the age of entitlement

we're in the go fund me phase

of civilization.

i need a car.

i need a house.

i need a vacation.

i want to get married,

i want to go france on my honeymoon.

send me money.

as much as you can spare.

i know it's the third time around

with this begging 

for cash, but please,

go fund me,

you have a job,

and it's only fair.

the price of eggs

i'll come to your

party, i tell him, if we don't talk

about politics,

or religion,

or money, or current events,

or the price of eggs.

i'll come if we can just

sit there silently

and eat, drink, occasionally

cross our legs.

the stain

she scrubs

and scrubs at the spill on

her wood floor.

on her knees

with a bucket and brush,

a rag.

she puts her shoulder

into it,

her hand are red

and raw from

rubbing at the stain.

in time you realize

it's not this,

that needs to go away,

it's about something else

altogether,

a buried shame.

her worry stones

after she died

he carried her worry stones

in his pocket.

smooth

glass pebbles of blue.

they reminded him

of her.

always nearby

to touch, or rub between

his fingers.

nestled in the deep

bottom beside his keys.

he was never

this close

to her when she was alive,

somehow, cold

stones

were easier to deal with.

the mail order bride

i completely forget about my

mail order bride

from the Ukraine

until she's standing on the porch

with her one suitcase,

ringing the bell.

i look through the peep hole

and see her shaking

her long blonde hair,

and smacking her puffy red lips

together.

yikes, i say out, loud. Olga?

i open the door and let her in.

what the hell, she says,

in her russian accent.

i've been out here ten minutes.

you treat me like a dog.

where have you been?

you call this love. a marriage?

i don't think so.

in my country my brothers

would kill you with an axe

for such rude behavior.

sorry, i was in the bathtub

reading a new cook book

about intermittent fasting.

i'm hungry, she says, throwing

herself onto the couch.

no fasting, kill me a pig

and cook it, then

fix me a drink. no ice.

yes, my love i tell her.

oh, and where's my ring. i want

a big diamond, like you give

all the girls.

and take my bag up to my room.

playing with fire

i decide to play with fire.

put my hands

in it, waving my fingers in

the heat.

i jab it with a stick,

then throw

a broken bottle into the flames

to see if it

blows up.

i throw some newspapers

in there.

some old sheathes of poems.

photos

of now insignificant others.

i put a marshmallow

onto the end of a 

skewer

and make some smores.

i throw some water onto

the blanket

where it catches fire

from leaning in.

i swab some neosporin

onto my burns

and blow on them, before

getting the butter

from the fridge.

i'm having a good old

time playing with fire.

the yearly review

i have my annual meeting 

with myself

and meet in the conference room,

out on the back

deck with a vodka tonic.

the sun is just going down

through the trees.

leaving a nice pink splash

of color on the stream behind my house.

shall we get started, i ask myself.

sitting up straight.

i take a big sip of my drink,

then i begin.

i ask myself where i want

to be in five

years from now.

i shrug. alive, i guess would

be nice.

maybe on a warm beach

with heidi klum.

i nod, and smile. okay. okay

not realistic, are we. but

okay. we appreciate your

humor. it's served you well

throughout the years

and through all the turmoil 

you've been through.

i've been looking at your

notebooks, and network of clients

and i see that you

are a very dedicated employee.

honest, hard working.

always on time, and fair to

your clients.

i also see by your bank accounts

that you can retire at anytime,

you have no issues with money

whatsoever.  all those divorces

haven't seem to hurt you one

bit in the financial department,

so we must ask you,

why do you want to continue

working for us? it's very hard

work and we aren't getting any

younger, are we?

i don't know, beats me. 

i guess i don't know what else

to do. i don't fish, i don't play

golf, i don't own a stupid boat,

or collect stamps, so i guess

i actually like working.

okay. well, that does it for

this year and hopefully we'll

see you again next year.

enjoy your evening and your drink.

the north explorers

i look into the freezer

and imagine

explorers

heading to the north pole

to plant a flag

to say we made it.

there are the frozen peas

to contend with.

a stiffened bag

of carrots.

the mystery packages

to climb over.

unmarked territory.

trays of ice.

a box of waffles making

a barrier

that they must go around.

i see the sled dogs

pulling them 

up the frozen pizza,

the frozen meat loaf.

the cookies and slices

of cake, all wrapped

and frozen solid.

i put a small bottle of

vodka

in there to help them

along.

a roll of the dice

there is always a decision

to make.

go left or right.

something to eat from

column A,

or column B.

what to wear?

what to write.

so many small decisions

to decide on

which may lead

you down the right

road,

or the wrong one.

destiny, fate, or a roll

of the cosmic dice?

oh happy days

was there ever a happier day

in your young

life, when you got the call,

that your girlfriend

was not going to have a baby.

your baby.

it was new years,

christmas, every holiday

wrapped into one.

there was dancing in the street,

champagne flowed,

confetti dropped from the sky,

and then of course,

more love making. but

very very carefully now.

closer and closer to fun

how much further is it,

the child says

as billboards fly by holding

the faces

of other children laughing.

not far, the mother says.

be patient.

the ocean is up ahead.

smell the salt in the air.

look straight ahead you can

see the rise of the coaster,

the spin of the ferris wheel.

not far my dear.

we're getting closer and

closer to fun. then

she catches her father's

eyes, darkened,

in the rear mirror.

when the plague ends

when the plague ends

we'll

travel.

we'll have fun again.

we'll go out dancing.

we'll be

free to go abroad,

to fly

or sail on an ocean liner.

will buy new clothes

to wear,

we'll be happy again.

we'll go the zoo,

the park,

the circus.

we'll buy a pony and ride

him around town,

waving our hats

and saying

howdy to everyone.

every day will

be a banana split day.

with lots of whipped

cream

and a cherry on top.

into the wee hours

i used to stay up late,

into the wee

hours

back when i was out carousing

with the boys.

downtown.

chasing skirts

in the city.

M street,

19th street.

we road the carousel 

for as long as we

could.

and then love got in

the way.

marriage and kids.

a mortgage.

bills to pay.

responsibility.

and as i turn to look

at the clock,

ten thirty, i grab my book,

to read a few

more pages before

i go to sleep.

a dozen brown eggs

i remove the welcome

mat

from my front door, i turn off

the phone.

i tell the mailman

enough.

no need to deliver here anymore.

i cut the wires

to the internet.

put the computers on the curb.

i'm off the grid.

i'm out of touch, out

range.

i'm buying a chicken ranch

in Middleburg. 

if you need a dozen brown

eggs,

come on out, otherwise

forget you ever knew my name.

the moon walk

you've changed, she says,

meeting me on the street.

you almost seem happy now.

i'm taking dancing lessons

i tell her.

three nights a week.

i show her a few steps,

tapping my new shoes

on the sidewalk, then

spinning around to a non

existent beat.

oh my, she says. can you

do the moon walk?

i laugh, does a chicken

lay eggs, and i give her that.

towards the orange groves

everyone is going south

for one reason

or another.

the climate, the taxes,

a divorce,

or new spouse.

they have their reasons

to pack 

their bags, throw

away their boots and

overcoats.

leave behind their shovel

and salts.

they put on flowered shirts

and lotion

to block the sun,

they point the car toward

the orange groves.

their life is done.

shrinking

his chair swallows him

as he grows

older

with each passing day.

the mountain that he was

is a small

hill now. sinking

slowly into the leather couch.

the fear you felt, has turned

to pity.

he shrinks

and shrinks from the memory

of what he was.

the monster

that he pretended to be.

over the wall

once over the wall

once out

you don't look back, you

run.

you go as far away as you

can,

and fast.

you did your time.

you paid your dues.

a lesson learned.

the rest of life is up to you.

tell us how to feel

what should we care about

today.

what will they tell of such great

importance

that it will

worry us,  make us pray.

what news

will fill our eyes and ears,

and make

us sad, bring us to our knees

in fear.

tell us, how to feel.

we have no minds of

our own.

the tombs

she carried them everywhere

she went.

the places

she was sent to by the choice

of others.

having worn out her welcome.

the boxes.

dust laden tombs

of pets that she regarded

as saints.

the names engraved

in gold letters.

on her desk they would go.

nearly in tears

each day when seeing them,

still not understanding

what true is love is.

i need more fun

i tell her that i need more fun.

please,

don't argue with me anymore,

don't point out

my many faults,

that there's spinach in my

teeth.

don't tell me what to do,

or say, or how to act.

don't tell me that the house

is too cold,

that the bed is unmade.

don't tell me how to chew

my food.

give me a break.

i need more fun and i see

that it's no longer possible

with you.

fun while it lasted

followers drift off.

they go

away.

they've had enough of this.

reading

late into the night. finally,

bored, and done.

the repetition too much

to take.

fun while it lasted

they say and

i agree, having said

that more than once.

at the machine

i quit, i hear the man say,

as he stands up

from his machine,

having been

there all day. i can't work

here anymore

at these wages,

under these conditions.

i have a family

of four to feed.

look at my hands.

look into my eyes.

do you see what i see?

but tomorrow

he's there again, for what

is there to do

beyond this.

what else is there to be.

lovers at the pond

the pond is frozen.

i can see the skaters out there.

circling.

in their red scarves,

their gloves and hats,

red cheeked

and smiling in their youth.

they will be there into dark

as a quiet moon

appears.

some will become

lovers and look back on

this day with wonder,

some will go home in tears.

yesterday

yesterday seems

a long time ago.

but forty years gone by

seems

near.

strange

how the past clings

to us

the more time that passes

in between.

i can still remember

the perfume in her hair,

the way

her arm moved

when reaching towards me

in the air.

surrender to it

the pull of the ocean

tells

you something about this world.

the force

of a riptide

keeping you out.

there's little you can do

to swim in,

you can only surrender

to it

and let it push you

further down

the shore,

where you may survive.

the pool party

he wants to have a pool party

in the middle

of a pandemic.

fill up the old

swimming hole

and skim out the frogs

and dead

raccoons.

it sounds lovely, i tell him.

when?

in a few months, he says,

probably june.

great, i'll be there,

i'll bring potato salad,

and my hazmat suit.

double taxed

your being double taxed

now,

the lady says,

handing back my 

assortment of forms,

electronically filed to the man.

you made too much

money last year.

he gets you coming,

and he gets you going.

my suggestion to you

is to buy a safe

and go cash from here on out,

stuff it under

the mattress,

between the cushions

of the couch.

the more you make, 

the more they'll take.

the only other option

is to pack your bags and

move south.

slings and arrows

we pick up

words along the way.

words to use,

to remember, to save

for when we need them.

is there anything

better than

saying the perfect phrase

with the perfect arrow

in your quill

ready to be aimed and fired,

loaded onto the bow,

to slay.

the blind heart

the blind

see and hear what we don't.

cautious in their

walk,

tapping their cane.

an ear

to the road, to each

soul

they come across.

they touch

and taste

beyond our capabilities.

we are too

distracted with beauty,

or worse

the ugly of things.

and yet,

they too have their

hearts broken.

lightness of foot

there is a lightness

of foot

when things begin, 

and yet they

bounce even higher

when there is 

a grateful end.

balloons are released,

confetti floats down,

your heart is lifted up,

and suddenly

the world once more

starts to go around.

the rain day

there were the scars

of course,

the sullen repose against

the window.

each day

a rain day,

how she embraced blue.

both arms around its

welcoming 

dark hue. in constant

pursuit of hunger,

her life long friend.

each wrist

having two thin threads

across a vein, two seemed

better,

more balanced then one.

there were scars of course.

but most

remained unseen,

tucked within,

those she kept to herself.

sharing them

would be too hard

to explain.

Maybelline

you read about the elephant,

the old elephant

in the circus, Maybelline,

who goes wild and stomps

it's handler to death

as she stampedes

out of the big top tent.

who can blame her.

disgusted with her treatment.

peanuts, really?

who hasn't wanted to do that

at one time or another.

for the queen

strange, how the bee stings,

regardless

of who you are.

it matters little that you mean

them no harm.

you will not touch

a single one,

you will leave the honey,

the cave like hive alone.

but they don't care. you've

gotten too close.

and as you rub the new welt

upon your arm.

scratching at

the itch of a sting,

the bee flies off to die.

as we all do so often

for a queen.

all the love there ever was

there is a point

in each relationship where

you suddenly

feel

the cold air around you.

there's the dark

eyes.

the less said. the distance

one keeps

when lying

in bed.

it's as if a window

has been

left open and all the love

there ever was

has slipped out.

south beach christmas

we spent a week

in south beach between 

christmas

and new years.

the pink hotels

around us.

the white sand,

the crystal blue water.

seventy five degrees

on a cold day.

no clouds as we lay out

on our chairs

to sunbathe.

merry christmas, she said

to me,

taking her bikini top off,

like everyone else had,

merry christmas i told her

and took a sip of

my pina colada.

where to put them

there is the problem of money.

so much for so little.

what to do

with the elderly.

the ones left behind.

where to put them, where

they feel at home.

close enough to visit.

a room with a view.

a cafeteria with food.

new friends to sit around

the table and play cards with.

nurses in white

in case you fall, or don't

answer when someone 

comes to call.

chasing a chicken

if i had to kill an animal,

like a chicken,

for instance,

i probably wouldn't eat one,

same goes

for a cow,

or pig.

there would be no bacon

frying in the pan.

no lamb chops.

no stew on the stove.

i wouldn't be wearing

these alligator shoes,

or this bear skin coat.

i'd be hungry and cold

staring at the ground

waiting for cotton and

potatoes to grow.

a mere forty years

when young,

at the first job, the first desk,

the first boss

upon you,

you think, how much longer do

i have to do this.

forty years more?

impossible.

and then forty years passes

and you leave 

to go home.

at last you are done.

you remove you shoes,

take off your clothes,

you turn off your phone.

you lie down to rest.

and you miss it.

nothing changes

carefully we enter the cave,

tendrils

of wet light slip down

the rock,

we hold the flame up to

the etchings.

war paint, arrows

and spears.

animals and men

facing death.

does nothing change, or

just

repeat itself.

we know the answer to that.

internet dating 101

when i binged dated

after

getting a divorce from cruella one

and two,

licking my wounds,

i learned

a lot about

women out there on the sites.

no matter how much money

they made,

no matter how

feminist they were,

no matter how successful

and rich

they had become

with alimony and child support,

they almost

never helped pay

for a drink or meal

when you met them.

as soon as the check came,

they ran to the bathroom

to powder their nose.

i saw cobwebs on their purses.

i didn't mind

paying.

but after a three course

meal, three glasses

of wine and dessert, plus tip,

i couldn't afford

a hundred and twenty dollar

night very long,

every week of the month.

the women kept

getting bigger

and i kept getting poorer

in my search for my

next cell mate. whoops,

i mean soul mate.

money from heaven

as a kid i delivered

the washington post.

a hundred and twenty

newspapers rolled

into tight batons

and thrown onto porches

up and down

the streets of the projects.

mostly running.

my dog beside the wagon.

four in the morning,

done by five.

and back in bed,

covered in sweat despite

the snow and wind.

it was money from heaven.

i still have the IOU note

from my mother 

for the time

she borrowed forty dollars

to buy groceries 

for thanksgiving.

it took a while, but eventually,

i let her slide.

we make a toast

we toast the day.

each other.

we clink glasses together

and give

thanks for all we have.

we salute

the moon, the stars.

we hold our

glasses high

and toast those near,

those far.

we pour and toast

until there is no more,

then we stagger up

the stairs

and she says with

a kiss, let's wait until

morning,

as i begin to snore.

bemused

there are the poor

and then there are the poorer.

having been

both.

a truth sticks with you.

a dime

means something.

a pair of shoes

bread.

the heat on.

a bed to sleep in.

and when you dream, do

you dream about

not having

what you have.

no wood for the fire.

no milk?

and yet if you tell another

soul,

a son, or father,

they look at you bemused,

they'll deny it ever happened.

liar.

all is else is forgotten

when she speaks 

of dancing

you can hear it 

in her voice

that this is what she loves

to do.

she's a fish in water 

once the music starts

and she spins 

across the ballroom floor.

she's in her element.

everything else 

is forgotten.

life now

feels way too short,

it comes naturally

it comes naturally

or it doesn't come at all.

the flight, the spin,

the arc

of the ball,

thrown and caught.

nothing to it.

it happens easily,

without nary a thought.

the motion of

the arm,

the twist of body.

you either have it,

or you don't.

i try to keep her there

we smooth things out

with a few

drinks

and a night on the couch.

it gets

better as the night goes on.

she doesn't

bother me about my

lack of gifts

or flowers on valentine's day.

not even a mushy

card from the drugstore.

she's in a good mood,

and i try to keep her there.

you need to go to kansas for a real pie

people take pride

in where they're from.

texas,

or kansas,

michigan.

they take it with them

wherever they land.

within two minutes

they're bound to tell you

where they were raised,

and where you should go

before you die.

you don't know ribs

until you

get to carolina, they say,

or you never had chowder

until you've been to maine.

you want maple syrup,

go to vermont.

up north we do things

differently with a pot roast,

down south fried chicken

is our claim to fame.

they're just lines on a map,

but it sticks with them

from the cradle

to the grave.

the tax lady

her wig

askew. her glasses fogged

with the work

of doing taxes in her

tiny cubical,

she greets me at the door

as the bell settles down.

how are you?

so good to see you, we've

been talking about you.

wondering

when you were coming in.

please don't tell me

you made the mistake again.

everyone laughs, 

and laughs and laughs.

i slide her my books,

my papers across the counter,

i imagine that this joke

will never end.

harmonica time

i don't know where 

it came from,

or how it got here,

but there it is,

this silver harmonica

in my drawer.

i pick it up and blow.

finally an instrument i can play.

all morning

i keep it going. accompanying

bob dylan on the radio.

i've got this, i think.

until i hear banging on

the wall.

it's how they roll

you can tell where

someone is in their life,

mentally and

spiritually by how they

drive their car.

it's a dead give away.

ignoring

the rules of road.

taking stop signs as

suggestions.

going too fast.

everyone is in their

way and going to slow.

always lost, always

making a u-turn

and never asking for

directions.

they believe they can

make every yellow light.

beat every train

across the track.

it's how they roll

both in the car and out.

we take nothing with us

we own nothing.

not really.

everything is borrowed.

rented.

leased.

we take nothing with us.

not even

love, or heat ache.

it all goes away.

be patient.

be kind.

don't hurt anyone today.

taxed again

the dining room table

is the war zone.

the tax papers stacked

in clumsy order.

the adding machine

out and plugged in.

a pot of coffee on.

sharpened pencils.

a magnifying glass

for the pesky small print.

receipts and the debris

of paper work collected

throughout the year.

insurance

and debts, fees.

spent money, money earned,

a record of all the good

and bad deeds.

slowly i sift through

the piles,

filling in numbers.

then coming to the point

where i find the box

that asks

filing separately or

married.

or single. i put

a giant check there

and write the word happily

next to that.

sacred sages

with the tip of a candle flame

i light

the smudge stick and begin.

the scent of sage

and lavender fills the air,

sweet grass.

slowly i walk

around the house, starting

at the front door,

to each room, down to the basement

and up again.

to the kitchen,

the living room,

up another flight to the bedrooms.

i let the smoke fly

in soft ribbons.

erasing the dark memories.

the lingering negative

vibrations of someone

who once lived here.

no one was there

there was no one pacing

outside his door

as he slept

in intensive care.

a day away from Christmas

the day he would

die on.  i saw no flowers.

no cards.

there were no children

gathered at bedside.

no mother no father,

no siblings.

no wife.

i didn't see a single friend

of his

as i stood there

listening to the machine

give him air.

no one else was there.

they were doing their 

mourning, their waiting

elsewhere.

the saved

will we gather in heaven?

will there be loved ones

and the others,

the ones who broke our back.

will peace be made, or will

it go on as it is

here on earth.

is the bible right?

is there a house in heaven

for all that believe.

is it a mansion.

a split level.

something along the lines

of frank lloyd wright,  perhaps.

clean angles with windows

overlooking the sea.

will there be a choice in colors

of angelic sheets?

sandals or sneakers?

can you be alone, 

if you want to,

or will you have 

to participate in singing

and clapping of hands.

i hope not.

i won't like that.

i just want to be me.

mingo

i remember his hands.

brown leather,

his face worn with sun.

with life

and time

passing. always in his yard

reaching.

a garden hose in hand.

his white hat tipped

to hide the sun.

the grapes across

the trellis.

the sunflowers taller

than a man. tomatoes

and corn,

lettuce translucent

and green.

everything would grow

under his kind words,

his gentle command

each seed pushed down.

as a child how could know

who he was,

what this was all about.

but now as you kneel

to ground, and wait,

you understand.

she's still sick

she's still sick.

still bent over on the side

of her bed.

a pan

there.

a bell to ring.

is it monday yet?

who knows.

she waddles to the bathroom

in her bare feet.

avoiding the mirror.

she stands in the shower,

the shower

where she used to sing.

she'd like

to end things, but she's

not sure how.

tomorrow will be better,

she says

to herself

crawling back into bed,

still wet,

now cold and shivering.

tomorrow, tomorrow,

she whispers to no one.

a promise

she keeps putting inside

her head.

a reminder

i find the head

of a dead rose behind

the table.

left over from a bouquet 

flowers, bought

for an apology,

or holiday, i guess.

the petals

are a browned

burgundy now.

still soft as silk.

at some point

the stem

from lack of water

bent and

broke its neck.

dropping the head quietly

to the floor.

i think i'll leave it there.

Saint Anthony

you feel as if you lost

something,

it's just a feeling that

there is something

you can't find,

something

you may need later.

you have no clue

what it is, what it looks

like, or where it could be.

but you know it's lost,

and at some point you'll

be on your hands and knees

looking for it.

saying a prayer to 

Saint Anthony.

a clue this is not going to work

there was a time

when i came home from work

and my wife at the time,

lulabelle

had packed all of my books

in boxes,

stacked them on 

the living room floor.

there they were, updike

and cheever,

john irving, bukowski

and plath,

salinger and philip levine,

biographies, essays,

poetry. all of them

ready to go out the door.

books i've had and loved

since i was in college.

why, i asked her, as i unpacked

them, giving her hell,

why are you getting rid

of my books,

and she said, you've already

read them, and i need

more room for my collection

of porcelain pigs

on the shelves.

the lost weekend

the next door

neighborhood forum reports

that tucker

has been found.

alive.

he was in the woods for

three days.

apparently he met

another dog, fifi,

who was lost as well,

and they had a little

rendezvous of sorts.

he'd lost a little weight,

and his eyes

were blood shot.

he was panting and in

need of liquids.

he seemed weak, but happy

as he found his way

home and barked

at the front door.

who hasn't been lost like

that before?

stewed tomatoes

the worst

food, was the school cafeteria

food.

although

i've made my share of bad

meals too.

stewed tomatoes

tops the list

of incredibly bad thinking.

why?

the little soft cup

of smashed tomatoes

cooked to a frothy red,

then filled up to the lip.

never in my

life have i seen it anywhere

else in all my

travels.

never on a menu.

never a fine or dull

dining choice.

never did my mother

or even an angry wife,

as punishment,

tell me, that's what

we're having for dinner.

working on my triceps

do we need muscles anymore.

tapping

keyboards.

pushing pencils across

a sheet of paper.

clicking the mouse.

do we need these legs

to take us anywhere

when everything under

the sun is delivered.

there are just a few now

breaking

a sweat and keeping

this doomed world going.

swinging hammers

and actually making

things with their hands.

plowing fields,

killing things for us to eat.

the rest are driving around

for an hour looking for a closer

space to park because

it's raining.

feels cold in here

feels cold in here.

must be a window cracked,

a door ajar.

or she's back.

looking for something

she left behind.

need to get

those locks changed,

string up some

barb wire,

put a moat in,

a guard on the tower.

can't be too safe

these days,

with a scorned ex lover.

all in the game

call it street ball,

playground, pick up.

four on four 

half court and full.

switch at six.

go to twelve.

call your own fouls.

grass is out.

no threes, just old

school, take it to the

hole, or jump shot.

the bank is open.

rebound, pick and roll,

fast break, or walk

it up. mouse in the house.

a sweet shot, trash talk.

little man with a hook.

big man from the corner.

no cherry picking.

hand check, self check,

he can't go left.

play some D, is that

all you got?

home court, back court.

all day, all weekend long,

until the sun goes

down and the lights

go on. jurassic park.

take two of these and call

me in the morning.

black top.

high tops, shirts and

skins.

win by two.

ball in, check it up top,

and when it's done,

we'll run it back again.

waiting to get out

i can peel about two

potatoes

before i sigh with boredom.

the long line,

is not for me,

to be put on hold,

to wait

for someone to get to

the point

of a rambling story,

or the punch line

in a joke, just slays me.

even in my mother's

belly, i was kicking

and complaining,

trying to get out a month

or two early.

what others are up to

once curious

about what others are up

to, i no longer

care.

it doesn't matter anymore

and didn't

when it did.

who cares?

go do what you do,

and be you,

as crazy as that is.

what's the rush

i wake up and wonder

what should i do with my life.

ignoring the fact that my

life is well past half over.

it's a mid life crisis,

but only if i live to be

a hundred and forty.

what new job could i do.

where should i move.

should i lose weight,

gain weight, get a toupee.

should i buy something

shiny and new. maybe

grow a beard, or one

of those fancy mustaches.

get a new girlfriend

who reminds me of you.

maybe a dog. maybe a cat.

what about a garden

in the back yard.

or a hike to california

and back. take a night class.

a morning class.

take a class online.

study to be a doctor

or a lawyer, a chef, or

a detective.  yes. i say.

why not. there's still time

to do all that.  but first i'll

lie here for a while, i feel

a nap coming on.

what's the rush?

the apology card

i read my apology card

that i keep

in my wallet.

it's very worn.

the edges yellowed

with age.

the words barely readable,

the ink smudged

from sweaty hands.

i'm sorry, it says,

forgive me for whatever

i've said or done

to anger you and make

you not want to make love

anymore.

please forgive me

and let's move on.

i should of had it laminated

back when i was young.

i had no idea

how many times

i'd have to use it from

one relationship

to the next.

cold soup

the cold soup

surprised me.

i'd never had cold soup 

that was meant to be cold.

i'd had plenty

of cold meals growing up.

two slices

of bread with something

found in the fridge

between them.

a swipe of peanut

butter perhaps. cold

chicken

still on the bone,

but cold soup? in the dead

of winter.

what will they think of next

i thought.

saying nothing and feeling

bad for her, not yet

mastering the art

of soup.

cheer up

get back on the horse

she tells me, trying 

to cheer me up.

but i don't have a horse,

i tell say.

you know what i mean.

pick yourself up by your

boot straps.

what boots?

it's like riding a bike.

answer the bell,

it's not the end.

it's not over until it's over.

the sun will come up again.

you're making it worse,

i tell her. please stop.

beyond words

she spoke several languages.

but none of them

mine.

french and german,

italian,

which was fine.

we found a way to laugh.

to say the things

we needed to say

for sleep and food,

drink

and love.

we used our hands,

our lips, the way

we moved.

there was nothing we

didn't understand.

no whisper, no shout

strange how

we walk into the fog

and never

come out.

once friends, now

strangers

lost and fading.

never to be heard

from again.

no whisper.

no shout.

fresh fish

i see the well lit sign,

in blue neon,

on the store front.

fresh fish.

that's good.

the alternative

could cause health issues.

five day old fish.

stale fish.

rotting fish.

shrimp gone bad in the sun.

open oysters.

all you can eat fish,

caught a month ago

from a nearby pond.

fresh fish is good.

jack hammer time

dumbly, like a child,

in the heat of so called

love i carved her name

into the cement

on the sidewalk.

it's a reminder every

day i come home,

almost impossible

to scrape off.

i need a jack hammer, 

or explosives.

a chisel and mallet.

some muriatic acid.

it could have been worse

though, i think, rubbing

my clean ink free arm.

pandemic patty

proud of her shot

patty shows me her arm,

the swollen

bee sting

bump of where the needle

went in.

i'm good to go, she says.

what say we hit

the beach,

go have a drink or two,

go out to eat.

go dancing.

she's wearing a big V

patch on her dress.

her dancing dress. 

short and black with

shiny heels.

she's got

the music on, 

she's no longer

pandemic patty,

she's happy again,

she's back.

too many choices

too many choices.

too many

tiles and floors,

fixtures.

too many selections

of colors

and styles,

fabrics and textures.

too many

ways to go with this

paint, 

this room, this furniture.

which art to choose?

the lighting.

it makes

you miss the futon

days, a mattress

on the floor,

the wooden box table

and metal 

folding chairs

a poster of jimi hendrix

on the wall.

the dark side

i prefer the dark side

of the moon,

the under belly of things.

what lies

below the rock

imbedded in the stream.

i like the forest

at night, the shadows

the mystery of words.

the strange silence of you.

i like the bitter sweet,

the tears, the melancholy 

sigh of the world

when things are blue.

two shows per day

the dinner theater

is full of stars yet to be

discovered.

they sing, they dance,

they know their lines,

they know where the lights

are pointed.

where to stand,

when to move.

two shows per day.

they are practiced in

the art of acting.

but the crowd is hungry,

seniors bused in from

new jersey.

they want dessert now,

more booze.

they are impatient for

this act to end, to have

the lights go up

and find their way to

the bathrooms.

too early to decide

it's too early to decide

such things.

i need coffee and some time

to wake up.

a walk perhaps.

a book to read.

there's no rush in

deciding on what to do

or say.

i can wait on that, or maybe

you can surprise me

and just leave.

there will be tears

you hear the talk

of those no longer enthused

with the work they do.

the day in day out job

they attend to.

the punch of the clock,

the lunch at noon,

the drive home.

soon, they say, i'll quit.

they don't appreciate me here.

i'll leave this job and

sit around the house all

day. perhaps i'll travel,

i'll fish, i'll plant a garden

in the yard, i'll read all

the books i've meant to

read throughout the years.

you'll see, i'll quit this

job one day, i'll be gone.

and this place won't be the same.

i'll be greatly missed.

there will be tears.

bring on the babies

at a certain age

women begin to like 

small children

again.

babies, toddlers.

they can't go a block

without stopping to pinch

the cheek of some

little pink rascal in a stroller.

they want to hold

the babies,

bounce them on their knees.

have pictures taken with them.

have them spend

the weekend.

suddenly babies

are fun again.

strange how we lose our

memories as we age.

cat suit

the friend remedy

is the same one

you give when

someone is under the weather.

get some rest,

sleep,

drink a lot of water

and tea. hot soup.

stay home in bed,

watch tv and read.

take it easy.

but sometimes you need

more than

chicken soup.

you need

something spicy and

fun to pull you out of

this doldrum.

you need betty to come

over in a cat suit.

just come on in

i take the black cat in,

because

it's cold as hell out there

and i don't want

her life to end,

finding her in a snow

bank frozen solid.

i know about stragglers

and victims.

those without a means,

the looney ones,

the strange, the ones

in therapy

and once in chains,

those without friends.

there's a sign on my

forehead, saying all

are welcome, 

give me your tired,

your weary,  your weak,

your wackadoodles,

just come on in.

a bumpy ride

the crunch of ice

makes you realize how little

you are

in this world.

your boot slipping

and grinding

to find balance. it will

snow.

it will sleet.

that wind will cut

you to the bone.

the world goes on

and there is nothing

you can do to change things.

so buckle up

it's going to be a bumpy

ride.

sorry that i'm not more sorry

i'm caring less and less

about being on time.

about being late.

feeling guilty about a

plethora of things.

no flowers, no gifts,

no cards, no valentines.

i'm sort of done with

beating myself up

about what i say or write,

or do or don't do.

i could blame the church

for such long standing guilt

ridden angst, or parents,

or crazy wives, but enough

is enough.

sorry, is just a word i'm

saving for the big stuff now.

in the beginning

the knife in drawers

is beyond dull. it's old.

it's lost it's cutting

ability, so what good is it?

why is it still

in your life, taking up room.

lying there, with no purpose.

another lesson perhaps

as to how you can hang

on to things and those

that no longer benefit you.

waiting for them to change

and go back to who they were

in the beginning.

she wants a full time man

she wants a full time man.

not a part time lover.

a texter,

a once in a while thing,

or fling.

or whatever it's called these

days.

a booty call?

she wants more. the diamond

ring.

the name change. she wants

to hear the words, i do.

not maybe. she wants

a shared home.

she wants 24/7.

she wants you to meet

her family, walk her dog.

leave your shoes under her bed.

she wants to cook and clean

together.

make hearts in the sand.

she wants what so many want.

she wants the 1950's

to come around again.

a pot stew on the stove.

the black and white television.

the radio telling us a baseball

score. she wants the christmas

tree, a plate of cookies.

colored lights on the house.

she wants a family.

but all of it just makes

you flee.

been here before

i lost track of the hour.

my money.

where my car was parked.

i drank too much.

said things i didn't mean.

i never even knew your name.

i found myself lost.

i looked up into the sky

for the north star

to find my way home.

i started walking with my

hands in my pockets.

it was cold. there was snow

on the ground.

i got that deja vu feeling again.

there's no doubt

that i've been here before.

finding light

there were times.

lying in bed.

and knowing that it was over.

that there would never

again be sex,

let alone a kiss.

never a vacation, or walk,

or long

talk into the night,

or laughter.

all the joy between you

would never again exist.

there were times when

lying in bed,

that you knew that

this was as bad as things

could ever get.

and that gave you hope.

do you have a minute

it's hard to listen

to other's troubles, their pain,

their broken

hearted stories.

the small or large bruise

they obtained

in the course of a bad day.

it's difficult to feel what

they're going 

through, for what is there

to say, but it doesn't

stop you when it's your turn

to speak about

what's happened to you.

a sea without fish

life without laughter

is a sky

without stars,

a sea without fish,

no birds

which fly.

there would only be

a dark heart beating,

a grim blue sigh.

i don't like people

she said to me once,

i don't like people.

which made me laugh.

which ones, i asked her.

any in particular, or all of them.

not all, but most of them.

so many are mean, 

just horrible human beings.

look at how they drive,

how they drink and eat.

selfish and full greed.

so little compassion

and empathy.

i'm tired of people.

i'm tired of how they look, 

of what they say.

there'd be a lot less people

on this planet

if it were up to me.

and i agreed.

even hearts change

are we not 

just passing through.

our feet in sand.

everything ephemeral,

a stop along

the way.

look at how the clouds move.

how nothing stays the same.

are we not just

passengers on a train,

rolling through a town,

hear the whistle.

hear the church bells,

the clock ticking 

on your hand. and yes,

even hearts will change.

raising the white flag

if one listen's to their own heart,

the gut

the wisdom that lies

within all of us,

they'll have no problem

with knowing

what or who is a lost cause.

you just know

when to raise the white flag

and go home.

no need to fight this battle

any longer.

it's over, it's done.

it's time to let go.

chopsticks

the piano teacher

next door

has new students. i can hear

them playing

chopsticks through

our shared thin wall.

their small fingers plunking

eagerly at the keys.

and when i see the children

leave to their parents waiting

in idling cars,

i observe the teacher.

waving to them to them all,

smiling broadly.

she seems happy.

she seems relieved.

undeveloped film

i find an old camera

full of film.

full of pictures

taken years ago.

when everyone 

was younger.

i take the camera 

to the drugstore

then bring 

the new photos home

carefully i spread them

out the table,

beneath the light.

where are they now?

i wonder, smiling 

at the memory

of who then 

was by my side.

a simpler time

we want what was

as if it was better.

we say things like remember

when,

or there was a time

when things

were different, a simpler

life than it is now.

we lament

the past as if it's an old

friend gone

to the grave.

we remember the smiles

the laughs

of yesterday, and in the process

we lose today.

the new world

typing gets tiresome

after awhile.

the fingers on the tiny keyboard

of the phone.

half sentences,

misspellings.

no grammar or punctuation,

just a flurry of disconnected

thoughts.

most misunderstood.

so much lost in translation.

i remember the days.

when you sat down together.

and looked into each

other's eyes and spoke

to one another.

making time to be there.

to talk, to laugh or cry.

home before dark

i could take the short cut home.

but instead i take

the long path through

the snow laden woods.

it's an hours walk from

here to the stream where

i'll have to step across

the rocks.

from there it's up the hill

over fallen trees.

i'll be cold when i get home.

i'll be hungry, and i'll be

missing you 

even more than usual,

but i'll be home before dark,

i promise.

the home run

as the large boy

swings the wooden bat

and the ball flies off it 

with a loud bang,

the other boys

watch with open mouths

and wide eyes.

it sails and sails beyond the field

and arcs towards

the houses

where the ball shoots through

a window.

shattering glass like they've

never heard before.

it's a home run.

one they will talk about until

they're old and grey.

but that's not on their mind

at the moment

as they scatter and yell,

all of them running away,

except for the batter who

rounds the infield, making

sure to touch every base.

the hippy chick

in her mind

she's a hippy chick,

a girl from the sixties

with flowers in her hair

full of radiant sunshine

and goodness.

peace love and all

the other fairy tales

and nonsense

that were never true.

it's a myth, a mirage

no different than who

she pretends to be.

a figment

of her own imagination.

lost and confused,

a new age blanche dubois

avoiding the light

of who she really is.

kidney pie

i find a fork

lying

in the ice, half buried

in snow,

the prongs sticking upwards.

silvery clean in

the sunlight.

the literal

fork in the road.

should i take it, or leave

it where it lies.

perhaps the owner

will need it

at some point when

sitting down to dinner,

ready to carve and

eat his kidney pie.

the serious talk

we decide to sit down

to have a serious talk.

the tenth serious talk this week.

i ask her to sit

by the window facing

the woods, but

she wants to sit in the kitchen

and drink her tea.

i suggest twelve noon.

and she says no, that's

when she's going for a walk.

what about tonight, she asks.

i shake my head, 

but reluctantly agree

to her terms.

we're progressing slowly.

not surprised

i'm not surprised

very often.

living long enough

will do that to a person.

i scoff at the news,

and say pffft.

what, another war,

another election,

another pandemic.

crime and fraud, oh my.

another cold front moving

in.

they've been moving in

for centuries.

relax.

there's nothing you

can do.

the anniversary

i celebrate the anniversary

of the rope being freed 

from around

my tender neck.

a miracle of sorts,

having escaped

the hang man's noose.

i bake a cake.

i buy champagne.

i throw confetti into the air,

then toast my lucky day.

i get a chill down my spine

remembering how

close i was to that

marital grave.

you can't live without them

in the battery drawer

are all

sizes of

batteries.

squared, small

cylinders, thick blocks

of energy,

for where i have no clue.

flashlights, and

smoke alarms,

remote controls,

i presume.

i wait for the beeps to

tell me where they go.

it's a kitchen drawer

nearly full of them

but other

things have found 

their way in as well.

a bent fork, a ball of

rubber bands.

matches made of wood.

paper clips,

tags from a shirt

i may one day wear.

but the batteries

are what it's all about.

life as it is

cannot go on

without them.

below the ice

teeming with

life

the stagnant pool,

green

and shallow below

the ice

is unstirred until spring.

but

there within are

things

with spirit,

full of energy,

alive from

a source

we seldom believe.

fleeting

the store bought roses

don't last

very long in the vase

of water.

what does?

i see the petals falling

one by one

onto the counter.

the stems gone limp.

silk petals

dropping quietly

in the morning light.

beauty is

fleeting, but you knew

that already.

you didn't need

a rose

to tell you.

more rocks

they find more rocks

on mars.

more red dust.

more nothing.

no air, no water,

no life.

but if we keep going

long enough,

who knows.

let's throw another

billion or two

to find out,

while the poor go hungry,

the sick die.

the jobless

lie on steam grates

and stare up at 

an empty sky.

what's keeping you

it's the chicken wire keeping

the chickens in their coop,

the long fence

corrals the horses, the cow,

the trough of pigs.

a latch on the door is keeping

out the thieves,

the dog is on a leash,

the wife has her ring,

what's keeping you?

that new car smell

i like the new car smell.

the low mileage on the odometer.

the clean mats

and seats, the tank

full of petrol.

not a spec or crumb yet

from anything i'll eventually

eat.

it's pristine.

it's beautiful.

those curves, those headlights,

how the rear end

rises with tires that grip

the road.

the warranty is long.

she'll be a loyal ride.

low maintenance.

everything is factory installed.

it's the car of a lifetime

the one you've been waiting for

forever,

where do i sign.

i'd like to make her mine.

what's the deal here

where are we,

she says. are we friends

with benefits,

are we lovers

are we in a relationship.

is there a future

in all of this for us?

what's the deal here?

what?

did you say something

i didn't hear you,

say it again, but this

time in my good ear.

being good is hard

for some 

being good is hard.

being truthful,

being kind.

helping others

less fortunate.

for some it's easier

to just stay alive,

to ignore the tears

of others,

not bend

to those in need, but

to just walk by.

the replica

after you rub

the coin hard enough 

between

thumb and fingers

and the shine has

lost its luster,

you realize that she was

never gold to begin with,

but a cheap thin replica

made of copper.

falling forward

when you stumble

up the stairs, not down

with a load of laundry 

in a white basket

you think of

when you could leap

two steps

in a single bound

with a grown woman

in your arms.

you laugh.

at least you're still

moving forward

and not backwards,

losing ground.

how easy it was back then

there was a day

when a dime found 

meant something.

a dollar bill

on the road

and you were rich.

an old pair of shoes

tossed from a car, 

that fit

made your day.

the ball sailing over the fence

after you swung bat,

a passing grade.

a hot meal in front of you.

how easy it was back then

to find happiness

and joy.

unworried about

such things as love.

saltine crackers

it isn't quite the feast

you imagined

you think

as you spread peanut butter

onto a saltine

cracker with

a quick brush of grape

jelly.

there is no filet mignon 

no leg of lamb,

no pheasant under glass,

but this will do

on a cold winters day.

you've survived on less,

and this will

be more than enough

to fill your belly.

the weight of parents

how strange

these balloons are.

blown up in greens and reds,

pink.

all tethered to a child's

hand.

larger than the moon

in the pale sky.

will he float away?

perhaps.

but not yet.

the weight of parents

will keep him here,

until

it's time to leave.

knowing more

knowing more

leads

to understanding how little you

do know.

not just

from books

but from the eyes and deeds

of others.

the surprise

you find is often

unkind

as you peel back the layers

of smiles

and charm.

not a bad place to be

i remember thinking

how sad

that his or her life is coming

to an end.

how unhappy she must

be to wake

up and suddenly be old,

not far from the grave.

sitting

with a paper or book

in hand.

a cup of tea. 

the quiet of the house.

watching snow fall.

a dog perhaps or cat 

by their feet.

how long those days

must seem, with so many

friends gone,

then you arrive

and see that it isn't such

a bad place to be.

some say

some say you're lucky.

you dodged

a bullet.

you were saved by the angels

who watch over you.

some say it wasn't

your day, your

time to die.

you were saved.

how perplexed

we are

when trying to understand

our fate.

this is the sea

this is the sea

you know,

and then it isn't,

ever changing color,

and depth.

we can embrace it

but not

too far out.

there is only

so much air within us

to withstand such

beauty below

its crush of green

and salted stars.

best stand ashore and let

it wash upon

our golden calves.

admired from afar.

my primary care doctor

i email my kaiser so called

primary doctor

and ask her

when can i get the vaccine.

three weeks later she replies.

i don't know.

will it be two shots or just one?

i don't know.

where should i go 

when it does become available?

i don't know.

why aren't they making more,

like three hundred million gallons

of the stuff?

i don't know.

when will you know?

i don't know.

should i register at other places,

counties,

states,

cities?

cvs, walgreens, gas stations,

coffee shops?

i don't know.

do any other doctors, nurses,

or custodial worker know anything

that would help clear

up all this confusion?

i don't know.

how many more people will die

because they're not making

enough

and distributing it properly?

i don't know.

but my guess is ...at least another

hundred thousand.

by the way,

the office is closed until further

notice.

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

tom cat days

there were days.

tom cat

days, out all night chasing

butterflies

under the strobe lights

and haze,

dancing

and drinking,

finding alleys to convince

them of love

ever lasting, all lies.

strangers becoming

lovers

then back

to strangers once more

in the early morning light,

in the blink of  a

bloodshot eye.

this shoe doesn't fit

i should have tried 

these shoes on

before buying them.

they're tight and stiff.

i should have sat down

with a clean pair of socks

and slipped them on while

in the store, found a stool to

take off the old

and do a cat walk

up and down the aisle

i should have strolled around

and looked into the mirror

angled at shoe level.

but no. i liked them too

much, how they looked

in the box and out.

not unlike you, my dear,

my ill fitted dear,

before i found out.

two coats please

if this room gets painted

a brighter color,

she says, then

life will be better.

it will change everything.

this gallon of paint

will embolden me to move on.

yesterday won't matter

anymore with these old

walls brightened.

fix me, the label says.

fix me white and make

the world right again.

two coats please, 

i don't want the past

to bleed through.

the relic

the relic

in her black dress,

a walking antique.

still

intent on catching the eye

of each man,

each woman passing by.

those better days

are pages turned

in a book written

long ago,

which doesn't

seem to bother her.

a splash of perfume,

a wig for hair,

a stripe of lipstick

go a long way

in masking the fear.

delusion is a grand

thing as we age

and slowly disappear.

before the first cup

some things we know

before we know them.

mystery solved.

by opening our eyes.

there are no surprises

when you do.

everything is revealed

and the truth is known

before that first cup

of coffee goes down.

the field mouse

the cat comes in

from the cold and stares

at her

empty bowl.

her mouth bloodied

with a field mouse

she's left

at the door.

all night she's hunted

and this is her

reward,

bitterness sets in,

and she becomes

more aloof than 

ever before.

there is no other story

we want to believe

in little green men. we want

the loch ness monster

to be swimming

below the water.

giants in the woods.

elves upon our roofs.

we want conspiracies

and half truths,

we need to imagine beyond

this reality,

because this is hard.

this simple life.

everything being what

it appears to be.

there has to be a man

behind the curtain.

the real story

out of view,

another meaning

to the words. can everyone

be lying,

or just those close to you.

twilight too

we have our colors.

the shade

or hue

that brings us some sort

of elusive

peace.

i pick blue.

indigo.

the sky at night.

an azure haze.

the stream beyond

this window.

a spring sky

ready for

what's new.

twilight too.

behind the old house

i see her with her

satchel,

in her high boots,

carrying

a small broom, 

a shovel,

the instruments

she'd dig with.

a fine tooth comb,

and into

the dirt she'd go.

on her knees,

gently prodding

the silt and dirt,

seeking another man's

tooth,

a woman's hair clip,

or bones, not

worried about silver

or gold.

sweeping away

the time

which covers us all

before long.

when it's time to go

the dog, a friend of sorts,

a warm voice

when you enter the door.

the tail wagging in joy.

how sad

it is. and yet

how kind, to let them go,

to hold them

as they've grown old,

gone blind.

the muzzle white.

no longer

jumping onto the bed,

running up the stairs,

chasing whatever

it is that thrills them.

but it's time.

and with it goes those years.

those nights.

those days.

a life well lived

and loved,

impossible

to not shed tears.

some faces

some faces

you remember. even years

away from them,

the picture is clear in your mind.

the strike

of eyes, whether blue

or brown.

the length of chin,

or nose,

the shape of cheek.

the hair,

if it's short or long.

you've held that face

in your

hands before.

you've visited those lips,

never really letting it go.

canned peaches

there are canned peaches

on the shelf.

in light syrup no less.

pitted olives,

black and large,

tuna fish in water,

one in oil.

canned soup,

clam chowder and chicken

noodle.

black beans,

tomato sauce, tomato paste.

canned salmon,

canned peas, a bright green.

where have all these cans

come from.

who's been shopping

for me?

post card

her red cheeks

are cold, like apples.

but her lips

are warm against mine.

we'll stand in this

nook of woods

and kiss awhile, wrapping

ourselves in each

other's arms.

this is what love is

all about.

craving

it's not attachments,

but craving

that causes suffering,

desire for what you don't have,

or what you have

and wanting more.

the insatiable need

for something out of reach,

or someone,

that longing is what

destroys you.

leaves you on the floor.

a disposable world

i used to have a raincoat,

with a belt.

i used to have real boots with buckles.

i used to have a tv

with rabbit ears wrapped in foil.

i used to have a push mower,

heavier than me.

i used to have an ice tray, made

of metal with a pull up

handle to break free the cubes.

i used to have a milk man

bringing me milk and eggs,

leaving them on the porch

each morning.

i used to get the mail twice a day.

i used to have neighbors that i knew,

that would stop and say hey.

i used to have a photo in a frame

that i kept on my dresser.

i used to have dog.

i used to have a wife.

i used to have hair,

my eyes were once clear,

and i could hear out of both ears.

the only thing i've kept

throughout the years are books.

all the books i've read

and will read again.

i keep them near. 

in time i've learned 

what's disposable

and what i hold dear.

some many choices

some choose to live out

their life

and leave the world against their

will by

disease

or accident or

some unfortunate slip on the ice.

while others take

matters into their own hands,

with rope

or knife, a bottle of pills,

a ledge or bridge,

to leap from 

in a great swan dive.

but others choose 

a slower way

with smoke or drink,

enormous amounts

of food, another wife,

finding some vice that will

kill them,

but more slowly,

taking their time.

heard it through the grape vine

as more close friends

and relatives

die

the news is traveling slower

than normal

down the pipe line.

the grape vine

has rotted.

if you can't say anything

nice about someone

come sit next to me.

gossip ain't what it used

to be.

i've lost touch

with the dark side,

the nosy side,

the fun side of life.

where have all the blabber

mouths gone?

unoriginal sin

what is original

sin,

the apple?

for God's sake, it's just

an apple

or is it a metaphor

of sorts.

temptation

taking its course.

bite this

and go to hell.

is it that simple?

from where i sit

it seems that

sins have become

less unique,

less original.

the best medicine

you can laugh too hard

or not enough

or not at all.

it's a funny thing,

this thing called laughter.

but when it's real,

sincere,

you can hardly stop

and even a week from now

you'll be bent over

remembering the moment

and in tears.

sediment and sentiment

i save the day, mark

it on my calendar

to clean out the boxes,

the bins

that are stacked

in the high closet.

there is no order to things,

piled upon each other

by my thoughtless hand.

it's an archaeology dig

of sorts.

the layers of years.

sediment and sentiment,

some losing luster

others gaining.

old bills and letters.

unopened mail.

pictures of ghosts

stuck to one another.

each holiday card scattered

as if some wind

had brought it all together,

which it has.

pieces of you

there are pieces of you

lost

down through the ages.

small

slices of your heart

and soul.

hair and bone.

blood

and skin.

so much of it lost

in the pursuit of love,

in trying to stave

off another

bitter end.

the unmarked grave

when her mother died

she began

to count the money

almost in hand.

emptying the tea pots,

the jars,

shaking each book free

of dollar bills.

she begged to know where

it all was.

her inheritance.

where did she keep

her mad money.

buried in the yard,

stuffed in some attic box?

surely there must be more.

she thought,

standing over the unmarked

grave, still warm.

the senses

which sense would you

give up

if need be, if forced by some

dark god

to surrender.

your sight,

your sense of smell, or taste,

or touch,

your ears

perhaps. empathy?

compassion?

which could you live

without

and still go on as 

if all is well, as many do.

taking count

even if you tried

could you count the stars,

the rain drops,

the leaves that fall.

the steps you've taken

with your feet,

each beat of your heart?

could you count

the true loves of your life?

of course you could,

there's a task

that isn't hard.

the janus mask

as we look through

the glass

we see the moon 

more clearly.

the pock marked face.

that janus mask.

the stars are more certain

of their place.

the trees,

each leaf etched

in winters ice.

we see the limbs 

bare and grey,

heavy and wet.

we see as far as we

can see.

but she's not there.

not yet.

the ice pond

this ice pond, 

so blue,

mirroring in

a distant sun.

a smile of winter

that we best not walk upon.

though tempting

as all things are

that appear beautiful

from a distance.

the history of man unkind

while i stir this pot,

watching the dark stew boil

i see into it the history

of man unkind.

it's not good.

but what is there to do.

what changes

can be made at this point.

people being people

now and forever more.

you can only stir.

you can only eat.

you can only find good love

and bolt the door.

the borrowed coat

it feels strange to borrow

another's coat.

to slip your arms

down the long sleeves,

with more room

to it than you need.

to button and clasp

it to your chin,

but it's cold out,

it's winter and we do what

we must do

in times like these.

another love in kansas

slowly they drag

the brown pond between

the houses.

her note left on a pillow

suggested

that drowning may 

be possible,

but there is nothing to be found.

no one dead

resides here.

she must be somewhere

else someone says.

and she is

somewhere else, asleep

on a bus

in a state of calm,

going to kansas

where she may or may not

find another love.

it feels like nowhere

it feels like nowhere, 

but it isn't.

the clapboard shack

riddled by wind,

softened with moss

and mildew.

the unhinged screen door.

a shutter askew.

one crutch leaning on 

a broken porch beside

a pair of outside shoes,

the chimney with its

slender flag of smoke

whipping against 

the sagging roof.

there are so many clues

that you are not nowhere,

but somewhere.

a place quite familiar to you.

both cruel and kind

what is this face

about,

a study

of life lived.

a soft world

of deepened lines,

laughter

and tears somehow

finding

themselves together.

woven

into who we are

under this light,

both cruel and kind.

the more i know you

the further

i travel, the more miles

below my feet,

the more turns of the clock

that awakens me

from sleep

the more i know you.

all becoming less

of  a mystery. i see clearly

who you are. what wasn't true,

there was nothing there

to keep me.

the more i piece together

the fog of you

the more i realize

how strange and true

it all was

and that it had nothing

to do with love or peace.

mail and the milk

more careful at this age

we are

as we step

down the icy stairs

gripping a frozen rail,

we shuffle to the gate,

searching out

tufts of green grass .

cautious

as we bend for

the newspaper, a baton

of ink under melting glass.

how quickly the time

has passed,

closing in on

a whistle around our neck.

the cane by the door.

the neighbor

seeing to our mail

and milk.

rising early

without alarm,

each day earlier

than the day before.

rest here

rest here, 

you tell the child

come home

from

being young

now growing old.

rest here

and tell me what's right,

what's wrong,

what  path you're on.

rest here

and let us talk 

until the sun has gone

until  the moon appears.

rest here,

we'll eat, we'll drink,

we'll talk some more.

then we'll go up to our beds

and sleep,

we'll sleep until sleep

awakens us, and then

we'll carry on.

what learned book

what brings one man

to the knife

and another to 

the cloth.

mother, father,

nature running its course?

how can answers

be found

below the skin,

deep within the well

of thought.

what learned book

will help.

but as we often find,

over time,

that what isn't fixed 

will soon be lost.

save yourself

there is no one 

coming to save you.

no one

on a white horse.

no wishing upon a star.

no mother

or father.

no friend, no relative,

no angel 

from the sky.

save yourself.

it's the best you can do

in the worst of times. 

take hold of the reins,

it's your life,

your ride.

bee stings are fine

i'm thinking about getting a

push up bra,

betty tells me over the phone.

okay.

i tell her. good idea. beats

the other options.

i just want my clothes to fit

better.

right, i tell her. of course you do.

no really, when i look in the mirror

i'm like a surfboard, i got

nothing going on in that department.

men always look at women

with big bazooms.

i sigh.  bazooms?

well, do what you have to do.

it's your decision, your body.

stuff some kleenex in there if you want.

so you're saying no. stick to what

i have.

which is small case A cup

i got zero cleavage. zero.

pfffft, so what.

men don't really care,

i tell her.

whether you have enormous bazooms

up there, or bee stings.

it's who you are inside that matters.

what kind of person you are.

oh my god, she says.

who are you?

how many martinis have you had

tonight?

wait for book three

she tells me 

i'm going onto amazon

and give your book

the best review 

in the history of reviews.

seven stars.

i tell her,

there's only four stars possible.

and besides you don't even read poetry,

you hate poetry

until i write something about you.

that's true, she says, i'd read more,

but you haven't written about me

in years.

what does a girl have to do 

to get a poem written about her

these days?

please, i tell her, don't go there.

perhaps in book three

you'll appear.

the unmended heart

people like to pull up 

a pant leg

to show you a scar,

where the leg broke

in a fall.

there's always a story

to go along with it.

they roll up a sleeve 

and say look, 

look at the teeth marks.

sand shark off the coast

of the florida keys.

they show you a broken tooth.

a bent finger. they point

to where a bullet went in 

and never came out.

at last they get to what

they really want to say,

putting a hand over 

their heart, while

speaking softly about

the love they once had,

and then lost.

going dark

when the bulb expires

making a soft

explosion within itself,

going black

making the room dark,

you sit there for a moment

and ponder

this new state of affairs.

you could feel your way

to the shelf

where the new bulbs lie.

you could turn

on a light to help you

across the room,

but you sit there

and wonder if there's

a reason for this sudden

darkness. is the world

trying to tell you 

something new?

the cold water well

we dip

the cup into the well

to quench a thirst

that's never quenched.

tomorrow

we will want more.

and the next day too.

no matter how cold

and sweet the water

is going down,

how it feels and fills

us with lifes waters,

there is always

the need for one more.

one more cup

to see us through.

unchain my heart

i remember in the cold night

with a thin saw

in hand

cutting myself free from

the iron clad

shackles that bound

my feet and hands.

the dust of metal piling up

beside me

as i furiously sawed

against the chains.

not stopping until they were

off and i was running

free and happy once again.

the bittersweet

the bittersweet

often arrives after the too

sweet

has been licked clean

from your

mouth, your lips, the essence

of hope

erased from your eyes.

the bittersweet

has its moment.

a kind slap

against your cheek

awakening you to the reality

of what you were

never meant to keep.

a thin coat of ice

it's just a thin coat 

of hard ice

that spills

me in the early morning 

as i make my way

to the mailbox

at the end of the yard.

upended but unharmed

i lie there

and stare up into the sky.

a flat grey sheet

of nothing,

wringing out more rain,

more sleet,

the cold wetness dripping

into my blinking eyes.

i could lie here all

day, i think

if i wasn't so cold

and didn't have other things

to do.

something black and silky

i fear a woman with

hands on her hips

when talking to you.

they mean business.

there's no fooling around.

they've taken a stand,

holding their ground.

you're in for a long day

when you see a woman

like that standing at 

the end of your bed

holding something

black and silky in

their hand, not hers.

peanut shells

there's a trail

of peanut shells in the living room

going up the stairs

to the bedroom.

i have no one else to blame.

i rub my lips,

salty and dry.

i'm very thirsty.

i look at the calendar

and see that it's twenty

more days until

the maid comes again.

i wonder where the vacuum

is. did the ex take it with her

when i asked her

to leave and never contact

me again.

no. there it is in the basement

closet covered in

dust and spider webs.

i could go out and buy

a new one, i suppose.

it's what i do. 

get rid of the old.

replace it with new.

don't look at my groceries

the clerk, cheerful, because he

was told by

the day manager in the early morning

meeting before

the store opened, to be cheerful,

to be friendly,

smiles

and comments on my

groceries as he slides them

across the belt.

making a cake today, i see,

he says.

he places the flour and sugar

into the bag together.

the eggs. the oil.

the icing in its round tub.

a box of candles.

i like cake too. my mother made

me a cake for my birthday, he says.

then looks at me for some sort

of response.

but i give him none. i don't like

people looking at my

groceries.

the waiting room

in the waiting room

we sit

side by side, or across from one

another

with our quiet ailments.

we sift through

the magazines

on the table.

it's not quite our time

to go in

and spill our troubles

for a swift fifty minutes.

some twitch, some sneeze,

some wrap their arms

around themselves.

others stare off into a place

where only they can see.

everyone looks as if

they're on the verge of

tears, or a breakdown.

tapping their feet.

keeping a beat to a

drummer only they hear.

second hand smoke people

when you're with

people

who are out to lunch, off

the chain

abusive and cold, full

of despair, dysfunction

and disdain. you get sick

with them.

stay in the room long

enough with such souls

and you too

will go off the deep end.

they are like second smoke,

and soon you too

will be coughing, 

choking,

unstable with the same.

toll booth woman

the toll

booth woman, in drab grey.

grey hat.

her hair as red

as red can be,

bunched in a brillo

like style,

a color not found in any

crayon box,

or in nature.

but she's civil in

the way

her hand reaches out

for a dollar.

all day.

her civility never fades

with almost a smile

on her weary face.

almost.

the lemon

the lemon fools you

into thinking

of something sweet.

how could such a 

sunny piece of fruit

have such a bitter taste.

what a strange twist 

of fate it is,

for someone  to appear

to be one thing

and then to find out

they're another altogether.

the waitress

how do you like your eggs,

the girl

asks me

as she stands with a notepad

in hand.

she's very pretty,

which she doesn't know quite

yet.

which is the best pretty

to have.

over easy, i tell her.

she marks that down.

coffee?

yes.

toast?

wheat, i tell her.

bacon?

of course.

she jots that down and away

she goes.

i watch her turn the corner

of the diner

and disappear.

i wonder about her happiness.

not mine.

with me it's all clear.

with nothing else to say

with nothing else

to say she says

the weather,

is quite cold.

we may get a storm

by the weekend.

it's too early to tell.

but it feels like snow.

it's going down well

below freezing and a cold

front is moving in.

we both look up

into the sky.

we don't talk for awhile.

what more is there to say.

and when

we  get home, we look

out the window.

and she says.

it's starting to snow,

and i agree, going down

to the cellar

for the shovel.

feeling lonely

being lonely

is natural. wanting to be with

another.

the absence of a hand,

the touch,

the kiss.

desiring a warm body,

a kind voice

beside you. it's natural.

normal.

we want companionship.

we seek it out for most

of our lives.

but there is no

worse feeling, no deeper

loneliness than when with

someone you don't

love or like, or 

even lust anymore.

those are long, and the nights

unbearable.