Wednesday, May 12, 2021

her father

her father
has been dying for years
sitting in his chair.
compression socks up
to his hips.
a black beret.
sunglasses letting no one
in.
how he waddled
about,
using the walls as braille
to move from one
room to the next.
half there until
the golden child arrived
where he rose to
wrap his arms around her.
a study in the pain,
the two of them in
a strange embrace, coupled
as if no one else 
was there.

we'll see, maybe

i live in the land
of maybe.
i might come. i might not.
perhaps.
we'll see.
i deflect invitations
like i would 
a fly zig zagging through
the ripped screen.
can i get back to you on that?
don't put me in ink,
quite yet.
i'll have to check my
schedule.
but i'll get back to you,
i promise,
so put me down
as a maybe.
to early to decide about
that.

Tuesday, May 11, 2021

is eight o'clock okay?

i prefer round to square,
curved to flat,
smooth to rough,
gentle to harsh.
sweet to sour, 
silk to suede, i hope you
see where i'm going
with this.
is eight o'clock okay?

time lines

we tend to delineate 
stages of our life
by whom we were married to.
we say things like before Ginger,
or before
Midge, or Eunice
things were different then.
we looked at the world differently,
we lived
in a different way.
each one opening up the door
and turning
on the light to a new
path.
like coming out of the stone
age
and discovering fire as
you beat one rock
against another in anger,
because olga from the north
cheated on you
with the Neanderthal Man

an inch to the right

i can tell something is amiss
when i come home
from work.
the maids have been here.
the place is clean,
sparkling, dusted and vacuumed.
but still there's something
not right.
the bed is made, the books
are stacked
on the nightstand.
the tub clean, mirrors
wiped.
everything is in order.
and then i see the chair
in the living room.
it's an inch off center
so i slide it right.
there we go.

my new horse

i buy a horse
because the end of the world
as we know it seems
to have arrived early
with civilization slipping into
the great abyss,
not unlike the roman empire.
i know nothing about
horses, but that they like to
eat oats and carrots.
so i stock up on them.
i get a saddle too.
leather chaps, very sexy, 
a white hat and a black hat.
hats matter.
cowboy boots and a nice
cowboy blouse with little
roses on it.
i might try and ride it to
the market tomorrow,
if i can find a ladder to hop
on board.
i give her a name too.
Apocalypse Now


no gas yo!

my friend L B calls to inform
me that
there's no gas
anywhere, the stations are plum out
of petrol.
dang.
i tell her.
i had no clue,. Since i stopped
watching the news
i'm out of the worry loop.
what happened.
nukes?
squirrels chew through the wires
at the distribution center?
cyber attack, she says.
wackos.
yup. i had that happen once when
i was looking at a victoria
secret lingerie site one year,
my whole screen went blue.
had to go see the geeks down
at best buy
to get my pc working again.
hate the cyber attacks.
don't worry, i tell her.
i'm sure bill gates and elon musk
are on it.
although i saw Bill on match dot
com
the other day.
so he might be a tad busy.

father flannagan to the rescue

for the life of me
i can't get the smell of shrimp out
of my house.
the trash has been double
bagged, the counter
wiped,
the pots and pans scrubbed,
the dishwasher run
and yet, it still smells like
the wharf down on Maine Street.
i call up my go to priest,
Father Flannigan up at
St. Bernadette's to bring some
holy smoke and water
over to see what he can do.
he picks up the phone and 
recognizes my voice, what,
another exorcism. i thought
we did that a few years ago
with your ex? she's back?
no, no. thank God, no.
it's this shrimp smell.
i cooked up a pound of
wild shrimp from the gulf
the other day, and it's still
in the air.
no problem, he says. i'll
send a few altar boys over
with buckets and scrub brushes.
holy water and a few holy
smoke bombs.
great i tell him. key is under
the mat.

A. I.

since normal
intelligence seems to be at an
all time
low,
the scientists are coming up
with artificial
intelligence.
this should be fun
as civilization crumbles
beneath our
lazy minds and feet.

buckle up cowboy

my friend jimmy used to tell me.
if she's crazy in the head,
she's crazy in bed.
he'd go down the list of his
so called conquests and examine
their personalities.
he had it all down on paper
which he kept folded in his
wallet.
it wasn't about education,
or IQ, it was something else.
a screw being loose, if they
were on medication,
in therapy, off their rockers,
about to jump off a bridge,
then he'd say, if they're
wackadoodle, then you're in for
a bumpy ride my friend, but
fun too. buckle up cowboy.

when your luck runs out

is it luck,
like a card game, a roll
of the dice,
a spin of the roulette wheel
in some
crummy casino.
is it by pure chance
this life
who you meet and marry,
the job
you take,
the house you live in,
and the rest of it.
is the good and the bad
a random toss or
do you believe as
Einstein once said,
that God doesn't play dice
with the universe.

you get nothing

the will states clearly who
gets what
when the old man dies, which
may be never.
but there it is in black and white,
witnessed
notarized, stamped with a legal
smudge of ink
pressed down.
most get nothing, while a few
get the rest, which
is everything.
no crumbs will fall off this
thick big sandwich of dough
rey me.
it's been decided, so put
your forks and knives down.
it's too late to make amends.

that's enough

i know too much about you
already, i tell her.
you can stop now.
but there's more, she says,
so much more.
i haven't even told you
about my second husband yet
or my sciatica.
i think i've heard enough,
so no need to unburdened
yourself upon me.
she looks disappointed
and sighs, turning her
head to the door.
she's thinking that men
don't listen. men are all
the same, and she's right
to some degree, and wrong
in others.

Monday, May 10, 2021

two hour maximum visit

i like it when people visit.
friends,
or relatives,
lovers. giving them the sweet
parking spot right out front,
but after awhile, 
and there's nothing left to say,
i want them to leave.
it's hard to say go though
after they
drove all this way
and made themselves
comfortable.
sometimes they even take their shoes off.
you give them food and drink,
you get them
an extra pillow.
a few have even brought
you a dessert
in a little container of tupperware
that one day
you'll have to wash out,
put something in it, and return.
you tell them where the bathroom
is, top off their drinks, 
but after about two hours,
you're exhausted
and stare longingly 
for the front door
to open and have them march out.
i understand my father
completely now.

twenty three wrenching hours

finally after twenty three
agonizing
nervous hours
of staring out the kitchen
window, amazon finally delivers
my new brown
shoes.
i take them out of the box
and am quite
pleased. a perfect fit and
they look exactly like the ones
i bought
last year.
but that's okay.
now where's my new black
sweater?

foreign films

i try, i try hard to watch
the chinese
movie on netflix.
five stars,
glowing reviews.
blah blah and blah.
it's won every award
but the Heisman Trophy.
after an hour though i see that
there are two more
hours to go.
i fast forward
catching snippets of the subtitles
in bright yellow.
there seems to be no end,
no middle.
i have no idea what in
the ham sandwich is going on.
but it's made
me hungry
so i give hunan west a call.

and the beat goes on

sometimes it is about money.
you need it
to pay the bills.
buy groceries.
buy drinks and dinners for
all of those
one and out 
online dates you got
suckered into
by a ten year old 
air brushed photo.
it's a  a conveyor belt of dead
ends.
and as you drive
home, unkissed
and bored after enduring
a few hours
of talk about
cats, and kids, other assorted
nonsense.
not to mention eating another
horrific plate of
fried calamari (local?),
you pull out your pockets
letting lint fall to the floor.
a hundred and twenty
five dollars
spent.
you wonder, how long
can this go on
until you find your next
cell mate,
whoops, i mean soul mate.

the jump seat

she'd fly out of seattle
on the wings of an american
airline, uniform on,
starched and sharp,
standing at the curb
at National.
a bag at her heels.
a whimsical smile on
her face.
lipstick and perfume.
trouble like nobody's
business.
she was out
of my league
but i took a few swings.
and made it
around the bases until
i had nothing left to give.
a three day layover
was quite enough.
it was fun being on
her team.

southern maryland

the crabs
would be piled up on
newspapers
aligned on the picnic table
facing
the water
rainbowed with oil
patches.
a pyramid of steamed
crabs.
hammers set beside
each pile
of thin napkins.
chisels. pliers.
a bowl of butter.
a bowl of vinegar.
beer for everyone
in golden pitchers.
baskets of hush puppies
deep fried
to curb the hunger as
small slivers
of reluctant crab meat
were released
from legs
and torsos.
it was a long day of 
bloodied fingers,
an exhausting six hour
meal
leaving you hungry still.

Mimi in Miami

after irwin died
mimi
asked me if i wanted
a fur coat
for my girlfriend, or
my wife.
she had them 
hanging on racks
in the garage
ready to be given away.
her trip to miami
was pending.
red fox and mink.
black bear.
beaver.
long coats, short.
a stole or two.
expensive and old.
the dust of time in the air.
go on, she said.
take a look.
take one.
i can't wear them 
down there.

Sunday, May 9, 2021

too good to be true

i suspect
those that preach, those that
wear
their religion on their sleeve.
i worry about
them,
their sincerity.
the public kneeling, 
the false modesty
and fake
empathy.
they give too much.
they cry too easily.
so often they
are not who they
pretend to be.

n o, spells no

it's a word
not used enough.
a boundary word. a word
drawing a line
in the dirt.
a magical wand of
a word.
it saves you.
it builds you up.
it keeps you who are.
it's not said
enough
in this world of yes.
say it loud.
just once is plenty,
but  mean it 
when it suits you best.

more than one bite

it's just an orange.
a round
bright orb of fruit
gently peeled.
will it be
sweet, or sour,
plucked too soon
from a foreign tree.
will one bite
tell the tale,
probably, though
it took more
than one bite
to taste all of you.

is that all there is?

rare to hear one speak
or discuss
in terms of philosophy.
as a society
we seem done with such
things.
spirituality
is now a yoga mat.
a candle stared at with
an empty mind.
the green washing, the navel
gazing.
a new age book
full of mumbo jumbo
leading us nowhere but
to the next book
at twelve ninety five.
what are we doing?
what's the end,
where to from here.
is that all there is, peggy lee?
instead it's about the now.
what shall we eat,
what shall i wear,
where shall i go to find
peace of mind.
what shall i buy.
is leather still in style?

how dare you block me

i see an old 'girlfriend'
caught up
in the mesh of barbed wire
around my house.
the alarm
and search lights have
been set off.
there's another in the moat,
wearing a wedding dress,
floating
face down.
there's one more in a collapsed
tunnel
heading toward the low
south wall,
her hooked ladder
in hand.
i give them credit.
they were persistent
in their crazy infatuation.
i'll have to send Jeeves out now
to tidy up.

the hallmark charade

i wish there was a day
of clearance,
when you could get all the happy
this and that
out of the way.
mother's day.
father's day.
valentine's day.
the whole list of them
done in one fell swoop.
happy
everything.
all the fake holidays
we've bought into like
mindless lemmings
running off the cliff.
happy happy, we could say,
then slap our hands together
and be done
with the hallmark
charade.

the burial

the dog would
go through the broken screen
door
and out into the street
uncollared
no leash
chasing something
or someone.
he'd run until he'd
run no
more
finding himself
beneath a car
in traffic.
hearing the screech
of brakes and thud
of life ending,
we'd go after
him. others following
along.
we'd lift his body
into our small arms
and take him
to the woods with a shovel
where
we'd say a prayer
to the God we believed in.
bury him,
and then move on.

starting tomorrow

as i toss some
shredded potatoes
into the pan
and butter a piece
of toast
i think, tomorrow
i'll start
keto again.
i'll stop with the flour,
the starches,
the carbs.
tomorrow.
but it's pasta tonight,
and garlic
bread. red wine.
but tomorrow,
i promise myself,
tomorrow i'll try once
more 
not to bend.

when did this happen?

when the knee
swells,
aching with pain
and you can't remember
how you hurt it.
in your sleep perhaps,
turning in
a dream, did you trip
at three a.m. on the way
to the bathroom.
or could it be
those fifty years of playing
basketball
on concrete courts
finally catching up 
with you?

going undercover

for a while, a year or two,
with the former imaginary
love of my life,
i was sherlock holmes.
i was the fbi, the cia, the man
from uncle.
there was nothing i couldn't
uncover.
no clue left undiscovered.
no stone unturned.
my intuitive instincts
were in full force
with my gut leading the way.
she got away with nothing.
e mails, texts. hidden
things under the mattress.
the secrets in her closet,
her car, her drawers.
i knew about the lies,
the cheating, the betrayals
almost before they occurred.
i found love notes,
trees in the woods with
hearts carved in them.
i could read her face, her
body language, her mind.
it was fun in some sick
demented way of living. 
but thankful to be done with
it. it was a horrible time.

i need a bigger box

i throw
a pair of red high heels
into my lost
and found
box tucked away 
in the closet.
scarves,
rings. clothes.
hats.
sunglasses.
watches, earrings.
silky undergarments.
somehow they've all
been left behind
with no names
attached.
there's a book on dreams
in there,
a book on love
languages,
underlined with a magic
marker.
a magazine
on calorie counting.
a picture of a horse
eating grass.
a few tubes of lipstick,
and a well used
 rolled up
yoga mat. pink.
it's time for a bigger
box.

kung pao chicken

it was kung
pao
chicken for mother's day.
the small
restaurant
snug tight between
the tire center
and wal mart.
hunan's kitchen.
she wanted the drink
with the fruit
and the pink umbrella.
the shrimp
rolls.
she'd sip it for hours,
never getting
to the bottom
of it.
let me try your dish,
she'd say,
her fork already
in your dish
stabbing
at the shredded beef
and broccoli. 
always a box or
two
to take home after
opening up her cards
and wiping
the tears from her face.

Saturday, May 8, 2021

across the threshold

while carrying the new
chair
across the threshold
wrapped in white linen,
i begin to doubt that it will
fit, that she will work out.
i set it by the window,
then try the other side
of the room. the color is
suddenly wrong. the curves
are not same curves
i saw in the store.
i'm surprised at how
stiff the cushions are.
but there's no refund,
no return, i'll have to sit
on it awhile.

rain and shine

when it hasn't rained
for awhile, months perhaps,
we worry
that the woods will burn,
that the crops won't
rise, that they will die
before their time.
and when it rains for days on
end, we look up
into the sky and pray
that it will stop
before the levees break,
before the rising 
tide sweeps everything away.
is not finding and losing love
much the same?

hometown

knowing the roads,
this town,
each tree grown, 
each sign
hammered into the ground, 
each store
that's come and gone.
the once new buildings,
now old.
how familiar it all is,
and yet strange
that you still feel lost
amongst it, your home.

that's a good idea

i'm easily influenced
by others.
if they say you should wear
blue more. it goes with your
eyes,  i wear blue.
if they say, sit up straight.
i look at myself 
in the mirror, and agree,
straightening up my spine.
it would be good
if you took more vitamins
they say,
so i join a vitamin club.
i get a new bottle once
a week.
try this they say, holding
up a spoon of beet soup,
which i hate.
yum, i say. asking for more.

alternative clocks

having looked at all seven
clocks in my house.
hanging on the walls,
or blinking
brightly in red on the stove,
and elsewhere.
i wonder why they're all off
by a few minutes or
so.
some by a full hour.
but they're close enough.
i see that the sun is up.
so it must be time to rise
and shine
and get to work.
when it's dark.
sleep after food, a book
some time
with the tv and maybe
if betty comes over,
a pre-bedtime drink.

oh, that's funny

she wouldn't laugh
at a joke,
at gentle sarcasm, or any form
of sardonic humor.
it didn't register.
she just didn't get it, but
because everyone
else in the room 
would be laughing,
she'd say, oh, that was funny
and clap her hands together.
i wasted years of my best
material on her. no giggle,
not a smile, no belly laugh.
nothing, but a grim look
of puzzlement on her
long dark face. then anger,
asking me later, why would
i say something like that.

not too worry, we're fine

some limp,
some lose sight in one
eye
or the other,
or both.
legs are lost.
teeth fall out,
hearing dies.
our voices draw to a close.
we disintegrate
daily.
but still move forward,
that primitive
instinct
keeping us alive.
one more hour,
one more day.
another year down
a hard road,
but not to worry..
we're fine.

the distance between us

the distance between us
grows wider
with time.
the miles are the same,
but the wordless
place
we're in now, keeps us
away.
how quickly seasons
change.
how fast love arrives,
then
departs again.

mother's day

they can't find her grave.
no mark
no cross, no stone.
no map
to show you where she
was laid.
no bench to sit upon
and think
about her life.
it's a field of green
with
wild flowers everywhere,
which i think
pleases her
beyond words.

on a perfectly blue sky day

out of the blue
on a perfectly blue sky
day she says
we should have a committed
relationship now, don't you think?
i spit out half of my
hamburger across the table
hitting her in the chest.
oops.
i say, and lean over
to wipe off the ketchup
and onions.
what are you talking about,
i ask her.
you know. me and you.
we get along so well.
we never fight or anything,
and sexy time is so much fun.
maybe it's time we think about
moving in together. 
getting engaged.
my heart begins to race
as a  panic attack
sets in.
i feel faint.
are you okay. you're sweating.
no i'm good. good.
i can see my pale reflection
in the butter knife i'm holding,
my hand is trembling.
i splash some water onto
my face
and press a handful of ice
cubes against my forehead.
what do you think? she says.
smiling,
biting down on a petite cherry
tomato.
good idea?

a woman's purse

a woman can survive
a week
with just what's in her purse.
she's prepared for
almost anything.
the end of the world.
no problem.
a flashlight. kleenex.
snacks.
lipstick, gum. a small
cuticle clipper than can be used
to stave off approaching
zombies.
mints. batteries. an avacodo.
maps. keys.
paper, pens.
a mirror for signaling
planes for help.

do not go gently into that good night

i can hardly ever get my father
on the phone.
who is 93.
he's always
snuggling with his new girlfriend
Esther.
who just turned 87.
it rings and rings.
i try the cell, the land line.
nothing.
he truly is going out not with
a whimper but
with  some sort of
bang that i try not to visualize.

with her shoes off

it means something
to me,
for her
to take off her heels
in this empty lot
cold from rain.
to bring her lips
even with mine
before going home
again.


without bad luck

i no longer worry about
bad luck,
the black cat, the broken
mirror,
avoiding the ladder.
no more do i toss
a coin into a fountain
and make a wish.
or see a falling far
and do the same.
i've tossed the rabbit foot
away.
i'm done with luck, with
good luck and bad luck.
i've seen it all.
the worst has already 
happened.
no need to worry anymore
i say to myself,
knocking hard
against the oak table.

saving what we can

i find the needle
and a small spool of black
thread.
i can do this.
stitch up this hole in my
favorite pair
of jeans.
they've been with me so long.
the things
they've gone
through, the things they
have seen.
carefully under
the big light i push
the needle in
and drag the thread from
side to side
until the tear is gone,
stitched tight.
i'm determined for some
things in this
life
to survive.

dante's inferno

needing some light reading
for a rainy saturday afternoon
i dive into
Dante's Inferno.
the story of the nine concentric
circles of torment
on the way to hell
and back again.
after a few pages though,
i put it down.
do i really want to go through
that again.
once was enough.
dante had nothing on that
relationship.

how we doing, Lisa?

if i go three days without
work
i imagine myself in the woods.
with a can of beans
over an open fire. my
fingerless gloves clutching
a tin mug
full of maxell house coffee.
i hear a train going by,
the lonesome refrain
of a harmonica by a toothless
man in a long coat
leaning against a tree
relieving himself.
i quickly call my broker and
snap out of it.
i ask her, how we doing Lisa?

Friday, May 7, 2021

this is what i don't need

after doing a quick inventory,
i make a list of all the things i don't
need at the grocery store.
i've got salt and pepper covered.
butter.
a variety of salad dressings.
seven at last count.
i have coffee
and cream. a small bag of croutons
with a rubber band
around it.
i have ketchup, mustard and mayo.
one white onion.
i even have
a half empty can of extra whipped
whip cream.
don't ask.
i have vodka, wine and beer
in case of emergencies.
i have a bag of onion rings.
i have a small tub of sweetened
cranberries
and peanut butter.
a stout old bag of flour
in the cupboard
and baking powder?
the brown sugar bag is a rock
so i toss that.
but that's the list, more or less,
minus a few dozen jars
of spices i've never used.

poetry puzzle

poetry ends
in english class, perhaps
in the tenth grade.
robert frost.
whitman.
that's enough to send
you to an early grave.
shakespeare.
yeats and poe.
tennyson.
oh my.
it's a struggle to ever
pick up
a book again.
breaking it down word
by word.
line after line.
what does that mean?
what the hell are they
talking about
this time.
even the new yorker
struggles
with
the puzzling, unreachable
words.
mythology.
academia. 
it's the worst.

the living dead

it is a land
of pigeons. grey and bent
over.
unflying,
but staring at some seed
or worm,
upon their hand.
locked into their
cell phones.
crossing roads,
bumping aimlessly
into one another.
unaware of sky or sun.
the moon.
nature
goes on without them.
a mass hypnosis,
living a life
within.
a cold and wired room.

fasting on the news

i  go three weeks without watching
the news. twenty one peaceful days
and nights
without knowing what the world
is up to. i haven't heard of one
earthquake, or tsunami, or murder
or riot, or mass shooting.
i've lost track of the death count.
on every continent.
i have no clue as to which celebrity
has recently died, that i'm supposed
to feel sorry for.
i don't even watch the weather
channel anymore.
i just look out the window
and stick a leg out the door.
i then clothe myself appropriately.
grabbing an umbrella if need be.
i wished i had thought of this
forty years ago. 
no man is an island,
but i'm giving it a shot.

the box of candy

the inspector
in his beard and greasy overalls,
his snug, too small cap,
asks
if it's for emissions,
or just a regular inspection.
both i tell him,
handing him my keys.
my registration.
i leave a small box of candy
on the seat. an assortment
of chocolates
meant for my sweetie.
only one is left when
he's done and pulls
the car around.
what is there to say
to that?

the flowing blue gowns

half grown we would ride
our bikes
up south capitol street,
into congress heights
and stop
at  St. Elizabeth's Hospital.
the red bricked asylum
laced
in ivy and age.
an iron fence stood between us,
keeping them in
and us out.
but on the pastures of green
and trees
wandered so many
hollowed  angels
in flowing blue gowns,
lost in some unknowable
dream.
it was a moment remembered.
filling you both 
with fear and doubt.

who are you really?

i keep my finger 
on the fast forward button.
i have little interest
in so much.
so many.
i want the end.
the plot.
the story told at a quickened pace.
i have no patience
to stand here and stare
at this tepid water
never boiling in the pot.
give it to me straight.
no game.
what's it all about. who are
you really?
tell me now.
i don't want to wait.

all may be well

it is the repetition.
the clock.
the place you need to be.
the sameness that gives us comfort.
the placing
of things,
of people. knowing
where they are.
it's the arrangement
of lifes small
things
a place for each, that brings
us serenity,
not joy,
but a certainty that all may
be fine.
be well.

Thursday, May 6, 2021

oatmeal for dinner

it feels like
a good night for oatmeal.
come on over,
i have about thirteen boxes
or organic oats
left over from
a previous tenant.
i can either boil the water,
or microwave it
according to
the tiny print instructions
on the smudged box.
i think white wine might
be a good choice
to pair with it.
yes.
so what i'm telling you
is that
the cupboard is bare.
nothing in the fridge either.
so it's oatmeal, or you
can pick up a pizza,
with extra cheese
from Santorinis on your
way here.

the time is now

i'm close,
this close to making an 
important decision
on several things,
decisions that will change
my life,
one that includes
you.
i'm about to pull the trigger,
roll the dice,
shoot the arrow into the air
and see where it lands,
but first i need
to take a deep breath,
and close my eyes.

have i told you this story, it's true

not everyone has the gift
of gab,
a story teller.
they may have a wonderful
tale or joke to tell
but don't know
exactly how to get there.
they have no idea
what to leave in,
what to take out.
they drone on, as your eyes
flutter with fatigue.
a pasted half weary smile
on your lips.
you wait.
your ears wait.
life is on hold until they get
to the end.
then you quickly think of
a reason to go
before the next one
gets told.

social anxiety

i tell my therapist
that i think
i have social anxiety.
why do you say that, she says,
writing on her legal pad.
i don't like being in a crowded
room with strangers,
where i have to introduce
myself and talk to them.
ah ha. she says.
go on.
well, i tell her, leaning
forward to sneak a peek at
what she's writing.
i'm good with one on one,
or with a group
of friends, like at a party,
and i've had a drink or two.
but new people give me the
willies.
the willies? she says.
tell me about the willies.
oh, well.
you know. that strange feeling
in your gut.
i'm more nervous than a cat
in a room full of rocking chairs.
i see, she says.
and why do you think this is?
i have no idea, i tell her.
i'm hoping you can tell me and
fix this.
can i tell you a secret, she says.
sure, sure.
i lean up to her as she whispers.
i'm the same way too.
i don't like strangers either.
i look at her legal pad,
she's not writing anything at all,
she's making sketches of cats and dogs.

one plum per day

if she ate a plum
she had to walk five miles to
burn off
the calories.
an egg would take a ten mile
hike up
old rag mountain.
god forbid
if she drank a glass of wine,
or took a bite
of fish.
she'd have to bike, then swim,
then run
to get herself
thin again.
ahh, the shoes i went
through
trying to keep up.

the chevy impala

it was a relief when my
father
finally stopped driving his
twenty year old chevy impala
with ten thousand miles on it.
the tires were dry rotted
from lack of use,
the headlights fogged over.
the seats weathered
by the sun and him leaving
the windows down when
it rained.
the floor board was rusted out.
so when they towed
it away, i popped the champagne.
no more oil changes, no
more inspections, no more
fender benders on the road
to the market to buy scratch
off lottery tickets.
the cars end was my gain.

anywhere but here

at one point
in my working years,
i sat in a plastic chair,
wearing a cheap suit, with new shoes,
and a timex
watch on my wrist
and 
preceded to go forward
with the job
interview.
which would allow me
to live out my life
shuffling papers,
and shoveling coal out of
an IT mountain.
where do you want to be
in five years
the man said, smiling,
stroking his beard.
anywhere but here, i offered.
which didn't
get me the job.

why not you?

you anger the child
with
the stick of criticism. 
a gentle love tap
of direction, but 
he looks
at you
pained
with the thought of how
is this possible.
the nerve
and  audacity.
i am your golden child,
near perfection
in everything i do.
my mother thinks
so,
why not you?

better left unsaid

better left unsaid?
to bite the lower lip
and hold
that tongue rather than
spill a truth
about what
really is.
ruffle the feathers,
throw a rock
into the peaceful pond
and watch the ripple
roll back onto you?
or to accept
the wrong?

Wednesday, May 5, 2021

at least for now

the weight of grey
is less
than it was with the first strand
found
in your dark hair.
the wrinkle too,
has little power over you.
the gain
of pounds, the aches.
so what.
what's new?
the options are to be here
or not.
i choose, here, at least
for now.

who's next

we want
our lives to have meaning.
to leave a legacy of sorts.
to be remembered
for who we are 
or who we pretend to be.
we take pictures,
we keep diaries
we mark dates on the calendar.
the scrap books.
the memorabilia
fills our closets, our trunks
in the basement.
but in the end it all ends
up in some scrap
heap, or in a fire.
the dump at last will claim
us and all our things
with no fan fare.
our time is up. 
we are forgotten.
who's next?

the passing mini van

the woman who gives me
the finger
from her mini van
full of kids
and groceries, is in a hurry.
my car
is only doing sixty five
in the right lane.
but she's in a hurry.
so as she passes, she mouths
a few words in
my direction
and throws up her hand.
i see on the back
of her van
the bumper stickers,
it takes a village, 
coexist and save the whales.
she's probably a good person
most of the time,
but is just having a bad day.
i understand.

all my degrees

the woman on the dating
site asks me how
educated am I.
how many years of college
do you have, she says.
i mumble six or seven,
leaving out that most
of them were at the community
college near the rail road tracks.
what are your degrees in,
she asks.
i tell her i have a phd in philosopy
from harvard  and another degree
from columbia where i got my MFA.
right now, i tell her on the phone,
rustling papers around, i'm working
on a law degree from Georgetown.
it keeps me quite busy.
she lets out a little shriek.
this pleases her and now
she wants to meet for a drink.
quickly i take a shower
and scrub the paint off my hands,
my arms, the top of my head.
there's a large glob of caulking
in my ear that i try to peel off
as i grab a book on Aristotle
and Kant. i start skimming the pages
on the way over.
she could be the one.

i have time

 i see that i have twenty one
missed calls
on my phone. who are these
people and what do they want.
why don't they leave a message.
i feel like i'm missing out
on something. doing things
with new friends, with people
i am yet to know.
if they'd just leave a message
and a number and a name,
i can call them back and we can
begin our life together.
please don't be shy.
i'm here, i'm waiting by
the phone now. i have time.

Tuesday, May 4, 2021

the icing knife

as i watch the cake rise
in the oven.
nice and slow in the 325 heat,
i take out
an icing knife
and dip
into the sweet cream,
just to taste what i'm in for.
sort of like
that first kiss.
you know.

safeway has fish

as i slip the hook
out of the stiff jaw of a slimy
fish.
i shake my head
and grimace. 
i feel bad for the poor fellow,
or girl.
tricking her onto
my line like that.
a fat worm
tempting it to bite
and then be yanked to shore
into the air
filled light.
safeway has fish.
why am i doing this?

i'm sorry but i can't make it

i cancel
seventeen meetups.
what was i thinking.
tuesday,
wednesday.
sunday even. the day
of rest.
i can't drive to Berryville,
or Timonium 
or Charlestown
anymore.
i'm done, cooked,
fried,
beaten and exhausted
by short and round
by bone thin
with frowns.
married with children.
growing turnips
on a farm.

the prison guard

i have a flashback
of my
prison guard.
she's at my cell.
standing there, rattling
my cage.
it's just a dream,
but just the same,
it feels real.
scary.
frightening.
it's all very very strange.
i can't wait to wake
up and shake
it out of my head.
to unfasten
the chains.

it was here yesterday

too many things
are getting lost. 
through
the cracks.
caught between the seats,
amongst the debris
of papers,
cups and half eaten
on the run snacks.
where is it?
it was here yesterday.
i just saw it.
i held it in my hand.
i actually had the thought
of don't lose this.
keep it close.
but no such luck,
it's gone,
lost in the wind.

Monday, May 3, 2021

to bottle those years

when it snowed, when the streets
were iced
and schools were certainly
closed for a day or two,
at best a week.
how glorious it was to be cold.
our cheeks flushed,
our hands wet inside our gloves
our boots full
of melting snow.
and then the moon would appear,
as we flew down the hills.
then up again.
then down.
the long shadows of
our short lives would appear.
how lovely it would have been
to bottle those years.

widow at the window

death is small talk.
boredom.
discussing the weather.
dying is slow to the man
at the machine.
the farmer
at the plow.
the widow at the window.
the end
of times, the last years,
if alone.
are brutal.
cold and perplexing.
how did it get to this
after so much done.
so much love
yet found.

my closed hands

i give gladly away
so much.
generous with time, with dollars,
with
a voice,
a touch.
i rarely take
and expect nothing back.
guilt or shame
seems to be in the way.
few times do i stand
at the door of anyone and beg
for love, or beg
to stay.

the blush of sun

it's just a blush of sun
slipping
through
the clouds across
the lake
now deftly painted
pinks and violets.
the ducks too awake,
as i am.
wandering here
from the unslept bed,
from the cold
thoughts
unaligned and fragile.
another morning
with this.
is it nature, or is it me
that persists?

jordan almond addiction

i shouldn't have bought
a pound
of jordan almonds at wegmans.
i can't help
myself though.
i have the will power of a
one year old.
all day
i pull one out of my pocket
and suck the hard
candy coating off until
i get to the almond
which i crush and chew,
then try to swallow, but
often getting a  little almond
shard stuck
in the back of my throat
where i can't cough it up
or wash it down for hours.
my dentist is going to love
me the next visit.

making a purchase at the local sex emporium

years ago, decades maybe.
my girlfriend at the time asked me
to pick her up
an item at the local sex emporium.
to which i reluctantly agreed.
i put on a hat, sunglasses,
and a fake mustache and snuck
into the back door, taking a cab
there since it was close to the church
i attend.
i went to the counter, where a woman
named amber, i knew that because
it was tattooed on her breastbone,
greeted me with a cheerful hello.
i asked her quietly if she could
assist me in the purchase of a
woman's 'massage' implement.
you know, a marital aide.
she smiled and said no problem.
i caught the reflection of myself
on the giant gumball adornment
screwed into her tongue.
what size? she said loudly.
how many speeds? electric or
battery powered?
shhhh. i said to her. why are you
yelling?
she brought out six boxes of
different items and took them out,
lining them up on
the greasy counter. they were of
all different sizes and colors,
shapes.
she turned them all on
and described the pros and cons
of each one
as they jumped and vibrated
around the counter
like mexican jumping beans.
i said, geeze marie, i don't know,
it's so confusing, which
one would you buy?
she pointed at a purple colored one
that reminded me of a certain
vegetable at the supermarket
it uses lithium batteries
and can be recharged with a phone
charger. nine speeds, she
said proudly.
it also has an led light at the end
of it.
what for? i asked her, to which
she said, Really?.
okay. okay, i said. can you wrap it up?
is cash okay.
sure, she said. but no returns.
of course not, i said. that goes
without saying.

listen to happy music

all afternoon i listen to happy
music
following the advice
of a close
associate who will go nameless.
stop listening to those
oldies, she says.
it just brings back bad memories.
so i give it a shot.
i listen to the archies, sugar sugar.
some herb alpert and the tiajuana
brass doing a taste of honey.
then some tom jones.
it's not unusual.
then onto katrina and the waves,
i'm walking on sunshine.
by the end of the day.
i'm dancing in my underwear
and happier than i've been in
years.

unclogging the drain

as i pour about 
two gallons
of toxic drain
unclogger
down the sink
and listen to it gurgle
and chew up
god knows what.
i think of you.
and when it's finally
clear, and the water
runs free.
i smile
and turn the light off, 
then walk away.

a wild fire

ah, the diamonds.
ah, the flowers. ah the tears.
the words
written.
the cards sent.
ah, the bullshit
of it all.
the vows.
the pledges, the desire.
what a crazy
thing
love is.
a rampant wind
spreading a wild fire.

the disney world

i hear so many
talking about finding their soul mate.
the one and only.
the true love of their life.
they want the disney movie.
Cinderella.
the prince.
they want the shoe to fit.
the magic kingdom of
the beauty and the beast.
they want the drug
of fantasy and 
illusion.
because this world is too
hard to take
and people are never who
you think they
are for very long.
please, they say, it's okay.
please give me fake.

pulling the plug

when you stop watching the news
you are more
relaxed.
more unworried, more aware
of the tasks
at hand.
your own creations
are important.
when you turn off the set.
suddenly the world
is calm.
the repetition of death
and destruction.
hate and rage, everything
that you've been listening
to since a child,
is all suddenly gone. 

beauty at noon

it's hard not to look
at the flowers
in bloom,
excited with their own
colors
and power.
it's hard not to turn
your and see
them
as they walk gracefully
down the boulevard.
impossible beauty,
spring ready,
but will it last past
noon.

this could go somewhere

when you wake up
on a sunday morning and smell
bacon cooking in
the kitchen.
eggs and hash browns,
the fresh brewed coffee
in the air.
and you're exhausted from
a night of making love,
finding a long
strand of her perfumed hair
on your pillow.
you think, maybe, just maybe,
this could go somewhere.

tonight, just me and you

i stare at my thick 
new book
the red comet,
and sigh.
i'm only fifty pages in,
so far.
i've been neglecting it
with netflix and amazon
prime
and other assorted time
killing
endeavors.
i put my hand on the book
and whisper to it,
tonight.
just me and you tonight.
i promise.
don't worry, i'll see you
when i get home.

no stone left unturned

my friend julie bumble
talks me into trying the speed
dating night
down at the local brewery.
it's really musical chairs
for grown ups
trying to find romance.
you get three minutes
to talk, and meet someone,
a complete stranger,
but three minutes turns
out to be two and a half minutes
too long.

asleep in my bed

i come home early
and find the maid asleep in my bed.
she's under the blanket
with the fan on.
soft music is playing.
and there's a half a glass
of wine on the nightstand.
she has one of my books
out and turned over
next to the pillow.
there's a smile on her face
as if she's having a wonderful
dream.
i tip toe out the door,
and let her finish.

a new dish

as i flip through the recipe
book
i keep turning back to the same
pages.
the ones with
stains on them.
the one's creased and rippled
dry from
being wet.
i turn to the old safe
things i cooked before.
the dishes i know
how to cook.
but it's time for a new dish,
dear.
bring in the new.
we've grown stale,
grown old.

Sunday, May 2, 2021

the fallen tree

the tree that fell
in the middle of the night
stretches
across the parking lot,
just missing
cars, and human life.
a crowd has gathered
taking pictures.
children
are climbing aboard
the fallen oak.
birds fly in to investigate.
dogs are barking.
men with chainsaws are
telling people to stand back.
it's all very interesting
somehow and i wonder
how long
before i can back my 
car out.

needing a bigger brain

i remember perusing 
my mother's
cosmopolitan magazine
when she wasn't looking,
sneaking it into the bathroom
and thinking
what the hell
is going on here with women?
geez marie.
i had no idea.
this is more complicated
than i ever imagined.
i'm going to need
a bigger brain.

the new toaster oven

on the way home
from the beach, we pulled
over
at a produce stand.
she wanted tomatoes,
a melon,
some peaches.
we'd only been married
for three days,
but it was already
three days
too long.
she knew and i knew,
that this was a mistake.
her at nineteen,
me at twenty two.
but we stuck it out for six
months,
before i looked out the
window and saw
her pulling her
pink suitcase 
down the road and carrying
a toaster oven under
her arm.

the three minute date

the bar is crowded.
no seats,
no tables.
so i inch up to the bar
and wave
down a bartender.
the person i'm with,
a stranger,
having never met,
is engaged already
in a deep conversation
with a bird dog
at the bar.
the drinks come.
it's all about the guy
now.
he wants to shake hands.
he wants
to be friends. he's a chum
a buddy,
a pal.
he orders olives stuffed
with cheese
and pushes them towards me.
he wants to be the best
man in our wedding.
i sip my drink
and say to myself, what
am i doing here.
i look for the nearest exit
and mumble the word,
bathroom,
then walk away, out
the front door and drive
home.
block, delete, hooray.

the dead line

sometimes you have to take
out the sharpest
knife in the drawer
and cut the ties that bind you.
slice, and pull until
the hard wire and casing is
cut through.
the dead line without power.
you got nothing out of them.
they got nothing out of you.

their own way

the family has fallen apart,
scattered.
with the mother gone, there
is no
place to gather
to meet, to celebrate
a birthday,
or christmas, or
fourth of july.
off in the wind
are the children
onto their own lives,
at last free with
each holiday,
to their own way
of doing things.

Saturday, May 1, 2021

new delhi calling

i get about ten calls a day
from india.
it's the irs,
medicare,
amazon,
microsoft,
social security,
credit cards,
home repairs,
life insurance.
it sounds like the same guy.
the high pitched
voice with the obvious
accent,
mispronouncing
nearly every other word
including my name.
it sounds like he's in
a warehouse full
of a thousand of people,
all chattering
from the same scam script.
he's busy,
but so am i.
the number he's calling
from looks
almost like mine,
off by a digit or two
despite him being in New Delhi,
and me being
here.
he's an agent, an officer,
a manager, he's
technical support
from the refund department.
he wants to help you.
are you in front of your 
computer now?
it's a blight on the world.
an endless
swarm of mosquitoes
taking small bites out of
your life.

the massage parlor

sore from a week of work
i call up
the local massage parlor to see
if they're back
in business
after the plague subsided.
they are.
they can take me in at eight.
but only
Peter is available.
Vanessa doesn't work here anymore,
the woman says,
i think she's back
in Moscow.
oh, i say. disappointed.
but Peter is great.
you'll love him.
deep tissue is his specialty.
he likes to use hot oils
and crack your spine with
his elbows.
he used to be a gymnast.
so, should i book you.
an hour with Peter, at 8.
umm.
can i get back to you on that?
i might just take a hot
bath today.
i have a new bag of sea salts
i want to try out.

compare and contrast

we compare scars.
her shark bite
versus my bee sting.
her psoriasis, versus
my poison oak.
the thumb she dislocated,
versus the bruise on my
stubbed toe.
she points to the spot
on her neck where she had
a tracheotomy,
i show her my thumbnail
where i bit it down
to the cuticle, now red.
she twists her arm
around to show me
that she's doubled jointed.
i show her that i can
hold my breath
for almost a minute.
so what about the heart,
i ask her,
and she says, let's not
go there yet.

while you were away

as i go down the stairs,
groggy
from a night out with betty,
i trip on a turkey
bone.
a plate of food,
a half filled glass of
chardonnay.
what went on here last
night while
i was out
and away?
dishes are in the sink,
candles still lit,
in a puddle of wax.
there's a record on the
turntable still going around.
there's lingerie spinning
on the fan.
i should have stayed
home.
i missed all the fun.

mother's day

all the mothers
are preparing to be disappointed
as mother day
approaches.
will they bring flowers,
a card,
a gift.
will they show up for dinner,
or take me out.
will i feel the love
and warmth of raising
these children, 
giving birth to them,
or will
it be like last year,
an emoji filled text
or maybe a phone call
if time allows.

moderation in some things

you don't know if moderation
in all things
actually works
until you over do it
in those things
that give you pleasure.
it's hard to stop what's fun
and exciting until
you're face down in an alley
with empty pockets,
and a heart come undone.

Friday, April 30, 2021

other things on my mind

i'll get to it.
that spill, that broken glass.
that old
newspaper
stacked up on the table.
water for the plants.
the trash that needs
to go out.
the late bills.
i'll get to the junk mail,
the real mail.
the letter that you sent.
not to worry,
i'll get to all of that.
but let me think about it
first.
i've got other things
on my mind
and you're not one of them.

trust me on that

if it rains or if it doesn't 
i'll be there.
leave the porch light on.
leave
the key under the mat.
go to bed if you're tired.
but don't worry,
i'll find my way to you.
i always do.
don't let the other times
i've let you down
confuse you.
i'm coming back.
you've always known that,
you know where
my heart is.
no need to worry, or
wait up,
go bed and when i get
there i'll lie down beside
you. i won't
make the same mistake
again.
trust me on that.

old things

i like what's broken in.
the shoes
that fit just right, the shirt.
the old pair
of blue jeans, ripped
and torn,
frayed at the cuff, but still
a perfect fit.
the car
i've  had for ten years.
the seats
that know me,.
the pedals, the stick shift.
we find comfort in old things.
old friends.
where would life
be without them.

waiting for the amazon truck

i check the cupboard
for a snack
but i'm completely out of junk
food.
i thought i had a pack
of twizzlers in there
from the last time i went
to the movies
two years ago, but they're
gone.
no chips, no cookies.
not even a stick of gum.
i go onto amazon and order
a box of skittles.
arrival time is tomorrow
despite being a prime member.
i have not choice but to
be patient and wait.

you look like someone i know

you remind me of someone,
she says,
pointing her finger at me
and wagging it.
you look like someone,
someone i know.
someone in the movies,
maybe.
brad pitt, i say out loud.
and she says, no, no.
paul newman?
who's he?
no you look like someone
that i've seen on tv.
on a commercial, maybe,
for indigestion, or for
ED. darn, i can't remember,
oh well. 
it'll come to me.

the trip to Nepal

i pack a few sandwiches
for my trip
to Nepal.
i figure i might get hungry
on the long
trek through
the snow.
i make a thermos of hot
coffee too
and put on two pairs
of socks and
two pairs of underwear
to ward off
the cold.
but i'm ready to go.
i even have a hat made
out of goat hide
to fit in.
all i need now is my
sherpa.
who's late already with
the sled
to pull me up the mountain.

big shrimp

i get into a conversation
with the fish
man at the grocery store.
he used to be stocking frozen
peas the week
before, but now he's behind
the fish counter,
weighing flounder and scallops
in his bloody white smock.
may i suggest the wild shrimp,
he says. on sale.
from the gulf. they are extraordinarily
large this year.
i think there was a uranium
spill up river.
okay, i tell him. give me a
pound. does the glow go away
once you cook them.
of course he says, i'd say
steam them, but pan fry is
fine too.
do you have an air fryer?

the wrong side of the bed

it's good to be alone
when you wake up 
on the wrong side
of the bed
slightly cranky
because you have to go to work
today, and it's only monday.
you haven't had
your coffee yet.
if someone was here,
you'd have to put on a smile,
slip on the happy mask
as if everything is fine.
make small talk about
how windy it is outside.
but now, you just
get up and shake it off.
maybe look out the window
for a while
staring at the trees
dancing side to side.

Thursday, April 29, 2021

the jamestown journals

i remember when we finally
landed at jamestown
after six months of being
out to sea, eating fish
and not taking a bath, using
a limited supply
of baby powder to stay fresh.
finally someone yelled out
and said land ho,
to which we all said, right,
that joke is getting old.
but there was land and so
somebody woke up captain smith
who was in his suite
with the pastor's wife,
who was a widow now
because the pastor 'fell'
overboard one night in a storm.
alright, he said, looking
through his spy glass,
we're here. i think.
he crumpled up the map he
was looking at and said,
whatever.
we looked out at the endless
thick woods teaming with bugs
and snakes,
and shook our heads
scratching at our enormous
mutton chops.
we then rowed ashore and started
shooting animals with our muskets
for new clothes and food
and cutting down trees for lodging
it was a nightmare.
someone forgot to bring
the axe sharpener and so we
had to use our giant belt buckles
to carve wood. it was
cold as hell too and the snow was
already half way up our 
capri sailing pants.
i came down with the whooping
cough the first week
and my wife betty got a
case of the mumps despite 
the squirrel shawl i made her,
but then she caught an 
indian arrow
in the back of the neck
that was impossible to pull out,
and died three weeks later.
so i had to marry her cousin
charlotte who was only twelve
at the time, but already a fine
seamstress.
the stew she made with wild
rabbit and chopped shallots
was uncanny.

former teacher of the year

i run into my neighbor
at the local dive
bar on the other side
of the railroad tracks.
she teaches 3rd grade
at the elementary school,
which is part online and
part in class.
she was  former teacher
of the year in the tri state area.
she's cradling a whiskey sour
in both hands,
hunched over the bar.
hey, i say to her, sitting
down.
she looks at me.
dark circles are under her
eyes, and she's been
crying. her hands are
black with ink
and there's a stack of
papers next to her on
the bar. her laptop is
open with the picture
of an empty classroom
being wiped down by
by a janitor in a hazmat suit.
how are the classes
this year, i ask her.
any fun students?
shut up, she says. leave
me alone.
i'm drinking here.

i just had a procedure

when you don't hear from
women
for a while
they'll finally text or call
you and tell
you that they had to go in
for a procedure,
but everything is okay now.
and i'm just resting.
they don't tell you what
the procedure is,
but say, 
please don't worry about me,
i'll be fine.
you're afraid to ask
which hemisphere of the body
the procedure took place,
or what it might be.
you scroll through your 
mind for the possibilities,
starting with the head
and working down
to the feet.
it could be anything, this
procedure.
you want to ask her,
trying to narrow it down,
is there
bleeding involved. are you
limping,
can you bend over,
or go up a flight of stairs.
can you lift your arms over
your head,
stand on a chair and shake em?
should i cancel 
our date at motel six
on saturday?

be careful what you say

we have to whisper now
when talking about sensitive
subjects.
we huddle
in an alley and look over our
shoulders,
and carefully construct
our words
so as not to offend anyone.
i cup my hand around my
mouth and whisper.
i don't really care
about snapping turtles.
do you? i mean,
if they went extinct
would we miss them?
they always scare me when
i go skinny dipping down
at the lake.

fast forward

we'd like to fast
forward when in a jam.
when things
aren't going the way we'd like
them to.
we'd like to hit the button
as we do
on television
and see what's up ahead.
the plot has slowed,
the characters thinned
the whole thing has taken
a wrong turn.
we'd like
to get out of this
relationship, this job,
this time in history where
the world 
seems upside down.

drinking the kool aid

he tells me he's been reading
the constitution
and gives me his take on the first
and second amendments
in excruciating detail.
he's drinking the kool aid
of CNN 24/7, NPR and his
socialist wife, Tanya, formerly
known as Betty.
i yawn and ask him if he
saw the food channel the other
day when they were making
a pot roast.
he shakes his head and looks
at me.
you don't care do you?
aren't you a patriot? don't you
care about the movement,
the revolution. the times are
changing, he says.
we need to disband the police
and tear down the statues,
burn those offensive books.
i tell him about the flourless
chocolate waffle cake.
how delicate it is, and the best
method of baking it.
are you coming to the march
this saturday, he asks me.
it's for women's rights, gay
rights. people of color rights,
native americans,
animal rights, environmental
rights, and saving the whales.
i can make you a sign, if you'd
like. Oprah is going to be
there, and Dr. Phil's wife.
Beyonce is going to sing 
the new national anthem.
i don't know, i tell him.
i'm kind of busy with my new
air fryer and show him 
a picture of the onion rings
i made the other day.

it's not our fault

we like to blame the world's
problems
on other countries.
damn them chinese.
those russians.
those mexicans,
those crazy people from
india with
their telemarketers,
but it's rare that you ever
hear anyone
complain about australia.
how can a country
with kangaroos
and surfing be bad?
they're more like us than
anyone, close
to perfect.
far away and quietly
doing their thing, whatever
that thing is.


witness protection community

we have  room.
come on down
and visit.
we're two hours from the ocean
by car,
and close
to the new shopping mall.
it's a modular
home.
no wheels.
it's really nice inside.
plenty of room to move
around.
the fold out bed
is firm
but nice,
we have cable now
and free
wi-fi.
stay a week if you'd like.
we can go fishing,
or take a ride
on our bikes.
sometimes we grill out
and meet
the neighbors.
many of them have new
names and
a past life
that's best not talked about.

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

oh look, there's donny osmond

please don't point
out to me
the celebrity in our midst.
the well
known face sitting amongst
us.
who cares. grow up and
move on.
they are no better
no worse
than any of us.
just because you see
them on the screen,
doesn't mean
they're worthy
of our bowing down
to them
when seen.
please for a split second
with your wandering
eyes and swivel head,
pay attention
to us, to me.

blue highways

we take the blue highway
home.
the back road,
the scenic route, and why
not?
we have all day.
the weather
is fine.
the beer cold. the company
of our liking.
let's roll the windows
down,
turn up the music.
let our hair blow.
here we go down
the blue highway.
everyday should be like
this.

a small hole

it takes
a small hole to sink a ship.
a few words
to end
this.
a text
an email, an angry
call.
just one or two things
are enough
anymore
to send it all to the bottom.
one lie
is a bomb 
gone off.

the squeaky door

i find the can of oil
and drip
the clear drops
against the hinge,
pulling the door
back and forth,
against its metal
tightness.
i press and hear
the little pop
of the can,
squeezing until
the squeak is gone,
all lubricated and new.
we all could use
some rejuvenating
oil dripped upon
us at times.

downtown dining

it's the parking,
the one way streets,
the detours,
the broken meters.
the unreadable signs.
the over priced 
bland food,
the inattentive waiters.
it's the drinks
full of ice
and topped off
with a splash
of liquor.
it's the police, the running
of red lights.
the sirens.
the madness of it all.
it's dining
downtown on a tuesday
night.

hugging the right lane

as i hug the right lane
doing 70
the stream of traffic
beside me
flies by at 80
or 90 and beyond.
trucks
cars,
motorcycles.
they zig zag, they tail
gate,
the road rage
is frightening.
inches away from death.
they are bees let loose
from some hive.
it's an indication
of crazed minds, of a
world gone wrong
with no return.

Tuesday, April 27, 2021

my new love, Isabella

i'm overwhelmed 
by my new Italian air fryer.
i call her Isabella.
voila.
one basket of onion
rings fried up
in a mere twenty minutes.
no oil, no grease,
no splatter.
no clean up or further
drips on my
black shirt.
this could be the beginning
of a long and wonderful
friendship.
i have a picture of her
in my wallet,
in case you want to see her
beautiful curves
and blue icons.
her tremendous basket.


the dusk to dawn drive in

she was the kind of girl
who liked
going to the drive in.
it didn't matter what the movies
were as long
as it was dusk to dawn
and we had plenty of beer
and shrimp rolls
from the concession stand.
i remember the welts
on my neck she gave me.
my strained knee,
the cramps i got in my legs.
our mouths and faces 
red from kissing so hard 
and long.
but the little yellow mg
wasn't the best choice
of cars for the drive in.

one man canoe

i told her no, that i didn't
want to get into
a canoe with her, her and the boat
both being
unstable
in this brown water.
i don't want to go under,
i told her.
but it's too late for that she
said,
showing me her hand
with the ring on it.
i'm sorry, no returns and taken
as is.
to which i said,
we'll see about, and rowed
off without her.

her new bed of flowers

as she kneels
in her garden, planting seed,
planting flowers
in the black soil,
the sun
pushes up against
her winter skin.
she blushes with
heat
on this hot spring day
and wipes her brow.
but she is
bent to the task
or raising
new love, new endeavors
before her mother
comes to stay.

no, this is not a date

three sips into the conversation,
she says
you're a serial dater aren't you?
you're one of those
who does the whole
serial relationship thing.
right?
you finish one
and go on to the other.
like a chain smoker.
i sort of hear what she's saying,
but i'm distracted by the
confusing menu that i had
to open up on my phone.
what?
were you talking to me?
yes. i'm right here and we're
on a date, right now.
who else would i be talking to?
a date?
yes. 
ummm. no, this is not a date
sugar pie.
this is what we call
a meet up.
a getting to know you part
of the online dating program.
it's not a date.
it's part of the elimination process.
a date is when i pick you up
and we go out after
we know each other a little better.
oh no.
you're not  getting out of this.
she slams her bejeweled hand
down on the table.
this is a date buddy boy
and you're buying me dinner
and three glasses of wine.
the nine ounce glasses.
and i want dessert too.
that chocolate waffle thing.
i wonder if they have the paper
menus, i ask her. looking at
my watch and
taking another extra large
gulp of my gin and tonic.
i try to imagine a trap door
in the floor that i can pull
the lever and send her screaming
down.

you just have to get outside

when it's nice out,
people insist that you get outside.
they demand it.
you have
to get out, it's so nice
out, they say.
why are you still inside?
have you been out today,
oh my.
it's so nice.
really, you should get out
and go for a walk
or bike ride.
please, i beg of you to get
out and enjoy this nice
weather we're having.
don't let this day pass you by.
i was out earlier,
and you won't believe how
nice it is today.
the sun is shining.
blue skies.
it's really really nice out.
promise me you'll get out
there today.
say it. say i promise
i'll go outside and enjoy
this nice day we're having.
say it and cross your heart.
okay, good now get out
there and don't forget who told
you so.
enjoy.

too much information

some people
give you too much information.
such as when
your mother
on the phone wants to talk
to you about her sex
life, or worse
yours.
or when a friend tells you
about his vasectomy,
or that he has to stop
off at the drug
store to buy a large
tube of preparation H.
sharing videos
of birth, is not good.
nor is describing in detail
your colonotscomy.
i don't want to see any scars
please don't roll
up your sleeve or
pull up your skirt to see
your cesarean scar,
or open
your mouth wide
to show me
something growning
on the back of
your throat.
if something is infected
please,
keep it to yourself, and
obey the six foot rule
now in effect.

fantasies

we want to believe
in aliens
in big foot
in the loch ness monster.
conspiracies
and far fetched things.
we want
there to be ghosts
and goblins
vampires
and zombies.
we need a fantasy
beyond
this crazy world 
were in.
that's why love appeals
to us so much.

Monday, April 26, 2021

we know nothing

so, once we get vaccinated
we no longer
have to wear masks.
the miracle we've all been
waiting for has arrived.
Praise the Lord
and pass the syringe. 
we can't get the virus
and we can't
give the virus, so now
after two shots, we're good
to go, and life and get
back to normal, right?
we can throw away all
of these itchy, annoying masks
and breathe freely like
the good old days.
uh no. ummm. well.
we're not sure. so until
we really know something,
it's best that you
keep wearing your masks
for another ten years or
so. let's try that and see
how that goes.
oh, and stand back six feet.
and follow the arrows
up and down the aisles
of stores. and wash your hands,
using soap.
we'll send you an e mail,
or text you, or call you
when we have more information,
stand by.

it's dark now, let's go in

things aren't what they
used to be.
every generation pines for
the old
days.
back when
things were simpler.
we didn't have to lock our
doors back then
you hear people say.
we knew everyone
and everyone was a friend.
we said good day
to one another,
we drank lemonade on 
the porch
and sat on the swings,
talking until the stars
came out.
ah the good old days,
we reminisce
about those pleasant
times, but
it's dark now,
and we'd better go in.

the final frontier

every space travel
movie
has the same plot.
they can't get to where
they're going
or they can't get back
because they run
out of fuel,
air, water or food,
and sometimes they
bring back some alien being
from outer space
that will make every living
thing on earth
extinct.
those are the plots.
that's the deal.

my vacation home

when i need a break
from the maddening crowd,
i split my time
between my vacation home
and my
regular home.
i go down to the basement
bringing with me
a small tray of food 
and drinks.
sometimes i put on a pair
of bermuda shorts
and a flowery
shirt,
sandals and a pith helmet.
it's nice to get away
from the bustling
crowds,
the traffic,
the hubub of upstairs.

Sunday, April 25, 2021

the fancy dan lights

the neighbors all have 
the new
fancy dan
edison lights hanging in 
their yards.
they have fire pits and
chairs
with white tables.
there's a fountain
in one, a hot tub in the
other.
green plants
and gardens with flowers.
flowers!
they're having people
over
with drinks in their hands.
the barbeques going.
everyone is making
small talk.
i hate small talk.
how can i keep up
with this?

the dangling carrot

there is no carrot
left
for me to follow, to go
faster,
to work harder,
to do anything concerning
love
or friendship.
i've eaten the carrot.
a whole
bunch of carrots
and my vision
is better now.  i see
can clearly now
whats' ahead of me
and which way to go.

damn good conrnbread

the waitress brings out a warm
basket of corn bread.
the steam ribbons into the air.
it's gooey and delicious
with real yellow corn kernels
baked into the sweet batter.
it crumbles in my hand as i
scoop it towards my open mouth.
i move the basket towards
me so that others can't have any.
when it's all gone, the waitress
helps me brush off my sweater
with a flat little stick,
and says, more?

left at the light?

i'm better at giving directions
than taking them.
when  someone says
go to hell
after a bitter disagreement.
i ask them, okay, but where.
left at the light.
straight.
how far is hell?
will there be ice water in hell?
can i just peer
into the window and decide
then?
or is it already a done deal?

the tiny red clown car

i don't 
want to know
how 
all those clowns
got into 
the tiny red car
and keep 
coming out,
but my question 
is more,
why.

sunshine towing company

retrieving my towed
car from
the bunker,
the chain linked high
barbed wire
pen
at six in the morning is
no fun.
putting it mildly.
stickerless
and new to this parking
garage,
how was i to know
that billy bob would be
lurking in the shadows
with his mighty rig,
numbed with
night time liquor,
waiting, like a shark,
to bite and tow.
but here i am, standing
at the bulletproof slotted
window,
staring at an aged bette davis,
in a tank full of smoke,
slipping in a credit card
to release my car
again.

the ego within

it is the ego,
that puffed chest orb
within us
though fragile and weak,
as sensitive
as a child
who's lost his balloon
or run out of candy.
it's this protective self
that heals
slowly, that wants
revenge, reparations
for disrespect
and abuse.
it's a slow go getting
back to normal
and letting go.

Saturday, April 24, 2021

no easy rider

we want things simple.
uncomplicated.
easy
and drama free.
but life is anything but that.
it's nuclear
fission,
quadratic equations.
it's mind boggling.
the number of stars,
the infinite
number of cells in a human
body.
the electricity 
of our minds.
how can anything
be simple
in this world of ours.

the long distance call

the telephone
used to be an art form.
the dime
going in, the spin of the heavy
dial
in black,
the numbers and letters
clearly visible
as you stood
under the lights
in the glass encased booth.
the trucks roaring by in the rain.
and you, with your heart
on your sleeve
calling your sweetheart
once again.
the sound
of her voice, her
breathing, warming you
across the miles
of wire.
a stack of coins
ready to slide in,
another dime for another
precious minute
or two.

it's hard to figure out

okay.
it's hot. it's cold.
should i open the windows
or turn up
the heat.
two blankets, or one.
or just 
a sheet.
a sweater, a coat?
shorts?
there's no figuring
out
this weather.
reminds me of a woman
i used to
date
back in january.
bitter cold
but occasionally a 
warm front would appear.

everyone's a hero

everyone is a hero now.
the fireman
the policeman,
the nurse,
the doctor, 
the preschool teacher.
the cross walk patrol
person.
first responders,
second responders,
third and that overlooked
fourth responder.
the guy
sweeping up the mess
after a car crash.
it used to be a job,
with a paycheck.
but now everyone is
a superhero.
worthy of a statue.
i remember when a
hero used to a soldier
dying for his country,
dodging bullets
in a war,
saving his comrades.
i remember when a hero
used to be a sandwich
you could buy on
Coney Island,
or at roadside stand
going to the eastern shore.
(hold the peppers)
there's not enough medals
and trophies to go
around these days,
but i'm sure they'll make
more.

the unknown saint

after eating
three, maybe four rubbery
pieces of calamari
gaskets
on a plate of orange sauce
i hold
my stomach
and begin to pray to
the saint
of gastronomical  issues.
Jimmy of Nazareth, 
a sous chef during
biblical times, and
a lesser known
member of early
Christians. he's
rarely mentioned in 
the Bible, but was always
on hand
when the apostles
were eating
raw fish and oysters
from the sea of Galilee.

i love going home

i hit a bloop
single out to center field
and make it easily to first base,
and after
a pitch or two,
i precede to steal
second base.
sliding in under
the late tag.
the next pitch is a wild
pitch,
the ball rolling back
to the back stop,
so it's easy peasy going
to third
in a slow trot.
all i need to do now
is go home.
and oh how i love going home.

kayaking and quilting

i drive by the new meet up
group rendezvous point
to see if i want
to get out of the car
and join in.
i circle the group of people
with my car
a few times.
it's a combination kayaking
expedition
and quilt making while
rowing.
i have my wet suit on
and a box of yarn. two
brand new silvery needles.
i'm ready, but i'm unsure.
do i really want to meet
these people.
do they want to meet me.
i'm an outsider looking in.

illusions

when the bird
flies into the clean window
believing
there are blue skies before it.
other birds,
trees
and clouds,
and collides with the unforgiving
glass
and falls to the ground.
you understand.
who doesn't believe
in illusions
once in a while.

the game

i ask her plainly
so, did you have sex with your
old boyfriend
who you reconnected
with on face book
after so many years.
you know, the guy who
texts you all the time
when you're at my house?
and she says.
i'm not going to tell you that.
i laugh and say,
okay, thanks.
i have the answer now,
no further
discussion is needed.
everyone is in the game.

woke up on the wrong side of the bed

the new religion
is here.
wake up.
be one of us.
recycle.
protest and march.
be awakened.
be aware.
tear down the old.
rinse and repeat.
i've heard it all before.
nothing
ever changes,
people don't change.
and when you
actually grow up
you'll finally realize
that it all starts at home.

Friday, April 23, 2021

moe, larry, curly and shemp

as the technicians
work
on the car out in front of the house
a third
one appears.
moe, larry and now curly
are here.
doing their best
to realign
the computer, calibrate
the cameras
and other mysterious connections
that are no longer working
because of their installation
of a cracked windshield.
it's like waiting for a baby
to be born.
the doctor studying an old manual
while holding a pair 
of rusted tongs.
i pace the floor,
smoking,
putting my hands through
my thick head
of suddenly greying hair.
it's a long day.
i tap my foot as i stare out
the window.
the wind is blowing.
seasons are changing.
finally the knock on the door
comes.
we're sorry, but we can't
fix it, they say together,
you have to make an appointment
with the shop
where shemp will try to get
it done.