cheaper to keep her

my friend jimmy calls me up

for a pow wow.

he's finally over his divorce

and is back online

dating again.

he's joined all the sites.

match and zoosk,  plenty of fish,

senior match,

our time, 

christian mingle,

jewish singles.

catholic singles.

atheist singles.

face book,

elite singles,

udate, 

eharmony, bumble and tinder.

how's it going,

i ask him.

i'm exhausted, he tells me.

whew.

i have callouses on my fingers

from texting.

women love to text not 

to mention eat,

and they drink like fish.

when the check comes

they all suddenly have to go

to the bathroom.

what up with that?

they have cobwebs on their purses.

two drinks each, a plate

of spinach dip

and calamari and i'm out

a hundred bucks,

not to mention the 50 dollar parking

ticket i get from expired

meters. i think i might have

to get a part time job.

and i think i gained twenty pounds,

and my blood pressure

is up twenty points.

i got slapped the other

day when i tried to kiss one date

after i dropped

two hundred dollars on her

at Capital Grille.

maybe i should have stayed

with the ex.

she was nuts, a liar, cheater,

and i was getting the same amount

of sex, which is zero,

but it would have been 

cheaper to keep her.

the nice day guilt

i'm tempted to do nothing

today.

to stay put.

to not attend mass.

to not visit

my mother.

to ignore the nice weather

and not

go out.

not do a second of work,

not take a walk,

or a bike ride,

or stroll up to the coffee

shop.

i'm tempted

to stay inside, to read,

to turn off

the phone

and not call up friends,

to do nothing but relax

and eat,

and drink,

and write.

i'm tempted to do nothing,

but unfortunately,

i'm still catholic

deep inside.

everything is clearer

from here, from this perch,

from

this roof

i can see far across the town.

my feet

on this ladder,

one hand holding tightly

to the frame,

the other

wiping sweat from my eyes.

birds are near.

the sun is closer.

everything is clearer

from here.

even you.

hazmat pajamas

tired from driving,

from the rain,

from the long trip on

the highway,

we look at each other

and sigh.

should we find a place

for the night,

i can't drive another mile.

she yawns, yup, sounds

good to me.

we see a sign up ahead.

open,

vacancies. cable

tv and wifi.

and below that in red,

vibrating beds.

hourly rates.

game? i ask her, sure.

why not?

did you bring our hazmat

pajamas?

yup. i think i have some

change in my purse.

another ten minutes

i'd like to say that relationships

are like parking

meters,

putting another coin

into the slot to keep it going.

one more nickel

to keep this spot

before there's a ticket

on the window

and the tow arrives

to haul me away.

i'd like to say that 

relationships are just like that.

but they're not.

be a good boy

we all have an image

we try

to maintain.

it started early

the first time your mother

combed your

hair, with a part on the side.

then the clothes.

the shirt tucked in.

the cow lick

pressed down.

the lunch box, the back

pack.

the warning to behave,

and learn,

be a good boy.

make friends.

and even now, it goes

on

as it did back then.

from the outside looking in

how quickly the wound

pretends

to heal.

but it's just the surface

that is mending.

the pain

is still there, 

the numbness, the ache

is real.

from the outside looking

in, it looks well.

we wave and say

hello, good day.

we mimic good cheer.

no more wishes please

one candle will do.

one small

flame at the end 

of a wax stick 

centered in a cake.

shall we blow it out

and make another

yearly wish,

or watch it burn

gently into the icing

before we slice,

before we eat.

life moving forward

we talk about

the glass half full, half

empty.

the glass with a leak

or no bottom.

each to his own way

of drinking

the days of his life

forward.

the fine art

there is an art

in dying.

a fine art.

some do it slowly.

some

quickly.

some pretend

that it will never

come about.

but in the end,

despite our efforts

to stay alive,

it finds

us in a whisper,

rarely with

a shout.

the pool party invite

the invite

to the pool party comes.

just bring what you're drinking

it says.

bring a friend too

if you want.

Priscilla is making her famous

potato salad,

and Ernie

is doing his deviled eggs

that everyone just loves.

he never reveals his

secret ingredients.

we have nineteen packs

of all beef hot dogs,

and two boxes of bubba's

hamburger patties.

Jimmy is skimming the pool

for dead

frogs

and raccoons 

while Betty's mother is in

the kitchen

whipping up her jello

with fruit cocktail in it.

bring your trunks for a swim,

but we have extra pairs

in case you forget.

starts at 9 a.m. and who knows

when it will end.

it will be nice to catch up

and talk politics

again.

the love drug

when you've done

the work

the rehab

the cold turkey, getting

the shiver

and shakes,

when you've done

the exorcism

and the holy water

the deep prayer

and gobbling of psych

books

for repair.

it's then that you wake

up and stretch 

your arms and say

wow.

home again at last,

alive and well.

what now?

her scissors

she had several pairs

of scissors around

the house.

scissors seemed to be important

in her world.

one for knitting,

for snipping threads,

for cutting tags off

new clothes, a frayed

sleeve or pant leg

on something old.

one for the kitchen,

a multi-purpose pair

in the drawer,

one for the kids to cut

construction paper,

a pair for

cutting hair.

a small set in her purse.

an old pair

she couldn't bear

to let go of,

a story behind it that

you would never hear.

the first taste

as we sit

on the bench on the busy

night

and the ice cream

melts

we listen to the children

out late

with harried parents,

the teenagers

flying by in chase,

full of new life,

wanting

their first taste.

going to work and coming home

what isn't true

is more interesting 

than what is.

the loch ness,

the grassy knoll,

the flying saucer that

may be light

or venus

on the horizon, who's to

know things,

look at these enormous

footprints in the snow.

we need distractions,

we need myth

and conspiracies, because

for the most part

it's going to work

and coming home.

meditation

as my mother

stood at the sink with

it filled

with warm water

and suds

the dishes stacked

below,

how meditative she

was.

how quiet and rested

she seemed,

as each dish was scrubbed

clean,

was rinsed and set

upon the rack

for me to dry.

she would be happy then

she would be happy

with a horse.

with a life of doing nothing

but riding.

no work

to worry her.

no child to feed and clothe,

no phone ringing.

just a horse

to gallop along the grass

with the mountains

before her.

cat and mouse

as the cat crouches

in the shadow

ready to pounce,

and the mouse

leans out with

twitching whiskers,

nervously looking

from side to side,

you see

what true life

is all about.

je ne sais pas

i ask my french teacher

out

for dinner, one night.

she arches her eyebrows and says

moi?

oui, i tell her, flipping through

my new french

phrase book.

c'est une bonne idee,

she says.

ummm. merci beaucoup.

un bistro?

oui, she says.

a ce soir, i tell her.

she smiles and walks away.

whew.

i'm exhausted already.

it's the same old song again

i take on a new patient.

but it's the same

old story,

heartbreak, a rough childhood,

she wasn't hugged enough.

or praised, or

fawned over.

i yawn as i sit across

from her.

a box of kleenex at her side

and listen.

i nod and take notes as

she recounts her last six

relationships.

all failures for one reason

or another.

lying, cheating, blah blah blah.

i have no magic wand,

no book, no you tube video

for her to learn from.

she has to suck it up and

move on.

but i tell her she's beautiful

before she leaves,

which puts a smile on her

face, job done.

meet me at the bar

no.

i don't want to video chat.

or zoom

or face time

or skype,

or whatever the hell

else

you punks do now to

communicate.

meet me at the bar.

and that's that.

conformity

the young woman

says to me

you look just like my father.

you wear the same

things.

i look around the store

and she's right.

we're all wearing the same

shorts, the same

shirts,

the hat, the tennis shoes.

we are all of a certain age

exactly alike.

i cringe at conformity,

at being

one of many, time

to break this trance

and book a flight to

france.

alive and well

my father

sounds good on the phone.

for the first

few minutes.

alive

and well is in his voice,

but in time

he falters,

he hesitates with words,

he coughs and clears

his throat.

he tells me

that his balance isn't

what it used to be.

his eyes

are blurred, his hearing shot.

but he's not ready to let

go just yet.

Esther's coming over

on sunday.

the year of no roses

i saved nine hundred dollars

last year

by not buying flowers.

not for birthdays,

or holidays,

mother days,

apology days, etc.

no roses, no daffodils,

not a potted plant

was sent or handed 

to someone

i was trying to please

on a bended knee.

not a girlfriend, not a wife,

not a casual acquaintance 

i met on some lame

online dating site.

maybe next year.

the horrors

i used to want to know more

about things

going on in the world,

but now i want to know less.

by print, by media,

by word of mouth, by pigeon

even with a note

attached to his claw.

enough.

what good is there in knowing

of the horrors

when there's nothing

i can do about it.

in the other room

there is the tinkling

keys

of flirtatious laughter

in the other room, i want

to look

around the corner

and see

who it is.

who's speaking to whom.

it's a quiet

symphony

coming into my ears.

sweet and soft.

so gentle

and loving it almost

brings me to tears.

throwing stones

there was a boy

in the neighborhood who liked

to throw

stones

through windows.

he would crouch

behind a hedge and wait

until

the family was gathered

around the television.

on the floor

on couches

and then he'd heave a heavy

rock

into the glass

and run.

he called it fun.

he had no family to speak

of that i knew.

no love.

so why should

they, i assumed.

what keeps you there?

the therapist said

once.

what keeps you there.

what is it

that allows you to stay

in such

a bad place

with someone who doesn't

love you,

doesn't care,

who lies

and cheats,

and breaks your heart

each day?

what is it, my friend,

my patient

that you want from her.

is it sex,

is it kindness and compassion,

of which she has none.

why don't you leave?

and i said

i have no answers to these

questions,

only prayers,

but i'm almost there.

that would come in time

i remember it was raining.

standing

in a puddle

in a phone booth

my coins stacked in 

florescent light.

the hum

of trucks and cars

flying by.

i remember calling you

just to hear your

voice.

to know that you were

still alive.

that was enough to keep

me going.

no need to say i love

you. no need

for any of that. 

not yet, at least.

that would come in time.

the poem is not true

a poem

is not true. not what

really happened.

a document

to be used in court.

a testimony

accusing me or you

of guilt or innocence.

it is more

true than that.

it goes beyond

the obvious,

beyond the facts.

paranoia

it's nearly impossible

to scrub yourself completely off

the grid.

to hide yourself,

where you work, or live.

social media

is a vine that keeps growing,

pulling you in.

the white pages,

the yellow pages.

the internet.

there is no way to hide.

old friends, new friends.

phone numbers.

addresses.

we are tracked and traced even

unto death

with every stroke of the keyboard

observed

and kept.

there's a good reason why

paranoia has set in.

refrigerator magnets

i can tell who

you are by your refrigerator

magnets.

i see save the whales,

save the bay,

recycle. eat organic.

seattle,

the grand canyon.

vote.

rosy the riveter. 

a dog, a cat. a bottle

of wine.

a cow circled in red

with a line through it.

a black square saying

men, who needs them.

i can tell just by looking

at your magnets

that it's going

to be a long day.

change is hard

the steam of tar

rises

in the early hour.

the men

orange clad

and boots

are weary as they push

and pull

a new road

down.

we are impatient

wanting to get where

we need to go.

we sigh at the detours,

but go

around.

new roads are hard.

change is

even harder.

they say it's your birthday

she informs me 

that it's her birthday

on sunday.

but she's booked

solid for the whole month

so i have to get in line.

there's a parade planned

for the weekend.

flowers come by the hour.

cakes are made.

presents are wrapped with

ribbons and bows.

people are flying in

from afar for her special

day. the phone keeps ringing.

it's not just one day,

it's the week, an entire month.

when was yours, she asks,

smiling from ear to ear,

her lips covered in sweet 

vanilla icing. when is your

birthday?

yesterday, i tell her.

oh, she says. i wish i

would have known.

the deepest waters

i'm awake

while i sleep

and asleep while i'm

awake,

when i rise from my bed

i'm in a day dream,

a fog.

the night has become

my real world.

the days

are full of haze

and ruminations,

while at night

i find real love,

i swim through

the deepest waters,

i travel far.

true the world

the dog

will not lie, impossible.

it wags

it's self

in joy at your arrival

and barks

at the darkness

outside.

how true they are

to the world.

unlike us

who they are

they will not hide.

the last day of school

i think about all the high school

teachers i had

in my brief youth.

they must all be dead

now,

or close to it.

mrs. moak the french instructor

with her stacked red hair

and extravagant scarves.

mr. reber. the robotic

physics teacher who dabbled

in LSD

and attended woodstock.

Secrist the pyschology teacher

who married one of

his students.

Mrs. white the english teacher

who didn't know

my name when i asked

her to sign my year

book the last day of school.

so, tell me about yourself

so tell me about yourself,

she says,

sipping her chardonnay,

staring at her phone,

clicking away.

no, i tell her.

no thanks.

she looks up from texting

somebody,

and says, what?

did you say no?

you don't want to tell me

about yourself?

that's right.

in fact i have to go now.

in search of a muse

i've run out of things

to say.

to write about.

i've beaten the dead horse

until my fingers

bleed, i've grown weary

searching for new words

to say the same old

things again

and again.

i'll take a break now, but

be back at four

or five.

maybe then.

the surprise

it is hard to tell who

is more surprised

the man

or the fish that comes

out of the water

over the rail

into the burning sun.

he yells

as the fish goes

to the ground struggling

in the new air

which fills his lungs.

i watch

hoping that he'll toss

it back into

the blue pond,

but no, once the hook

is pulled from his 

stiff mouth

he opens his

box of ice and into

that the struggling fish goes.

two hands

the words

come into my head,

as if a note slipped under

a door.

i read it.

and smile.

the devil in one hand,

it reads,

and christ in the other.

i look down

at the book i'm reading

by henri nouwen,

gripped tightly in

the right,

and in the left

hand

is my phone.

turn right at the end of the path

if you go straight

i tell the two women in their hats

and matching

pink jerseys

you'll hit water,

i point through the tunnel

of green trees,

but if you turn at the end

of the path, to the right

you'll circle

around to the tower

where you can see

the wildlife

more clearly. a short climb

up to the platform.

thank you, they say, and

move on.

as you do.

this won't last

as i sit

and wait my turn for the physician

to arrive

i see the young boy

held down

by his father

as the doctor

saws off a blue cast

from his leg.

the boy is crying, twisting,

and the father

with tears

in his eyes, whispers to

the boy.

hold on, hold on.

this won't last.

the green window

the window

full of green now. 

this season is in full bloom

awaiting summer

and what comes

next.

we are all

in some state of waiting.

no mystery out there

as to what's to follow,

but with us

it's in the air.

go home

i don't trust

church people.

or environmentalists,

or feminists,

or democrats or republicans.

i have no

use for vegetarians,

or lutherans,

or catholics,

or muslims, or mormons.

if you belong

to something

then something's wrong.

don't give me

your peace sign,

your astrology sign,

or your cardboard sign.

please.

enough.

go home.

get a life.

quit trying to convince

me that your way

is right way

and the only way.

guilty until proven innocent

i used to think the best

of people.

that all are good until proven

wrong,

but i no longer

have that thought

in my head,

i look now in their eyes

and wonder

when will they prove

me wrong,

dead to me

in the long run

in the bigger scheme

of things

it's best to think of

others as being dead,

long gone,

no longer

in your life. they are

under the ground,

beneath

the green.

no longer prodding you,

upsetting you,

getting on

your last nerve,

put up a stone and etch

upon it their

name.

then move on.

let me help you

people look at my

yard

and sigh.

they say let me help

you with that.

there are so many possibilities,

ways we can go 

to fix it up.

to grown green,

to dig and plant to water

and weed.

let me help you with

that, they say

staring out the back

window.

but it's not that 

that i want, or need.

things change

things change.

get better,

get worse. get different.

you once loved

milk.

cold milk in a glass

with a sandwich or a slice

of cake.

now you don't  drink it.

you don't miss it.

you pass it by

in the store as if you never

knew one another.

a vague memory

of a love gone sour.

third wind

are you on your second

wind

or is it your third.

gathering

yourself,

picking yourself up from

the floor again.

dusting yourself off.

back at it.

straight ahead,

forward. here we go.

okay, i'll push

as the wheels

turn

in the muck

and mud

and the rain falls down

in biblical

torrents

we look at each

other and laugh,

both knowing

that one of us has

to get out and push,

that person

being me.

see you when i get home

i like the written note.

the time

it takes to find a pen

and paper

as the sun rises,

to sit down and jot the words,

i'll see you when

i get home.

love.

it's a simple thing.

one that keeps you

warm

throughout the day.

nothing to buy

i can't think of anything

to buy

today.

the fridge is stocked,

the closets overflow

with unworn shoes

and clothes.

unopened books are

everywhere.

there must be something

i'm lacking.

i'll go the basement

and then the attic,

i'll search

for an empty space

there.

this too will heal

i rip off the old band aid,

the white

tape,

the bandage

and drop it into the waste

basket.

i stare at the wound

and see

a mirror.

this too will heal,

as have all the others.

i understand it.

your secret life

your secret life is your

real life.

the hidden

thoughts,

the notes you take

that no one else will read.

what you

look at, what you

believe.

what lies below

the surface, below

the spoken words

and smile, so much

of you, the true you,

goes unseen.

funny girl

she was a funny girl.

long

and lean

dark skin, thick black

hair.

almond eyes.

she'd say things like

ten dollar, make you holler.

or

beat me abuse me

make me feel cheap.

we'd laugh.

she'd laugh as we drank

margaritas

and ate chips

and salsa at chi chi's after

computer class.

then she disappeared,

never to be seen again.

she found

another life, another

crowd

to amuse.

the open wound

there is something to be said

about physical

pain,

the ache and throb

of a bone,

or joint or open wound.

the fire of it awakens

you to what means most

in your life,

the trivial falls away.

the ruminations end.

strangely with pain

life begins again.

what will never appear

where are you now,

what room

are you in,

what bed? are your feet

on the floor.

who's heart

does your hand hold.

have you

traveled far enough away

from

the past, or are you still

there

trapped in the fallacy

of hope.

wanting and wasting

away

for what will never appear.

true friends

friendship is not carved

out of soft wood

to last it must be

strong

and hard

for the knife to etch

into its

side our names

and what lies inside.

the soft

wood will drift

and float away,

but true friends will see

you through

to the end.

the calm of pastels

i like the sterile

environment of the emergency

room

the modern

fixtures, the glimmer

of steel

and confidence of the young

doctors.

the smell of alcohol

the blend

of lights and colors

trying to alleviate fear.

the calm

of pastels.

an occasional visit is fine,

but not often, perhaps

once every twenty or

so years.

swift changes

the fragility of life

and the swiftness of how

easily things can change

comes to light

as the art

falls off the wall

and you reach madly

to catch it

before anything hits

the ground. in hindsight

you'd probably do

the same thing again.

find your drug

i can see why

drugs become a choice.

who wants pain,

raise your hand.

the needle, or pills

or a shot of whiskey.

here, bite on this leather

strap

as we sew you back 

together.

you're not on any blood

thinners are you,

they ask for the upteenth

time.

blood and glass

with one hand 

moving slowly across

the keyboard

and the other hand waiting 

its turn

i attempt

to overcome the pain

of a cut tendon

and write something new

and fresh

and enlightening, but no

such luck

even the bright firework

splash of blood

and glass

has provided me with no

new insights

or epiphanies.

it's time to go

it's time to go,

i know.

time to slip into shoes

and clothes,

i know.

i see the clock.

i realize the time.

it's time to go,

i know.

and i will, i promise.

just give me

one more kiss

and then

i'll go.

three turtles

as the children

come upon the small turtles

baking

in the sun

on a grey log, they squat

and kneel

to stare

and gaze at each one.

and then

one child rises with a stick

and strikes

against

their hard backs.

this is the child

that will wreak havoc

upon the world.

water therapy

overwhelmed

with being overwhelmed

i slip

into the hot

bath

with the lights off,

no books

no phone.

no music.

just the sound of nothing

and the slow

descent of my body

into hot water.

it is from here

when i rise that i will

face tomorrow.

i want a hot baked pie

it used to be if you were

new in the neighborhood,

just moving in,

someone would bake you a pie

or cook up a giant

pan of tuna casserole,

which was nearly impossible

to put down the garbage

disposal.

but now. people just peek

out their windows and stare

as the truck pulls up.

no one waves, or introduces

themselves.

they bring the kids inside

and pull the blinds. there's

no welcome wagon. nothing.

i want my pie, dammit.

where'd all this money come from

i take seven hundred and forty dollar

bills

to the bank

and ask them

to change it into big bills.

i'm tired of stacking

them all into a cardboard

box and hiding it

every time the maid comes to clean.

twenties or larger, the clerk says,

staring at the bills.

are you a drug dealer, she asks me.

no. i don't even take

aspirin, i tell her.

i just somehow over the years

have all these single one

dollar bills. it's crazy i know.

can you break it down into

fifties, and hundreds?

i need to talk to my manager

about this, she says,

leaning over to push a button

below the counter,

and then a squad car

pulls up out front with the party

lights on.

there was this time in band camp

she tells me she's only made

love to three men

in her life

that counted.

what about the ones

that didn't count,

i ask her

handing her my phone

calculator.

in high school too? she asks.

all time.

i tell her.

what's your number?

gee whiz, she says.

okay, but in the spirit

of being open and honest,

i'll tell you, but

then it's your turn.

and keep in mind this 

was in the late seventies,

disco fever and all that.

ummm. yeah, sure. sure.

you go first.

golf nut

he tells me he plays

golf

three times a week, which

explains why

he's so angry

all the time and gaining weight.

it's my back swing

he says, i can't

push off on my left

foot like used to

since i dropped a can

of beer on it once.

i did fine on the front

nine, yesterday,

but then the wind picked

up and i was shanking

drives all over the place.

hit a duck on twelve

which actually was a good

thing, because it kept

my ball on the fairway.

quietly i close my eyes

and fall into a deep sleep

until he nudges me with

his putter that he carries

with him everywhere.

the five mile run

i would run the path along

the mt. vernon parkway

for years.

decades.

the legs churning swiftly

up the hill

to colllingwood,

then back

to belle haven.

a five mile turn around.

in all weather.

three times a week.

the snow didn't stop me,

nor ice,

or wind.

rain.

july or january, it didn't matter.

how easily

i worked out the world

on these runs.

clearing my head,

examining my soul.

figuring out what next with

each spring

of my steps.

the italian artist

her art

was magnificent.

her hand holding the brush

in the bright light

of day,

the curtains pulled open.

the oils

going leisurely onto canvas.

i could watch her

all day.

the music on.

the smile on her face.

each finished

piece a surprise, each

a product

of her fierce imagination.

my love

and admiration

has never died.

a twinkle of eye

the boy

in the wheel chair

not a boy

exactly, but still a child

inside.

the body grown.

the parents

weary

but loving.

the feeding and changing.

the grooming.

trying as best

they can

to make life normal.

this is the life they've

chosen. never to let him go.

their life

is his life from birth

until

death.

it's the way it goes.

and despite everything they

are grateful,

finding joy in a simple,

laugh,

a twinkle of eye.

first and foremost

the future is not

what it used to be.

but that's okay. turn

the page.

move on.

no need to dwell

on the past.

get up, get going.

choose wisely

next time and

first and foremost,

love yourself.

listening to you

can you move closer to me

she says

and lie next to me.

i don't want sex,

i just want to feel the weight

of you.

the length of your body,

your arms and legs,

your heart on my heart.

i want to hear the air

as it leaves your lungs.

taste the salt of your skin.

feel the strength of your back.

i want to know who you

are. please. don't speak

a word, i need this,

she says. do it for me

before we go any further.

intermittent fasting

it's really easy

to lose

weight.

just don't eat for a few days.

don't worry

about walking,

or exercise.

just stop putting food into

your mouth.

it's easy.

i do it every few years,

when a love

goes south.

everything was in reach

as we sit on the back porch

sipping

martinis.

we talk about where we are,

where we

might be going.

the stars are so close

we almost

feel that we can grab a handful

and pull them down.

but we've always felt

that way.

even when young and lying

on a blanket

in the yard.

everything seemed possible

then.

everything was in reach,

nothing seemed hard.

somewhere beyond the sea

it wouldn't be a start

over

exactly.

just a step in a new direction.

cash in my chips

and hit the road.

italy, or france

perhaps.

i can learn the language.

wear the right

clothes.

i'll get out of this worn

out town,

and find a new heart

to love,

begin again before i'm

too old.

twenty four hours

i prefer the dull day.

the mundane,

the boring, the blah

of twenty four hours where

nothing happens.

nothing goes wrong.

there are no surprises.

everyone is who i think

they are.

the trains are on time.

the food is right.

the sun rises then sets

and the moon without

a hitch, continues

to shine.

will power

i resist

the lick of strawberry

ice cream.

the sugary sweetness

of the pink

scoop.

i hold myself back

knowing that

will power

comes

in small steps.

i put the pint away

for now.

we'll see how long

this lasts.

the race track

as the car passes me

at ninety miles per hour, 

i wonder

what's so important

that he has to drive

that fast to get there.

to his wife

and children?

to a job.

to save a life, perhaps.

or is it something

else.

someone is after him,

or he's

running from his past.

i can't go slow enough

these days.

hugging the right lane

peacefully.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.