the dog days

the dog days

are done.

the leash, the vet,

the plastic baggies picking

up after him.

the barking,

the shedding.

the need for attention.

the guilt upon

leaving and staying out

late.

the happy greeting

at the door.

the dying.

the dog days

are gone.

but they're missed

just the same.

upside down world

she gets the sixteen ounce

porter house

steak.

i get the garden salad

with lite

dressing.

she wants dessert, i tell

her i'll have

just a taste.

when we leave she grabs

my shirt and pulls

me in for a kiss,

presses me

against the car and says.

i like you.

maybe you should come

back to my place.

i tell her, but i hardly know

you.

can i trust you?

it's only the first date?

insanity

it's not black

or white

it's right

or wrong.

why is it still an issue

skin

color,

religion,

ethnicity.

how many more spins

of the world

do we need to

get past this,

to get beyond?

hello onion rings

if i'm not at work

i'm spending money.

buying things that i really don't

need,

although a nice

compact air fryer seems

to be a genuine

necessity these days.

who needs all

that greasy oil

saturating your veins.

i take the tape measure

and see that i have

counter clearance

from top to bottom

and side to side.

it will be a nice companion

to the bread box

sitting next to it,

lonely for a long time.

hello onion rings.

hello french fires.

hello one more gizzmo

on the counter,

a sparkling

italian white.

the oxford comma

she throws her strunk and white's

elements of style

across the room and hits me in

the head.

i don't care what this book says,

you have to stop using the 

oxford comma.

it's ridiculous and confusing.

there is no need

to put a comma after the last

item and before the preceding

coordinating conjunction.

it's useless and unnecessary.

it's absolutely superfluous.

i beg to differ, i tell her

rubbing the bruise on my 

forehead. maybe if we lived

in England it would be okay.

but we're here in Lorton,

Virginia. i can't talk about 

this anymore, i'm going for a walk,

she says, slamming the door

behind her.

the errant stone

the crack in the windshield

grows slowly

across

the glass.

an errant stone

has found

its mark leaving

an abstract curving

cut.

it's interesting how it

catches the sunlight

and throws it back.

there's beauty in everything

i believe.

even you, my dear,

when there is no fight.

how the system works

what did you get in the  divorce

i ask my friend mary jane

when she comes over for tea

one morning

at my trailer

on the edge of town.

i made out like a bandit, she

says. look out the window.

there's a black shiny 911 porsche

parked  behind my twelve year old

rusting truck.

sweet, i tell her.

and the house?

yup, got the house too.

cha ching.

kept the maid and the butler

not to mention

alimony, child support, and half

of every penny he ever saved

or made.

cheat on me, will he. ha.

i love spyware.

but weren't you cheating on him

too. yeah, but he never caught me.

dang. alimony?

your kids are all grown up.

how did you get child support?

yeah, she says.  but the dog

is only a year old. he's still in

school and needs grooming

every other week.

dang you did pretty good.

i sold the diamond he gave me

too. i'll be taking a world cruise

at the end of summer.

maybe you can come with me.

no. i wish i could, but i have three

jobs now paying off my ex.

what's that noise, she says, 

putting her hands over her ears.

oh, that's the freight trains

going by. i'm very close to the tracks.

lost in the wildernes of dupont circle

geographically

i get lost easily. it's a definite

glitch in my 

make up.

when i should go left,

i go right.

a fork in the road is

always a dilemma. 

the roundabout gives

me a rash.

mapquest and

the phone are just tools

that get me even

more confused.

i can't follow the stars,

or the moss on

the back, or front of a tree.

north and south

are perplexing.

i carry bread crumbs

every where i go.

i'm telling you this because

i might be late 

tonight

if i'm not there by 8

send out a search

party for me, please.

have you met my dutch oven?

it's rare that i fall in love

with inanimate objects,

but i love my dutch oven.

she's so sturdy and reliable.

how easily she cooks

up whatever i put in it.

i just turn the oven on,

slide her in, and she does

the rest. no drama.

low maintenance. 

i can't stop talking about her.

she's butter yellow with

a nice round lid.

so easy to clean and put

away once she's done her job.

i hear wedding bells.

picking berries with dorothy

let's go pick strawberries

my lovely

bride says to me

one bright morning.

she's pulling the curtains

back and

has a little straw basket

in her hand.

come on, up and at em.

there's a farm about

seventy five miles

from here, where we can

pick our own berries.

blue berries too.

i look at the basket and

the dress she has on.

she looks like dorothy

in the wizard of oz.

her hair is in pig tails.

where did you get that 

costume, i ask her, rubbing

my eyes from the sunlight.

it's not a costume, i got

this at the Nordstrom Rack.

oh.

so, get up, let's go

pick some strawberries.

it'll be fun.

doesn't safeway have strawberries?

i ask her.

i saw some in

little boxes the other day

in the produce section.

blueberries too.

can you get me a pillow?

i made the drinks too strong

one night,

while we were making out

on the couch

listening to al green

and marvin gaye.

me, struggling and frustrated

with complicated

small hooks

and buttons.

tiny zippers. completely

flabbergasted

without a flashlight.

it didn't take long before

she got up,

straightened out her clothes

and staggered to the bathroom.

be right back, she said.

hold that thought.

but she spent the next

few hours hugging

the porcelain

wheel with her legs splayed 

out on the cold tile  floor so

that i couldn't open

the door.

i knocked politely,

hello, excuse me,

are you alright

in there,

is everything okay?

to which she replied

with a grunt, then groan

and a splash, then

flush.

i'm okay, she said. i'm fine.

can you get me

a pillow?

Broome Island

the widow, new to this after

a long marriage

ending by her husband's heart failure.

she speaks of the boat.

the small one,

then the large one.

now sold.

grand children come up in

the conversation

quite easily.

the ages, the names, where they

live, the instruments

they play.

there's a crayon portrait

on the fridge from one.

she tells me how beautiful

her marriage was.

how they met, how they lived,

and loved

one another. she tells me

where they traveled.

i want to go back to Italy

she says, perhaps a cruise

with someone new.

maybe it's you.

do you know where Broome

Island is?

what sign are you?

the uncared for

you can tell the uncared

for

the clothes

untucked,

unshaven,

the eyebrows bushed

and unkempt.

the stray cat in the alley,

the dog

off a leash.

the man

huddled over his drink.

the woman

neither awake

or asleep

as she sits in the sun

waiting for a bus,

or someone.

you can tell the unloved

by their gait,

their

eyes. the way they talk,

or don't listen

to you, when you

speak. but they press on.

don't we.

the weather vane

i pull over

to the side of the road

and turn the car off, the windows

down.

there's a field

i've never noticed before.

a red barn

old, and falling in the distance.

fading in the blue woods.

no one around.

the rusted weather vane

still in this wind.

stuck

in one direction.

a feeling i know quite well.

a banquet of words

i savor this book.

i read it slowly in bed,

perched upon a pillow

upon my knees.

page by page,

i'm in no hurry for the end,

i measure how

much is left,

holding it to the light,

and sigh.

just five pages tonight.

i don't want

it to end, not yet.

you bother me kid

the little kid next

door sees me bouncing a

basketball as i head up to the court

to shoot a few hoops.

get my shot down

for the summer,

work on my left hand,

and he says.

you're too old for that.

i tell him to shut up

and go play with his toys.

you bother me kid.

everything must go

everything 

has a shelf life.

everything is a lightbulb

about to blow.

you, me.

our hearts and that

loving glow.

everything we own.

from top

to bottom

\will wear, 

will tear, will rip

and bend,

rust out.

take a good look at the sun,

the moon.

they too will

one day have to go.

slow to anger

slow to anger,

but i get there. feeling cheated.

feeling

disrespected. underpaid.

i drive home

simmering with

resentment.

but within an hour, i write

and say.

i'm sorry things didn't

work out.

good luck with

your house.

your life.

so it ends like that.

in a good way.

something of yours

as i clean the house

before the maid comes.

picking up towels and pants,

socks

and shoes, i find something

of yours.

i pick it up and stare at

it, remembering

how happy you were

when unwrapping 

the small soft box.

the tears in your eyes.

i smile. i place it into a

drawer. perhaps i'll see

it again sometime.

and remember that moment

once more.

maybe a third coat will make me happy

you can't make everyone happy

with a can of paint,

a broad knife

full of spackle

and a tube of caulk.

some people will be unhappy

no matter what you do.

no matter how neat

the lines are,

how covered the walls are.

how wonderful it all looks

when done.

they want something

beyond what you can give,

this is when

the doctors, the philosophers,

the priests

need to come.

bug world

i wake up to the screaming bugs.

cicadas.

millions of them

awakened after a nice 

seventeen year nap.

are they happy?

i think so, they sound giddy

in fact.

they have so much to say

to each other

after being burrowed beneath

the ground for so long.

they missed a lot and there is

so much to talk about.

the lightning bolt

lighting strikes a tree

outside my house and

sets my computer on fire.

i try not to think it's 
God putting an end to what i'm

browsing online,

and put the flames out.

i call up my insurance

company.

too bad, they say. we can't

help you.

if the lighting struck outside

and not in your house

well, we don't cover that.

have a nice day.

by the way,

we may have to raise your

premium now because you

called us and took up 

so much of our valuable time.

time travel

if you could go back into time

she asks

me, drinking her third apple

martini, what year, what era,

what time would you go back

to? say you had a one shot

at going and coming back.

i clink her glass with mine

and say. hmmm. good question

my dear. very good question.

i tell her four years ago

and give her the exact date,

the exact time.

that's it, she says, you wouldn't

go back to the cave man days,

or medieval times,

or biblical times.

nah. four years, six days, and

nine hours ago.

i'd go back to that and make

things right by swiping left.

the document

i blow on the piece of paper

to dry

the wet ink.

fanning it across the hot room.

i smudge everything with

my eager fingers.

this though

is too important to mess up.

i want it legible,

clear and distinct.

the letters punched down

in black.

a notarized stamp,

dated and legal.

two names signed at the bottom.

that's that.

the next true love

i make my list of deal breakers

for the next and hopefully

final true love of my life.

i narrow down the attributes for

my next cell mate, whoops,

i mean soul mate.

i throw away the old list,

tossing it across the room

into the wastebasket. swish.

okay. where should we begin.

non smoker. easy one.

no drugs, no excessive use

of alcohol unless it's a holiday

or the weekend. swearing is okay.

maybe one tattoo if it's not

a swastika or a caricature

of the devil, or something 

like that.

teeth. it's good to have teeth.

smart. smarter than me would

be nice, and not a reach,

especially around

tax time.  someone with

good manners. knows how

to fold a fitted sheet. a reader.

physically fit, is a plus,

but not bone skinny living

on lettuce.

no one with blue or green

hair. just the regular colors,

please.

loyal and true. no liars, hate that.

a good kisser.

not too sloppy though.

not a fan of the drool.

legs are nice to have too,

and arms. cooking skills

would be great, but not

mandatory.  one or two dogs

or cats, at the most.

no pet snakes, or reptiles.

i don't like someone that whistles

a lot, or plays the banjo.

kind of weird.

financially independent is

important, as is having a car,

or some sort of transportation

other than feet.

kind compassionate and

silly are all good traits to have.

a dormant libido. not good.

no ex's lingering in the shadows

is a must.

someone not currently in big

trouble with the po po.

or in rehab, or in a straight

jacket. or on their cell phone

24/7. i know that eliminates

a lot of people, but i have to

draw the line somewhere.

oh, and least i forget, someone

with girl parts,

don't make me draw a picture.

potatoes and chicken

when my great grandmother

would chase

a chicken around her bricked yard

in south philly

we'd look out the window

and watch.

we'd cheer the chicken on,

not wanting it be caught.

but it was.

a twist and yank

of it's neck

with her boney hands

and that was that. 

she'd roast potatoes 

to go with it.

intuition

my intuitive powers

are tingling again. i feel

a change

coming on.

the stomach curls

with anticipation.

like a storm rising in

the distance over

the mountains.

i feel the fresh wind

pushing it towards me.

towards us.

time to close the windows,

the doors and

get ready.

get under the blankets.

this could be rough.

sweet coffee

it's not that i need coffee,

it's more that

i want coffee.

not black, not bitter.

but sweetened with cream,

with a spoon of sugar.

put your finger

in it and stir.

that should do the trick.

these needed shelves

i need another bookshelf.

and another

wall to place

the bookshelf against.

i could take out

the bed, but then where

would i sleep.

where would you sleep

when you visit me?

it's a dilemma, these books.

these walls,

these needed shelves.

the silver spoon

i spend the morning

polishing silver.

one spoon.

who left it behind,

i have no clue.

but i take care of it

as i do most things.

by noon it will shine.

i'll place it

back into drawer.

and if you ever return.

whoever you are.

it will be easy

to find.

passing through

i take the same trail

on the bike.

i roll down the same paved

path,

the dirt stretch

through the woods, over

the boarded bridge.

in all seasons,

in all weather, the same

way, i go.

and as i pass familiar

faces,

we acknowledge one

another with a nod,

a wave,

with friendly, but fleeting,

hellos.

no words spoken

few have i chosen

to never speak to again.

maybe one,

maybe none when i sit down

and think about it.

it's more their choice

than mine.

i have no quarrel with the past.

what was is settled.

what wasn't meant to be,

is fine.

how strange it is though.

to be in love,

to be once entwined,

then have it end abruptly,

so much of life

can be unkind.

the iced cake

as i lather the cake

with a rich frosting,

i lick the broad faced knife

and close my eyes.

i remember doing this as

a child, and now again,

as a grown man

i can't resist the sweetness,

so lick away i do,

but this time without

my mother's reprimand.

making it home

she can make a home

anywhere she pleases. there she

is in the woods,

hammering stakes

into the ground to keep

the tent secure.

she sets a door mat

out front. hangs a picture

of her children inside.

she brings her favorite

pillow, her pajamas.

her book, her wine.

she is as comfy now as she

is back home.

and this will do quite fine.

the darker side

under this stone

there is

life, a teeming village

of things

some that will do no

harm

some that bite.

it's underneath it

all where we need to

look

and pry.

we sometimes need to

understand

what lies

below the darker side.

careful at the light

like a cat

we have nine lives.

some less

some more, but there

are multiple chances

at getting it right.

at surviving whatever

storm you're going through.

around each

corner you're suddenly

in a different

life. keep walking,

but carefully at the light.

a june wedding

she says let's get married

in june.

we get along so well.

we're perfect for each other.

she takes my hand and kisses

it gently.

why june, i ask her.

why not, she says.

are you scared?

who me?

pffft. me scared of marriage,

you must be kidding.

my goal is ten marriages.

so it's on then, she says.

sure, here's my credit

card, have at it.

just make the cake 

chocolate this time,

i'm getting tired of vanilla.

the mobile chef

she had her schedule.

spaghetti and meatballs on wednesday

pork chops

on thursday.

sloppy joes on friday

and chicken on

saturday.

sunday was ham.

monday and tuesday she lay

down

in her bed and tried

to not to thing about

food, today there was no plan.

it was a good day

sinking deep

with a sigh

into the hot bath full of suds,

i ponder the day,

my legs weary,

my arms heavy.

the first drink of the night

on the ledge.

it was a good day.

no one died.

money was made.

people were happy

and pleased.

that's enough to go on

for now.

the rest can come later.

the blue wind

in this blue wind

before sunset, the mother

and daughter

in the street give rise to the kite.

the girl

holding the string,

the mother giving

advice.

but it's all about the wind.

as it always has been.

now i see

i see it now,

clearly, as if my eyes have been

washed clean

of salt,

of tears.

i was blind

for so long,

seeing what wasn't

there,

but now i see.

lines for winter

these are lines

for winter.

white lines of snow.

drifts.

bare boned trees.

the sky

low and grey.

a melt of sun long

gone leaving

a strand or two

of violet.

the slush on the street

is ugly.

we are not quite old.

but far from young.

with more behind

us than in front.

but that's fine.

it's perfectly okay.

these are lines for

winter.

there's beauty in

this ending.

a part of us wanting

to leave

a part that wants 

to stay.

let's start there

the screen play

is going slowly. i'm stuck in act one.

what to do

i need more time

in order to sort this out,

to find out

where it's all going.

two people, no three,

make it four.

back to two. just two.

out west, no back east.

new york.

let's start there.

central park.

a bench.

it's winter. no, no, that'll never

do.

it's fall let's call it fall.

the leaves

the chill in the air.

the old people wrapped

in long coats.

the traffic, the pigeons.

cops on horses.

two lovers, no. two former

lovers,

meeting for the first time

in years.

okay. let's start there.

calamine lotion

i send twenty dollars in

to the television preacher to see

if he can heal

this rash i have on my leg.

it's itching like crazy.

i put my hands on

the television

and say what he's telling

me to say. people are

shouting and falling

all over the stage.

i close my eyes, get on my

knees.

then my wife comes in and

says,

what are you doing?

i'm getting my leg healed.

i sent in twenty bucks

for a healing.

what are you nuts, here.

rub this calamine lotion

on it, you have 

poison ivy, you dope.

you're in, you're out

every few months

she unfriends me on 

stupid face book.

we disagree

on something, or i'm not living

up to the task

of being her friend

and she clicks the button

to be done

with me.

and then another week goes

by and i'm back

in her friends list.

it's interesting and amusing,

both at the same time.

clean up in aisle six

there's a spill

in aisle six at the grocery store.

i can hear

the announcement for

someone to come

and swab the deck

before a customer slips.

shoppers head

in that direction

pushing their carts quickly

to where the accident

occurred. 

they want to see what broke,

what bottle crashed,

what box fell

from a high shelf

and opened, what can

split wide and with a splat

dripped out what once

was inside. maybe pickles,

or ketchup or vinegar, or

god forbid, red wine.

one more cigarette

his smoking

was an art, the rings

coming out

in great circular puffs

that he was proud of.

there was the pipe,

the cigars,

the winstons.

the silver lighter

that he'd snap open

and closed

when nervous.

the ashtrays would be

full of butts

and ashes.

in the car, on the tables

next to where he

slept.

and even near death,

he wanted one

more cigarette,

which they placed in

a small hole cut into

the front of his neck.

now we're all friends

what did you do in the war

daddy

we killed people.

how come.

they were trying to kill us.

why did they

want to kill you?

because

we were different

from than them

and they were different

than us.

and how did it end

we got tired and went home.

but now we're all friends.

no exit

she has every reason 

to argue.

to ask questions,

to explore

what's gone wrong. 

to interrogate,

but i resist

going there. having lived

half my life

in that Sartre play.

i'm out of dialogue.

out of energy,

exhausted with it all.

i just want 

it all to go away.

crossing the lake

how easy it is 

to row across

the lake

both with an oar

in hand.

we glide to the other side

and enjoy

each other's company,

with balanced strokes,

falling in love,

you might say as we press

forward

through each gentle wave.

all is well.

all is fine.

until one stops rowing.

and the boat drifts out

of line.

one memory at a time

she forgot what she was

talking

about.

or that she left the stove

on,

or the door open.

she'd ask you the same

question

over and over again

in a ten minute phone call.

she couldn't remember

what she had

for lunch.

or where she was born.

her life was slipping

through her fingers,

like sand through an

hourglass, one memory

at a time, until

almost all of them

were gone.

the moth

it's the bright light 

i fly into.

the shiny thing,

the pretty glow.

that charm of heat,

and twinkle of eye.

i can't bat my wings

fast enough

to get into that light

and die.

what can be done

as we sat

and watched 

the carousel go around,

the music

playing,

children on the horses,

my young lover

and i

stretched out 

hand in hand 

on the long green

lawn.

she said, in a whisper,

with tears.

i'm late.

i'm afraid.

what can be done?

forever friends

when your arm was strong,

your legs sturdy

you could throw a ball

fifty yards across a field

arcing in a tight spiral

into the hands

of a boy running fast.

it was easy, thoughtless,

how green was the grass

back then, the blue skies

of morning, as we gathered

in boyhood joy,

this group of forever friends.

we need more of you

how do you measure 

a productive

day, did you get the job done,

make money,

run errands.

what does a cow say?

was that enough milk,

or the chickens

laying eggs, enough?

do you need more of me,

can't we sleep and rest,

wait until the next day?

you have your answer

it is the pause,

the slight hesitation

after asking,

that you know

that the next few words

you hear

will not be a whole

truth.

it's in the eyes,

the half open mouth,

the sigh,

the stammer

before speaking.

no need to hear more,

no reason to go on.

you have your answer.

three day camping trip

sally wants to go camping,

and because i like her so much, 

i say okay.

she shows me the list of things

we need to buy

and bring for this weekend 

adventure.

wine is at the top

and beer.

then bug spray,

bear repellant.

an antidote for snake venom.

and pretzels.

what about food, i ask

her as she neatly folds

the pup tent for the trunk.

oh, right, she says.

a pound of kale.

some spinach.

two apples and some dried

apricots.

can i add hot dogs, i ask her.

sure.

but low nitrate hot dogs,

and organic mustard.

we need to sharpen up

the knives too, she says.

and i think we're out of shotgun

shells.

so what will we do for three

days, i ask her.

mostly singing around

the campfire and drinking.

sometimes we play

charades, or talk

about our problems with

men and children.

while we sing 

becky likes to play the spoons,

and jimmy

strums his banjo.

what about aspirin and earplugs

i ask her.

oh, right. i have those

in my purse.

but not to worry, there's a

7-11 at the campsite if we

run out of things.

ship mates

it is the mundane

that fills our hours.

the necessary tasks of

cleaning.

of cooking food.

of making beds

and paying bills. so

much goes into 

keeping this ship afloat.

the yard,

the wiping of windows.

the attempts

at folding the fitted

sheets.

a mate would be nice

at times.

although the mutinies

would slay me.

open windows

some close their windows

to block out

the noise.

i prefer to open them

and hear

the world go by.

the cars,

the train whistle

through the woods,

the voices of children

in the playground,

the parents nearby.

the dogs barking, 

the trees half green

laughing in

the spring wind,

please, bring your noise

inside.

home from work

i felt that she loved me most

when i came home from work

covered in paint, and debris,

the dust of the day. the curl

of my hands still holding

a phantom brush, or tool.

my shirt heavy with sweat,

my shoulders sore, my legs

moving slowly through

the door. how she'd greet me,

and put her arms around me,

put her hands through my hair.

and wiped my brow

go take a bath she'd say.

i'll make us dinner. relax.

you're home now. i love you

more than any other.

down with vaguery

we don't want vaguery,

pale colors,

the wash of a sky.

the blah of things.

we don't want insincerity,

or half baked kisses,

or pats on the back.

we don't want

tasteless meals,

unseasoned and fast.

we want the banquet,

we want to taste and taste

and over eat,

to spill the wine,

to knock the table over,

to give in to all our

desires, to all our needs.

what it used to be

i see the trust in this dog's face.

her bright eyes.

the joy she has

in seeing me, hardly under control,

tail wagging, mouth wide

with dog laughter.

her body bends and rubs itself

against me.

the thrill she has in my 

presence reminds me for 

a moment of what love

was like with you.

perhaps i'll see you there

where once

my impatience showed,

anxious to hear your voice

to be near you,

close enough to hold,

i'd leave whatever

i was doing and drive

to where you were,

but it's different now,

how easily i'm deterred, 

how easy it is to say

i'm very busy with

so many things,

i'll be late, perhaps,

i'll see you there.

mission statements

as i drive around

i see  that it's quite popular

now a days

to put a sign in your yard stating

your mission statement.

telling everyone that drives

by what your religion is,

or what kind of people you

like or don't like.

who and what matters to you.

what melts your moralistic

buttah, so to speak.

people like their signs,

not to mention the bumper

stickers and the window

stickers telling everyone

there's a baby on board,

or what school you went

to, what sport your kids play,

what their grades are.

we want people to know

that we just ran a 5 k.

or climbed a mountain,

or that we visited the beach.

honk if you love Jesus,

one says. beep if you're

going to hell in a handbasket

says another.

we want to encourage

people to save the whales,

the bay. the air.

support your local sheriff.

give to the march of dimes.

i don't have one in my

yard but it doesn't mean 

that i don't care.

garnish it

i don't garnish enough.

it's been an issue for a long time.

when i make scrambled eggs

it would be really easy

and nice

to throw down some parsley

on the plate.

just a little sprig or two

for color.

same goes for a bowl

of soup, or a plate 

of codfish, how easy would

it be to put some

parsley or some freshly

chopped mint leaves

next to a slab

of salmon or grouper.

a little parsley can go

a long ways and make a

delightful visual impression

for the guests.

picking strawberries

lost in God's country,

i make a right at the light,

then left

at the filling station.

there's a billboard

the size of a drive in

movie screen 

asking me to vote for

Stanley Kowalski for sheriff.

i see the water

tower up ahead and veer

to the round about,

which i go around

a few times and get dizzy.

i look at my phone,

my garmin, my road map.

i'm in the middle of 

nowhere. i pull over and

stare a cow on the other

side of the fence.

he looks at me chewing

his cud, whatever cud

may be and shrugs.

and now i have to pee.

i call becky jean and tell

her i'm going to be late

for out date picking

strawberries.

jimminy crickets

was it the pepperoni

or the jalapeno peppers

all washed down with a 

white russian

that sent me into a wild night

of dreams.

vivid and in technicolor.

i woke up and was 

in a storm of sheets.

sweating, and exhausted.

you were there, she was there.

he was there.

the whole gang was in on it.

i knew it was a dream

as i was dreaming it, but

still, jimminy crickets,

what a night.

grey black and white

the colors of cars

are down to three or four now.

black, grey, white,

and the rare red or blue.

hardly a green one

in the bunch.

why so few?

the palette of colors

are endless and yet,

the choices are those.

no mint, no robin's egg,

no florida orange,

no pink, no bright shades

for you to choose.

three rooms in a cul de sac

as i paint another room

in another house

on another street, hang another

sheet of wallpaper

in a dining room,

stain another deck.

climb another ladder

stand in line at the paint

store for one more

gallon of latex, i ponder

what's next.

a boat, pick up golf.

travel, eat and get fat.

a dog perhaps?

then the phone rings, 

someone wants an estimate

for three rooms

in a nearby cul de sac.

i'm saved again.

five bucks starbucks

a christmas card 

from my mother

arrives about ten years late.

somehow it got lost in the mail.

slid between a counter

somewhere down the line.

i open it up and a five dollar

bill falls out.

have a few cups of coffee on

me, she writes. merry xmas,

love mom.

i laugh out loud,

with five dollars

it's now down to one.

reading for nourishment

i send him my list

of favorite poets, but state

early on

that hallmark is not one

of them.

nor dr. seuss.

i mention mark strand,

and elizabeth bishop,

some sexton, 

phillip levine,

of course

and the coarse

bukowski.

larkin near the top, as

is plath. so many to read

and choose from

if he goes down

this path. but keep

reading, keep writing,

until you find your 

own voice.

don't stop.

clean money

i find twenty dollars

in the dryer.

clean and crisp.

it feels like found money

although it came

out of one pocket or another.

i stretch it out

then put in on the ironing

board for

some steamed heat

to get the wrinkles out, 

i then fold it and place it

back into my pocket.

i'll get that pesky change

rattling around later.

okay, i'm ready, let's leave now

i could stay at my mother's house

for about an hour

before i began to sweat

and had to leave.

it was a half an hour at my

ex in laws house.

twitching like a cat

in a room full of rocking chairs.

about twenty minutes at

a pool party in maryland,

with a paper plate of potato

salad and a hot dog in my lap.

ten minutes at a funeral home

no matter who died.

nine minutes at a birthday party,

one minute if it was mine.

five minutes at the dmv

before i'd break out in hives.

a pup tent. thirty seconds

and then i'd jump over a cliff

or into a raging waterfall.

it's all good

it's all good for a short while.

things are fine until one wants

more than the other

can give.

throw in sex

and you've got a street fight.

one calls it a relationship

while you

call it a fun night,

a pleasant time.

it never ends well 

in situations like this.

it never does.

and it all starts with that

one simple kiss.

the red radio

it was a red transistor

radio

that drove my older brother

crazy

as i kept it on

throughout the night.

as low as i could

turn the dial and

held to my

ear, but he had hearing

like a bat.

he'd yell and scream

for me to turn

it off.

turn it down.

whether he had a love

for music, i never knew.

we went our

separate way in life,

and still do.

mother's little helpers

take one of these

my friend says, take one,

as she jiggles a little

white pill into the palm

of my hand.

you'll feel calm

and relaxed you'll be able

to do all the things

you hate doing without 

too much angst.

spending time with

strangers, no problem.

you'll be able to visit

those you don't like and make

small talk. you'll be

pleasant and kind.

you'll be one of us then, 

happy as lark, smiling

blissfully with your new

numb mind.

a square of yard

as his eyes went wet

and webbed in

strange darkness he continued

to dig in his garden.

a small square

known to his hands, his

knees.

the feel of soil

the smell of it.

up came carrots again,

tomatoes,

and lettuce, out went weeds.

the rabbit fence

was strung from post

to post.

and with his nose he knew

what was ripe and what needed

more time

to soak up sun and rain

on the fragile vines.

and if he still was unsure,

he took a bite.

Irma La Douce

my friend jimmy calls me at one

in the morning. he sounds depressed,

almost to the point of tears.

dude, dude, what's up? are you

okay. where's the new bride, lulabelle?

she's in the other room, sleeping

with the door locked.

i'm banished to the couch

in the living room.

she's mad at me again.

but you've only been married for

three months now. yeah, i know. i know.

i think i made a big mistake.

dang, i tell him. walk me through it.

why is she so mad?

she won't tell me, but i think it's

because i had my feet up 

on the coffee table,

or maybe i was watching netflix

which she has banned from the house.

he's whispering now, almost sobbing.

but the worst thing is that

she doesn't want to have sex anymore

and her mother is coming

to spend the summer with us.

both of them are vegetarians.

i'm up to here in kale and avocados. 

she was insatiable up until she moved

into my house and the ink on

the marriage certificate dried.

she used to be an animal in bed,

i couldn't keep up. i was taking zinc

like a madman.

and now she has a headache nearly

every night. 

maybe she has a brain tumor, or something, 

i tell him.

i wish it was that simple, he says.

she goes to bed now in her volleyball

t-shirt that's never been washed.

she doesn't even brush her teeth anymore

and has been eating a lot of onions

and garlic lately.

i feel for you brother. i went through 

the same exact thing a few times.

it makes me understand why prostitution

has been around for so long.

if i could get back all the money

i spent on stupid internet dates, feeding

half of the single women in the metro

area, i'd be a rich man right now.

getting to first base with them is harder

than breaking into fort knox with

a water pistol. i've seen it all my friend,

not to mention, being wiped out financially,

by half in the divorces.

at least with an escort service, you select

the one you want, have your date

and then you're done. easy peasy.

no listening to a boat load of 

psychiatric problems.

no one yelling at you for leaving

the seat up, no one nagging you

about the laundry or cutting the grass.

no visiting their parents, or meeting

their troubled twitching kids. 

when it's over, it's over

and you leave, or she leaves.

it sounds like a dream to me now,

jimmy says. why didn't we have this

talk three months ago?

because you wouldn't have listened.

just like how i wouldn't have 

listened, we're basically idiots

with a sex drive and that's how

they sucker us in. they're no better

than drug dealers. it's all cheap

and easy for the first few hits

and then, they got you.

as the song says, goddamn

the pusher man, or the woman 

as is in this case.

i'm not like that, honest

she tells me while

holding my hand,

you sound bitter and cynical,

exhausted by it all.

and i say.

maybe. just maybe i am.

but i've found that all women

cheat, all women lie.

all women pretend to be

someone who they aren't.

it's a game with them.

let them in and they'll

break your heart.

but not me she says.

stroking my arm,

i'm not like that. i promise

you, you'll see. i'm different

from the others.

despite my past,

and every thing you know

about me,

i'm really good inside.

the cluster of stars

we stare up at the stars

as if for the first time.

having driven out into the country

where there is little light

and suddenly the clusters

of sparkling stars

are there. fistfuls of diamonds.

shocking us, like new love,

with delight.

when things expire

i've let things go too long

in the fridge.

a ball of brown lettuce

once green

and crisp,

that wedge of cheese

now black,

the milk gone sour.

that slab of meat 

green at last.

nothing is edible

despite the cold, despite

how neatly it

was packed.

there was nothing i could

do, as each expired

as most things do, some

slow, some fast.

the careful bonfire

tricky having a bonfire

in your back yard

these days.

the dry woods to deal with,

the neighborhood watch,

the community board,

the law itself about burning

things in the open.

it used to be you could

just toss things into

a pile, old memories,

douse them with gasoline

and have a go at it.

what a pleasure it was

to see an old world die.

red cardinal

a sparkling red cardinal

arrives

and sits on the edge

of the fence

against a grey world

of long trees

and fallen leaves.

it's a wonder what the

world can give you

when you open your

eyes and look outward

not in.

candle light

the candle burns down

to a puddle

in the glass dish.

just a nub is left,

a tiny stem

of wick.

but there is still a 

flicker of light burning,

despite the shortness

of its life. 

hope remains.

i don't remember it like that

our memories are different

of each other.

and somewhere the truth lies

in between.

i heard one thing,

while you heard another.

you called what we had this,

i called it that.

funny how life is.

remembering the same things

differently. so much

is unseen, or unheard,

a lot gets missed.

the dull knife

i keep the dull knife

around

for old time sakes.

rattling in the kitchen drawer

with a new one.

it served me well throughout

the years

cutting bread,

cutting apples into quarters.

cutting steaks.

it was there when i had

no where else

to turn when slicing off

a piece of packing tape.

who throws out a knife?

it's a friend for life.

almost everything

the weather persuades me

to stay in,

stay close,

keep near.

why bother with this rain

and wind.

why go out

into the hail,

when everything you need

or care about

is here.

almost everything.

my ruby red slippers

when trapped

in an unbelievable

set of

circumstances

surrounded by knuckleheads,

losers and liars

the bottom feeders

in life.

i pull out my ruby red slippers

and put them on,

then stand with my eyes

closed and repeat over

and over again.

there's no place like home.

if this doesn't work,

i jump out of the plane

and pray

for a soft landing.

out of gas

in order 

to have an ending

you need a beginning.

and a middle,

i guess.

but you have to start 

somewhere

before it ends.

sometimes it takes years

to get there, 

while other times 

it doesn't take long 

to run out of gas.

they were just here

is there a cobbler

around,

a seamstress?

someone with a box

of tubes

to open the back

of the television and

fix it.

is there a milk man.

a man

pushing a cart full

of shaved ice,

with jars of flavor.

is there a chalk board

with erasers to bang

against the wall out back.

a ball field

in the street where

the chevy becomes third

base.

where is the duck pin

alley,

the phone booth,

the juke box,

the coke machine,

the junk man with his

horse.

the shoe shine boy

in the bus station, where

have they all gone?

just enough

for an empty pop bottle

we'd get two cents.

a nickel for the large ones.

a half dollar

for the wooden crate

they came in.

it added up

over a summer.

plus

the yards we raked,

the grass we cut,

the snow we shoveled.

the cars we washed.

anything

to make a buck.

and in the end, somehow

is was just enough.

mary and kenny

mary

once told me when she was

seventy five

that she felt like she was

still a young girl

near twenty

working as a secretary

as the war

raged on.

it was fun she said.

the excitement.

riding the train up from

north carolina.

meeting kenny, the man

she'd marry.

and eventually bury

after a long sweet life.

i could see the sparkle in her

eyes.

almost in tears,

but smiling.

oh my, she'd say. my oh my

how the time

does fly.

i see you got the large jug of milk, interesting

i had to stop

going to one grocery store

near me,

because the clerks 

in their hawaiian shirts

were too friendly,

always commenting on the food

i was buying.

ahhh, they'd say.

sandwiches tonight.

as they moved the salami

across the counter,

or soup, i see.

chicken noodles is my

favorite, but this chowder

you have here

is also a good choice.

do you ever crush up crackers

and sprinkle them on top?

i do.

nice roses, by the way,

flowers for the wife?

it felt like they were all

drugged or hypnotized,

drinking the koolaid of

big brother Joe.

scary places

there's the filling station

bathroom, of course.

or the phone booth

on the side

of the interstate.

or the bus depot

with neer do wells

nearby.

the dive bar along

the canal.

the back seat of a cab

speeding

down broadway.

a motel

with a sign that says

vibrating mattresses 

available now.

there's the grill

at the waffle house.

the soup line,

the shelter.

the wedding altar.

a lion's open mouth.

the next

i agree

that  much of this is my fault.

troubled relationships

due to my

imperfections

that i have honed

to a fine point since

childhood.

choosing the wrong people

to be in my life.

the victim mother,

the toxic father.

but that said, so what

is there to do

about it.

nothing. not much.

just try again.

rinse and repeat until

the next inevitable end.

never been married

i insist for the record

to never

have been married.

the first one

lasted just a few months.

we were peach fuzzed kids.

she walked back

to her mother's 

home one evening

with a toaster oven

under her arm, an

uncle's

wedding gift

and that was it.

the second one was in

a foreign country.

not even in our language,

who knows what was

really said, or agreed

to. completely in lust

and out of our heads.

strike that one

off the list.

and the third, well.

what can be said about

that one,

that hasn't already

been said.

the psychiatrists and priests

agree,

that that one we should 

just forget.

what we fear

most fears

are rarely fulfilled, 

as we go

about our day.

the sky is not falling,

the lighting

has not struck.

even this ship we're

sailing on

will not sink,

but with love,

i'm sorry to say,

you're out of luck.

living alone

it is the little things,

the light on too long as we

ready for bed,

the flushing

of toilets,

the brushing of teeth,

the thump of bare feet

across the floor

as one goes down again

to check the latch on

each window, each door.

the snoring,

the pulling of sheets

and blankets,

that small night long

war.

it is the little things

that make us believe, not

so much in love,

but in living alone.

one wedding dress for sale

she left behind one of her

wedding dresses.

there it hung collecting

dust and cobwebs

in my closet so i tried

to sell it on e-bay.

i posted pictures

and described how white

it was,

how it flowed, the layers,

not unlike a beautiful

cake.  a cotton blend, no less

made in Italy

the tag read.

worn once, for an hour

or two, 

no stains, no tears, or rips.

just like new.

and there were shiny

white pumps to go with it.

this caused a bidding war.

i managed to get the price

up to fifty dollars

before it sold

for fifty one.

first this day and then the next

when my mother

spent a few weeks in St. E's,

we fended

for ourselves

for awhile.

the last kid came out hard

and wrecked

her for good.

sent her down the deep

hole

of depression.

things would change though

when she came

back home.

her wrists in white

bandages.

her mood no longer blue.

they put her back

together somehow.

with tape and meds,

some sort of

psychiatric glue.

soon she was back to

doing what she did best.

pretending that all was

well.

helping us through

this day,

and then the next.

bread crumbs

to find my way

home

i leave bread crumbs behind

me.

the birds follow too.

there's a cat

a dog,

a lizard.

they aren't lost like me,

or you.

they're just hungry.

a night in paraguay

as we sit

beneath the tent in the rain.

waiting

on our food and drinks.

the soft chatter

of others

around us,

it feels like paraguay.

or some

land

far far away.

we've been here before

it seems,

it's nice to be back

again, maybe this time

we'll stay.

one night in miami

she's not the same

when she comes

back from miami. 

she's speaking

in spanish now.

her skin is dark,

there's a flower behind

her ear

and she's wearing

a provocative white dress

that flows

like a cloud around her.

there's a fresh tattoo

of a rose

upon her neck and

i smell tequila

on her breath. her lipstick

is smudged.

i take it was a good trip,

i tell her.

bueno, she whispers

breathlessly,

it was.

dandelion wine

i stumble through

a field

of freshly grown dandelions

and begin

to pull at the petals.

she loves me

she loves me not.

this may take all day,

but i'll get an answer

at some point.

her violin

the violin 

was her instrument

of choice.

all day,

all night, she'd be at it.

moving

the bow across the strings,

the violin

tucked between shoulder

and chin.

it was a long sad

symphony 

of poor me, 

nothing's my fault,

i'm a victim.

the farmer's market

i head on over to the farmer's

market

early in the morning to beat the rush

on tomatoes

fresh from

the local farms.

i only need one for the week,

but i hustle over

just the same.

the bins and boxes

are full

of leaf lettuce,

onions and asparagus.

sweet corn.

some have the stickers removed

from safeway

and giant,

some don't.

jugs of apple cider

are coming off the backs

of pick up trucks

by little children farmers

in denim overalls from oshkosh.

i see one couple

who have their name tags on,

Ole Joe it reads

and his wife, Sallie Mae.

they have a twang

in their speech.

custom made for the delray

market, although their faces

say manhattan.

or maybe Queens.

peeeechez  are special this

year, she says,

holding a long plastic strand

of alfalfa between her teeth.

buy three, i'll give you 

the fourth one half off.

let's have a picnic

it's our first romantic

day time date.

we pack the picnic

basket

with sandwiches.

cut fruit.

cut vegetables.

potato chips.

she's made her mother's

potato

salad.

and i made brownies

a recipe off the box.

betty crocker's, i think.

we bring

wine, water, little cute

cups,

a table cloth.

napkins,

plastic plates and

forks.

bug repellant.

she brings a giant

umbrella

in case it rains.

which it does the second

we plant ourselves

on the ground.

a howling wind

suddenly roars through,

tossing everything around.

there's thunder

and lighting.

let's get a room, i tell her.

she laughs and says okay.

i grab a brownie

before we get up,

leaving everything behind

as we run away.

what's going on

this is all a trick,

right?

imaginary. nothing is really

real,

correct?

life death, work.

love, all of that.

this is all a game

and

at some point someone

is going

to make an

announcement

and tell us what the hell

is really going on.

right?

say yes.

the weather girl

in the workshop

i was corrected for using

the term

weather girl

in my short story. how dare

i deem

a woman, a professional

woman

that was a trained

meteorologist,

a mere girl.

they glared at me,

these fellow writers.

wagging their proverbial

fingers.

shaking their heads.

i had to change 

the wording in my next story

when i called

a woman 

a sweetly iced cupcake

that i couldn't wait 

to bite into.

what else is new?

another scandal.

another mass shooting.

another

fire, another tornado

ripping

through the county.

another

politician  caught with

his pants down,

another liar.

it means nothing to you

anymore.

you are numb

to it all, both personally

and with a world view.

you shrug and change

the channel.

what else is new?

an inch becomes a mile

an inch

becomes the mile

the second

you give in and go against

what you

know to be true.

the cheek is turned,

the blinders

set in place.

you allow this to happen.

and in the end

there is only you 

to blame.

behind closed doors

the world is full

of hall

monitors, captains

of the squad

all

approved  early  in

life

in high school.

and with many it never

ends.

they feel

the power and need

to correct the world,

erasing fun.

they were the ones

that told

you to not chew gum,

to be quiet,

to listen.

to not smoke behind

the auditorium,

and yet they were 

the worst

of everyone.

doing the same things

but behind closed doors.

the impossible journey

the one small ant,

an adolescent ant, perhaps,

has found

his way

onto my desk.

he or she seems lost

going from mouse to book

to pen

then back.

a feeling i know quite well.

some how, on some

seemingly impossible

journey it's made its

way up

the brick, from the yard

and into the window

then crawled 

up the side of my crumb

laden desk.

will he put the word out

with his fine

antennae and inform 

the rest of them?

the fox at midnight

we look at each

the passing fox and me,

i'm sitting on the far bench

near the woods

late into the evening.

he stops. surprised

that i'm there, unscared.

his slight blonde body

stands still

in the moonlight.

we have nothing to say

to one another.

i nod at him. he goes on

with whatever he's

doing with his life.

i do the same.

first world problems

she can't decide

on which dress to wear, which

car to buy.

which horse

to ride.

where should i go for holiday.

what school

should my children

attend.

harvard or penn?

why is the maid so late.

the gardener

untidy with

his snips, his rake?

are crabs in season yet?

or should we go 

with lobster, or filet

mignons.

it's so sad that we

have to wait.

too long for this

i've lost my appetite

for the fight,

the squabble,

the he said, she said

dialogue

that we've all been through.

i can't live

like that anymore.

how about i'll be me

and you be

you.

let's call it quits. life

is too long

for this.

gimme a slice to go

it may be too late for pizza.

perhaps.

but i don't want the local cardboard

fair,

the quick delivery

the corner

shop

with thin crust and stingy

mozzarella and

weak sauce, the

pepperoni tossed about

like dimes.

i want pizza from the city.

downtown.

original ray's.

a thick slice or two.

hot and gooey.

a dinner and breakfast

all in one.

something from 

the bronx, or second

avenue.

there is much to do

spent

by a day of work. i linger

too long

on the sofa.

there is much to do.

i have a list.

but everything can wait.

why worry.

why despair, why bother

with such thoughts

if tomorrow comes

perhaps then i'll find the time,

if not.

who cares.

south beach for xmas

one christmas

day while lying on the beach,

south beach,

the waves rolling

gently in like kisses

to the white sand, i looked

to my left

to my right

and was amazed

by the topless women

lying on their towels,

with drinks

in hand.

christmas no less.

i thought of snow, i thought

of mangers,

of church

and trees lit by the fire,

but

made no protest.

a slice of lime

it's the lime,

sliced

green,  the pale

cool

citrus reminding

me of ireland

that slides

onto the rim of the tumbler

poured thick with

gin

on ice,

that makes the day

go away,

makes it easier to accept

the night.

all that has fallen

the rain is a surprise.

i go about 

each window and pull

them down.

awakened by the cool air.

i stop at the back

and watch the stream go by.

it's wide, and full.

a long muscle

of grey water,

rolling as it does

taking with it all that has

fallen.

she make me smile

she makes me smile.

this long

attractive woman.

this fully engaged

person.

so nice to be

with a grown up.

smart

and kind. funny.

so easy to talk with.

to listen to.

such gentle souls

are rare, so glad to

know one.

waiting in the hot tub

some see a mountain,

a snowy airless peak

and want

to climb it.

others, including me

see it and say

no thanks,

i think i'll stay here.

have a sandwich,

a cold beer.

but i'll be waiting for

you in the hot tub

for if and when you

do return.

so many boats

so many boats

docked, tied neatly, wrapped

for winter

like easter

baskets.

the clink of anchors

sunken deep.

and the old captains and their

wives,

or mistresses

sit in the sun, or shade

and talk

of the sea. long ago voyages,

escapades.

prim and proper

in their blue striped

shirts.

their scarves, their tilted

hats,

they sit and drink, they pick

at salads,

at crabs.

write it down

a verse or two

comes to mind. but just

as quickly

slips

out of thought, decides

to hide.

so quickly gained,

so quickly lost.

to have a pen

handy

a pad of paper,  to save

these flashes

of light

would be a good idea.

the clearance

it's the end of the month

clearance

sale.

everything must go.

no refunds,

no returns. 

as is, the sign says.

the scratched,

the old and dusty,

the dented,

the marred.

the wobbly legs,

the scarred

frame.

the rips and tears of life.

what's left over

is out there for one

last shot.

it's not a good dating site.

at the end of the line

to be a doctor.

to be the one waiting

to hear,

to see,

to listen.

to put an ear to a chest.

to look

deep into the mouth,

the eyes.

the rest.

to be someone who

is at the end

of the line.

the one who says

you're good to go,

or that you're

about to face death

is unimaginable.

where is this relationship going?

where is this relationship

going

she asks me.

i feel like you're not into me.

that i'm

way down on the food

chain of your interests.

it almost seems

that you could live your life

perfectly fine

without me.

how is this possible.

if you don't succumb to my

wishes, i believe you're

going to live out your life

alone, and with no one around.

locked in your own world

of books and movies

and writing.

you'll be without a single

person to grow old

with.

but quite at peace and happy

i add on

when she finishes her lecture.

i don't hate it

i ask the waitress how

the coffee is today.

i don't hate it she says.

it's black,

it's hot. it's ready if you

want a cup.

i think we made it yesterday.

you're quite the salesperson

i tell her.

i'll have a cup,

though never getting

past the first sip.

wiping a particle of 

bitter grind

off my

burned lip.

swiping left

i swipe left

then left, then left again.

i look at my

calloused thumb.

i grow weary.

so many maybes.

so many far away.

so many

still married or holding

fish,

or babies.

so many desperate for

the one.

the one and only.

the prince on the white

horse.

still waiting at sixty

to be saved.

on the fence

she tells me she's a vegetarian.

but that she's

not a communist,

as if the two go hand

in hand.

although i am quite

liberal in my political

views, and you?

i tell her i'm on the fence

with all it,

i can vote either way

if it's the right man

or woman for the job.

even meat.

i can't decide medium

rare, or well done

half the time. but i do

like asparagus too.

the fresh wound

i stare at the cut along

the fat of my

thumb, palm up,

a nail having grabbed

the willing

skin and pulling it open.

i rinse the swirl of

crimson down the sink,

then wrap a rag

around the new wound

and let the blood

soak through.

it's heavy and dark,

then another, and another.

i hold it tight, 

trying to squeeze it to

a stop, then go

back to work.

there is always work to

go to, when healing.

this is where they sat

the bench facing

the long stretch of water

that leads

to the sea

is marked, eleanore

and john

meese.

a tarnished square of metal

tacked firmly

to the plank

where we rest our backs.

they are

long gone, i'm quite sure.

but it's not hard to wonder

how many sunlit

days,

or moonlit nights they

sat here hand in hand.

in love, i hope.

who could not be in love

with such a view.

birds are doing what birds do

she says the birds 

are doing what

birds do

as we walk

down the paved path

towards

the south river

beneath a cloudless sky.

they fill the trees with

chatter

and wings, and nests.

their world not quite

green but

all things moving forward

with spring,

regardless.

the oven cleaning

my eyes burn

and i choke on the fumes

as i spray

the inside of the oven

with

a can of death

called easy off

oven cleaner.

it's a lovely foam,

not unlike how the sea

washes up

in the winter,

both brown

and green.

i'd like to say that it

reminds

me of something,

or someone i knew,

but it doesn't.

when the mind strays

who isn't delusional?

who isn't

a bit crazy, a bit shy

of a loaf.

disturbed.

but we play on, don't

we?

we press forward,

knowing that

to belong we have

to get along,

that we have to tuck

these wild emotions,

these strange

ponderings away.

what point is there

in telling anyone

these dark and wonderful

thoughts.

but then there's this,

this pen and paper,

a place to put it all down

when the mind

does stray.

musings

we are living in the age

of memes.

short bursts of positivity.

posters,

blurbs,

quick words of advice

or clever

musings.

wry or sublime.

finding what others

have said,

what others have

gleaned.

who has time anymore

to think for oneself,

to be unique.

he was good at it

for the first twelve years

of my

own life

i can't remember

my mother not

being pregnant.

seeing her rounded

belly as she stood

in the kitchen,

scrambling eggs,

or boiling  bottles

filled with formula.

seven made it, two did not.

and where

was the maker of all

these babies?

good question.

but he was good at it.

is it over yet?

slowly people are coming

out

from under the rocks

they've been

hiding beneath.

wearily

looking out the window,

opening doors.

is it over yet?

are we done with this.

can we go to a bar

and sit

and have a drink,

can we go dancing again.

can we at last meet a stranger

and kiss.

the matador

after watching 

the documentary

on E. Hemingway

you come to hate him,

to love him,

to admire him,

to be disgusted by him.

to laugh at him, to praise

him, to shake your head

in dismay at him.

a genius, a fool, 

a pretender, an artist.

with his wars

and bullfights,

his many wives,

his cats, his insecurities.

he's everything it seems.

he's me, he's you.

that knocking at the door

it's probably indigestion.

this heaviness,

this strange feeling

in the chest, nothing

to worry about,

perhaps caused by worry

and mexican food

at midnight.

quickly i think i should

get dressed.

i should straighten

up the house,

sweep up the lingerie

left behind

by a guest,

and put the dishes

away, maybe write down

one more poem,

just in case that

knocking at the door

is death.

the safe door

i turn the dial,

my ear to the belly

of the black safe,

listening to the click,

i roll left

then right

then back again until

i hear the latch

go free.

it opens.

this is how i live each

day.

listening, 

carefully to each word

said to me.

easy on

i remember trying to get

that ring

off of my finger

using butter, and olive oil.

running my hand

under cold water.

i tugged and pulled

at that fat silver

metal, i yanked.

banged it against

the counter. it wouldn't

budge.

pliers didn't help.

i did pilates with my fingers

trying to unfatten them.

for the life of me 

i couldn't get it to slide

off and be done with it.

and it was so easy

slipping it on.

no monkey business

the bank

teller is purposely blah.

quiet

and serious

at his job.

with his grey suit,

his plain blue tie.

tapping his finger

at the keyboard

as you slip your id

below the window.

no joking here.

no frivolity.

it's a bank.

it's where the money is.

what's more

important than money?

although

in church i get the same

feeling too.

you need to keep

a straight face

there as well.

no monkey business,

please.

here comes the basket,

get ready.

just roll your eyes

anger is a good emotion.

used wisely

of course.

it helps you move

on from

evil people. but

you can't get mad at everyone,

or everything

although there are usually

good reasons to roll

your eyes and mumble

something snarky

beneath your breath.

but true anger.

red heat anger.

cursing with the hair

on your neck rising, that

kind of anger

is rare, best save that for

life and death

situations.

putting distance between us

ten miles won't do it.

another county,

another state, is still 

too close.

in fact a thousand

miles won't be

enough distance

between us.

let's talk geography,

continents,

let's go even further.

let's talk the moon,

the planets

another galaxy.

now we're getting close,

can we talk time travel?

maybe then.

smoke em if you got em

nearly everyone smoked

when growing up.

all the kids in the hood,

moms and dads.

everyone had a camel

or a winston dangling from

their mouth.

behind the school,

in the bathroom, pregnant

women,

men in bars.

at work.

ashtrays were everywhere.

got a light

the pope would say,

leaning over with a cig,

holding his hat on his head.

the president smoked

doctors smoked.

grandmothers chained smoked

while they knitted booties.

i saw a baby once smoking

a cigar

while being pushed down

the street

in a stroller.

dogs smoked.

squirrels had tiperillos

in their mouths

as they broke open

nuts.

e harmony

her e disharmony

profile said that she was the whole

package.

fun,

no drama, low maintenance,

spiritual

and light hearted.

loyal and true.

well read,

loves to cook, loves to snuggle,

to cuddle,

loves books. poetry too.

the glamor shots

were wonderful, airbrushed,

not a wrinkle in her brown,

not pimple

on her chin.

she was cleopatra come to life.

the woman of my

dreams.

what could possibly go wrong

again?

catfish are jumping

it's just one wall.

but he has books and books

of wallpaper.

all opened and marked.

paint to blend in.

six strips will do it.

but is this the right color.

is it too bold,

too plain.

i'm not sure about graphics.

although i am 

modern.

no flowers no birds.

something that says me,

he says, a paper that explains

who i am.

i stand and listen, i nod.

it's one wall.

two hours work.

my mind wanders, i almost

think about fishing.

one more one more

when sylvia

placed her head in an oven

having had enough

of this world

leaving her last manuscript

on the table,

her children in the bedrooms

sealed off from

the gas,

did she think that maybe

just maybe 

this isn't a good idea,

and wanted to run to the table

to write one more poem,

one more brilliant

piece,  one more effort

which wouldn't be her last?

sirens out the window

i'll go back and work on these

so called poems.

delete,

erase, edit.

i'll clean them and go

easier on

those i've come to dislike

or like.

the names will be changed

to protect the guilty.

be patient with me.

don't yell at me.

i'm doing the best i can here

with these fingers.

with that siren

going on out the window.

a bite of blood

it's a small cut

of the thumb, a bite of blood,

a reveal

of sorts

that yes you are alive.

how bright

how quickly you open

your eyes

when hurt,

the sudden

epiphany,

no more with the thin

disguise.

a tree in the woods

it takes so long

for the tree to grow, 

to become

what it's supposed

to be. to become

full, the trunk

thick,

the branches long.

a home for birds,

for squirrels, a beauty

in all seasons

giving shade.

it takes years, decades,

a lifetime to us

and then it falls.

no fanfare, no eulogy.

no history.

soon forgotten.

another sprout beside it

to take its place.

just a tree in the woods.

that's all.

when you get the itch

when i'd get the itch

after a few drinks

i used to call up betty, but she's

been in the wind

lately.

she said something about

mexico, but that was

months ago.

i go through my rolodex,

looking for a betty

substitute.

i got nothing. old numbers.

numbers changed.

blocked me.

deleted me.

ex wives, ex girlfriends,

ex online pals

from assorted dating sites.

no one's picking up.

i look through my thick folder

of restraining

orders to see if any

of them have expired yet,

nope. it seems 

i'm all alone with this itch.

why are they bothering me

the neighbor, an older 

gentleman

who i've seen once or

twice throwing a frisbee

to some kid,

bangs on my door at four in

the afternoon.

my first instinct

is to not answer it, to duck

down and crawl

back to the couch.

but i'm in the kitchen

standing at the sink

having dinner,

a peanut butter and jelly

sandwich on rye,

the only bread i could find.

i'm in my underwear,

but i think, too bad,

that's his problem

to deal with it.

i open the door, jelly on

my favorite white t-shirt,

and say, what up?

he asks me if my toilet

is backed up, if the plumbing

is draining out

water in the basement.

i tell him no

and advise him to call

a plumber.

he says. i did. so i say, okay.

anything else.

he looks at me and says no,

but perhaps

you should put some pants

on when you answer the door.

i'll think about it, i tell him,

as i take another bite 

of my sandwich.

the flounder sandwich

the flounder

sandwich is a spring special 

at the fast

food drive-thru.

four ninety-five,

it says on the sign.

which includes fries

and a medium

drink.

limited engagement.

i wonder if i should take

a chance.

i haven't had fish in over

two years now.

just calamari,

rubber gaskets from the sea,

batter fried and dipped

in an orange sauce

to give it taste.

a basket of those set

me back

three bills at the ER.

save it

if you want me to disappear

tell me what i can't

read, or watch,

what i shouldn't write.

tell me the food i should

be eating, how much water

i should drink.

tell me about kale,

about spinach, about squash.

take the gin away,

the cake,

the ice cream too.

go ahead, try and be my boss.

inform me on how to live

a more productive life.

preach to me about purpose

and direction. go ahead

i dare you.

if you want no more of

me tell what to wear,

how to love, how to walk.

instruct me on

what to say, what to believe

in. trust me, at this point

in my life,

i know who the hell i am

and don't need to hear it

another time, over and over

again. get lost.

the charade

she would pray over every meal.

bowing her head over

the avocado 

sliced in two.

there were rosary

beads hanging from the mirror.

an altar in the house with

candles and statues.

a cross in every room.

she played the catholic

channel on the radio 

and sang the hymns 

in church.

she put a can of beans into

the charity box each sunday.

cash for each

passing of the basket.

she knew all the priests by name.

there were wednesday 

ashes on her forehead.

her knees were calloused from

publicly kneeling.

i'm going to church again,

she'd say. don't wait up.

amazing.

if you only knew then what

you know now, her adultery.

glow in the dark mary

my mother

put a glow in the dark statue

of mary

on my father's dashboard.

meant to keep

an eye on him, and

have guilt

wash over his sinful ways.

it stuck

below the mirror.

in front of the wipers.

did it stop

him from carousing,

hardly.

it may have found him

more women

once they saw this sensitive

side to him.

life boat

listing, the ship

takes

on water.

the sails are torn,

the engine

smoking.

we may go down

so put your life vests

on.

it's been a good trip.

lovely.

take one

more picture before

we drown.

a placed called home

it's just a box.

a one room flat near the man

made lake.

a squared

off place to rest one's head.

you can hardly

hear the traffic

on the interstate

a block away.

outside

is the water, still and green,

the path.

the neighbors with their

dog.

the new borns in carriages.

it's home.

it's shangri la in your

head.

down goes the welcome

mat.

the plant on the table.

the posters up.

the wobbly table, the tv

in the corner.

death arrives long before

its time.

working on the chain gang

i remember working that hard.

nose

in the screen,

back aching from sitting so long.

at the beck and call

of bosses.

so far  down on the food chain.

i remember

those long hours,

weekends,

holidays at the desk.

no extra pay.

it was what was

expected of me.

self inflicted slavery.

cracking your own whip

upon your back.

i remember it well as i see

you go to work now

at the break of dawn,

seven days a week.

through rain and hail,

ice and snow,

how long can this go on.

i can't go far

i can't go far,

she says.

i have a dog, a cat.

a bird.

i have things to look out for.

amazon

might deliver a package.

i have strings

attached.

the mail will come

and pile up.

neighbors will wonder

where i am.

milk will expire in the fridge.

i can't possibly leave

town

for more than an hour

at most.

perhaps we can zoom,

or skype

or face time.

we can still be close.

the high perch

when the day is bad,

not going

well

it's good to find a tall

tree

and climb,

or a building higher

than any

others that are around.

go up

to the roof,

as high as you can and

look out.

see how small

everything is, and realize,

that once more

all will be fine.

down to earth

she told me 

that she was

very down to earth,

and i said,

that's good,

because

i'm currently 

living on earth,

although i'm on a

long list

to exit,

but for now,

this could work out.

church mice

when the church

left a basket of food on our porch

for thanksgiving

one year. i

ran into the house

after delivering my

paper route,

and woke my mother up

from the couch

where she'd been sleeping

since my father

left a year ago.

she started crying when she

saw the basket.

the ham.

the turkey. the potatoes.

the canned goods.

the pie.

it was the first time  that

i realized 

that not all tears were 

about sadness.

the trailer in berlin

his trailer, in Berlin,

not far

from ocean city, is wide,

is long.

three steps up

to the door, like any other door.

it's not bad he says as far

as trailers

go.

you wouldn't know it

when you get inside,

that it

was wheeled here,

from Timonium,

that it has aluminum sides.

no leaks.

sit down. let me pour

you a drink.

tv? or something to read.

or just talk.

let me pull the table down,

a game of cards?

with hand on her heart

when we turned the key

and entered

her studio apartment. 

she was lying

on her back

in bed.

her glasses on.

her curled red hair,

unfinished.

her skin white.

stiffened in her pose,

hand on heart.

the iron still on, the blouse

she was to wear

to work,

draped across the board.

i don't remember

her name.

or where she was from.

just that she was nice,

polite,

shy almost as she pushed

the button in the elevator

to go up,

alone.

beware of charm

beware of charm,

of pretty,

of articulate.

beware of the smile,

of the polite.

the unnecessary 

apology.

contrite.

beware of what

slithers gently

up your leg.

it won't be long

before you feel

that bite.

another act or two

i figure i've got a few more

acts left to go.

act one, two and three,

seem finished.

the curtain closed.

what's next?

a comedy, a tragedy.

high drama,

or something dull and

sleepy for a change.

i don't know.

there is no script, no

director, no lines to 

rehearse.

i'll just wing it

like i've done in the previous

three episodes,

see how it goes.

all in motion

everything is in motion

the earth

spinning,

the sun

the stars, that carousel,

across the way,

the pinwheel

in a child's hand.

the swirl

of wind making

ripples

in the puddle

where you stand.

nothing sits still

for long.

your heart,

your thoughts.

your longings, even

in sleep it goes on.