a world gone mad

why do we care about

them.

celebrities, the prince and princes.

what purpose is there

in knowing

their troubles

when we wake up with our own.

rushing to catch

a bus in the pouring rain, 

our lunch in a bag.

with children to be raised.

she said, he said,

as if it's news, but it is in

some way,

news of a world gone mad.

a way out

when you discover

truth.

it is the cold clean glass

of water

that quenches

doubt.

you know.

you know

you know.

and this frees you,

allows you

a way out.

the penny prayers

we pray

when we need something.

when desperate,

when in pain,

or in sorrow.

we want a way out.

an easy

answer.

a magic wand to be waved

to make all things

right.

we pray.

we get on our knees

and beg.

we make vows we can't

keep,

but our prayers are pennies

tossed into the well.

when it takes more than that,

it takes the whole soul

to go down, before

rescued from hell.

on the other side

there is the other place,

the beyond

land

where the dead lie

but not dead all, they

have survived

this trip to the other side.

they are there,

there is too much beauty

in the world

to think otherwise,

too much love

gone wasted if it isn't

true.

we say less

we say less of how

we feel,

filling our spaces

with weather,

with mundane things, 

who answers

in full when asked

how are you?

who shows their scars,

their recent

pain?

and if we do, what then?

our paths might never 

cross again.

planning the day

i make a plan for the day.

that's who i am now,

a planner.

i get out a pen and a

piece of paper

and sit down

to make my list of things

to do,

things on the back burner,

things to get out of the way.

but first i need coffee.

and i should answer this

text from Phyliss and one

from LB.

i have to put a few bags

of trash onto the curb 

before the truck comes.

but i should put on pants

first, maybe brush my teeth

and shave.

i'll get to the list later.

it's so nice out maybe i'll

take a walk today.

namaste

there was the time

my soon to be ex yoga wife.

came up behind me and put

me in a choke hold

that her

karate boyfriend had taught

her.

my son was standing 

nearby practicing

his drums.

he kept playing, his eyes

wide open,

and saying. mom?

i could barely breathe but

managed to whisper

in surrender, namaste.

when shyness falls away

when you see it

for the first time,

shyness

fallen away,

there is joy inside you.

that sparkle

in another, that wisdom

in a word

or glance.

that humor that trickles

out,

almost by chance.

you have

a revelation that there is

more to this soul

than you first imagined,

and a kiss is

in order.

the fond farewell

there are fond farewells

with tears

and hugs,

the long embrace

before the taxi takes one

away.

there is waving

until out of sight.

and then there is the other

kind.

a slammed door locked

on a rainy night.

glory days

he speaks

of the old days. the glory days.

remember that

the game,

we played,

the bar we hung out in.

remember that car

you drove.

the girl with red hair,

what was her name.

remember

the time

we did this, we did that.

we were so young.

where were we that night?

who else was there?

it was fun, so much fun.

i think about those times

all day

as i sit here on the porch

with a setting sun.

everyone gets a trophy

everyone gets a trophy

just for showing up.

there are no losers anymore.

a patch

a photo

a dinner, a pony.

everyone gets something

for doing nothing.

even last place

is fine.

a pat on the back, a hug,

a ring, a gold medallion,

something that shines.

don't worry, you stink at

this game,

zero and ten, but we'll

post it online.

some winter afternoon

while we embrace

there is a bloom

of breath 

between us as we

try to decide whether

to kiss

or not kiss

as we part

outside the pub.

have we gone too far,

too close

too soon,

or not far enough.

are we

willing to take

a chance

to see one another

again

on some winter 

afternoon.

soft blue, and warm

inside the hollow

knot

of the tree, far off the ground

i see the head

of a snake,

black

as black can be.

neither good or evil,

just him

being who he's

supposed to be.

but what of the eggs

he's found inside

the nest, 

soft blue and warm,

what of the birds, 

not far off, now watching.

the hour glass

as we age,

our skin 

becoming parchment,

the print

of our

words, our deeds

etched

upon our face

we are startled

by its quickness.

even the arms

and legs

are tells

to time passed.

we wake up

cold to the knowledge

that there is less

sand

than yesterday

in the glass.

so close to home

as we walked into the woods,

deepening

with darkness

the snow fell faster 

and hard.

the whitened world was

at a slant

in this blizzard.

the quiet of cold sinking

into our bones.

would we die together

out here,

hand in hand

as our boots sank

deeper into the snow.

is this how life would end,

together,

our love just beginning,

so close to home.

the new hawk and dove

they cry

over the old bar,

the run down joint on the edge

of town

home for the lost,

the poets,

the laborers, 

beleaguered politicians,

fast women,

the fringes of society.

the wobbly stools,

the carved

bar,

the unflushed toilets,

and wet floors.

the lighted juke box

in the corner.

saturated with a hundred

years of smoke.

they cry 

as the iron ball swings

through the walls,

they groan as

the plows pushes

through the rubble.

it's where they fell in love

for a night or two,

where they

drank away their cares,

their blues.

and now it's gone.

they grieve it hard,

their old stomping

ground,

soon to be replaced

by something new.

the wrong kind of love

i wake up hungry.

not just for pancakes 

with syrup and a side order

of bacon.

but for affection.

for physical love, for the kiss,

the skin,

the sin of it all.

hungry

and thirsty for the wrong

kind of love,

not just a taste, not 

just a crumb,

but the kind of love

that makes you weak

in the knees,

without inhibition,

the kind that fills you up 

until you're satisfied,

leaving you 

with a crooked smile, 

a sleepy grin.

it's hard to ever know

so much talk about forgiveness.

about healing

and moving on,

freeing yourself from those

that did you harm.

forgive

their misdeeds, their lies,

their betrayals

their sick and disordered

minds.

forgive them

for they know not what they

do?

or do they?

it's hard to ever know.

sunday mass

i see sadness

in the church, the crowd bent

towards

the door

weighed down

by guilt and shame

pouring in

their pennies

to be free and clean

again.

i see sadness in the priests

feeding

them wafers

and wine.

all the while hiding beneath

the gold,

the shine,

their tattered cloaks,

their doubt filled minds.

different at night

are we different

in the night,

does the day shine too hard

on who

we wish we were,

who we pretend to be,

and then when darkness

falls

the truth

comes out. the mask

falls to reveal

our fangs, our wounds, 

or halos?

our third world country

there's a line outside

the drugstore

people with their sleeves

rolled up

weary

from the wait.

begging for a shot.

they're online,

they're

at the hospital, banging

on the windows

the doors

they don't want to die.

they want

the needle,

the cure.

they hold up their

babies,

they tear at their clothes.

they show

their id's,

a list of their ailments

and underling

issues with lungs and hearts.

but they can't

get in.

the web site is down,

the doors are closed.

come back tomorrow.

we will let you know.

praying with snakes

my friend jimmy asks me to

go to his new church

with him.

so i look at my watch and say,

okay, why not.

maybe there's some single

women there.

he shakes his head, and says

that's not what it's all about.

whatever, i tell him.

so we go.

it's wild. people are throwing

snakes around to each

other, speaking in tongues.

rolling on the floor 

having convulsions. 

what the hell, i say out loud.

and jimmy laughs,

i told you it was wild.

look out here comes a 

copper head right at you.

go ahead and pick one up.

he shows me the bite marks

on his arm, swollen and red.

if one bites you and you live,

it means that God loves you.

and if you don't live,

well, that's a shame.

straight to hell you go.

i'll never do that again

i hear people say

with wise

determination,

i'll never get married again.

or i'll never

drink sloe gin again

and get on a ferris wheel,

or drive with no hands

going down a mountain,

or i'll never go camping

in the woods

where bears are really hungry,

i'll never buy a used car,

or put my hand

under a rock down by

the stream again,

or i'll never eat indian

food again, or live sushi.

these vows are always

connected

to something that

has gone horribly

wrong, something that makes

them pledge to never

go back again.

it usually takes about

two or three trips to the altar,

to reach that point.

moleskin

does no one care

about all the moles being

skinned

and made into

purses

and things.

my phone case for instance.

what about the moles,

i ask my friend betty who

knows a little bit

of something about

everything.

we need to free the moles.

what kind of a world

are we living in

skinning little animals

like we do.

she laughs.

moleskin is a man

made product

she tells me.

woven cotton, both

fuzzy and soft.

she lifts up her leg to show

me her alligator

shoes.

who needs alligators, though,

right?

the broad knife

i think about this butter

knife

in my hand.

passed down to me by

someone

no longer here.

buried deep inside the cold

ground

in manchester.

but this knife,

this broad shiny knife,

how well

it knows butter

and jam.

wide and reflecting

the sunlight that comes

through her

kitchen window.

after one gin and tonic

it's not exactly

an epiphany

or a coming

to jesus moment, 

but there is a light

that goes

on somewhere

in your cavernous head

telling you 

the truth about

many things.

about people in general

and what you

need to do

to survive among them

you find a way to live

with or without 

them.

one moment of gin induced

clarity

tells you that

contentment and 

happiness lies within.

you don't need to stare

into a candle

or wrap your legs

around your head 

like a pretzel,

or become a monk

to get it.

stop caring so much

for what isn't important.

there has to be more

we'd like

to think that there is life

beyond

this life.

another planet,

another world where

another way

exists in a different

shape

or form.

a higher intelligence

to show us the error

of our ways.

this isn't enough

for us.

there has to be more.

how sad to think

it's just you,

and your shirtless neighbor

out there

at 7 am mowing his

lawn.

the striped sweater

when you need your

cane

to answer the door,

or 

your spy glass to read

the daily news,

when you no longer

hear the smoke

alarm because your hearing

aid is not in your ear,,

when you need to find

your teeth, but don't care.

when the little blue

pill won't work anymore

despite her standing in front

of you in her

silky underwear,

when

there's oatmeal on your

favorite striped

sweater and it's killing you,

it might be time

to go.

the right roses

i see the men

bent over the store roses,

grey with concern,

unsure

of which bundle to buy.

are they fresh,

are the petals dry?

so many colors to choose

from.

is a dozen yellow enough, 

or white,

or should i go

deep red

to apologize?

how it begins

it's learned early

and never leaves us.

how we go

about our day, our method

of seeking

what we need or want.

the first cry

sets the stage.

keeps them coming

through the door.

the tears, the play.

some 

grow up while others

linger longer

in the crib.

they prefer life that way.

someone to look up to

she was someone

i looked up to.

her being six feet tall,

what choice did i have.

she put her arm around

my shoulders 

as if i was a small child.

i felt safe with her.

and she liked 

being in charge.

vertically we were challenged,

but horizontally

we matched.

if i needed something

off the high shelf,

there she was.

cobwebs in the corners,

no problem.

i'd have to stand on a box

to kiss her.

sometimes i'd ask

how the weather was

up there, and she'd laugh

despite being asked that

all the time.

she called me short bread.

i miss her and still think

about her, but sadly

it just wasn't meant to last.

who is she?

my brain

was like a monkey in a banana

tree,

jumping from one

branch to another.

i couldn't think

straight or sleep.

my heart was beating

like a rabbit.

so i went to see my therapist

for a check up.

a little tune up

to see what the deal was.

immediately,

she said.

who is she? what's her name?

fashion statement

the world has reached an age,

or a state of mind,

where few care what they look

like anymore

when going to get the mail,

or to the store.

there were years

where most got dressed,

showered 

and combed their hair.

they looked decent 

as they went out

into the street

for a gallon milk,

or to church.

and now we're all in pajamas,

in tights and shorts,

with flip flops

on our feet.

the second hand store

i would never buy new

she tells

me.

my car is used, my clothes

are second

hand.

there's nothing wrong

with day old.

this house has been lived

in many

times.

these shoes

i bought at the second

hand store.

i believe in the flea

markets,

in sales,

one man's trash is another

man's gold.

you should meet my husband,

he's my latest,

the third one is the charm,

so i'm told.

arguing in the trees

the birds are arguing in the trees

this morning.

some in the air,

some sitting

on limbs and branches.

they are full

of themselves, 

squawking 

in disagreement.

their breasts puffed

with ideas.

i get dressed and go out

for coffee

and sit outside on

the stone chairs.

here too, it goes and on.

the chatter never ceases,

the same here

as it was there.

when the great oak falls

when the great oak falls

the neighbors gather. never

have i seen such

emotion

poured out by so many.

the tears,

the hands on their mouths.

the shaking of heads,

they touch the fallen

trunk,

lying sideways now,

the length of it across

the lot.

pictures are taken, children

gather

to climb aboard

but are held back.

dogs are barking, sad about

the tree they knew so well.

such sadness there is

by the community board.

the treasurer, the comptroller,

the vice president

and the secretary. they

roll out the yellow tape

to keep everyone safe.

then the president approaches

me and tells me

that i have the wrong shade

of red painted on my door.

i'll be fined daily

until it's painted over.

the secret rendezvous

for as long

as i can remember,

playing sports at the local parks,

basketball 

until the sun went down

i can still see

the cars parked in the shadows

of trees

along the gravel lots

where the married men

and women,

met secretly.

the windows rolled,

the darkness of their lives

unfolding before us,

but we were children,

ignored, for

what were we to know

or care

this was their world,

our eyes gave them 

little to worry about,

they had no fear.

coming home late again

when he'd arrive home,

late.

a cold plate of dinner on the table.

fork and knife

beside it.

an empty glass too,

he'd tip toe

across the room

and put his finger to his

lips,

motioning upwards

to where my mother

would be asleep

in their room,

telling me to be quiet.

and then

he'd turn the music on

softly, and take me

for a ride on his large black

shoes across

the floor,

whiskey on his breath

giving way

to another woman's perfume.

everyday evil

if you are careful

with your words

when around them,

walking gingerly over

the eggshells

they've laid down,

if you are careful of

the music you play,

the books

you read, or don't read you,

what you watch

on tv, if you sit quietly

without speaking

what you believe,

you have fallen

under their thumb,

under their spell.

you have lost your way.

they have won.

it's not your turn

after falling

from the ship,

i wake up in the sand.

washed ashore.

the sun

on my face.

my clothes wet, and caked

in salt.

the ocean says

no,

not yet. it's not your turn,

come back when we're ready.

it won't be long.

the underground

i went underground

with her.

deep into the catacomb,

where the dead lie.

cold, and damp.

what little light there

was

came from desire.

a small flame

burning slowly out.

i could see my name

etched in the stone.

i could smell death coming,

hear its footsteps.

a long black night it was.

until i left.

and whoever she was

remained.

one step farther

to go farther than this

will be too far.

one step

more and there will be no

turning back.

no return

to who we were.

do we go forward,

do we leave the safe

present,

the heavy past,

do we leap into tomorrow,

of who we need to be?

do we have to ask?

quitting

i'm unregistering to vote.

i'm quitting

the book club,

deleting my memberships,

taking my

name off the lists.

i'm unfriending everyone.

cancelling my

associations with anything

i've joined.

i'm handing in my pool pass,

my discount cards.

i'm going underground.

off the grid.

i'm done with this new world,

i'm very annoyed.

what are you doing here?

when you worked

on a job

a construction job,

a laborer

pushing wheel barrows

or carrying

tools for carpenters

or brick layers

you'd take a lunch.

and grown men 

with families, or fresh

from the jump would take

out their wallets

to show you

a pay stub showing

how much they made

in one day.

each one topping the other.

those were the days

they'd say.

things have changed.

you can't make money any

more doing this.

you need to learn a trade.

and what about you

kid, they'd ask.

why are you here?

dinner date

when i get home

i see that my dog has been in 

the liquor cabinet again.

he's on the couch,

talking on the phone,

smoking a cigarette

and reading the national

dog show magazine.

he's wearing my good

suit.

where do you think you're going,

i ask him,

as i hold up the near empty

bottle of scotch.

i'm on the phone, he says.

shhhhh.

i'm meeting kitty for dinner

later in the alley.

don't wait up. i'll come

through the door

in the back, and by the way

we're out of purina.

and if you  could, i need help

with my collar,

it's a little tight.

take your time

i used to love her more 

when

she was asleep

or at work,

or on a trip, or when

she went out for a walk,

or made a run

to the store.

absence made my heart

grow fonder.

for when she was around me,

i couldn't wait

for her to leave again,

take your time, 

don't hurry back,

i'd tell her,

as she went out the door.

cancer sticks

there was a time

when everyone smoked,

my mother,

my father,

every relative and friend,

i used to cough.

my eyes would water.

the film of nicotine

coated everything.

the tap tap tap of the pack

against the table.

the matches. the lighters.

the ashtrays full of ash.

doctors smoked.

people smoked while

they ate. lighting up

at their desks at work.

on the bus, the train.

you couldn't escape the cloud

of grey.

and still, even now, people

smoke despite

cancer and heart disease

that cause

fifteen hundred sick souls

to die each day.

where's the tote board for

that?

look at me

everyone wants to be famous

for doing nothing.

nothing

but sticking their tongues

out and taking a picture

to post on instagram, or some

other pointless venue.

look at me. i've done nothing

with my life, and yet

i have so many followers,

so many likes,

i must be doing something

right.

say less

don't explain

your troubles. don't lay out

the past

too much

for those whose ear

you have.

in time

that will be all you have

to talk about.

better 

to say little, to say

yes.

i'm fine. and you?

thank you for asking,

again.

baloney

i hear my friend rattling on

and on

about politics,

and the state of the world.

if everyone would

just believe what

he believes and act

accordingly, the world

would a better place.

he has no clue what he's talking

about.

so i say.

that's baloney.

and he says what?

baloney?

why are you talking about

deli meats

when we're in the middle

of this deep

conversation?

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.