rare love

when we talk about love

we often

include intimacy,

as part of it.

sex.

the act of love.

two bodies entwined

in the spirit

of success.

but of course there's more.

the world is full

of sex without love,

love without sex.

finding both at the same

time

is rare. 

say yes

i need a couple of yes people

in my life.

everyone else keeps saying no.

no you can't eat that,

no you can't buy that,

don't read that, don't watch that,

don't write that.

no you can't do that. no, take

your hands off of me.

not tonight. not now. not ever.

no, you have to wait. no, no, no.

i need to hear yes once in a while.

maybe something like,

of course, sure, why not. let's do it.

that sort of thing. yes. yes. yes.

life would be so much easier

and fun, at least for me. yes?

i want to bite her neck

i don't mean to bite her neck,

my vampire friend Vladmir

tells me

as he adjusts his cape

sitting near the fire.

it just happens

in the heat of the moment,

something comes over me

and i just can't help myself.

she has such a nice neck.

so slender and sexy.

the veins, so blue and enticing.

her perfume, the way her

hair hangs down.

i shake my head and hand him

a napkin to wipe the blood

off his lips. i point at his chin.

he dabs at it.

maybe you should just

nibble a little, kiss. not bite.

show a little restraint 

on the first date. cool your jets.

now you can't get rid of them.

they're all down there

pale and weak waiting

for the sun to rise, hanging

around your crypt.

no sugar tonight

someone tells me 

that they haven't

had sugar

in any form for

over twelve years,

no a single spoonful,

not a packet,

not one lump to sweeten

their day.

and they're all 

the better for it.

i look at them and smile

and think to myself.

maybe we should have

a parade.

it's been twelve minutes 

for me, i say, 

wiping the crumbs 

of a donut

off my shirt, the chocolate

off my face.

one of many watches

i shake the watch

one of many tossed 

into the drawer.

unworn.

keeping time.

it's on the job.

i put it to my ear

and listen.

it still ticks.

still reminding me

that the end is always

near.

the vines

the vines are relentless.

up the fence,

the brick wall, they 

are grow. invasive,

gripping all that we own.

wrapping tightly

around our throats with

their hard knit bones.

see how they get

under your skin, right to

the heart they go.

who is your vine

today?

the green ice

the water, green, settles

into an icy pond

behind

the garden, where the statue

stands.

the birds will come

when the sun rises

and warms up

the world,

melts the ice.

we are all waiting for that

to some degree.

the love machine

i used to save things.

sentimental things.

cards and gifts.

photos signed with a kiss.

small things seemed large

at the time.

but then i bought this crushing

machine that i keep

in the yard.

it burns things too.

it has a button, called the

insincerity button.

it's red. one push of the button

and all that junk

given to you in the guise

of love is gone.

come valentine's day

it's a busy little machine.

patty the plumber

i go to plumbers dot com

to find a suitable

plumber to come and fix

my leaky toilet.

it runs all night and all day

no matter how much

i jiggle the handle.

i swipe left, then left again

on a dozen or so men

in overalls and jumpsuits.

bearded men with ample

bellies. men with glasses

on, men with bald heads

and a glint in their eye.

men holding up pipes

and wrenches, men standing

by their trucks painted

with logos and images

of commodes and sinks

beside them. finally i

settle on Patty the Plumber.

she has a shamrock on

the side of her white van.

and she's wearing a short

plaid dress with long boots.

her is black as night

and her greens eyes

are smiling

i swipe right. but she's booked

six weeks in advance.

i can wait.

the final draft

instead of a poem

i bake a cake instead.

so much easier.

much more likeable

in the long run.

lets stress and wringing

of hands.

in a mixing bowl is where

i'll say what needs

to be said.

with butter and cream,

oil and eggs.

it's the oven that will

make it rise

and grow, bring it to

fruition.

once gone i won't have

to go back

to read it again, to edit it.

this cake will be a final

draft.

the apples

all day the man

stacks apples on 

the square board

in the well lit store.

they grow

into a pyramid.

one by one, he puts a

shine on their red skins,

then carefully finds

a place for each of them.

he's wearing a store shirt.

blue with yellow

birds upon it, but

he's not a company man.

it's just a job.

making pyramids out

of apples.

and at night when he goes

home and lies

in bed, alone.

he thinks about his apples.

how quickly the days

of his life are going.

the new bruise

when bruised 

we study the bruise.

we touch it 

in wonder

at it's new color. 

it's stiff mound of pain.

the blue

and violet of it, 

turning green, tomorrow

a sunrise yellow.

we show it to others. 

we say

look at this.

pulling up our shirt,

and they say, how did you

do that?

and you shrug, and say

i'm not sure,

but it hurts.

cat woman

i wouldn't 

call her a cat woman

mainly for the reason

that she didn't have

any cats,

not to mention 

that she didn't

even like cats.

they were too much

like her, aloof

and distant, self

centered

with a head of straw

like hair,

but besides that 

she really was a cat

woman with all 

the loony quirks

attached.   

already?

i negotiate with the sun

rising

through the window.

a yellow stream between the slats.

i say soon.

a few minutes more of lying

here.

it's a quiet discussion,

mostly in my head.

the sun is silent as always.

it can't be that early i plead.

how quickly the night went

by. i still have so many

dreams left

in my head.

time sits still

when someone passes

and time

sits still

for a while we wonder

why others are unaware

of how fragile

this life is.

we want to shake 

them to stop

what they're doing and

listen to what you

now clearly know.

how temporary all things are.

but sorrow is holy

ground, full of dark wisdom

and you can only

stay there so long

before you to go back

to it, back to whatever

life is left,

your feet once again

on the ground.

the fallen tree

no one can get over 

the fallen tree

in the yard.

the great oak

that's been there forever.

they stand with hands

on hips

and shake their heads.

they take pictures.

they call to tell others,

saying remember that tree,

well, it fell last night.

you have to come and see.

the men are cutting it

into pieces and taking 

it away. i'll never forget

that tree, they say,

the shade that it gave.

but they do.

bring you, to me

don't bring me whisky

when i die

lying

still on far side of

life.

don't wet my lips 

with anything,

but yours.

let your face be the last

one i see.

your voice the last

one i hear.

don't bring me whiskey

as i take my last breath,

bring you

to me.

through the alley

so rare we turn

into an alley on our own,

in twilight,

by mistake, but there 

is something

magical and dark, old

about a long stretch of

wet brick and muck,

of cans turned over,

of those lost

unconscious against barred

windows.

the rotted doors.

boys with knives,

and women

waiting with open arms

and legs for who's next.

careful of the rats as

we transverse

this hollow

with its echoing sound

of sirens and screams.

we wonder if we can get to

the other side,

through this unmapped cut

to another street.

in song and wine

we soothe ourselves

in song

and wine,

in the rapture 

of false love,

the thin

disguise

of fame, the gold

in our hands

that turns green.

we ease our pain with

prayer,

with food.

with the comfort

of ignorance, allowing

us to sleep.

fashion choices

who wears checkered pants.

bold striped

shirts.

pink ties

or polka dots.

suspenders?

not I.

give me black,

blue,

or grey. and on a special

occasion

white.

don't humiliate me

with an orange

jumpsuit

when they catch me

and i have to do the time.

the running man

the running man,

at his finish line,

at such a young age.

i see him now

barefoot in the rain

going forward.

his feet splashing against

the pavement.

strange how life ends

so soon,

too soon for our liking.

but he keeps running,

leaving a trail

behind him

as he continues on

without us,

lighter and faster than

he ever was before.

scratch biscuits

her apology comes 

in the form

of scratch biscuits

hot from the oven,

a pad of land of lakes

on a cold plate,

a flat knife

to break them apart,

the swipe of butter

melting in the crumble.

she says nothing.

but it's an apology of sorts.

i don't ask her why,

i don't ask her 

what she has done.

it's over now 

whatever it was.

eat them, she says, 

eat them

while they're still warm.

in another town

I look for the squeak,

that lingering noise,

neither pleasant

or unpleasant

but keeping us awake

into the wee hours.

i rise in the dark

my feet on the cold boards 

and seek it out, 

this noise this pest of

sound reminding me 

of a night

in another room

with someone else,

in another town.

infidelity

there is always 

the danger of desire,

of lust,

like wind removing

apples from a tree.

they fall to rot

in the heat

of infatuation,

to be hollowed out

by worms,

then turned sour

in the tiny mouths

of secrets.

in times of need

you imagine money,

enormous bundles of green,

more than you'll ever need.

suddenly it's in every drawer,

in every pocket.

there is money in the toilet,

in the oven, in the ice-box.

it is piled up in your yard

like leaves. you take your wife

and hold her in your arms,

you squeeze her.

money comes out of her mouth.

neighbors press their faces

against your windows.

the phone gets hot in your hand.

the door bell plays on.

relatives parachute in out of

nowhere. they drop from the sky

with smiles on their faces,

fruit cakes clutched

in their trembling hands.

the sick rise and come forward.

even the mailman winks

as he brings you word from afar.

you imagine burning money.

the parents below

out the window an orchid moon

opens violet and blue, a flower

lush in sorrow, planted in the crib

of youth. the moon spills

its sour milk down me. it curdles

in my belly as i listen

to the argument burn below.

the gases rise up the stairs,

seep beneath my door,

they singe my moonlit lungs.

their liquored curses stain me

like the wet sheets, yellow

and cold in the morning.

the bright pinch of ammonia,

its memory simmering up, even now

at this age, into vapors of shame.

in a cool room

here i lie, twisted in my bed,

surgically cut from here to there.

belly up in the lather of shaved ice

behind the slant of glass,

my cheek limp where the hook went in,

jelled eyes, a stiffened spine.

i can still remember the ocean,

the wind of water in my fins,

the easy bend of body

through warm, then cold shadows,

a turquoise wash of light

upon my scales and skin.

i was perfect in form and color,

in purpose. my life laid out before me.

now as they come in white schools

and point, checking their lists.

i imagine a black numbered sign

staked near my head,

marking me up or down,

dollars per precious pound.

houdini

under layers of light

and water, you think

about sinking,

of opening your mouth

and drinking

the world dead.

you think of escape.

the danger of losing touch

with air.

this is what you dream of

before you arise,

before you begin

in the shallow waters 

of morning

to pick the locks

that fill you day.

where they find you

you enter the room

and find a chair.

it is not the one

you would have chosen

had the room been empty.

it may not even be

the most comfortable chair,

but it's the closet one,

the one available.

and so you sit.

the chair becomes yours

before the day is over.

it is the one you pick

when you return again,

then again.

as time goes on,

it is where others expect

to find you.

it is the place

that will be empty

when you die.

one season

i tell her

that i know nothing

about trees.

and have no desire

to learn anymore

than what i see.

from green to gold

to bare,

then back again.

and because of that

our love won't last

a season.

in shiny wonder

my mother,  

God rest her soul,

lived across the bridge, 

unmoved.

there was no where else 

she wanted to be.

nowhere else she wanted 

to go.

there was the blue sofa.

a yellow bird

singing in a cage,

a simple garden in the yard.

she never laid her eyes 

upon the pyramids, or

the Eiffel Tower, or 

the Empire State building,

although she once knew 

a woman

who leaped to her death 

from that great height.

she never flew across the country,

or took a cruise 

to some exotic land.

her feet never touched 

the ocean on either shore,

but if you asked her where 

the canned tomatoes were,

or the black olives,

large and pitted,

in the grocery store,

she'd smile and tell you 

with great pride,

the aisle and row,

the position on the shelf

where they sat

in shiny wonder.

visiting the horse

the barn was full 

of cats.

and horses.

it smelled. you could hardly

catch your breath.

and yet, you stood

and washed,

you fed your horse.

taking your time.

you whispered into his old

ears, stroked his

long back.

calling him by name.

i remember the winter

light coming through

the other end

as i watched

you in your boots.

your long black hair

down your back.

i watched a tenderness

that i never knew

was there.

a picture of you

there are twelve poster notes

stuck to the wall.

yellow flagged

reminders of what needs

to be done.

names and numbers, places

yet to go.

stuck before my eyes. telling

me what to do.

and there you are beside them

your picture

curled with age, 

a younger face,

and dare i say, a happier

version of you.

canned peaches

the peach was not enough.

it had to be picked

and carved,

sliced into quarters

and factory canned

with syrup to make it

sweeter than it ever was.

than a picture goes

on the side.

a tree full of peaches 

luscious and fat,

so hard they tried.

say no

say no

to someone and find out

who they are.

it's the magic word.

it will pull

back the kind curtain,

and reveal

who you are dealing with.

say no.

then say it again.

holding your ground.

it won't be long

before you see who

they really are,

and then strangely

and suddenly they are

not longer  around.

when the dying die

when the dying die

after a long

fight with it, and we've

been there by their side,

and at last

it ends for them,

for us, we go back to

what we were doing before.

as if nothing happened.

there is no other way

to go forward, no other

way to go on.

we have to set them down,

and live again.

ancient history

the museum is cold

with

ancient history.

we walk down the marble

steps,

down the hall

and stand and stare 

at a masterpiece

that's found its way

through the centuries

to this great wall.

it hangs before us.

two people once in love

but no longer there.

the heidelberg bakery

you take a number at the door

of the German bakery.

the line is long,

the air is warm.

people are holding lists 

of what breads to buy. 

whole wheat and white,

sourdough or seeded rye.

what dinner rolls

and sweets to take home.

the glassed cases are aglow

with precious wedding cakes 

iced in yellows and white,

rounded and tiered.

tiffany blue squares.

so much to choose from.

each bite a memory

holding so many years.

don't forget

the aisles are filled

with easter

already

and valentine's.

st. patrick's day can't be

far behind.

and then the fourth

of july.

what's next?

don't forget the birthdays,

the anniversaries,

flag day. so many days

we must buy for

and keep in mind.

what's so funny

the funny bone

is hardly funny when struck

on the corner

or sharp edge 

of a door or table.

no laughter arises,

no good humor

appears.

just the sudden pain

and tingle of struck nerves.

funny

how you struck my funny

bone so often.

but without bringing

a single laugh,

just tears.

matching lamps

she had matching lamps

sitting

on matching tables

beside matching blue chairs

the curtains were parted

evenly, as were the sheers.

flowers on the table,

centered.

the books aligned by height

and color.

each can or jar positioned

just so in the cupboard,

dishes by size

and weight together.

everything was in its place.

even her husband.

sitting still, in his khaki pants

and matching sweater.

drive-thru therapy

i see my therapist

at her new business. a drive-thru

where the old bank

used to be.

she's at the window.

you roll up and tell her your

troubles and woes

in fifteen minutes or less

and she gives you an express

diagnosis.

there's a line wrapped around

the building.

interfering with traffic going

into chic filet. 

i pull up to the window

and she shouts, hey.

how are you, been awhile.

what's up.

please don't tell me you went

back to that nutcake?

i laugh, no, no and no.

done with that.

i just thought i'd say hello

and see how you're doing.

i'm great she says.

just fine and dandy, business

is booming.

i see, i see, i tell her.

well, i'll be on my way now.

okay, she says. that'll be

fifty dollars, cash or check?

or you can bring me lunch,

i like that spicy chicken

sandwich and the waffle fries.

you got it, i tell her. be back

in an hour or so, you know

how they be.

maybe

once you retire

have you ever thought of going

back to school.

or learning how to play golf.

maybe you should

take out a map and hit the road.

start a new business.

write another story, another

poem. a book perhaps.

maybe you should

buy a boat, or jump out of

a plane, or take a cruise.

maybe take up fishing, or

hunting, something like that.

have you ever been to italy,

or spain? take a yoga class

and learn how to mediate

on a cushiony blue mat.

maybe. or maybe you should

just rest a while and do something

you're really really good at.

like taking an afternoon nap.

no different than him

the lone wolf

long legged and red eyed

awash in

grey snow

coming out of the woods

stares you down,

friend or foe.

his teethed bared

in fear.

you stand there and let

him pass.

he has nothing

against you and you have

no qualms with him.

you just want

to go on your way

in this world,

to be left alone,

no different than him.

salt and sugar

the sheer weight of the world

is almost too much

to bear.

the days add up like

lead sometimes.

keeping you bent over

in a direction

you'd rather not go.

only sleep or love keeps

you going. the taste of salt

or sugar on

your tongue

or writing a word or two

on here.

a night time visitor

i find the cellar door

ajar.

someone has paid me a visit

in the dead of night.

i peek inside

the dark chamber

of cold webs.

blackened dust.

a mound of what looks like

a pile of coal.

i yell out is anyone

in there.

is there anyone home?

and a mouse

climbs out of a box

of old clothes.

i smile.

sorry to disturb you,

my little friend.

go back to sleep.

i thought it was someone

else. please make

yourself at home and

stay awhile.

so nice to see you once

again.

not quite dead

in their nineties.

living on machine pumped air.

the shelf

lined with pills.

what is the strategy here?

to live another day,

another year.

holding on to counter tops

and doors.

the walls scraped

with the falls of

walking bones.

unable to sleep unable

to wake up.

afraid of being alive,

afraid of being alone.

a cup of tea.

a bowl of soup.

bread.

the food of the incarcerated.

hardly alive.

not quite dead.

the apron strings

too much mothering

becomes

smothering, not love.

the child stays attached

to apron strings,

always in the shadow.

his life

becomes long and hard

in finding a job, or 

intimacy.

who or what can

compare to mother,

the bar set

high and wide.

these children stay stuck 

in childhood,

never straying far

from the home,

the room they were set

in when born.

thirty years passes

quickly in

the blink

of a mother's selfish

eyes.

let them eat cake

if you're having trouble

with someone

bake them a cake.

it they're disagreeable

and angry with you for 

something you may have

said or done,

if they are cantankerous souls,

bitter and mean

for no apparent reason.

bake them a cake.

go out and get the ingredients.

make it from scratch,

with flours and eggs and all

that you need to make it right.

and when it's done 

bring it to their door

as a peace offering, 

a kind attempt

to make things right.

and if they say no, 

if they refuse it,

then take the cake home,

and you eat it.

hide under your beds

they keep counting

the deaths.

the tote board is lit up

with fear

by numbers.

it will get worse before

it gets better,

they promise, so hold

your breath.

stay indoors, hide under

your beds.

they find fault. they find

no answers.

it's what people want to hear.

how many more

will die

because of this.

and we are here to keep score.

to keep you

watching.

updating, correcting the count.

you could be next.

stayed tuned.

we'll be right back after

this brief commercial message.

finding the end

sometimes the blue sky

is a sharp knife

reminding you

of pain.

those winter mornings

when leaving the house.

and sitting

in your car crying.

the cold of night

upon you.

the sun was nothing.

the promise of spring

was nothing.

the blue sky was enormous.

and silent.

how much further could

you go.

before finding the end.

the next door neighborhood watch

the next door neighborhood

network

is quick

to ask

did anyone hear that noise

last night.

it sounded like gunshots,

or fireworks.

has anyone seen my cat.

it's a black and white

with a red collar.

she doesn't answer to her name,

which is sugarplum.

there's been a strange

man circling in a white

van with rugs

sticking out of the back.

there's a woman walking

around with a baby

in her arms. she seems lost.

is anyone upset about

the closing of sex store

up the street?

are you hearing that screeching

in the woods at night?

coyote, or fox?  sheila

my ex wife, perhaps?

who has good chinese

food around here?

dissecting the whitsun weddings

the book club 

has resorted to zoom

for their get togethers.

the connections

though are weak.

sit closer, speak up.

one says.

what are you drinking. 

hold the cup

up to the screen.

i should put some clothes

on another says.

i've been in this bathrobe

for weeks.

what's the book today. or

tonight. it is dark out, i guess.

does anyone here

know how to sync pandora

to my speakers?

the whitsun weddings,

ingrid says.

take out your books

and turn to page 17.

we're going to talk about

poetry today.

i hate poetry, one man says.

they never say

what they mean.

what else?

you don't look that old, 

she says.

sipping her second martini.

you don't act

that old either.

you have a spark 

in your eye.

a fun side.

and you appear to be

very strong.

i flex my arm to let

her feel my muscle.

oh my, she says.

i wave to the waitress 

to bring

us another round

of drinks.

go on, i tell her. what else?

the unreadable book

i should return this book 

to the library.

they must be wondering

where this copy 

of Ulysses is.

this thick unreadable

book, hard back

in a deep worn blue.

i've had it for over twenty years.

the fine must be enormous.

i'm still on page six. 

four hundred more

pages to go.

it's made 

a fabulous door stop 

though,

all these years off the shelf

of the library.

silk stockings

we lose speed

over time.

the race having been run over

and over again.

the fast cars

have slowed, so have the fast

women you

used to know.

they want relationships now.

they want to sit

by the fire and knit

with a cat in their lap.

bring me a hot tea,

they say,

the tequila days are over,

wearing the silk

stockings,

and lamp shades.

rusted armor

it takes awhile to get dressed

these days

with no squire to assist you

in putting on your armor.

your metal boots,

strapping on the breastplate,

the helmet. handing you

your sword, your shield,

your knife.

you do it all on your own

before going out for coffee.

clanging down the street.

it's not easy these days

being a knight.

the atlas map

i don't know how to get there

from here.

i'm lost.

i'm wandering in a circle,

as i often do.

going left when i should

have gone right.

i have the dome light on

and staring into

my phone. i take out the old

atlas map with

the numbered grids.

it must weigh twenty pounds.

i haven't used this map since

i met the lady in red

in wheaton.

twenty years ago.

i've still have the skull 

and cross bones etched

in black indicating

where she lived.

skin deep

strange how beauty fades.

even in a short time.

how you once

looked at someone and thought

she was the most

beautiful woman in the world,

but when her heart went

dark you could hardly

put your eyes upon her, 

let alone hold her in your arms,

or kiss her.

seven feet down

i remember when i was about

18 or 19

years old and digging

ditches for a living.

it was so cold the blade

of the shovels 

or pick axe would break

beneath the strike of my boot

or the swing upon the hard earth.

we went down along the sides

of new brick town homes

shabbily built and leaking.

we found the cracks

and parged the walls.

it was good money at the time.

helped to feed and clothe

the other five children living

at home. gas money.

electric money. i didn't complain

about the work.

the frost and snow, the brutal

winds. i just went in and 

someone pointed at the ground

and said dig here.

and once i was seven feet under

it wasn't so cold after all.

thin mints

i'm low on thin mints.

but i haven't

seen a girl scout around here

for years.

where'd they all go

with their list of cookies,

their order chart.

i've got the money right here

on the counter.

i want three boxes of thin mints.

i need them within a week or so.

i'm ready to place my

order pronto.

i just need a girl scout

to knock on the door, or ring

the bell. i'll even get a box

of those peanut butter things

just to unload them

off you.

when i get back

when i get back, we'll talk.

we'll sit down

and discuss things.

figure out where we're going

or where we're not going.

we'll make a plan

and decide what to do.

we'll stick to it this time.

we'll be strong.

when i get back, we'll talk.

it's over due.

like many things we've put

off the end for a very

long time. you know it

and i know it too.

blimey

i see that my book sales overseas

are not going well.

one book in one month.

how am i ever going to get that

new bmw,

the fur coat i've always wanted.

how can i afford

that beach house with three dollars

and fourteen cents royalty

from the UK.

i can't even get a large coffee

on that paltry sum.

i get it, i'm no dylan thomas,

no philip larkin.

hell i'm not even dr. suess,

but hey. give the brother a break.

blimey.

making excuses

in the old days

there were different excuses

for not seeing

one another.

my horse is in the shop.

he needs new

shoes.

or i got my hand caught

in the butter churn,

and i lost a few fingers.

i need to plow the lower

forty come sunrise,

and my cow has a cough.

the chickens have all flew

the coop.

the bridge is out.

a storm's a coming.

there's a little war going

on, the blue and the grey,

perhaps you've heard about it.

my trousers are torn

and i'm out of a proper 

needle and thread

to mend them.

closure

i used to wait for an apology.

a long letter, or an e mail,

even a text. some form of

communication would have been

nice. some sort of statement

of regret. of sincere sorrow over

what was done. an admission

of guilt. a falling on the sword

with a spiritual awakening.

i used to wait

for something like that to arrive

in the mail for closure. 

but no such luck.

silence actually says more

than you'll ever need to know

to close that door.

when people tell you who 

they are, believe them,

and go on.

leesburg pike

they've been working

on the road for about six years now.

large men in hardhats

and bright green vests.

cranes and trucks,

orange cones as far as the eye

can see.

the detour signs.

the piles of dirt being pushed

here and there by tractors.

jersey walls and striped

barriers.

they built the empire state

building in a hundred days.

irish and italian, greek

immigrants, chinese men.

we can't build a road five

miles long in a decade.

whoops, our bad

don't call us, we'll call you.

so you wait

by the phone.

you pick it up to make sure

it's working.

you hear that buzz of the dial tone.

it doesn't ring.

nothing, for hours, for days.

for weeks on end.

you're in a line somewhere.

but you don't know how far

back or when.

we're making more vaccine.

honest they say in an email.

we didn't realize so many

people were dying.

we should have made more.

who knew that we needed

three hundred million

doses of vaccine. it took us

by surprise. our bad, whoops.

we might have ten shots

available in your neighborhood

by march. stay tuned.

try to not to die in the meantime.

a necessary end

it gets stranger and stranger

with each passing day,

each new face

each new turn of the page.

the plot is hard to follow.

characters come and go.

what you thought was real

isn't real anymore.

what once was untrue is true.

everything i believed

is on its head. the world is

upside down. spinning 

fast, tumbling to some

necessary end.

tell me you love me

i'm cold she says.

lie next to me. closer.

put your arms

around me

and hold me tight.

throw your legs

over mine.

i'm shivering.

i've never been this

cold before

in my life. perhaps

i'm dying.

maybe this is the end.

tell me that you love me.

even if it isn't true.

help me make it through

this night.

the new hammer

i can't find a hammer

so i take out a frozen

piece of fish from the freezer

that a previous tenant

left behind and knock

the nail into the wall.

the picture looks perfect.

it's lovely hanging there. 

then i put the hammer

back into the freezer.

no doubt, there will be

more nails to bang 

into the walls.

running out of names

after you break up 

with someone

having nearly

died in the storm,

the whole thing

having torn the roof

off your house

and flooded

the rooms.

you can never again

date anyone 

with that name.

you don't even want

to say it, let

alone hear it.

but like hurricanes,

you're running

out of names.

the crab feast

i remember those summer

crab feasts.

the newspapers

spread on the the picnic

tables.

warm pitchers of

stale beer served

in paper cups.

bottles of vinegar.

bowls of melted butter.

boiled crabs piled

high in the middle of

each table.

a mallet, a pair of pliers

and s sharp knife

to work with.

they would go on for

hours. after about three

hours in, i'd have to take

a lunch break and go

get something to eat.

a pizza or a hamburger

from up the street.

i'd be tired with my fingers

bleeding

from the sharp edges

of shells. i'd need a break.

lunch and a short nap.

after that i'd i'd go back

to the picking of crabs.

my hands bandaged

and swabbed with 

hydrogen peroxide

to hold off infection.

only three more bushels

to go.

it's what i would do

this sweet snow silence

is a treat.

an opportunity to do nothing

but read

or sleep, or walk

once the wind dies down.

i see them outside

now.

dogs on their leashes.

walking through the woods,

on the snow.

the path still known.

i imagine they will walk

until they the reach the point

to turn around

and go back to the comfort 

of their home, it's what

i would do.

townies

some people

never leave the town

they were born in.

they stay put, stay close

to where they went

to school

where their parents still

live, growing old.

there's the church.

the stores.

the fields. all the people

they used to know,

and still do.

they can never leave this

town.

their feet are planted

forever in this ground,

which is where

they'll be buried when

the time comes.

the radio

it wasn't easy

back then turning the dial

on the small

transistor radio

to pick up the station you

wanted to listen to.

carefully you nudged

the red line

until you found a familiar

song.

then you pulled the antennae 

up until the static cleared..

you set the small red box

on the window sill 

above your bed

and let the world come in.

kenmore in the flesh

when i open up

the freezer section 

of the refrigerator

i think of her.

when i feel

the frosty air

hit me in the face,

surround my hands

when i take out a frozen

steak or crack open

a tray of ice cubes,

i think of her.

not kindly of course.

it's who she was.

a kenmore freezer

in the flesh.

the strange ones

the strange ones

look into your eyes without

blinking.

they have no fear

in standing on the side

of the road for months

begging for money.

they do odd things,

make crazy talk.

it's hard to discern the truth

from a lie

with most of them.

they usually have nice

hair though,

good skin.

sometimes the strange

ones are even closer,

sitting next to you

on the bus with a hand

made sign.

or waiting at home for

you after work

broiling a piece of salmon.

they might be

beside you in bed at night.

you never thought

of them as strange.

but now you do.

and they probably feel

the exact same way

about you.

we got to get out of this place

is there a way out of here,

besides the obvious.

is there

a clear exit.

a well lit sign

with arrows, with

words

saying clearly come

this way.

go here.

this is the plan, this

is the way out.

don't run, don't push.

go slow.

we got this.

you're almost in

the clear.

he looks wonderful

i run into the maid

out on the street, she's with

her husband.

he's wearing my long black coat

and my hat.

he has my gloves on,

and those look

like my shoes.

he looks wonderful,

quite dapper,

as they pass by.

is that my umbrella too?

are you still here?

i read her letter

left on the table. it says

i'll be moving

before thanksgiving.

 i'll be out of here

and in my own place

once more.

it just isn't working out

and besides,

i love somebody else.

i laugh having read

this letter so many

times before.

i fold it up and place it

where it was found.

i wonder why she's

waiting so long.

i have the boxes 

and a roll of tape,

i'd like to help her pack.

gone by spring

the footprints

in the snow could be anyone's 

they could be yours.

they're small

enough to fit

your shoe.

they almost reach 

the door before

they turn around and go

back to from where

they came.

they should be gone

by spring.

surviving every test

the order of things

is this.

birth.

life. death.

the in between is sort

of up to you

if you don't let

the others

decide for you

which path is best.

that's the hard part.

finding your own way.

protecting your

heart and surviving

every test.

we can't find her

with no stone,

no bench, no marker

to find

where her body lies

beneath the dirt,

with the new grass

overgrown.

we wander the grave yard

and point.

we say maybe over

there.

near that tree. there was

a tree, remember?

or was it by the gate?

i distinctly remember

the curve of a road.

i was out of breath

by the time we got up

the hill to where we stood 

and said our goodbyes.

let's try there.

what we deserve

if you never learn the lesson

that life

isn't fair

it will be a long hard

life.

if you don't learn

to enjoy and not endure,

each day

will be a challenge, each

hour full of

worry and concern.

who told us such a thing,

that we will get what

we deserve?

all is well

if i was a doctor

i'd only want to have healthy

people as patients.

no x-rays needed.

no hearing from worried faces

how it hurts here

when i do this with my arm.

no opening of mouths

to look in, or ears.

the second they got sick

i'd get rid of them.

no dying,

no limping into the office.

no pills to prescribe.

no irregular heartbeats.

who needs that kind of trouble.

who needs the drama

of illness?

just give me

those without a problem,

those with no issues.

i'd only want to hear the words,

hello and goodbye,

and all is well.

black bird on the table

i find her asleep on the couch.

no clothes.

an empty bottle of wine

on the floor.

the door is open.

the cat has run out into the street

never to return.

there's a black bird

on the table eating off a plate.

i sit down

beside her,  covering her legs

and try to think

of the words to tell her

that this is never going to

work out.

then she wakes up and looks

at me, smiling.

it's still not over.

problems

i don't want to hear about your

sick grandmother,

your lost cat,

your money problems,

or the dream you had.

i'm in a bad place right now

and have no patience

for things like that.

i don't want your world

to seep into mine.

then i have to try and save

you, like i did the others,

and there's no turning back.

winning

i fight with the ketchup bottle.

tapping,

tapping it upside

down against the counter.

how can one

possibly eat french fries

without ketchup?

slowly, the last few dollops

give in and slide

out onto the plate.

it's a small victory, but one

i won't forget.

i remember nearly every loss,

and every win.

surrender

you lose your taste,

your sense of smell,

your sight.

your legs no longer work

they way once

did.

you no longer want

what the world gives.

you no longer care to

dig in your heels

and fight.

there is no

beauty anymore.

desire is a thing of the past.

there is no joy, no love.

no hope.

you surrender all 

attachments to this life

and let go.

and at last now you

see the light.

off its hinge

i see the fence

leaning

out along the road. the

gate

off one hinge,

a steady snow

blowing, 

the old wood banging

in the wind.

i'll get out there today.

and fix it.

but i need to wait

and try and understand

what it all means.

how this too

is connected

to nearly everything.

snow quiet

is that silence i hear?

what

a wonderful sound it is.

the snow

a cushion

of noise.

muffling the world.

keep coming.

keep falling.

make it deep, 

make more.

phone tag

we play phone

tag.

we miss each other's calls.

we don't

see the texts. the emails

get lost in the slush

pile of spam.

time goes by.

another month.

another season.

the years pass.

we never have that lunch.

that dinner date.

we never meet.

we grow old. we die.

namaste

we eat, we work.

we supply our minds with some

sort of

distraction.

some pleasure,

some numbing of the soul

to wring the worry

out of us.

i cringe at the word namaste.

how little we really

know of life.

pretending, breathing,

still wanting

our just desserts quickly.

not overnight.

never quite satisfied

no matter how long you

sit there

in your pose

and stare into the light.

the longest month

there are days.

deja vu

days

of childhood

snow

and wind.

ground hog days.

when the needle

is stuck

on the record,

playing

the same word

over and over again.

they usually occur

in february

the shortest but

the longest

month by far.

not yet asleep

i don't crawl

into bed, or slip between

the sheets

it's more of a joyful

leap.

especially

when you're there,

glistening in candlelight,

not yet

asleep.

wanting more

she couldn't hold her

drink,

nor her money,

or her men.

all of it and them

slipped through

her fingers,

not unlike a cup

of sand.

it was always more,

wanting more.

never reaching or

understanding

that forever her purse,

her thirst and

her heart would always

be poor.

come spring

a blue cold 

settles hard into your skin.

it's the winter

season.

a time of endings.

more days of this until

change.

white ice.

a starlit night, scattered

like broken

bits of glass through

the arms of trees.

you've been here before.

everything before you is

what you've already

seen.

but as always,

you'll get to the other

side.

you'll be alive once more

come spring.

a year in the life

in time

wounds do heal.

but they leave scars

behind. they leave

a trail.

a story told in each

slice,

each raised line

of skin

where the knife 

took hold,

where

the bullet went in.

they do

heal, they fade,

but not completely

they will always 

be there

to remind you of that

brutal year.

once out

once out.

you run and run, until

you no longer

hear the dogs behind you.

no longer

hear the whip,

the gun,

the stomp of boot.

the voice

of discontent.

you go up stream

swimming madly

until you reach the sea.

never will you go

back again.

never to be with thirst,

or hunger,

at last you are free.

get it done

get it done 

while there's still time,

while there's still light 

in the sky,

get it done

before the sun sets,

don't wait.

don't delay, don't

wait for the planets

to align.

get it done.

get it done now,

for tomorrow may 

never arrive.

the storm hunger

she looks at me

with her hands on

her hips, staring out

the window

and says

i need to go to the store.

but it's snowing,

i tell her. the roads.

they haven't begun to plow.

it looks treacherous

out there.

i don't care

she says.

i need bacon.

i can't live like this anymore.

i need eggs.

potatoes.

toast and jam.

don't try to stop me, i'm

going out.

i need bacon.

angels in the snow

while most 

of the little girls

were making

angels in the snow.

she was making

devils.

the trouble it would

have saved me

all these years

later,

if only i had known.

finding an answer

i used to love math.

still do.

how nice

it was to have an answer.

the problem solved

with a pencil

and paper.

to sit back and look

at the numbers.

clear and concise.

the equation solved.

no question as to if

it's wrong or right.

it can be no other,

which is so unlike 

our love, this life.

the fireplace

we rub our hands

in front of the fire and say

nothing.

we let the flames

talk, the wind of heat,

the crackle of wood,

the floating of ashes

rising up the chimney.

what is there to say.

what haven't we said?

let's just watch the flames

and keep warm

before one of us leaves,

and the other one

stays.

someone kind

hard to put

things back together once

they've fallen

and crashed to floor.

hard to glue

and tape the shells

of what we

had into one piece again,

nothing sticks,

or holds it in place

like it used to.

we've fixed this broken

thing so many times.

perhaps it's time to give

up on us,

and find someone new.

someone unlike me or you.

someone kind.

another day another pill

he had everything on his shelf.

tucked away

in his medicine cabinet,

inside of drawers,

on the window sills,

pills,

bottles,

vitamins.

zinc, calcium, magnesium.

things i never 

heard of.

a dose for every part of

his body.

from kidney,

to bones,

to eyes.

somehow they were keeping

him alive.

despite a life of 

debauchery, drink, fast

women and cigarettes,

and an unbreakable 

penchant to lie.

prince on a white horse

there is no

oz.

no fairytale land,

no prince

on a white horse.

no knight in shining

armor,

no disney,

no magical

kingdom.

no dream boat

running across

the sand.

but you can't let

go of such

notions. it's what

you were fed by hand.

it's what you were

told, what

you watched

and read

in books and movies

so long ago.

but you keep waiting

and waiting

as you look out

the window 

hoping against hope,

slowly

growing old.

she's late again

she stops

to get her nails done,

her toes.

her hair,

to buy a new dress,

some heels.

a wax.

a sheen

a shine.

something frilly to

sleep in.

she's a busy

girl,

no wonder she's

late again.

shopping online

it's not what i ordered.

it looks nothing

like the picture.

in fact it's broken in

several places.

bent and discolored.

it's cheaply made,

glued together, just

barely keeping

its shape. i've been

duped before, but 

nothing quite like this.

the description she

wrote doesn't fit.

it's a fake, a fraud,

a replica of a person

that doesn't even exist.

and now what?

can i send her back or

am stuck with this?

that's as far as i'll go

so much of life

is knowing 

what you want when

you see it.

you stroll through the aisles,

waiting for a meal

to jump out at you.

something or someone,

that says, eat me.

take me home, tear

off the wrapping

and devour me,

bones and all. 

i'm yours.

but that's as far as i'll go

with this poem.

the apprentice chef

i've tasted it, 

i've swallowed

it whole.

i've carved it up.

i've sliced

it with a serrated knife.

i've made it tender

with a mallet,

i've seasoned it.

marinated it for days

in the cold. i've

baked and broiled,

i've fried, i've let

it sit for hours on a low

burner, setting the timer

on the stove.

i've stood by the skillet

so that it doesn't

boil over,

i've been careful,

keeping a watchful eye

on things burning.

i've done so much to cook

this love, but to no avail

perhaps one day

i'll get it right,

but it seems right now 

i'm still learning.

another persons shoes

it's impossible to put

yourself into another

persons shoes.

to start with

they probably won't fit.

too snug, too tight,

the wrong color, the laces

round, not flat

like you prefer. 

we can't go there. 

we can't sit and tug

with all our might

to get them on.

there is little understanding

as to why or how

people behave

the way they do,

or why they choose 

such horrible shoes

to wear.

it will be your turn

even if you

play badly, play. sing

out of tune.

don't stop.

two left

feet don't matter

dance

and fall

get up, and begin

again.

practice.

write until your hands

bleed, no

matter that few

will read what you wrote.

make

the finest dish

and eat it, even if

it burns,

don't stop with your

talents,

no matter how weak

they are,

no matter how much

they are ignored.

practice, then practice

some more.

keep going. keep going.

it's your world.

and in time it will be

your turn.

the last of her

i drive to the outskirts of town,

to a shack

on the side of the road

to have a tattoo removed.

i show the old woman

the name i want removed.

it swirls across my arm

in floral lettering.

she laughs, i did that name

just last week, in fact

three fellows came in with

the same exact name.

boys, she says, shaking her

head, boys. moths to the flame.

so what's it gonna be,

chemical or mechanical?

mechanical i shrug.

she takes me to the back

and hands me a jar of whiskey

and says you might

need this. then gives me

a leather strap off the hook.

that has teeth marks in it.

bite down on this, she says, 

distract yourself by

thinking of all the pain

she put you through.

the lessons you learned.

she cranks up a circular

sander, looks me in the eye

and says, shall we begin.

the eater of whole pies

i stare at the pie in the tin

half gone.

a fork left behind

on the empty side.

i realize that if i continue

on with it

it will mean that i've 

eaten an entire apple

pie all on my own.

how do i live with myself 

knowing this.

how can i go on knowing

that i am the eater

of whole pies.

where does it go from here?

i must keep this to myself.

and not let the world

know who i truly am.

parking meter

the parking meter

reminds me

of how the world

can be.

how a quarter gives you

just three more

minutes.

it doesn't seem fair,

as you continue to feed

more coins into

the metal face.

nickels and dimes.

it swallows them with a gulp.

hungry for more.

until you reach

a mere hour.

that's all, 

that's all the time

you get. now move along.

an afternoon of catch

the boy and his father

on the field

in the cold sun of early

march, but warm

enough

to play a game of catch.

their hats on.

their gloves,

they look alike.

the father

instructs and praises 

the boy with

each swing of the bat,

each ball caught.

he's growing before his eyes.

does it remind you of

your life, your father.

the green of the field,

the blue skies. the long

afternoons together?

no it doesn't,

it was nothing like that.

on the wrong train

i get on the wrong

train,

but it's okay.

i feel like riding today

and watching

how others

live their lives.

i want to know how

their time is filled

while

going from here to there.

staring at the maps,

listening to garbled

instructions from

the conductor, naming

each destination

once arrived.

it's a long day. so many are

lost, so many

are confident in where

they're going

when to stay put and ride

a little longer, and when

to get off.

the faces are distant,

the eyes holding

that traveler's gaze,

not here.

they seem to be already

off the train, but

not you. not yet. but

soon. soon you'll

be there.

all the broken wings

tired of the broken 

winged birds

i walk by the next

three that lie on the ground,

twisting

in their small

bodies unable

to fly away.

i want to help. i want

to stop

and listen to their tales,

to mend their

broken bones,

but i just can't,

i can't let their hell 

become

my mine anymore.

meeting olga for lunch

i circle the block

looking for a space.

i see her in line

for bread. a black

handbag

on her shoulder.

a scarf

wrapped around her head.

her grey overcoat

lumpy

and pilled.

her shoes squared

in the slush of snow.

i'm suddenly

in st. petersburg

meeting olga

for lunch.

no surprises

i don't want to be surprised.

no party, please.

no one jumping

out of the closet or cake.

i want to know

what i'm about to eat, 

what i'm in for with 

this drink, so

tell me before i make

the drive over.

i want to know what's hidden,

what hasn't been said.

no secrets before me.

tell me, before we go 

any further,

for once in my life,

i'd like to hear words

from a mouth that

doesn't lie.

beach day

the child looked

more boiled than he did burned

from

the sun.

his day at the beach would

be remembered

not for joy, but for pain.

how red

he was, how tender

his skin had become

under the rage

of an unrelenting summer sun.

and now when

i look back at the photo

and see me smiling,

shovel and bucket in hand,

bare skinned

with the green Mediterranean

sea beyond the sand, 

i wonder, where my parents

were. arguing

no doubt, somewhere.

waiting on the news

as i sit here

in my hotel room

awaiting news 

of my father's death.

the clock ticks.

the wind blows.

the dust of the desert rises

and falls.

my hands are folded,

not in prayer,

but in submission 

to a world that takes

its toll.

out of arrows

i reach back for one more

arrow

to sling

but i'm out. not a single

one left in

the quiver.

and what use is there

in killing the dead

over and over

again.

let her rest.

let her crawl beneath

the rocks, into

the darkness,

back to the life

that she knows best.

the wolf moon

the wolf moon

startles you in the cold

black

night.

you stop what you're doing

and look up.

it's white

and full.

it's beyond you to 

understand

such natural beauty

in the sky.

so rare to find something

so true,

so real,

authentic. a constant

that is new.

the nearest bridge

what's your dope?

your joy.

your drug of choice.

what keeps

you going.

the drink,

the needle, sex.

what is it that melts

your butter, eases

the pain.

your art,

your work,

your children.

what

keeps you wanting

to live

and live

and not leap off

the nearest bridge?

fear of the unknown

it may start out that way.

you know.

marriage.

all is well.

there's this magical feeling

about it.

but time,

or something happens.

there's lying,

there's cheating.

there's arguing.

there's the pull of nature,

gravity

tearing you apart

and you spend

the next twenty or thirty

years,

or if you're lucky,

twelve months,

pretending. going along

with it.

love has become

a distant memory.

an old coat

in the hall closet

that you wear every blue moon.

worn and torn, ripped

at the seams.

it itches.

you spend a lot of time

staring out a window, 

wondering what if,

but what are you going

to do?

there's the kids, the yard,

the house,

the in laws.

the dog.

who gets the dog?

there's almost no way out.

fear of the unknown keeps

bringing you

back home.

missing the city

you miss the city.

the subway.

the park.

the smells and sounds.

the cabs,

the yelling and honking

of horns.

the tall buildings.

so ho. no ho and

the village.

the hudson.

you miss the bustle.

the crazy

of it all.

you need a bite of

a hot

pastrami sandwich,

a bite

of the big apple,

a slice of ray's original,

to walk the streets

until you can't walk 

anymore.

don't obey

when you think too hard

about what you're doing.

when you start to wonder 

about what to write,

or to paint or draw.

you've lost your way.

the censors, the audience are

now guiding you.

whispering in your ear

to stay between the lines.

this is not the way.

over thinking ruins nearly

every thing we do. close

your ears and go on your own,

don't obey.

gardens of their own

all day

she kneels in

the yard 

planting seeds

alone.

her children have

all gone off

to gardens

of their own.

falling asleep

i like it when people 

are so tired that they

fall asleep

in public places.

at work, or school,

at their desk, leaning back

in their chair,

or head upon their folded arms,

taking a nap.

people on the bus, lost

in a dream, their faces

pressed against the window.

a woman on the subway,

unbothered by the jostling

of the car.

a child in a stroller.

there's a man lying

on a steam grate,

and another under

a tree with a book of poems

by walt whitman.

he'll be out for hours.

how it begins

when it was my turn to check

on the baby,

i'd tip toe into the darkened

room

and sit by the crib.

i'd whisper, hey, hey, are

you awake? then gently

rattle his little cage.

i heard this joke today, do

you want to hear it?

and the child would open

his small eyes, rub them with

his pink fists and nod okay

as best he could at this stage.

every breath you take

the world is being recorded.

each step

you take,

each move you make.

your computer,

your phone

is watching you.

we are living in a Police song.

there are cameras everywhere.

each house

with its own eye looking out.

each store,

each building 

has a camera pointing down,

saving

what it sees 

forever.

you can't get away with anything

anymore.

do you need another friend?

do you need another friend.

another person

in your life,

another number in

your phone, someone you

have to talk

to now and again.

someone to text and say

hello to.

another person

to have lunch with,

coffee, to discuss world

events or what

trauma they are going

through.

do you need another friend,

is there room

at the inn.

or should we just remain

as we are,

strangers till the end.

flowers are for the dead

she wants to send

flowers

to her father for his birthday.

he's turning ninety

this week.

i tell her no. no. no.

what does he like,

what food

does he like to eat?

she says desserts.

he loves his sweets.

i tell her to send him a cake

a triple layer

deep dark chocolate

cake with icing.

no candles.

flowers are for the dead,

desserts are for

the living.

a helping hand

who doesn't have an itch

that needs scratching.

a spot that's hard to reach

without the help of another.

who doesn't need a helping

hand, a helping heart at times

to get you through the day,

those long winter nights.

home

where would you move to

when it's time,

she asks,

spinning the globe on

the desk.

nowhere, i tell her.

i like it here.

i've made this house my

home.

it's my oasis, my place

of joy, of rest.

there is no place that i'd

rather be.

i can travel, i can visit

anywhere, but this is where i

come home to.

there is no reason 

to ever leave.

stirring the fire

i used to long

for summer, dreading the cold,

the snow.

the ice laden

roads.

but now it feels 

just fine.

bring the wind.

bring

it on.

i have no where else to go,

and why would i

with you here

stirring the fire, lighting

the stove.

the island of dreams

tired to the point

of passing out, i leap onto

the open arms

of the bed.

she welcomes me with

a soft silk touch

of sheets

and blankets, pillows

that bounce and fall

upon my head.

where would we be

without this island

of dreams, the wonder

of sleep.

the rewrite

writing is rewriting.

again

and again,

until you can't stand to read

it anymore.

the fine tooth comb

has lost its teeth,

the pencil point is worn.

there is not a word,

not a comma,

not a period you want

or need to move.

it's done.

or is it?

let me sleep on it

and see how reads in

the morning.

how to lose ten pounds

i am desperate

to fall in love again.

to meet the next girl

of my dreams.

to find my next cell mate,

whoops,

i mean soul mate.

my true love.

but not for the reasons

one might think.

by breaking up with her,

and having a tragic end,

i can finally lose these last

ten pounds around my waist.

it's a sure fire way.

as i grieve and cry,

unable, at least for awhile,

to never eat again.

he's been barking all day

people would tell me

when i got home

from work,

your dog has barking all

day.

he sits on the bed

and barks and growls

at everyone walking by.

to which i say,

i'm glad i wasn't here

to hear him.

thank goodness i've

been away.

her three pears

while staring at her

painting

of three pears 

in a white bowl

on a wooden table

i told her

that her paintings 

were getting better,

they had more soul,

to which she

took offense

and said, 

your writing 

is improving too.

it was those kind

of remarks

that made me aware

that things were over,

not right away,

but in a darkened

month or two.

the sentimental you

there are things you can't

bear

to part with,

to throw away, or set

out on the curb.

a postcard from the past,

a ring,

a book signed.

a scarf she used to wear.

so many things you keep

tucked away

in a safe place, 

such as all that

frozen food in your freezer.

unmarked,

there for eternity.

the book sales are slow

i realize quickly that i won't

be able to retire

on my

book sales.

so far i'm up to a hundred and forty

dollars,

for both kindle 

and paper back.

e book is killing me with

their free offers.

the book tours have been

canceled due to

covid

and cancel culture.

i try to get an interview

with larry king,

but he's dead now.

maybe i need illustrations,

or pictures of

some sort, a centerfold

perhaps of my friend Ursula,

in the middle, for

the next book.

when it's your turn

i see the ambulance pull

up in the court yard,

the lights flashing, no siren.

it's early.

they're pulling someone out

on a stretcher.

a neighbor i don't know.

the sheet is up to her

neck, so it appears there's

still life there.

will you ever know what

happened? probably not.

and people will no doubt

wonder about you, when

it's your turn.

upon meeting rimute

when she arrived

from germany with five

suitcases

for a weekend

visit

i knew i was in trouble.

she stood at the airport

door

wearing her black fur

and high heels.

a pile of blonde hair

stacked high

on her head.

she could speak

three languages,

but not english.

it was exhausting.

but we learned to 

communicate like koko

the gorilla

did with her handlers.

making hand signs

for thirsty, hungry.

sleep, etc.

did we fall in love?

no. but we had fun.

low maintenace

when i hear the words

low maintenance,

or no drama,

or the whole package, i

cringe.

i shiver with doubt

and put on my running

shoes.

words are a dime

a dozen, it's how you live.

life support

we are all on life support

of some kind,

yet still walking around,

taking care

of our wounds,

our self.

getting what needs

to be done, done.

we survive,

press on.

coffee helps.

random keys

the drawer 

is full of keys.

silver and browned,

all sizes,

all shapes,

all now unknown

as to where they go,

what door they might

unlock.

some yours,

some mine,

left over from old

houses and cars,

mailboxes.

pad locks on gates.

doors we went through

and came out

the other side

together, and now apart.

down fifth avenue

as the cabbie swung the car

down fifth avenue

doing seventy miles an

hour, flinging us about

in the back seat,

i asked him in a serious

voice, just how many 

people does he kill each week

driving like this.

he looked back with a

kabob in his hand and laughed.

his gold tooth glimmering

in the sun which shone

through the grease splattered

windshield.

we need more boxes

i remember

buying her boxes

to move in with.

and then buying more

empty boxes

for her to leave.

there are so many things

in life, when it comes

to love and marriage,

that one should 

never throw away,

but keep.

out to the country

some people talk about

moving

out to the country, 

out to where there's

land

and blue skies, 

mountains and trees,

fresh air,

cold streams and wildlife,

while i'm thinking

about a four star hotel

in manhattan

with room service

and netflix, 

wifi.

midnight toast

we clink

our glasses together.

the ping

rings in the air, as we

cross arms

and toast one another.

wishing in one more

new year.

we make no vows,

no promises,

no resolutions. 

this is good enough.

why worry or concern

ourselves

with tomorrow,

they all come soon enough.

my friend vincent

i see my friend Vincent

sitting on his front porch.

there's a white bandage around

his head

protecting his blood caked ear.

he looks more haggard

than usual.

his hands are covered in oil paints.

bright blues and yellows.

hey Vince, i say to him, going

over to sit down.

are you okay?

he pulls the bandage back

to show me

his half carved ear.

what the hell i say.

you can't let these women

get to you like that.

it's not worth it.

maybe you should quit

that online dating site.

crazychicks.com.

i quit last week. personally

i'm done with the nut cakes.

have you ever thought of meet ups?

hikes and movies,

you do things in a group

with people who have similar

interests, like cooking,

or bird watching.

he looks at me and shakes his

head, then spits some blood out

onto the sidewalk

it splatters a small bird 

that's pulling on a worm.

yeah. i know, i say to him.

i know.

he pulls a pint of what looks

like gin

from his raggedy coat,

then takes a sip before handing

me the bottle.

it tastes like turpentine.

it is turpentine.

women, he says,

rubbing his ear.

i cough and gag as i swallow

the drink,

and repeat after him,

yup, women.  give me another

swig of that.

the unsaved penny

no matter how many

jobs

some have,

no matter how many hours

they put

in at the office,

nights and weekends,

work work work,

at the end of the week

they still have no money.

their cups have no bottom.

they save nothing.

they keep nothing.

a penny burns a quick

hole in their pocket.

the new vaccine

i decide to go to pharmacy

school

and get my degree

in chemistry

so that i can make my own

covid vaccine. 

seems i could do that before

i actually get inoculated

with the current one being

made in batches the size

of thimbles.

i'll make it in barrels.

anyone with an arm will

get the shot.

or legs, or wherever

they want the needle to go.

i'll fill up every swimming

pool with it.

every barista in every coffee

shop around the world

will be able to administer

the shot.

i'll make sure everyone

gets a vaccination,

a freshly baked chocolate

chip cookie to go

and a extra foam low fat

vanilla latte.

it looks like rain

i remember specifically

having a rain coat.

a long tan

coat with a belt that i wrapped

around me.

it came down to my knees,

keeping me dry.

it had wide lapels.

deep pockets.

i looked like humphrey

bogart

standing on the tarmac

in casablanca wearing

that coat.

i wonder what happened to it.

just as i wonder where all

the years have gone.

i look out the window.

it looks like rain.

third place

you hear it said

that we are all winners.

not true.

there is second place 

and last place.

and all the other places

in between.

there are those not even

picked to play 

the game.

but it sounds good,

it gives the losing heart

hope.

it keeps one going to

hear falsely

that yes we all will

get the gold ring.

wear the banner, stand

tall as a winner

at the end of the day.

just one fly in the air

it takes one

fly in the air, in the room

to take

your mind

off other things.

will you chase him towards

his death

or let him go

out the pulled screen,

the raised window.

it becomes the task

at hand.

you set life aside for

this.

how are minds

are easily distracted,

how thoughts get

stuck on one thing.

the problem

the world

remains as it always

has been.

crazy.

the world is old.

very old.

but the people are new.

which is

the problem.

they are not our kind

happy people are the worst,

aren't they?

always with the smile, 

never a bad word

to say about anyone.

they never gossip.

forever going the extra mile.

hardly ever cross.

they can't be trusted.

they don't fit in

with their good cheer,

their optimism.

they must think we're deaf,

that we're blind.

these people, these happy

go lucky souls,

we know they must be up

to something.

they are not our kind.

i can't get this open

i can't get this open,

this can of tuna,

this aspirin bottle,

this tub of sour cream.

i can't untwist

the safety caps, the plastic

wrap,

the child proof lids,

i can't unhinge

the snaps.

i go backwards

and forward using my nails,

my teeth.

i can't get what i want

because 

all that i want is trapped

inside this can, this box,

this jar and

how to open them is

beyond me.

my fingers are bloodied

from the effort.

i twist and bend.

i pull out the sharpest knife

in the drawer,

but nothing moves. 

nothing works.

where is a child of ten

when you need one?

a temporary freeze

a thick frost is on

the car.

making silver of the leaves.

it's on

the metal rail,

even the pond

glimmers with

a sheet of ice.

but the sun will take

care of it

in no time.

unlike you,

this is just a temporary

freeze.

why don't you freeze it

i made way too much soup.

gallons.

i stare

at the monstrous pot

of chicken noodle soup

and sigh.

i can't give it away.

i think about pouring it

into the woods, but

my neighbor becky might

see me doing so,

and there would be

hell to pay.

i put it on the stove and stir.

turning on the burner.

maybe one more bowl.

i call betty and ask her

if she wants to come over

and have some.

she says no, and then

she says why don't you

freeze it. wrap it and put

it in the freezer.

which is her answer for

everything i cook.

everything now was fine

we will come to take

her away

they said on the phone.

it's the law

if she doesn't comply.

we need

to see the paper work.

we need

to see her in person.

a doctor, a therapist,

a psychiatrist needs

to look into her eyes.

and after the second

or third time

after finding her curled

in a black ball.

she no longer talked

about ending things.

she said softly from

someplace

deep inside her,

that everything now

was fine. just fine.

the old world

in barcelona,

while waiting for

my father

to get off the ship

in his sparkling white

uniform, i remember how

the gypsy women 

would hold up their 

bronzed babies 

at the pier

and moan.

the horses stopped.

the drapes

of the wagons, dirty,

wind blown. old men

at the reins. 

i remember how

the babies cried.

feeling some strange

fear inside

me.

that this was a world

with darkness

in it.

not just light.

the new dust bowl

i take a walk down 

to the farmer's

market.

a few tables are up.

a few so called farmers

are bundled

in their hats

and scarves.

they don't smile

as you approach.

it feels like the dust bowl

of the 1930's.

their wares are thinned

down

to almost nothing.

tomatoes. lettuce.

apples. a six dollar

cup

of coffee, donuts.

i shuffle through the thin

coat of snow

on the ground.

and go home. 

empty handed.

a bad investment

you can't get back

the time

the investment you've made

in another's life.

that money

is spent, gone. no refunds,

no returns.

you just have to take

note of it,

write it down somewhere.

make a promise to 

yourself to stay away

from such fool's gold,

never again.

the new rulers

the king is dead,

the queen too, the princess

the prince,

the wizard

and the knights. each

gone.

all the wise men

and women

are departed from

this life.

that leaves us,

the jesters. why not.

we're way over due.

the end as we know it

will end

it with a boom, a 

blast

or with a sigh and a whimper

as we fall onto

one another, sick

with fright.

will it be fire or ice.

or something smaller,

more lethal.

unseen

but deadly

with it's microscopic

might.

a forty degree day

i put my ear

to the ground to listen to

what the earth

might be saying

today. but there's

nothing.

not a whisper. no wise

words

to bring my way.

some days 

are like that.

forty degrees

with nothing really

new to say.

better days

you knew they were

coming.

you could sense that

this had

to end.

that you had to finish

it, before

it finished you.

you knew there were

better days

around the corner.

not far, not too far,

they were always

up the hill, up the hill,

there they were waiting,

all of them in plain

view. you just had to

press on.

that's it, we're done

i pull the car over

and tell her to get out.

that's it.

i'm done.

but we're in the middle of

nowhere,

she says.

how will i get back?

i don't know, i don't care.

but get out.

she grabs her purse

her phone and gets out.

she stares

down the long stretch

of black road,

her hand blocking the sun,

and wonders which way to

go.

as i drive away i look

into the rear view mirror

and see

her getting smaller and smaller

and until

at last,

she's gone.

when he came home

when he returned home from

the war

he was different.

the long hair

shorn.

the shoulder's squared,

the arms muscled.

but there was

something wrong.

there was this stare,

this awful gaze into

a world

you'd never known.

he tried to talk about it,

but couldn't.

he never came around much

after that.

he was gone.

no dancing

my father

likes his jokes.

blonde jokes, especially.

he laughs

before he gets to the punch line,

then coughs and has

to get up

for kleenex and cough

drops

and a bottle of water.

then he tells me

the punch line five

minutes later.

to which i laugh, maybe a

little harder

than i should.

then he starts with one more,

one more he says.

why don't baptists make

love while

standing up,

why, i ask him,

because they don't want 

people to think

they're dancing.