building

do you want to tie the knot,

she asks

me as she

finishes off the last shot

of tequila.

let's get married,

adopt little itty bitty children

of different colors. let's

buy a house together, i'd

like a poodle

too

and maybe a little kitten.

i look at her and shake my

head.

no.

we're not tying the knot.

we're not getting married, after

that last fiasco

i'm done with that nonsense.

oh come on sweety pie.

we get along so well.

it's magical when we're together.

we never fight. not once have

we had a fight.

i don't even know you, i tell

her.

what's your last name?

this is our third date.

fiddly dee, she says. and anyway

oh, what's in a name. a rose

by any other name...is....ummm.

we're out of tequila, she says holding

the empty bottle up

to get one last amber drip.

she tosses the bottle across the room

hitting a picture of my mother

on the mantle.  

oopsy!

was that your old girlfriend? i'm sorry.

that was my mother.

i think it's time you get your clothes

on and get out of here.

you don't love me anymore, do you.

okay, okay. i know when i'm not

wanted.

what floor do you live on, i'll walk

you to the elevator.

oh, don't bother, i'll be fine, don't

worry about me.

okay. well. sorry it didn't work out.

see you around

the building perhaps.

this building used to be fun until

you moved here.

i think i'm going to move.

i can't find my shoes, or my dress,

can you set

them outside your door

if you find them.

i'll get them in the morning. sure,

no problem.

night.

whatchyoutalkingboutwillis

i turn on the tv

and randomly hit the remote button

ending up

on a televangelist show

where

people are being healed

in droves.

the preacher in a shark skin suit

puts his hand

to their forehead

and the sick start flopping

around like

flounder on the stage.

after speaking in some sort

of strange language,

the blind suddenly can see

again.

kidneys are healed.

crutches are thrown to the side

and children

are doing a river dance.

a woman with psoriasis no

longer is itching her skin.

one man

with a headache is now

singing to the band.

warts are falling off of people

and being swept up into dustpans.

it's hard to change the channel.

i feel hypnotized.

the preacher tells

the at home audience

 to go to the set

and put your

hand on the screen.

offer up your illness after

you've written a check to 

Bobby Willis on Park Avenue,

New York, New York.

for a quick healing, a thousand

dollars, payable in monthly

installments of one hundred dollars

for three years.

fifty dollars for a delayed healing.

i skip the check part and put

my hand on the screen.

heal my nose polyps i say

out loud. help me. i promise

i'll write that check. but

first do your magic and set

me free from this runny nose

and buying Flonase by the

carton.

i wait and wait and wait,

and then have to get some

kleenex to blow my nose.

i sit back down, find the remote

and start clicking

to see what else is on.

break up number 19

she says you've changed.

all i do is pick

up after you.

i tell her

you're not the person

i thought

you were. always on your phone.

she says.

i never knew this about you,

i was wrong.

so was i, i tell her.

you're nothing close to

what you were

in the beginning

of this relationship.

i was a fool to ever have

gotten involved with you.

same, she says, same.

here's your ring back.

and here's yours.

i want you out of here

by sundown, i tell her.

oh, don't worry about that.

i 'll be gone before

you know it.

she begins to cry.

i hold her. i'm sorry, she

says.

me too, i tell her, squeezing

her tightly.

dinner? you pick.

politics

patience

is a virtue of which i've run

out of.

no longer

can i suffer fools gladly

and sit idly by

and listen to a diatribe,

or rambling monologue 

or left

or right wing

politics. i've had it up

to here,

and here, and here.

i must leave room.

it's time to kindly disappear.

The Turkey Blues

i stare at the butterball

turkey

still in my freezer.

it takes up a lot of room.

i bought it

eleven months ago.

i get the ice scraper out of my

car and scrape

it down.

it never made it out

of the ice box

and into the oven.

it never was stuffed and basted,

never had a meat thermometer

jabbed into it's side.

i had high hopes for a norman rockwell

photo op

if i could dig up anyone to come over

and play along.

i pull the massive ball of ice

out and feel it's

frozen fifteen pounds

in my hands.

i feel bad for it.

for the turkey himself.

losing it's head, it's feet.

it's neck.

wrapped tightly in plastic.

for what?

to sit in someone's freezer

for years.

what kind of after life is that?

one more time

it's a quick read.

an hour or so, and i'm done.

it's interesting.

it's fine.

it's everything i already know.

but who doesn't

need to hear

the truth, and nod, yes.

just one more time.

the spider sense

my spider sense is in full

tingle

these days when

i feel  sense of

danger

at any point in the day.

the smile, the charm,

the polite

conversation

makes me sling a web

and

and off i go, to the highest

tress, i swing

away.

Prisoner Pen Pal

her daughter, bored with school work

and life in general

decides to become a prisoner pen pal.

she scrolls through the San Quentin

year book online

and finds a man named Jimmy X

doing four to ten

for manslaughter.

his bio says.

It wasn't my fault. I was set up.

my favorite color is red

and I like to hunt and fish

when i'm not incarcerated wrongly

for crimes i didn't commit.

he's very very cute.

with thick black hair

and startling blue eyes

that shine through the page.

she looks at his muscles

bulging from under his torn t-shirt

with a pack of cigarettes

rolled up in his sleeve,

and sighs.

such a bad boy she says to herself.

yum.

he appears to have only one or

two tattoos, a little tear

drop below his eye and another

larger tattoo under his shirt, 

it sort of looks like

a swastika, but hard to tell.

she writes to him and says,

that is so so cute. that tear drop

under your eye.

did it hurt?

i see how vulnerable and sensitive

you must be. I'm Mindy, by the way.

i completely understand about

being accused of things you didn't do.

my BF Gina, hasn't talked to me

for days, because she thinks i kissed

her boyfriend. which isn't true at all.

he kissed me first and we were all

drinking.   aaargh.

anyway. i sympathize

with you, having been in the same 

situation.

i have to go to field hockey practice

now, but i'll write more later.

hope to hear back soon, 

so nice to meet you,  Jimmy X.

he responds back.

can you send me some pictures

of you lying on a bed

without your clothes on?

regret

lying on her

death bed, she looks up at me

holding

my hand

a tear in her eye and says.

i wished i would have worked more.

spent

more time at the office,

on my computer,

stared into my phone longer than

what i did.

i wished i had stayed at my

desk

and ignored the world outside.

done less

with 

socializing and making love,

new friends,

what was the point of all that.

taking pictures of lakes

and me at the beach,

on snow crested moutains

on skiis, me in france

or italy.

there were so many weekends

i could have been

on the job.  been the dutiful

employee.

working my fingers to the bone.

what a waste of time and money

that all was having fun

and getting to know people.

what i really wanted to to was work.

sugar is poison

i think salt is bad for you.

coffee

too, perhaps.

it changes from day to day.

sugar is poison.

white bread. who doesn't

know that,

and yet.

this is what i long for.

i long for things that are

bad for me.

it's how we ended up

together,

truthfully.

the space between kissing

we didn't see eye to eye

on many things.

to be honest, most things.

we were as different as a cat

and a dog.

but we did see lips to lips.

not talking

kept us together for as long

as it did.

no arguments, no disagreements,

no slamming of a door

or proclamations that i'm

sleeping in the other

room tonight.

just a quiet a kiss and what

followed

made everything alright.

but after a while you realized

that there was so much

more time to fill,

so much more.

the loneliness of the long distance driver

i love to drive,

she says.

the car gassed up,

a bag of pretzels in my lap.

singing to songs

on the radio.

i can drive for hours and hours

and be happy.

i like to see the scenery,

take the long route

around.

watch the sun come up,

the sun go down.

i could drive all day

and night

if i had too. there is nothing

i'd rather do

than drive a thousand

miles

to see you.

and then go home the next

day.

the attribute store

i go to the attribute store to shop

around.

a friend of mine is in dire

need

of compassion and human

kindness.

He's angry all the time about

everything and

rational intolerant.

i get the cart and go from aisle

to aisle.

i buy a gallon of empathy,

a carton

of gratitude.

a bag of compassion, extra large.

then

to the kindness

area

at the end of the aisle, not

unlike

the Entemman's section

at your local

grocery store.

i get two boxes of kindness.

one for him,

and one for me.

we all could use a little help

now and again.

the back massage

i don't like

the transactional relationship.

you give,

i have to give in return

to even the score, so to speak,

and vice versa.

giving should be without strings attached.

from the goodness of

your heart.

if i rub

your back

i don't expect the same,

although

it would be nice.

just saying.

Workshop with Emily

my neighbor

who lives next door, you may

know her,

emily dickinson, is

on my porch again.

she's not a pest really,

but she knocks at my door

at odd times,

usually when i have a

dinner guest.

i see her out there

in her pilgrim dress,

her hair tight upon

her head like a dinner roll.

her notepad and pencil

in hand. i know what

she wants. she wants

help with another one

of her poems.  i crack

open the door, and say what

up?  she says, i need help.

i'm stuck on a title again.

i'm in my underwear, i tell

her, which makes her 

blush and close her eyes.

oh dear, oh dear she says.

she looks like she might

faint. hold on i tell her.

i'll go put on some pants

and a shirt.

i let her in and she sits down

on the edge of a chair.

tea? i ask her.

no sugar no cream?

yes, please she says.

so what are your working

titles, i ask her.

No. 919, she says.

good lord, Emily. enough

with the numbering. make up a real

title for crying out loud.

what's the poem about?

well, she says, putting her

finger to her chin, it's about

death and dying, things like

that. getting old, our bleached

bones in the crypt, our souls rising

up into the air in ashes.

yikes. well. i don't know.

that's pretty dark. you really

you should get outside once

in awhile and live a little.

she looks away and shrugs

her small shoulders.

geez, i don't know, i tell her.

titles are tough.

maybe stick with the number

on this one too.

really? 

 

yes, i tell, here's your tea, it's

hot so be careful.

do you want me to read it to

you?

no, really, that's okay. the game

is coming on in a few minutes.

i see a tear start to roll down

her pale thin cheek.

okay, okay. read it for me.

it's not too long is it?

oh no, just forty seven lines or so.

well. okay. i look at my watch.

okay. go.

i want to hear it, honest. read it.

may i stand up and read?

sure, sure. go ahead. i'm just

going to turn on the tv, with

the sound down.  but go ahead.

i'm listeing.

poem number, 919, she says

and smiles at me.

Sylvia

she was fussy,

this cat,

this feline, a stray taken

in 

during winter.

black as

coal against the snow.

thick with outside fur,

eyes

as green

as shards of bottle

glass.

teeth sharpened,

for the kill. high strung,

loud and moaning.

a pensive

whine,

impossible to know,

or understand

completely.

she reminded me so much

of Sylvia,

and her world of despair

and angst

filled poetry.

small places

beauty arrives

in small

things. small places.

there it is between

the lines.

in her eyes.

the curve of her smile.

a dew drop on a pane

of glass

catching fully

the sun rise.

falstaff on the corner

the same guy,

like clockwork,

is at the corner. a rotund

red faced

fellow with  a friendly face

and a walrus mustache.

he looks comical,

a Falstaff sort of man,

full of mirth and ale.

ribald stories to tell.

he's brought his folding

chair today, and has a new

sign.

god bless, veteran, 

homeless,

pregnant, which is  crossed

out with a wide black line.

i reach into my pocket

to give him another 

crinkly dollar, but i have

nothing with me.

i have coffee. i have a donut.

i have a book on love

poems.

it'll have to be next 

drive, old friend.

book life

i make a list of books to buy.

some

fiction, some

biographies. poetry.

how does bukowski keep

publishing, he's been dead

for twenty years.

cook books, i still need

to master the pot roast.

and then there are self help books, that

mission never

completely dies.

spiritual growth, good lord,

i'm lacking there,

and then there's a picture

book of

Ireland where i'll travel

one day

with Ingrid.

she'll show me the sites,

translate

that strange language.

we'll go to the rugged

west coast and watch

the atlantic roar

against the shore. but for now,

the book will

have to do.

in defense of the cold

you catch a cold,

or it catches you.

you blow your nose and

defend

yourself to anyone

nearby.

just a cold you tell them,

standing as far away

as you possibly can.

i'll be fine.

you go through the symptoms.

no fever, no ache,

no fatigue, just

a runny nose,

and a sneeze every now

and then.

i'm feeling fine otherwise,

maybe allergy?

early frost

some mornings

are slow in rising. the cold

floor

against my feet.

my breath a foggy

bloom.

i close the open window,

touching the frosted

glass.

i examine the shadows

in the room.

autumn has arrived too early

this time

of year, too soon.

where did summer go?

how quickly seasons depart,

so much like love,

the turn of heart, from joy,

to gloom.

let's do it again

as i leap

from the plane,

falling at a fast rate

towards

the earth below i 

pull on the string

for the parachute to open.

but it doesn't.

which strangely feels okay.

so this is how it ends.

it was a good

run.

i go through the list

of things i'm thankful for.

more good than bad,

for sure. such wonderful

lovers and friends.

feeling blessed and lucky.

i have an epiphany of joy,

of happiness,

but then i pull once

more on the cord 

and it opens, 

mushrooming into

a silk canopy above me.

i float gently to the ground

and after landing

safely, i look up at the sky,

and say

let's do it again.

the pre christmas blues

i see the first sign

of christmas

in the store.

a fake tree. a garland. lights,

ornaments.

cards, and much

more.

a baby Jesus in a manger,

with some

plastic goats around him.

old santa is in front of the grocery

store ringing

his bell.

his big iron pot

swinging in the eighty degree heat

as he sweats,

and scratches at his fake beard.

it's not even halloween yet,

but here we go.

i wish it would rain

on a beautiful day

it's hard

to get people to not 

keep saying,

it's a beautiful day.

they command

you to get outside and enjoy

the weather.

take a walk they say.

ride your bike.

go to the lake.

it's really nice out.

you really should get out there

and enjoy it.

the sun is up, the sky is

blue. they go to great lengths

in explaining how

nice it is. 

over and over

and over again with a smile

on their face.

i wish it would rain.

her fire blanket

she keeps a fire blanket

on a hook

in the kitchen,

an extinguisher on

the counter.

there's a gas mask

on top of the refrigerator

and a rope ladder

hanging out the window.

a can of sand

sits in the corner.

a barrel of water stands next

to the stove.

dinner will be ready soon

she yells from

the kitchen with the door

closed,

the alarm going

off in a circular scream,

smoke eeking out

into the room.

glass half full

she tells me she's a glass

half full

kind of person.

perky and personable.

a sixty year

old cheerleader without

the pom poms

and pleated skirt.

what about you, she asks,

smiling so

brightly that my retinas

start to burn

and go out of focus.

are you a half glass full

kind of guy too?

no, i tell her. i prefer to drink

straight from the bottle.

maybes

i hand out maybes

like

sticks of gum.

here.

have a maybe on that trip,

on that dinner.

on that movie,

on that

party.

take two. take two

maybes

and call me in the morning.

i'll see you later,

maybe.

maple syrup love

i fall asleep at the wheel

as i

drive

to canada

to buy some maple syrup.

i'm tired, but press on,

my hands slipping

off the wheel.

i run into

a moose

who stands

in the middle of the road.

unmoving, his brown

eyes blinking

in my headlights.

i wake

up in a hospital

with a nurse

speaking french. she's

kind and sweet,

and nurses me back to health.

we fall in love.

we get married, we

live happily ever

after.

and it's all because

of maple syrup.

no bottom

we live in a binge world.

we binge on tv

on chips

on candy. on love or

something

resembling love,

or sex.

we binge on drinks,

and sleep.

on words.

online.

we binge and binge.

to fill a void of a cup

with no

bottom.

a cat poem

my publisher calls from new york.

he yells at me.

what the hell is going on down there?

only six poems today?

are you okay?

you're not binge dating again are you?

i know what happens

when you join those dating sites

and start up

with meeting those floosies

for cocktails, you're a dead man.

bloated with vodka martinis and

calamari.

for crying out loud.

dig deep into your childhood or recent past

and come up

with some angst brother.

cut a vein and write me something good.

i've got a deadline to meet if we're

going to publish this new book.

you haven't written about a cat in a while.

how about a cat poem or two?

people love cats.

breaking even

i go to the casino

with a few hundred clams

in my pocket.

i decided that a tuxedo is the proper

attire

for the occasion

having seen

enough james bond movies

to get

the fashion drift.

it surprises me

that

everyone is in cut off shorts

and midrift

shirts

saying beachy things,

like i'm with her.

there's a lot of screaming

and yelling, cursing.

i hear yo mamma several times.

it's hot in there.

tattoos are running off of

arms. a man in a pony tail

with a harley jacket

asks me to get him

a drink.

two drinks he says, with straw,

and don't forget the marichino

cherries.

i tighten up my bow tie and quickly

depart. breaking even

for once.

good talk mom, good talk

my mother used to call

and say

things like

is it raining over there,

across the bridge?

we lived in different states,

but ten miles apart.

we have big

black birds over here,

she'd say.

as big as chickens,

i don't know how they

get off the ground.

i'd usually say yes, it's

raining here too,

or yes, we have big 

black birds,

but sometimes i couldn't

resist

and tell her that it's sunny

and warm,

and no

we don't have birds

in our state.

but we have squirrels.

do you have squirrels too?

to which she'd

excitedly reply.

yes. so many squirrels.

the grey ones.

they get into the bird

feeder.

korean chicken wings

she surprised me at how

many chicken wings

she could eat

in one sitting.

she wasn't a large

woman,

more wiry than big.

bones were flying all over

the place.

i could see the frown on

the poor waiter's face

as he carried over another

tray of spicy korean wings

and a stack of paper towels.

there was hot sauce

all over her face. dripping off

her chin.

her eyes were popping

out of her head

and sweat rolled down

her cheeks.

have one, she'd say, 

these wings are delicious.

a fresh start

everyday

is a new cup of crazy.

a new headline,

or breaking news.

fires and floods.

a new storm off the coast.

a new war.

a new infection.

is the sky falling?

maybe. maybe not.

but an enormous

earth covering

flood would be welcome

at this point,

to get a fresh start.

the poison letter

who hasn't been angry.

lost

their temper

with words

or worse

with fists clenched

ready

to fend off intruders,

legs secured

to the ground

in self defense. who hasn't

been

let down. lied to or

betrayed

by a loved one, who

hasn't been

hurt by another and wanted

revenge

of some sort,

even if it's only a poison

letter.

clowns and elephants

in simpler times

there

were elephants.

there was sawdust and clowns.

trapeze artists,

who looked strangely

alien

with their muscled arms

and legs,

their foreign frowns.

in days past.

we'd sit in the stands and

ooh, and awe

at what went

on in the center ring.

the juggler act,

a man shot out of a cannon

flying towards

an old twine net.

a man on stilts.

a woman as large

as a small house.

nine midgets in a tiny

red car.

the smell was that of a

old cigars

and animals that couldn't 

control themselves.

men in shiny suits

sipping from flasks,

their girlfriends beside them

bored

and looking elsewhere.

there was

beer and nuts.

cotton candy.

we were too young

to be frightened

by a world that made

such things happen.

frozen custard

she allows me,

to lick

the dollop 

of vanilla frozen

custard

off her lips.

and this means 

we'll be seeing

each other more

often.

as the sun turns away

as the fabric fades

in the sun

that leans

in each morning until the earth

turns

away, how it goes

from blue,

an aqua sea,

to a

gloomy patch of wintry

grey.

things change

before your eyes

as we

reluctantly age.

you look like my father

a woman stops

me in the street and says,

you look

exactly

like my father.

she may be thirty

or more.

attractive.

she's lovely in her dress.

her hair,

just so. reddish

in the late sun.

she's a beauty that makes

me think

of Ireland.

thank you, i tell her.

not knowing what else 

to say.

i hope he's well.

to which she smiles and

taps my arm

like young women

do to their father's,

and says.

i wish he was still here.

is there another way

does a day

go forward without some reminder,

that yes,

yes, you too

have aged 

and are getting old.

the mirror winks,

the scale

moves and whispers

whoa.

you laugh off such

rumors,

such innuendos

and go forward.

you make the most of it,

is there another way?

no.

a white moon above the white tent

is it the fall air,

or the wine that goes down

so easily

as we sit

beneath the wide white

canopy

of a tent

set outside.

the waiters in blue shirts,

and khakis.

moving

as one from table to table.

the food arrives,

conversation flows,

and look.

here comes the moon.

small things

we remember things

that need not be remembered.

small

details,

the way the light shines

on a hand,

a ring.

a word said

out of spite.

you collect even the smallest

of particles

the debris

unswept, like a glass

turned over

and spilled.

all adding up to nothing

it seems.

but still a part of your past

life.

the trap is set

it's early

in the morning, the sun barely

above

the links of fences

that contain

the squared yards of houses

bricked together

almost as one.

and there beside the chair,

strung

in a fine woven

tapestry 

is a spider's web.

the tendrils of beauty 

drip

wet with dew.

immense in form

and fragile, the slight breeze

pushes

it forward

and back while

the fat black widow,

a queen of sorts, sits

calmly in the middle

waiting patiently, 

waiting

for who's to come

next.

oh how i wish i could take

time back.

just one kiss

you know

people by how they share,

whether in words,

or in

cake.

how they touch, or move

towards you

or away.

you get the feel of who

they are

in subtle

but significant ways.

a kiss says almost everything

at the start.

so you find out

quickly if

love may come or you

soon may

part.

the note left behind

i hate to see

notes

left behind.

whether on a windshield

or front door,

or left on a pillow or

kitchen table.

the hand written note is

death to me.

it's never

hey honey, love you

can't wait to see you tonight.

instead,

it's hey buddy,

you left your lights on.

or we bumped into your car,

or

you put the trash out

too early.

we can hear you

through our walls, could

you and the young woman

who stops by every now

and then

keep it down.

the note is never good.

it's usually something like,

sorry, i love you but

i'm leaving you

for someone else.

someone better, smarter,

richer,

kinder, more handsome

and has a boat

that sleeps nine.

hate the note.

you need to sign for this

someone that looks like

her is at the door.

i look through the peep hole

then crouch down,

crawling across the floor.

what's she doing here,

i say to the dog, who begins

to lick my face.

she's going to kill me after all

those crazy

but true poems i wrote about her.

making mince meat out of all

her mental disorders and

fake image.

there's another knock.

the doorbell rings and rings.

i slide my body towards

the back door

as my dog finds his red ball

and tosses at my face.

no, i tell him, not now.

we have to get out of here.

we have to escape.

then i hear a voice. hey, hey.

i know you're in there.

i can see you from the window.

i just need you to sign this.

you have a package.

i can't leave it on the porch.

oh, i say, getting up.

i open the door and sign

the form.  thanks, i tell her.

was just doing a little stretching.

yoga. getting into yoga.

cold yoga, not that hot yoga stuff.

right, she says, throwing back

her long blonde hair. sure

you were.

the debate

i give myself two

minutes to decide on what to do today.

take a walk.

breakfast, ham and eggs,

or french toast with bacon?

or go down to the lake

and

throw pieces of bread

out to the ducks.

or should i put all of that on

the back burner

and  find a sunny spot

with a cup of coffee and read

my book

about the bombing of london

during world war two.

i start to panic as my two minutes

are almost up.

quickly, i shower and get

dressed

and head out the door.

i'm not used to this kind of pressure

and call myself names like

irresponsible,

lazy, undecisive and self

indulgent. oh well.

next question.

it is here

into homes

we go against our will.

small

brick houses

along the roads.

a cheerless

path leading up to the door

where

the storm door hangs on rusted hinges.

it's here

that they wheel you in.

call you by

your first name, as if they

know you.

it's here

where someone will play

the piano, out of key.

where the dinner will ring

and feed you food

you won't remember.

it's here in this place

where your room will be.

a picture on the wall.

the curtains hung

coming up short against the sill.

there will be a  stranger

with a needle, a pan. a cup

of water

put towards your lips

as you

try to breathe. they will smile

as if you are

a small child. and then

it will come to you, 

that

the circle is complete.

without warning

without warning

your eyes fill with warm tears.

where is this coming from.

is it the season

changing.

the cool wind full of rain.

is it

the darkness come early?

who knows

any of these things.

but you let it come, you let

them tumble

down

your cheek and wipe them

away

with the back of your hand.

it happens.

and will again, i'm sure.

please fasten your seat belts

she was wise under

the guise

of liquor.

you could smell it on her

breath

across the room,

a three martini

high with one more

in hand.

full of wit and knowledge

and not opposed

to throwing up

her dress to reveal

a stockinged thigh.

with her lips painted red

in perpetual

pucker, 

her eye lashes

like butterflies, all

a flutter.

once on land and off

the plane

she was the life

of the party.

and the death of me.

rest in peace dear girl.

though i doubt

that's possible.

delicate creatures

we are all delicate

creatures

despite

the scars

the  callouses,

the scrapes and burns,

the hardened hides

of our lives.

how we wince at

the disposable souls who

come and go

between

the lines.

we are fragile beings.

full of tears.

full complaints and woes.

aches

and pain.

it's a wonder

at times how we rise

in the morning and  continue

to go.

if only i'd been...

if only i'd been

nicer to him,

given him more love

and affection.

if only i listened more

to him,

if only i was thinner,

and younger,

and happier,

if only

i'd wore that dress,

those shoes,

if only i was blonde,

if only my legs were longer,

my eyes were blue,

if i had more money.

if only.

if only i hadn't lied

to him,

betrayed him.

if only i was a better

person than what i am,

perhaps then

i would still be with him,

and not

with you.

at the shoreline

you knew at an early

age that

the ocean

was something

beyond anything

you knew

before,

or will ever be.

it's the mystery

of what can't be seen,

the power behind

it all.

the cold pull

upon our legs as we

swim

into the deep.

we long for the sea.

the beauty

of it.

the danger of it.

the magnificent breadth

of its majesty.

we stand

with our feet in the sand

as a sun falls down

upon us.

we look for answers

that we can't

find

elsewhere.

that new car smell

she had that new car smell.

low mileage.

shiny hub cabs,

leather

seats all around.

stick shift.

v 8.

she had vroom.

she had style and class.

she sat

nice and pretty

spinning on the showroom

floor,

but a month later, you

were taking her back.

you found out 

the mileage wasn't true.

she was in a flood.

caught fire.

the computer blew.

a lemon,

leaking oil,

slow on the move,

there was trouble

every morning when

she wouldn't turn over.

funny how love that isn't

true can be

exactly like that.

the carrot

some put the carrot

in front

of you

so that you'll run faster,

obey,

go left

go right.

stand still and beg.

it's not love.

it's something else

not of this world.

it lies well below

your feet.

what you desire

it's the sound

a plate makes against another,

the closing

of a door,

the rattle

of dishes in the cupboard.

it's the tinkling

of silver

in the drawer,

the glasses aligned

tight beside

each other.

there is order here.

you can smell it

in the cinnamon, 

see it in the flowers.

the sheen of a sink

well used

the warm oven

baking

what you desire.

beyond the hills

behind

the fence, the wall,

the line of hedges,

the birch

and oaks,

beyond the hills

that rise

in green loaves of

lost time,

we see what it

isn't real, what

isn't true.

and the longer we 

look

and distance ourselves,

be still,

the sooner we 

are free.

it's best in bed

it's best in bed

after lovemaking, after

the whirl of sheets,

the heaving of hearts

and breath,

it's after

the moon has settled

in the sky

between cool clouds

and pours its milk

upon our skin

that what we say

is spoken easily

and true and the world

is right, at least

for now.

atlantic movie theater

in the old days

we'd stand outside the Atlantic

movie

theater in southeast DC

and wait for the ticket

box to open.

fifty cents for a double feature.

a nickel for a box

of candy.

a dime for popcorn.

a dime for a fountain coke.

sometimes there'd be

three movies.

all back to back with

hardly a minute between

shows.

you could hear the projector

above, emitting a wide

ray of light

onto the screen

as the reels were changed,

then the lights dimmed,

the curtain was pulled back

and the next movie would begin.

once in a while

you might be with some girl

you had a crush on.

you'd hold her hand until

it got so sweaty that you

had to wipe it on your pants.

if you had the courage

you might touch her knee, 

which make your heart

almost pound out of your

chest.

small talk emoji

i laminate a bunch of words

onto

cards that i string around my

neck.

when someone asks me how

am i.

i flip to the card that says.

Fine, and you?

when they say, so how is your

day going so far, i find the card

that says, great, and you?

when they ask me what kind

of coffee i want, i flip

to that laminated card and

have a picture of a grande

americano on it.

i'm sort of done with chit chat.

and small talk.

when someone points out

that i have a splotch of ketchup

on my shirt.

i find the card that says, i know.

thanks for pointing that out.

then turn to the card with a 

smiley face on it.

i'm taking emojis to the next level.

i point at my throat and 

pretend to have laryngitis .

i find the sick emoji card.

i let a sound out that sounds

like ahhhh. which makes

them back away.

it's saving me so much time,

and useless conversations.

i flip to the card that says,

nice to see you, goodbye.

i turn to the hand wave emoji.

people need to get used it in

person, like that do in texting.

I Can Do This

i will not let things defeat me,

i am resolute in solving

this issue.

i stare

at three fitted sheets

warm and dry

bundled

in the basket, all needing

to be folded.

i can do this.

i am winston churchill.

i am FDR.

I am

ready to take on

this task.

i am  a man, for the most part.

somewhat strong,

able to lift

a small dog or the sunday

new york times

over my head.

how hard can this be?

i have two hands.

i have three sheets. 

as God

is my witness, today, i

will fold them neatly

and tuck them

onto the shelf of my

linen closet. Here we go.

there is nothing to fear,

but fear itself.

that will never change

i can only imagine

what the weather is 

ten miles away.

is it the same there,

as it is here.

are the clouds an impossible white.

the sky

a startling blue?

tell me

about the sun,

its warmth, 

its kind embrace upon

me,

upon you.

there are many things

we will never

know

again about each other,

the weather being one,

despite the short

distance between us.

that will

never change.

starting today

we all bend.

we all turn our heads and ignore

what

others do

or say, or think, or how

they behave.

enabling them.

we're civil to a point.

allowing

friends and lovers

to do what

they may.

we rarely hold their

hands to the fire,

for then what? we fear

being alone,

being stranded on an island,

with the world

so far away. such a mistake

we make.

when it's best

to draw a line and say

no more.

no more abuse,

it's over,  starting today.

within

it used to take

just a knee, or a wink,

an ankle

set in a heel,

to set me

on fire.

now i actually have

to know what's

within

before I want what

i desire.

3 a.m.

everything kept

you awake.

the cricket

in the corner of some room.

the chirp

of a dead battery,

the eye of red blinking.

down the hall.

the past,

the future,

things long since said.

conversations

never made right.

water dripping.

the sheets tucked hard

below the mattress.

the stiff warm air.

the slow

crawl of the ceiling fan

doing little but adding to

a restless night.

the path out

it's a dark

path that runs along the quiet

homes

in the cul

de sac.

the light is dim as i carefully

step forward

and away

again.

i know not

this trail, but others once

loved

know it well.

i won't return. but

it's a necessary

passage

taken as an exit

from

a once

infernal hell.

from the watchtower

you fill the moat

raise

the drawbridge.

boil

oil on the ramparts,

look

out from the tower

at what's

approaching.

your quill is full 

of arrows.

you're in a mood,

and want

no visitors.

this too shall pass,

but for now

you keep guard

all along

the watch tower.

the reunion

the high school reunion

committee

is relentless.

Elaine never lets up, year

after year

making plans

to gather and celebrate.

but

attendance has dwindled.

death and distance

has taken its toll.

is there a teacher left alive?

there is no one

there i'd

like to see again. no true

friends. no desire to see how

we all have

aged. but maybe, just

maybe

i'll do a quick drive by.

out of room

i need more walls.

more space.

another place to put a dresser,

another

shelf

to set a lamp or

a tall white vase.

i need more rooms

to decorate.

to hang another picture,

to paint.

to make my mark, to make

it mine.

i need to shake it up

perhaps.

make it new again.

make it all new again.

to start from scratch.

she reminds me of you

she reminds me of you.

the hair,

the length of

arms and legs,

the way she laughs,

the way

she kisses and says sweet

nothings

into my ear.

she reminds me so much

of you,

but different.

this one has a heart.

is it tuesday?

am i slipping, i think.

as i

search

for keys, leave

the door unlatched,

is it tuesday, or friday,

i ponder as i

forget a stamp before

dropping a letter

into the box.

is this

sudden fog of thought

a portent of

days to come.

of being taken

away,

being cared for by

strangers

in white coats,

a spoon full of oatmeal

upon my tongue.

is it possible, that life

is done?

short bread

the little kid

next door, 

who i call short bread,

is already

too tall.

already

finding her true self.

now shy,

and careful with the wave.

no more howdy

neighbor,

no longer cheerful,

the parents have seen 

to that. fast on

her bike as she speeds

by,

and then at last

in a few years, a car,

that will take her

places beyond

this street,

somewhere far,

the strollers 

at last,  put away,

the quickening of life

swift

before your eyes.

the deepening snow

we lie

in the snow.

there is no protest in us

as to what

falls

from the low

grey sky.

we've wanted a new

look

to the land.

a shroud of white

as far

as the eye can see.

deep,

and luxurious.

something resembling

hope,

something

wonderful,

something we understand.

what awaits

the end rushes towards us

with arms

open,

a dark lover

welcoming you to 

your new home.

the unknown

is the fear we carry most

from day

to day,

but now at last we know

what awaits.

nine lives

they say

a cat has nine lives.

i'm a cat.

i count nine times

the deaths

i've survived.

i'm on my last.

so i'm determined

this time

to make the best

one

last.

letting go of others

we cut our losses.

let

loose the line.

our hands

release

from the cliff 

we hang so desperately

to, and we

drop

freely

to the ground.

we are better for it.

unloading

the weight of others.

their

arms around

our neck,

taking us under,

to where

we'll surely drown.

the flickering light

even the most brilliant,

the geniuses of

the world,

the rembrandts

and

picassos ,

the einsteins

and 

van goghs

have to wake up

and put on clothes.

they have

to get milk and bread.

rake the leaves

and brush

their teeth.

they have to walk the dog,

or answer

the phone.

they too have heart ache.

they too

worry

about tomorrow, about

the dimming light.

there is no escaping

the mundane

of this life.

the mail, the bills,

the washing

and cleaning.

a crust of bread to fill

them.

cutting wood for the fire

that brings

a flickering

of heat

and light.

cleaning gutters

it's easy

to sleep walk your way

through

the years.

get married

have children

and the rest.

school then a job.

saving

for that nest egg.

it's easy to go along

and 

catch the bus.

the train.

keep your nose clean

and be

good. to ignore

the pain

inside you. no art

made

along the way.

no music.

but the grass is cut.

the doors

are painted,

the gutters cleaned.

no true love

or self ever found.

while time

slips and slips

quietly away.

the white out cocktail

i buy a giant bottle

of white

out

and drink it.

soon i have no memory

of the past.

all things

bad have been erased,

blotted away

in the toxic paint.

one bottle should

be plenty

to take care of the more

recent errors

i've made.

the rest i can live with

and publish

without shame.

from the great beyond

it would be nice,

after

people you love, or dearly

liked, had

passed away

that they

could answer their

phone on the other side

or at the very least

text.

heaven, a free call,

and hell collect.

i count the numbers

of such

departed souls

on my own cell phone,

and reach seven.

some older than me,

some younger,

men and women alike.

some relatives, including

my mother.

i'd like to give her

a call one sunday

afternoon,

like in the old days,

and hear her talk about

the red sauce

she's stirring

as she stands at the stove,

with her parakeet

singing, asking if six

o'clock, for dinner would

be alright.

in the morning she rises

she likes

her tea and morning crumpet.

to sit

by the window

like her mother

did

back in England.

a book in

her lap,

the cat

not far, upon the sill,

perhaps.

the big clock

wound and

ticking.

the mice asleep

behind

the wood.

it's peaceful. soon

the mailman

will come

up the stairs.

thirteen steps, she

hears.

the children will

be out on the playground

with their 

beginnings.

it's

not dying, 

she believes, but

living.

going to hell on a speed pass

i end up on a channel

of

a televangelist.

his hair slicked back with

whale oil.

his suit striped and bold,

shiny, like

a fish out of water.

the orchestra

behind him. the choir in gowns.

his big haired

blonde wife

at the organ.

her face stuck in a smile.

there's clapping, there's

yelling,

there's fainting as he

puts his hand on their heads,

healing them from

what ails them.

kidney stones and indigestion.

corns on their toes.

for five dollars you too

can have what they have.

for fifty your

cupboard will

overflow. for a hundred

your crops will grow.

your stars will align.

the phone numbers scroll

at the bottom of

the screen.

a special number for

Puerto Rico.

it's mesmerizing.

hypnotic

in some strange car

wreck of a way.

you wonder if they're all

eventually going to 

hell on a speed pass.

the drip the drip the drip

i hear a drip.

somewhere in the house

a faucet

leaks.

i'm in a vincent price

movie.

losing my mind.

where o where

is this drip. this sound

against the chrome

drain.

incessant, persistent.

but nowhere

to be found.

somewhere a pipe

creaks,

groans, laughs 

softly

as i

toss and turn

in a unrestful sleep.

far out

he likes

the weed, the mary jane

the ganja,

the dope.

he likes to lie back

and put

on some music,

dim the lights

and get high.

he's sixty

five

and still wearing tie

dye

and his pony tail

is thin

and grey as it hangs

down his back.

it's the grateful dead

all day,

all night.

he's still

peace out brother,

rock and roll

forever

but he can't remember

a thing

about the past.

life is a blur

and slipping away

with each toke,

each drag.

a hit off the gurgling

bong

with a smile

on his face.

it's all good, he likes

to say.

far out. want some?

delivering the news

as a paper boy

i got the news first.

standing on the corner

in the dark,

the cold.

wind pressing against my

cheap coat.

i'd cut the cord

of the bundle and read the headlines.

then to the sports page

i'd go.

how did mickey do.

two for three.  

and then one morning, there

it was.

the headline,

shot dead in LA, another

kennedy.

i ran home with tears in my

eyes.

and shook my mother awake

to give

her the news.

she held me, saying nothing,

then i went

back out

into the dark morning,

to deliver

my route.

dear girl

they say

rats will take the drug

over food

and die in their cage,

bone thin

and crazed, but

with a happy look on

their furry face.

so what is your drug,

these days?

dear girl?

is it love, or image,

bling,

or

status.

or the next fool to come

along

with blinders on

and in his pocket

another diamond

ring?

indigo

it's supposed

to rain.

ask me if i care.

it might snow.

get cold.

the wind will blow.

so.

tell me about something

else.

where were you born.

your favorite color,

what do you fear

most in life,

what's

on your shelf.

what do you regret,

what

are pleased with.

give me a clue

as to what makes you tick.

do you dream. when was

the last

time you cried

or were in love.

what's

your favorite book or

poet,

besides me,

of course.

get the hell off my lawn

you know you're getting

old when

you take a jog

through the cemetery

and two guys

start chasing you with

shovels.

old joke, but

a good one.

i can handle the blurred

vision,

the inability to hear,

the aches and pains

in the joints,

heart burn, and having to

pee every thirty five

minutes to squeeze out

a few drops, but

i can't get used to some young

punks calling me

sir. or Mr.

get off my lawn, i yell out

from my rocking chair.

throwing an ice cube from

my gin and tonic

in their direction.

that just galls me.

be right back, got to go again.

where was i?

oh right. old age.

the sex drive doesn't seem

to die down,

which is a curse and a blessing

as you peruse

your dwindling speed dial.

death and senility takes its toll.

but now you feel like a kid

standing outside

the glass window of the bakery,

looking at all that pastry

and hot muffins,

and all you got is a plug nickel

in your pocket.

my dream to be a lifeguard

swimming is not my strong suit.

nor is running, or dancing,

but that's another story

altogether.

i got nothing

when it comes

to the back stroke,

the free style, or the butterfly.

i'm more of a small dog

paddling

towards the side

with my head above

water, tongue out.

i've got the dog paddle down

pat.

but i've wanted to be a life guard

my whole life.

i love

the beach boys.

california girls.

surf city. and little surfer

girl.

the songs of my youth.

i like the idea of standing

up in a tower

with my whistle and red

trunks.

my binoculars

and keeping the beach goers

safe

from sharks and rip tides,

crab attacks on all those bare

toes, and what not.

so i go to the community

center

to get my certificate.

months go into months.

there is no improvement.

i'm fine underwater, but above

water it appears that i'm

not getting fit, but having one.

finally, out of pity, they say ok.

they tell me i can guard the pool

on the last day of the year

when they let the dogs swim.

small dogs only.

finally. i've made it.

the sex talk

we finally have the sex talk

after nine months

of dating.

eating,

walking, wearing out a few

pairs of shoes, 

and feeding

bread to the ducks

down by the lake.

anything, i should know,

before we, we....

she says.

what do you mean?

you know.

diseases?

i throw a whole slice

of bread

out into the water

which hits a duck in

the back of his head.

the bread is sailing today 

on

account of the wind.

nope.

nada, i tell her.

i'm squeaky clean.  i had a rash

once, but i think it was

poison oak. i couldn't find

a bathroom and i was in

the woods, so, i just had

to go.

You?

nope. she says. i'm good too.

i'm practically a nun,

a virgin now,

but maybe we should

get blood tests just

to be sure.

she opens up her purse

and pulls out a syringe.

i put down the loaf of wonder

bread and roll up my sleeve.

she ties a rubber rope around

my arm and taps

out a vein.

i look away, and whistle as

she draws out a tube

of blood.

okay. that does it, she says

and dabs the needle prick with

some cotton and alcohol.

we should know in a week or

so where this relationship

is going.

cookie?

she hands me an oatmeal cookie

from a bag in her purse.

we throw some more bread

out to the ducks, then she takes

my hand, to help me back

to my car.

who's your daddy?

she asks

me politely, so what does

your father do?

or did he do

with his life.

is he still alive?

basically it's a who's

your daddy kind of question.

i tell

her he was astronaut,

a congressman,

a brain

surgeon, and that was all

before he

turned thirty.

and then he became an

inventor.

you've heard of google

haven't you?

yup, that was him.

oh my, she says. moving

closer to me

as i sip my gin and tonic.

so where is he now?

he lives in florida now

on a flamingo ranch.

flamingoes are his life.

she bats her eyelashes

so hard

i can feel a breeze coming

off her face.

how fascinating

he must be.

and what about you, are

you a chip

off the old block.

i look at her and nod,

i smile and say.

without a doubt, i am.