i can't believe how dumb i was back then

it's easy to look backwards

and

laugh.

and shake our head

at the foolishness

in our life.

how the hell did i do that,

and why.

the lovers we choose.

the jobs

we take,

how unwise we were back then.

the mistakes we make.

what's wrong with us

to behave like that?

i can imagine at 92 thinking

boy

i was dumb back then,

when i was 91.

don't even ask me about 21.

i don't mean to pry

the computer is slow.

but it's okay.

i understand i whisper to it

and gently

press the keys to get

to where i want to go.

each page

slowly unfolds. take your time

i tell it.

i understand.

we all wake up this way sometimes.

let me get you some coffee.

a donut, perhaps?

relax.

stretch your arms, your legs.

we'll talk

about this.

tell me, if you want, i don't

mean to pry.

what's wrong?

mind games

i can create anything

with this mind.

i can make someone horrible

into a wonderful

human being.

i can imagine love.

i can imagine betrayal.

in the worst of times i can talk

myself into

fun.

there is nothing i can't

do with

these thoughts of mine.

there is no scenario unspun.

disasters turn into parties,

parties

turn into 

disasters.

i can make believe you're

always going to be in my life,

and i can imagine,

rightly or wrongly so,

that

we're done.

the royal typewriter

i miss the old typewriter.

the clang

of it,

the inky ribbon, the stuck keys.

the click

clack

of the rattling metal

parts.

i miss the way

it 

moved,

the way it looked.

the weight of it,

the conceit of it.

the sound the bell made

when it came

to the end of a sentence.

i miss

the way it made you feel

when you sat down in front

of it

and rolled a clean

sheet of paper into its

thirsty mouth.

anything was possible with

this typewriter.

anything.

chopping wood for winter

anxious for a fire.

i chop

wood all afternoon

in the back yard.

the axe swings with ease.

i feel the strike

of the blade against each

fallen limb.

the clean cut

and fall of the lumber

as i stack it near the door.

there will be fire

this winter.

there will be snow and cold,

there will

be love too.

i can assure you of that.

i make a vow,

then raise the axe and swing,

i chop some more.

the olive branch

you reach out with an olive branch.

enough

being enough.

you take the higher road

after

a thousand miles

on the dirt beaten path.

it doesn't matter

if the branch is taken, the peace

accord

signed.

it's for you, that you do this.

not her,

or him, them.

life is too long too long

to

not let go.

not enough cake

we don't treat ourselves enough,

we don't reward

the inner child,

the outer shell of being an

adult.

we don't eat enough cake.

or enjoy

enough sunrises.

we dwell on what ifs,

and if only,

we wallow in our mistakes.

we don't embrace the pain,

the suffering, we hide

from it, numb it.

we try to escape.

you can't wake up and risk

a day without

some sort of unwanted rain.

it's all part of it.

the end, the beginning,

the long middle of life.

stop looking for happiness,

and start

living in the joy of each day.

what warms your heart

what warms your

heart

is tea

is you sitting on the long

deep couch

with paper

and glasses on beside

me.

a slice of cake,

the moon splashed

upon the window.

just us together.

what makes

it work

is love and laughter,

beyond

anything

we can define or see.

old friends

some books

are new, some old of course.

like friends

they line the shelf

well read,

the pages crimped with

dog ears

some writing inside the cover

by hand.

to so and so with love.

perhaps

one day

you'll pick up the phone

like

an old book, waiting

to be read again,

and call upon 

the old friend.

calm water

calm waters prevail

no

storm

left.

it's emptied itself upon us.

washed

the sea

onto the shore,

blew it's heart out

as we waited behind our

doors.

no more

of it will come.

it's, like us,

exhausted by it all,

done.

taking the polygraph

i buy a used lie detector

on ebay.

the owner said it was used

on several

well known

criminals who made the news.

mostly white collar

crime, but

the occasional assault 

and battery too.

i ask my new girlfriend Betty

to sit down

as i strap it to her arm,

then question her

about her whereabouts last

friday night

when she said she was home

ironing.

nothing but lies.

the machine is zig zagging all

over the place,

not one word of truth comes

out of her mouth.

what's your favorite color,

i ask her.

pink she says.

again the machine goes nuts.

i ask her if her name is Betty

and she says yes.

ding ding ding. the machine

starts smoking like crazy.

even that is a lie.

finally i turn it off.

she smiles at me and asks,

so how'd i do.

i wipe my brow 

shake my head.

she's cute and fun,

adorable with a pair of sexy legs.

so, i guess i'll

let the test slide for now.

the third planet

the blue sky persuades

me to

go out

and lie in the sun.

i love the sun.

the warm hand of it

upon my face.

i can't imagine a world

without a sun.

it's nice

to be the third planet

just far enough away.

just close enough,

to lie out

and sun bathe.

chasing a cow

if i had to actually chase

a cow down

the street and kill it

or milk it,

i probably wouldn't eat meat,

or drink milk,

same goes for a chicken,

a pig,

or a veal cutlet,

or a turkey leg..

i don't have it in me to kill

an animal

skin it

then make steaks or pork chops

out of it.

so i'm glad that someone has

done that for

me and put it in

nice plastic packages

at the grocery store.

i try not to think about how

cute they

may have been, if they

had names like lulubelle,

or jimmy,

or porky.

someone fire up the grill.

where's the montreal seasoning?

i'm starving

up all night

if i stay up too late

at night

i need my credit card handy.

i see knives  sharp enough

to cut steel wire,

three inch

thick bundles of twine.

car wax that keeps its shine

despite

being set afire.

i see weight loss pills,

weight gain pills.

i see pants that fit any size.

i see magnifying glasses

that work

at night.

ovens that make crispy

anything you put into it,

from potatoes

to sheperd's pie.

i see facial cream that will

make you look

ten years younger.

books that will make you

smarter.

i can't sleep a wink, but it's

well worth it

by the time the sun rises.

what's wrong with you?

what are you doing

she asks

me as i clip my nails

on the front porch.

i look up at her and say.

i'm clipping my nails.

look at them.

uneven and jagged.

no, she says. i mean

what are you doing 

with your life?

what's wrong with you?

i've never seen you like

this before. it's almost

like you don't care about

anything anymore.

what are you talking about.

i'm taking care of my

nails

and tomorrow i have work.

you don't have a dog,

or even a plant in your

house. you don't watch

the news, you don't read

the paper. you don't give

a damn about what's going

on in the world these days.

ouch. see what you made

me do, i suck the blood

off the tip of my finger.

i hold up my finger to show

her the dot of blood bubbling out.

this is your fault, i tell her.

you're better than this, she says,

you have potential to do

some great things.

but you just have to get up

off your butt and get to work

on them.  you're not a spring

chicken anymore.

i say the word chicken, hmmm,

then let out a long sigh. yeah,

you're right. you're right.

you're always right.

what about pizza tonight?

half pepperoni, half mushrooms?

coins in the rain

some days you just

don't want to make eye 

contact with anyone.

you aren't feeling

too sociable, or particularly friendly.

you need a break from the world,

from people,

from saying things like, hello.

you've got the blues

maybe,

or just tired, sick of love,

tired of rumination and what ifs,

so you look down

as you walk, lost in thought,

hands in your pocket,

kind of slumped over

in a bleak depressive way.

it's what poets and artistic people do

when they got nothing.

on these days though, you find

a lot of change

on the sidewalk.

or gloves, or umbrellas.

the money you find are

dimes and  pennies for the most part,

but occasionally

you'll strike it rich and find

a quarter, or a folded

crumpled dollar bill that escaped

someone's pocket.

you take the side streets, the alleys,

and cross over

when you see someone

coming at you with a smile

on their face.

you're just not in the mood

for chit chat. so you move on,

bending over

to pick up that penny.

when you get to the corner you

toss all the money

into the guy's hat

who lives on the stream grate.

that helps

a little.

it's beginning to look a lot like...

i'm actually thinking

of celebrating

Christmas this year,

the last two or three

were horrible.

dark memories i try to avoid.

but this year i might put out

a candle or two. find

that glass snow globe

and set it on the window sill.

maybe toss down a string

of lights on the buffet.

maybe i'll make a batch 

of sugar cookies and stack

them on a red plate,

like my mother used to do.

i'll get out my list of three

people i need to send cards to

and start the search

at the drug store when i have

the time.

a wreathe for the door might

be nice as well. but i don't

want to overdo it.

i'll have to think about the wreathe.

living large

we'd have the occasional

brush with the law

when out

driving the streets late

at night

back in the day.

the day being the 1970s.

beer in hand, the radio

blasting the Door's

Light My Fire

that we knew all the words to.

four guys, not a single girl

around.

and the cops would spot

us and turn on their

party lights,

make the driver get out

and explain what we were

doing out and about

at this hour.

one a.m.

we'd hide the weed, stuff

the beer cans

under the seat, and brush

our long hair out of our eyes.

going for food, we'd all say

with grins on our

stoned faces.

go home, the cop would say

in a fatherly way.

get your jack in the box

food, then head home.

we'd give him a beer or

two for him and his partner

then off we'd go

to the drive thru for some

greasy fries and tacos,

a jack burger,

onion rings and large cokes.

the cops waving as they

drove away.

calendar girl

it's a seasonal calendar

from last year,

i find in a drawer,

stuck on january when i got it in

the for christmas

wrapped under the tree,

a gift

from someone i used to know,

and almost loved,

and still

do

but in a vague facebook kind

of way.

i never tacked it to a wall

and turned the page to february,

seeing the snow

laden hills or streets,

nor

the march winds pulling

kites in

a blue struck breeze.

i never made it 

to july, with the fireworks

and flags,

or august with the wide

soft beaches

sunlit and warm. a picture

next of autumn 

and the falling of leaves.

the calendar never made it to

the holidays either,

and neither did we.

that page too

was never turned.

out with the old

one by one

i start replacing things in the house.

they've grown tired

and old,

windows,

the refrigerator.

the stove,

the furnace

the ac

the water heater.

the kitchen floor.

i install

new carpet.

new curtains,

a new vase for the mantle.

out with old and in with the new.

and least i forget,

her too.

two lovers and i love them both the same

i fall in love

with Siri

and Alexa, both of them

have lovely

voices.

they sound so wonderful

and kind.

helpful

and compassionate.

they make my

imagination run wild with

desire.

i think about them all day

and night.

i hug my

pillow as i fall to sleep,

actually

both pillows,

one for each,

and whisper to them

telling them that i adore

them both,

but just can't decide.

the laundry room

is there a place

worse

than the apartment laundry

room.

the wet clothes

lugged

across the frozen grass

to the metal

door and in

where the cages are,

holding

boxes

and bicycles,

plastic christmas trees.

lean and bent,

still full of tinsel

and ornaments.

a  fist full of quarters

are fed

into the rusting white

machines.

detergent.

and then the long wait

as it rumbles

and spins.

shakes on it's unbalanced

feet, then thunders home

with still wet clothes.

next the dryer and another

hour of waiting,

of reading a book you'll

never finish,

sitting in the folding chair

left behind

by a tenant who died

last week.

i pray for cold

the rain

has brought back the green

in the yard.

i stare out the window

and try

to imagine flowers.

perhaps a tree.

a bird bath,

maybe a dog digging about.

soon

it will be covered in a fine

layer

of white

snow.

the shroud that winter

dresses

it.

i pray for cold.

the new health insurance plan

i set aside four hours

of phone

time to talk with my health insurance

agent.

leaving twenty minutes

for the period

of being on hold and listening

to muzak.

she's a fast talker.

reminds me

of my first ex wife.

slick and sharp.

the knife is in before you know it.

i sign up after asking

what are my choices.

she rattles off

war and peace, then whittles

it down to cost.

no premium, a reasonable

premium and 

then the high ball premium

where 

you get a new heart

and brain at a discount.

first in line.

she asks me about my kidneys.

i look down

and lift up my shirt and tell

her so far so good.

but the night is young.

we make a deal.

she cracks another joke.

she's rodney dangerfield

with the jokes.

then she reads off a twenty digit

confirmation

number. i say i do.

several times, two words i made

a vow to never say

again.

and we're done.

we welcome nights

we welcome

nights.

the bed, the comfort

of

the sheets, the pillow

where we lay

our head.

we rejoice in the end

of a hard

day.

no tears shed, no

worry

nothing gone wrong,

no arguments

per say. 

the window wide,

the curtains parted

to a starlit

sky.

night is where we dream.

where we fall

into

the place

we learned as a child,

it's warm

it's safe.

it's home. our saving

grace.

never going back

i pretty much know

where i'll

never go again,

either for the first time or

the next time.

i don't expect to ever arrive

in cleveland, 

or detroit

or syracuse.

i won't be going back

to south beach

either,

or manchester,

or turkey,

or venice, or across the bridge

to where i grew

up in a place

called glassmanor.

of course i don't know for sure

these things,

but it's a feeling.

the same one you get

when loved ones vanish.

Losing

we go to the casino

with

the idea

of only losing what we bring,

no more,

no less.

we're more prepared

to lose than

we are to win.

what if we looked at

everything

in life that way.

today

i'm going to lose

only so much self respect.

so much joy,

so much happiness.

i'm going to lose

only the love i can afford,

my ambition.

my hope. and when it

all runs dry,

i'll go home having 

achieved what i came for.

the sweet blue sky

we care

and then suddenly as if overnight

we don't care.

we say things like

i really don't give a damn,

so what.

pffft. really?

who cares?

but it took a long time

to arrive,

to take the train,

the bus,

and walk up a mountain

to get there.

but once there, 

you spread your arms

and kiss

the sweet blue sky

and breathe in the absence

of fear.

girl parts

i want to meet a really

really

really

smart person.

someone

less dumb than me, if

i need to set

the bar that low.

someone to guide me,

mentor me,

kiss me.

someone with long legs

and kissing skills,

but with girl parts, don't

make me draw a picture.

someone wise,

someone

clever and witty,

funny

and dangerously sly.

it doesn't matter

if they have

short hair, blonde or

brunette, or green

or blue eyes.

i'm setting the new bar

like way way high.

smart as a whip, is

all i ask.

with no mask, and nothing

to hide.

a broom to sweep

a broom to sweep

a fire

to burn

a cloth and bucket, and

mop

to wash.

a spray

a brush, a tool

to scrape

a new lock on

the door,

the gate. block,

no contact,

delete delete delete,

that's how you do it.

to get out,

to escape.

full of pumpkin

my skin has turned an orange

color for some strange reason, 

so i go

in to see my doctor

and ask her what the deal is.

she asks me how many

carrots i eat a day.

i tell her zero. in fact the last

time i ate a carrot

was in a soup. cut up into little

slices.

what about pumpkin, she asks.

are you eating a lot

of pumpkin

related foods and drinks.

ummm. yeah. maybe.

i did have a slice of pumpkin pie

the other day,

with pumpkin whipped cream

on top.

and a pumpkin latte,

and a pumpkin scone.

she nods. okay. okay.

maybe cut back a little.

it will go away. but may i suggest

wearing a brown tie

for a while. goes nice

with that skin tone.

the job estimate

we need a copy of your insurance,

and

a copy of your license.

also

a photo of you.

a pint of blood.

and a lock of hair from your

first born.

we need your mother's

maiden name.

we need

to know the name of your first

pet.

we need a new password.

we want

you to sign here.

and promise you're not a 

communist

or addicted to crystal meth.

we need references.

a list of your next of kin.

we need reviews.

we need yelp and facebook

and instagram

something to prove who you

really are.

we need you to remove you 

shirt and lift up your arm

for this vaccination.

bend over, say ahhh.

sharp words

sharp nails,

sharp words, sharp teeth.

they bite

and scratch

dig deep

into our psyche.

it's hard to be the duck

letting

water run

off us.

instead we grimace

and weep

at what we hear

and see. our egos

won't let

us sleep.

musically inept

i have no musical

talents.

just the dashboard,

the penny whistle,

the tapping of a foot.

i can't even snap

my fingers on my right hand.

i believe it's

a 

neurological condition,

but i digress and drift.

i know the words

to the songs i love and

can sing them

loudly whether in the shower

or out.

and my dog approves, listen

to us howl.

i've got the vinyl,

the 8 tracks, the cd's,

the cassettes.

i've got spotify and pandora,

youtube

and nine other

venues that i have no clue

how to access.  but somehow

they play. i sing, but no

banjo

or castanets. 

the river styx

anger takes up a lot of energy

when done

wrong and you feel

the need for some sort

of revenge.

but no more. karma has its own

way of taking

care of things.

so you let go.

breathe. exhale the negativity.

find

peace and calm.

anger is poison in the long run,

but it did help you 

to get to the other side

of the river styx.

vegan for three hours

i stop eating meat

for a few hours.

i tell people that i'm a vegan.

they laugh.

they don't think i have the willpower

to abstain

from a ribeye steak,

or a stop

by five guys for a double burger

with bacon

cheese

etc.

 little do they know how strong

my mind is now.

once i had the willpower of an infant,

but now,

i'm a buddhist monk, i can 

abstain from all things if i put

my mind to it.

nothing tempts me anymore,

nothing

except for exaggeration, embellishment

and making

things up.

i fear

i fear many things.

old age, for one.

losing my mind, or ability

to run

away.

i fear the cupboards being bare.

the money gone.

shoes with holes

in bottoms, stuck with

one pair.

i fear pain.

the loss of love.

i fear

gaining weight,

losing

hair,

too late.

i fear not remembering.

i fear

remembering.

i fear not reading

or writing,

but sitting by a window

with a distant

stare.

i fear tomorrow.

i fear today. of being ill.

i fear that so much time

has slipped away.

my mother, God rest her soul,

has taught me well.

sandwich people

you can tell who a person is

by how

they make a sandwich.

whole wheat or white.

a french roll perhaps.

wonder bread or brioche?

straight up

from the bag,

or toast?

or we mayo or mustard?

and what goes in it.

layered

blankets of cheese,

jams and jellies, perhaps.

meat,

or fish,

peanut butter lathered on

in wide swipes, 

crunchy and rich.

ham on rye, or we going there?

tuna?

or God forbid egg salad,

with the corner cuts

and crust

removed.  peppers please.

chance meeting

it's a chance meeting,

an accident of sorts.  going

here

when i should have gone there.

is that the way world works?

fate, luck, destiny?

i'd like to think there's a plan.

there's reason,

there's infinite wisdom

in what we becomes of us.

call it faith, if you must.

at times i believe that, and

while other times i

have my doubts, and think

back

and wonder if it truly is

God,

whom i trust.

curry and mystery meat

what kind of a day would

it be

if i didn't throw

out

a little ditty about the ex.

but no.

it bores me now.

apathy has set in.

it's like a  bad dream

after eating

Indian food.

and spending the night

curled around

the porcelain wheel,

moaning, 

with curry and mystery

meat tumbling out,

never again.

now wasn't that fun?

the monkey bars,

the playground was more of a place

where children

ran home

with broken arms

and legs.

the bars constructed out

of old plumbing pipes

welded weakly

together.

the chain swings with a rubber

seat.

no doubt death awaited as

you went higher and higher.

and that metal wheel,

littered with

frightened children,

that spun around in wobbly

fashion,

faster and faster

it would go

as some maniacal father

pushed it to the limit.

how we screamed and hung

on for dear life.

and that slide,

twenty feet high,

made of shiny metal,

so hot our skin singed

as we slid down

into the gravel pit.

and our mother smiling

ear to ear at the bottom,

saying,

now wasn't that fun?

the love lock

some locks expire,

the key

no longer turns,

the latch

won't release.

no matter how hard you

pound

or beg

or kick,

the door won't open.

is this some metaphor

for love

that you once thought

was for keeps?

by george i think

it is. but i'll spare you

the cliche

that rust, like soured

love, never sleeps.

hey junior!

i take a ride by the old folks

home

to see what's going on. to see what

the future might look

like

there's a line of women

sitting on the porch

like potted flowers,

knitting,

waving to me, hey sweetie,

hey handsome.

why don't you pull that car

over and have a glass of wine

with us,

it's happy hour.

i smile and wave back.

you look lonely junior, maybe

you'd like

some company.

one in a red dress stands up

and shimmies, then blows me a kiss.

i almost pull over, but then

hit the gas pedal.

i'm not quite ready for this.

it could be a tumor

everything

could be the end.

a sore throat.

this bump, this bruise,

this headache,

the weakness

of a limb,

the blurred eye, the dulled

ear,

the dim

outlook on life.

where did that come from.

there has to be a tumor

somewhere.

i give myself six months

before i die.

but usually by the next

day

i feel fine.

sign here

sign here

and here and here

and there.

initial here,

turn the page,

there and there

and there.

one more page,

were almost done,

okay.  there, there,

up there,

down below

and here.

now sign and date

on the dotted

line.

and we thank you.

play happy

is it too late,

is there enough time.

how much

sand is left in the hour glass.

how many breaths

are in us

before we

go.

how many more sunrises,

sunsets

are we allowed.

it's best not to think about

such things.

and pretend

that there is plenty

of time left, let's play

happy,

starting now.

can i offer you tea?

she's lonely.

i can see that in the way she offers

me a drink

after looking at the wallpaper

she wants hung.

tea?

perhaps some cookies. can you

stay

for a few minutes.

i'd like to tell you  a story about

how i came

to live here.

it was forty years ago.

i look at my watch. i fold up my

book.

sure. i look around the room.

the old sofa. 

china in the hutch.

the pictures of family on the walls.

the white vase

on the mantle.

it's a long story, one she's told

before. but i listen.

i shift my feet.

i nod politely, but offer no words.

she needs to tell me this tale.

she wants me to

know her story.

she wants this life to mean more.

change prevails

is there such a thing as permanence?

i ask

myself

as i peruse the shelves

of the big store.

permanent ink.

permanent press.

is there a permanent record

that keeps

score of all our doings,

our mistakes,

our regrets.

having been around for awhile

i see no such

thing as permanence.

not in work, or love, status,

or health.

we live, we die.

all things do.

permanence is a myth,

in my mind,.

change prevails.

star crawler

you find some new music

that sounds

like old music.

starcrawler.

it takes you back into a time

when

you danced the night away

with no inhibition.

the dark club,

the dj.

the drinks, the energy

of youth.

a mosh pit of fun and

excitement. the music loud

and crashing into your mind.

it's good to go back and yet

stay where you are now,

at the very same time.

the old ball and chain

sometimes you miss people.

or miss

what you imagined

them to be.

it's a strange thing

this

relationship amnesia.

how it wipes the slate clean

despite the horror

of everything,

but then you come

to your senses and rub

your ankle where the ball

and chain once rubbed

against your skin, and you

smile, free at last and 

happy again.

no stripes

i stay away

from stripes, pants or shirts.

no prison garb

for me.

sheets even.

there's not a stripe

in the house, or plaid

for that matter.

no tartan cloth,

no checkered fabric,

no paisley,

no polka dots.

it's either black or

white,

or a darker shade

of pale. no sign

of a single stripe, but

whatever you wear, i'm

down with it,

truly, even orange,

or lime green, it's swell.

her true love

i love him, she tells me on the phone.

i truly truly love him.

she's been drinking.

she's sitting under a tree outside

his house, smoking a cigarette

in her car.

i think he's on a date, she says.

do you think that too?

probably, i tell her, after all you did

break up

when you caught him

lying and cheating again.

but i love him. he has these really

long legs.

i know, i know. you told me about

nine hundred times.

you also told me about his addictions,

his alcoholism, how he wants

your money

and how his kids hate you.

should i call him to see where he

is?

maybe i should apologize for being

so angry at him

when i caught him

with another woman.

he didn't deserve to be yelled at

like i did. what's wrong with me?

maybe if i was

skinnier like his deceased ex wife?

well, she's getting skinnier by the day,

i suspect.

what should i do.

it's almost midnight and  i have to work

tomorrow.

have another drink.  stalking takes

patience. time. you're just getting started.

she had her day

i see the glamorous

old dame

making her way to the mailbox.

she's in her silver dress

for midday.

draped

in bracelets

and necklaces.

her hair done. her nails.

a stripe

of red lipstick across

her face.

she moves

across the parking lot

as if on

a dance floor.

her hips sway as she

wobbles

on high heels.

you shake

your head and smile,

you imagine she had her day.

the rooster crows

strange how we rise

now

at this early hour

no longer tucked within

the warm

throes of sleep

and blankets.

we of a certain age sleep

less

and rise earlier with each

passing year.

i hear

the old men bragging about

how they were at four

or five,

but why.

there are no sheep to tend

to.

no farm.

no eggs to collect or

cow to

milk.

and yet here we are with

the sun

rising, a plate of hours

before us,

a long ways before we

reach

that needed  nap time.

the newlyweds next door

the newly weds next door

come home

from the wedding, her in white,

him in black.

covered in confetti.

it's the last time i will

see them happy.

but the glow of them.

the smile on her face.

the grin on his.

it's as if 

they've won the lottery of life.

finding love

so young, so right.

it isn't long after they

return from some island,

their honeymoon that i

will hear the crash of dishes

against our shared wall,

their voices raised in anger,

as they begin their lifelong

fight.

carrying boxes

the box is full of potential.

four sides. a lid to tape closed.

how easily things can be gathered

and placed inside.

enough room for so much.

books

and things. pictures, letters.

some yours, some belonging

to others who left

their possessions behind.

it's hard to decide what comes

with you

what you toss aside.

boxes

often decide our lives.

we mark

them

as to where they go when

they arrive.

some we open while others

we leave them closed.

tucked up in some attic,

or down the steps to a cellar

where cobwebs grow,

never to be perused,

the memories we want

to hide.

oh, that's nothing

i tell her about my stubbed

toe.

how i woke

up in the middle of the night

and stumbled

on a shoe

as i headed towards

the bathroom.

she says.

well, that's nothing, i had

cancer once. did i ever tell

you that?

i didn't know if i was

going to live or die.

oh really, i tell her,

rubbing my swollen

red big toe.

yes, she says.

they found a little dot on my cheek

which they scraped

off and sent to the lab.

thank 

god they found it when they

did.

i could have died.

precancerous. actinic keratosis.

can you believe that. you always

think that's it's other people

that these things

happen to, not me.

i thank my lucky stars everyday.

i think i might put

some ice on my toe.

did i ever tell you about the time

i cut my thumb

peeling potatoes, she says

 true story.

i almost needed stitches.

it was about ten thanksgivings

ago and......

stick with what you know

you know what you like

or don't like

at this age, this stage

of the game.

don't get the indian food,

or food from any country

you can't pronounce

or spell the name of.

stick with what

you know.

meat and potatoes.

pasta,

chicken

and limited amounts

of fish.

if you veer off the menu

and say something dumb,

like i always get

lasagna, maybe i'll

try something else.

you'll regret it.

get that lemon away from

my veal chop.

stick with what you know

or pay the gastronomical

price.

what's another twenty minutes

i was a minute away

from

pulling the plug on the relationship

when she sauntered

into the room

wearing heels

and stockings

and little else but

red lipstick.

a cloud of

perfume enveloped her,

and the taste of vodka

was on

her parted lips.

so i gave in.

what's another twenty minutes?

an electric eel

i don't like men

with facial hair, Hope

tells me

conspiratorially

as she leans in the direction

of my good

left ear.

she stretches out her long

pale leg

and rubs her knobby knee.

her name used to be Felicia,

but she changed

it to Hope

after winning a thousand

dollars on a scratch off

lottery ticket.

i don't like

beards

or mustaches, or side

burns,

or goatees. she says 

to me

sipping her earl grey tea.

her pinky out, as if

she's in the money now.

i like a clean shaven

man.

a man without a single

hair on his body.

slick and hairless

as a grape.

A grape? i say. staring 

into the sun feeling dizzy

and strangely

weak.

yes. she says. a grape

or an electric eel.

the aquarium

he doesn't bend well anymore.

or see well.

he's a fish

in a tight aquarium,

the colors are bright

but muddled.

he swims around the rooms,

all day. from

den to kitchen, to bedroom,

and back again.

finding in the late

afternoon a puddle of sunlight

to lie in.

the garden is brown

out the window.

the christmas tree will

not go up this year,

nor will the lights.

those days are done.

but he keeps swimming.

swimming

from side to side.

wondering who will 

free him, waiting for

a sprinkle of food

and conversation, for

the doorbell to be rung.

Maine Lobstahs

she used to say lobstah.

like a lot.

i want some lobstah

with buttah,

she said,

reliving her one year in 
Boston.

where's my lobstah bib. 

do you want to hand me

the crackahs

and the pliahs.

come on have a seat, pull

of a chah and lets

eat these fresh maine

lobstahs. i've been dying

all summah

for some lobstahs.

maybe we can make some

chowdah later, too.

remember when kennedy

said, let's put a man

on the moon by the end

of this decahde?

put some buttah in the microwave

and melt it, would yah.

be a dear.

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.