the sundial

does any ask

what time it is anymore.

to ask

would mean

there's more wrong with you

than meets the eye.

where isn't there

a clock,

where aren't there numbers

telling

you the time. on your wrist,

the wall, in your hand,

the stove.

who needs a sundial

anymore.

it would slow the world down,

god forbid,

to a crawl.

faster than any wheel can turn

i see a carousel

in the distance. on the edge of woods.

it's playing

music.

the lights

are on the horses, the children

with shiny faces.  they spin

forward,

around and around, while

parents

stand beside them,

waving,

savoring this moment that

will pass

faster than any wheel can

turn.

the parking garage

as we circle the underground parking

garage

searching for our cars,

taking the stairwells

and ramps,

tip toeing through yellow puddles

of something odd,

the subject of love and death

comes up

as if the two are closely related.

we begin to sweat

and the air thins as we descend

further in the seventh circle

of hell. we take a break and eat

a power bar from her purse,

then press on.

finally she sees her car and uses

her key to make it beep.

thank you Jesus, she says,

not that she believes.

can i drive you to yours?

sure, i tell her, bending over to

catch my breath and loosen

the collar on my shirt.

all i remember is red B 12, i tell her.

do you have enough gas?

where can i buy your book?

my old writing professor

calls me to ask where she can purchase

my poetry books.

i tell her amazon.

she says what's that?

i don't travel much anymore,

and going to africa is

out of the question.

she's 92, so i forgive her.

give me your address,

i tell her.

i have company right now,

she says.

can i call you back.

just say your address, i tell

her.

hold on, she says.

and grabs an electric bill

off her desk.

here it is.

and who is this i'm speaking to?

the world of beers

i stop into

a joint on the boulevard

called a world

of beers, it's next to mister donut,

and mrs. pretzel.

i don't like beer

but i want to see what a beer

from

fiji tastes like.

they don't have it, but it's

on its way.

come back next week,

the girl says.

what about a beer from

siberia,i ask her.

she says, no problem.

i watch her go to the bar

and pour

a budweiser into a fancy

mug and bring it

back.

i tell her that i saw her pour,

that i saw the bottle,

and that i know it's a budweiser.

she says. so.

they sell it there too.

they sell miller lite too,

care to try one of those?

will this make me fat?

they've put benches

and love

seats in the grocery store,

the gourmet

stores where everything

says organic,

people are reading

voraciously,

their glasses on the tips

of their noses.

studying the labels.

counting calories,

carbs, sugars.

is their mercury in this fish?

they raise their questions

and ask the clerks,

will this make

me sleepy, or fat, or lazy.

they hold up bananas

and say what about this.

what will this do to my

figure, i'm going to the

beach on labor day?

can i eat this and still

fit into my suit?

should i just eat half?

splashing paint

i wish i liked kerouac

more,

the unreadable on the road,

or ginsberg

and his howl, his

supermarket

prose,

or the rest of the beat poets.

but they leave

me cold.

some call it typing,

not writing.

it's like throwing paint

at a canvas,

dripping a gallon

on the floor.

art?

to each his own, i guess.

aspirations

i've changed my mind.

i no longer

want to be a cowboy.

i've finally given up on that dream,

a dream i've kept ever since

i had the rubber

horse

in the bedroom, 

bouncing on springs,

and the white hat,

the chaps

and cap pistol.

being chased by bad

guys, 

wild indians.

enough of that.

now i want to be an

astronaut.

how about that?

thin slice of moon

it's a sliver

of moon eeking through

the clouds.

an eighth perhaps

if you need to get mathematical

about it.

a thin slice

of illumination,

throwing back

the sunlight.

not much of a moon, but

i'll take it.

as i will

a kiss on the cheek

from you.

fix me

machines break down.

nothing lasts

forever.

listen to the squeak in the washer,

the unruly

hum of

the furnace. the loose

belt

of the dryer.

a lost screw.

the house is full of

mechanical

mice

speaking out of turn.

chattering over

one another,

fix me, grease me.

replace me with something

new.

it's like they've been

listening to me

for so many years,

learning how it's done.

taking the phone off the hook

when people

mess up their lives with

so many mistakes,

wrong turns,

lies and deceptions,

idiotic behavior

and finally, at last,

their life is a

complete train wreck

they then

turn on God.

how could God do this to me?

what kind of a God

would allow

me to be in such living hell?

i thought God was good.

apparently not,

they whine.

who can blame

Him for taking the phone

off the hook.

baby back ribs

i take a few pounds

of 

ribs

and boil them on the stove

until

they're almost cooked

and slim

ready to be dried and rubbed,

does this

remind you of me?

i hope it does,

anyway, i digress.

back to the ribs.

the spices, the salt and pepper,

the brown sugar,

and secret sauce.

who doesn't like

secret sauce, raise your hand?

i see no hands

so i'll move on.

i preheat the oven

to 325.

we're going to cook them slow

tonight.

i know how you like

slow.

right?

my mouth is watering,

is yours?

dinner at 8, be hungry.

i call my florist

i call my florist.

it's an emergency.

betty is mad at me, again.

i need

a bundle of red roses asap!

pronto.

throw in a big box 

of chocolates

and a card.

mushy, make it mushy.

draw some hearts on it.

maybe a basket of fruit

too, what the hell.

toss in an edible arrangement.

she'll like that.

i've never seen her quite

this upset at me.

others, sure,

but not my main go to squeeze.

make it same day delivery

please. spare no expense,

well. try to keep it within

reason.

i'm not rockefeller, for 

God's sake.

trying to face the strange changes

things are ending

quickly,

wrapping up, moving forward.

the turnstile turns,

the escalator clicks on,

the elevator.

is swift as each floor

passes by.

i can hardly keep up

to these fast

changes.

but i'll manage somehow.

i always do.

it's exhilarating

and depressing all at once,

let's see where it goes,

where

it really ends.

what have we learned so far?

so what have we learned so far?

a lot of lessons

have been given,

some absorbed, some ignored.

where to start.

rinse and repeat.

fall down, get up.

the memes and cliches

are everywhere.

i've graduated and failed.

i've been held back,

i've been put at the front 

of the class.

i'm in the corner, i'm banging

erasers on the walls

out back.

what have we learned so far,

a thimble full,

a sack.

a mountain of knowledge.

everything and nothing.

depends

on the day, the month,

the year.

i can't remember what's fiction,

what's fact.

no need to worry

i won't fall in love

with you.

so don't worry.

don't think twice about 

where my eyes go,

where my

hands reach

to find yours.

it won't be love, of that

i can assure you.

i'm incapable of such an

emotion anymore.

that ship has sailed, the door

has closed.

so rest easy.

no need to worry about

where any of this might go.

one last game

you know when it's time

to move on.

when the legs are heavy,

the arms

too slow,

the hands and eyes, once

sharp,

are in a daze.

the knees ache.

recovery is beyond a week,

it's time to give it up.

let the young men

have their way.

it was a good run.

a good half century of game

on black top,

gravel,

dirt and concrete.

the chain link nets,

the string,

the single rim, rusted

on a broken backboard.

lacing

the shoes,

the adrenaline rush.

the sun,

the glory, the friends, all

will be missed.

all will be remembered,

but this is it.

live on

my favorite poets

are dead.

my writers too.

six friends i've known

forever

are gone.

and what does it mean?

nothing but a maudlin

thought

as the rain begins, again.

i can still 

read them,

i can still remember

their faces,

their voices.

the way they loved

their life,

and you. live on, live on.

there's little

else to do.

porcelain still life

being naked

is nothing anymore.

i've seen enough.

i've seen it all.

too much, perhaps.

my imagination

has run dry.

i need another

take, another side

of you, enough

of this still life,

this porcelain hide,

i need to see compassion.

time for

a different point

of view.

almost everything

there's a lot of windows

in this house,

a lot of rooms,

a lot of doors, a lot

furniture and  art,

it's full of so many

things i think i need.

look around, take a long

look, everything is here.

almost. almost.

don't you agree?

before it even starts

i hide a lot of things

from you.

i slip my

feelings between the lines.

i write notes

you'll never see, i keep

the real me 

off the table.

there's so much you don't

know, or will

ever know about

who i really am.

i'm in the shadows,.

i'm in the dark.

i'm always looking for a

way out,

before it even starts.

you just know

people don't have to tell

you they

don't love you.

no need to have that conversation.

you know it.

you feel it.

the way they move.

the way

they sit and hold their arms

together.

the way they

enter the room,

the way they go.

no one needs to tell you.

you just

know.

tell me a story

speak to me.

tell me a story i can sleep on.

a true story

of love

and friendship, of being young.

unravel

it slowly.

let me drink it down like

a fine

smooth wine.

be gentle,

be generous with your words,

be kind.

tell me a story i can sleep on.

i could use one

tonight.

in between so many things

this music is soothing

as i lie

on the big couch

in the cold

basement.

i hear the clock tick.

the sound

of a muffled

mower far away.

i hear the neighbor

telling

his kid

to no, throw it like this.

but the music

is good.

it makes me sleepy

and happy

all at once.

i can't stay awake,

i can't fall asleep.

i'm somewhere in between,

like i am with

so many things.

the ivy league

she prefers smart men.

so that

leaves me out.

she prefers men with more

degrees

than a thermometer. 

brainiacs

from the ivy league.

men with books written

while on summer leave,

men with tenure.

men with clean soft

hands,

and white shirts.

white beards. men

who study physics for fun.

again.

not me.

three turtles on a log

as the turtles rise,

their slender necks take

chances, twisting slowly,

side to side,

as turtles do

from the murky brown

stew of the man made lake,

lake accotink,

they crawl with caution

upon the rotted log,

stuck in the muck

and debris of cups and cans,

wrappers,

assorted balls, plastic

no longer

holding cheese.

do they care. i suppose not.

and why should they 

as the children

and parents stop to get a clear

clean shot,

well pleased.

see you next tuesday?

i have to go now, i tell her.

i'm sorry

it didn't work out, but you'll

find someone else.

we all do

eventually. it just wasn't meant

to be.

we're in different places,

we want different things.

we don't see eye to eye.

i could go on, but i can see

this is getting nowhere.

so let me get dressed, grab

my hat, my gloves, my keys.

it was fun while it lasted.

but if you're still around,

and no longer mad,

next tuesday

is still good for me.

down to the bone

i need a deep tissue

massage.

one that goes back years

into my muscles,

my tendons..

i need strong hands digging

in,

to bring me to tears,

to release the toxins.

to free me from all my 

doubts and fears,

use your elbows,

your arms,

your legs, your knees.

go in for the kill.

go deep, please.

put your weight into

those legs,

the shoulders,

my neck.

don't leave anything out.

bring it home.

leave me limp on the table.

massage me

down to the bone.

put me to sleep,

but when it's over,

don't leave me alone.

the reluctant finish

at the end of most

writer's lives

out comes the collected works,

available in print,

or online. selected pieces,

old ones,

new, some from youth,

which you aren't supposed

to take seriously.

it's a full

body of work.

from day one, when the pen

hit the pad,

to the end,

when the last key is stroked

and a reluctant

finish begins.

the afternoon off

i tell my secretary to clear

all my meetings.

to postpone all my calls.

i'm taking the day off,

i tell her.

she smiles

and says it's about time,

you work so hard.

she blows me a kiss

as i walk out the door.

have fun, she says.

where can i reach you,

same place as before?

a stripe of sky

it's a violet

stripe of sky between

low

white clouds.

there is the thought of you.

the sun

about to rise.

there is waking up from

a turbulent sleep,

you have

survived.

missed calls

missed calls

add up on the phone.

47 just 

yesterday. no messages.

you wonder though,

what they had to say,

or sell,

or want.

it's the world now.

why work,

when you can beg.

why have

a job, when there's a street

corner to stand

on with a bucket.

why leave the house,

when you

can use your phone

to find money.

give me your hand

beware

of the hand that reaches out

for you.

are they pulling you up,

or dragging you down

to where they are.

ignore the smile,

the words,

the promise.

beware of hands reaching

for yours.

it's not always

good, they can

keep you on the ground.

once the barn is full

it feels like monday.

because it is.

gone is the weekend.

the sleeping in.

the lounging around

and reading.

writing.

eating.

i look at the calendar.

i see friday up ahead,

way down the road

of five long days.

but there will come a time

when every day

will be saturday.

soon, once the barn is full.

small things

i used to worry over

spilled milk.

small things that seemed to add

up

to some sort

of failure.

a crack in the wall,

a nail pop,

a leaky faucet.

an argument,

a misunderstanding,

but they're nothing.

they get taken care of

before long.

small things no longer

have

the power they once did.

they come and go.

just wait.

blue eggs

the birds are loud

this morning.

true

early birds

in the trees, getting busy

with

the life

they lead.

building nests

swiftly

for what's to come next.

soon

the blue eggs will

appear.

and the black snake

too

will wander near.

if you could read my mind

i gather the stack of bills

waiting

on the other desk, not this one,

the one in the other room.

you know the one.

stamps are found,

an ink pen not dry.

the envelopes, the check books,

business

and personal.

it's check writing time.

the sun is blue

between the trees, holding

on as you touch the phone

for music.

an old but beautiful song.

if you could read my mind.

dinner is served

it's medium rare, onions.

a soft

roll, buttered.

cheddar cheese.

the grill marks striped

on the ground

beef.

angus cut.

90 per cent lean.

the first bite is heaven,

the second.

oh my.

dinner is served on the promenade

on a beautiful sunday

night.

having the pre sex talk

before we make love

she says,

we should have a talk.

okay.

sure, i tell her, trying to unzip

her dress.

stop, she says.

hold on.

pump your brakes.

oh, sorry, habit.

so, okay, talk.

do you have anything?

like what?

you know, like heebie jeebies.

bed bugs?

no, you know what i mean.

std's.

stuff like that.

no, been lucky.

russian roulette at times,

but lucky.

i cross my self

and knock on wood.

me either, she says, but i

was married for thirty years

and he just died

three weeks ago.

whereas you've been out there

catting around

for god knows how long.

i'm good,

i say. had blood work done

six months ago.

clean bill of health although

they did find a few

martini olives in my aorta.

well. i still don't trust you.

she pulls out a shoe box full

of shiny plastic square envelopes.

i bought a wide

selection of sizes and colors,

shapes and designs.

what are these, i ask her.

you don't know what these are?

they look familiar.

they still make these? i remember

them in the 80's.

wow, it's like taking a walk

down memory lane.

cool, thanks for showing them to me.

it's good to have a hobby. my mother

was a collector too.

she collected postage stamps

from all over the world.

i'll show them to you sometime.

now turn around,

let me see if i can get this zipper

unstuck.

dang i can barely

get my fingers on it.

forgiveness

it is in forgiveness

that we truly

let go

and move on with our lives.

we are human.

we are

helpless and hopeless

at times

in doing the right thing.

nature,

nurture, it doesn't matter why.

but only

in forgiveness

and compassion are we able

to escape

and not die.

to each season

it is the arrival

of seasons

coming naturally into your arms,

your mouth,

your ears

that brings joy.

no longer is there sadness

as they end.

each to its own

way of being.

whether cold

or warm

the waves of each are welcomed

without

fanfare,

just an inner voice

of remembrance, stirred

again,

beginning in childhood

and taking

you forward

to an end.

the real estate agent

as i put my house on the market

i wait for

the real estate agent to show up.

i see an old

woman

getting out of a car,

carrying a bag of brochures

and a metal sign.

she limps over and says my name.

who are you i say,

staring at the card

with her picture on it.

the picture that makes her look

like a glamorous model

about to walk down

the red carpet at the oscars.

i'm her.

she says, well sort of,

her brow sweating.

her eyes dark and bagged

with fatigue. oh.

it doesn't look like you.

she shrugs.

yeah, i know, took nine

hours of make up and air

brushing. they put veneer

on my teeth and

did my hair.

they photo shopped it for a few

days.

i knocked twenty years off

of me with that

picture. but hey, it reels them in.

i had five rentals

last month because of that picture.

where do you want the sign,

bub?

the box of 54

as a child

i was amazed at the new box

of crayons.

the box of 54 colors.

it was a what

the hell moment at seven

years old.

who knew

there were so many colors

to choose from.

dang.

i immediately asked for

more coloring books

and to be left

alone, then went at it,

signing each

page with my initials.

s. van gogh.

waiting on the x rays

the doctor

is examining my x rays.

she's at the beach though.

and

is getting grease

on the photos.

she's eating chicken.

a box of fried dark meat

between her stretched

out legs.

she holds up the x rays

to the sun.

hmmm.

she says.

i should call him at some

point

and tell him to stay

off those knees for awhile.

she slurps

her drink, the long straw

in her mouth,

then closes her eyes.

we learn early

we are taught early to believe

in lies.

in fairy tales,

in santa claus

and 

tooth fairies.

we toss coins into the wishing

well.

we wish upon stars.

we watch

the romantic movie,

and think

it's in our reach, it's never

too far.

it's an unkind awakening

to realize

that someone you

once loved,

was never real,

like everything else you 

learned as a child,

she too was a lie.

party girl

do you party, she asks me.

sure.

i love a good birthday party,

or halloween

or new years.

no, she says. parteeeeh

you know.

get high.

smoke?

what are you talking about?

cigarettes cause

cancer.

no no not cigarettes,

weed.

mary jane.

ganja. 

she pulls out a bag of green

finely chopped dope

from her big purse,

pushing aside a ball of yarn

and knitting needles.

i see a pair of pink booties

she's working on for one of her

grandkids.

she shakes the weed in front of my face.

smoke a joint?

do a doobie?

oh my, i tell her.

i haven't touched that since

1972 at the grand funk railroad

concert in dc stadium.

we rushed the stage

during the last encore song.

i'm getting closer to my home.

come on,

she says.

this is good stuff, i got it at

the pharmacy

for my arthritis,

and kidney stones.

ummm. no thanks. but you go

ahead.

i can be tired, hungry, and paranoid

on my own these days.

can you swim?

is the water cold?

let's see,

let's dip a toe into the swirl

of blue.

is it deep?

who knows until we

dive in.

you go first.

i'll wait on the side,

watching you,

can you swim?

get out

it's less

about color, or creed,

or country.

it's more

about brain cells.

the amount

or lack

of that keeps people

on their knees,

in squalor

and debt

in anger.

it's not about 

the phd

or masters degree,

it's common sense.

without

it,

you're doomed

to be

stuck in a place

you weren't meant to be.

the river styx

we decide to rent a canoe

on a boiling summers day.

it's beyond hot.

and the river smells of dead fish,

but maybe it will be fun.

we begin

to argue as soon as we

hand the guy fifty dollars and paddle

away from shore.

the canoe is as wobbly

as our relationship is.

what the hell. it feels like

it's going to topple over any second.

i think about jumping overboard

but we're too close

to the Blue Plains Sewage

Treatment plant, so

we paddle on,

her giving me a piece of

her mind, a piece she should

be hanging on to.

i nod glumly

from the seat in front of her,

my oar digging into

the brown water,

thinking that this is what hell must

be like.

good people

people like tell you that you're

headlights are

out, or off.

they beep, they pull up beside

you and mouth the words.

they roll down the window, they

try to explain with their hands.

making motions

like koko the monkey, hoping

to get you to understand.

sometimes you say oh, yeah,

right and give them a thumbs

up before turning the lights

on to brighten up the road ahead of you.

these are the same people that

tell you you have toilet paper

stuck to your shoes,

and you're dragging it around

in a restaurant.

or people that inform you that you

still have shaving cream

in your ear. they point and swirl

their fingers around pointing

at their own ears.

at first you think they are telling

you you're crazy, which is partially

true, but then you figure it out.

these are good people.

people like me and you. achooo.

god bless you.

waving goodbye from a ship

i miss the payphone,

the milk man,

the ten cent bottle of coke..

i miss

the drugstore counter,

a grilled sandwich.

i miss the regular mail man.

i miss lying out in the yard.

the ocean.

the boardwalk.

hitch hiking with ten

dollars in my pocket.

i miss the butterflies,

the first kiss.

the first time we make love.

i miss rabbit ears on

the black and white tv,

a house full of dogs, cats

and kids.

i miss the broken screen door,

letting the flies in.

i miss the turntable

spinning the same record

for hours.

i miss the next door

neighbor. banging on the wall

to be quiet.

the paper route i had.

the dog named sundance.

my mother calling

me in for dinner.

my father waving goodbye

from a ship.

before the music stops

it's a slow

dance

a step here a step there.

his hand

against the small of her back.

the other hand in hers.

body unto body.

how easily they glide

across the floor,

their eyes

on each other.

how sweet new love is

before

the music stops.

the wedding ring

i see the wedding ring

i flattened out

with a hammer

stuck in the air vent in the floor.

it costs 800 dollars,

size twelve.

silver.

i banged it flat against the

laundry room floor

one day

after catching the ex cheating

and lying again

about her married boyfriend.

carefully, i find a pair

of needle nose pliers

and pull the ring out of the vent

before it slips into

the black abyss of the hvac system.

maybe i could sell it,

or drill a hole in it

and make a nice necklace 

for some unsuspecting 

new soul mate.

or maybe i could skip it

across the lake

like the last wedding ring,

and see if i can get seven skips

this time.

spicing things up a little

what are you doing

she asks me

as i take a pair of scissors

to my old jeans.

i'm making cut offs, i tell her.

oh, nice.

you'll look good in a pair

of daisy dukes.

did you figure out your corner yet?

i'm doing it for you, i 

tell her. i'm trying to spice

up our fading sex life.

we haven't made

love in almost ten hours now.

we needed a break,

she tells me,

stretching her legs

in the mirror, bending

over in her new black

yoga pants.

could you please not do

that, i tell her.

i almost cut my thumb off.

a simple plan

i don't want to go hunting

or fishing

or camping.

i don't want to kill my own food,

or milk a cow,

or shuck corn,

or filet a fish.

i want to go to a restaurant

and sit down

with you.

put my hand on your knee

and look into

your eyes as we drink

martinis

then eat dinner

brought to us on plates.

maybe coffee and dessert,

then back to my place.

our imperfections

the crack in the ceiling

will never

heal.

no matter how much it's

dug out

and filled.

it's the weight of the house,

gravity

and the vibration of life

that brings it back

again and again.

no thin coat of plaster will

do.

get used to it.

don't look,

it's what you do for me,

and what i do

for you.

the black hole

what exactly is 

the black hole out in space.

that void

that captures all light,

all things.

sucking it into

it's strange dark mouth.

where nothing

escapes.

it's there, but it isn't there.

this thing

that defies the laws of physics

as we know them.

i know what it

is here,

i've been there in that dark

void.

that black hole, but

magically i got out.

dog day afternoon

she asked me if it was okay

if we stopped

off at the cemetery on the way

home.

i looked at her, touched her

hand and said sure honey.

why not.

i felt compassion for her loss.

admiration for her deep feelings

that i never thought she had in her.

so we pulled in and parked,

then walked in the rain to

the gravesite.

she pointed and said there.

tears in her eyes.

i looked at the tombstone.

it said 

Rex and the date of birth

and death.

a picture of a bone

in a dog's mouth was carved

into the granite.

Rex? i said. yes, she said.

one of my rescue dogs.

he died in my arms the first

week i had him.

he jumped into my lap

while i was knitting him

a blanket. a long metal 

knitting needle

went right through him.

he let out a yelp, and that was it.

there was nothing we could do.

a woman with an axe

i see a bunch of chickens

running around

the fenced in yard

and a woman with an axe

chasing them.

luckily the light changes

before i see what happens next.

i have enough bad memories

about angry women

to add one more to that.

no questions asked

i like the money back guarantee.

the no fuss

return policy.

it doesn't work, you don't like it,

wrong color,

shape or size, no one cares.

no questions asked.

bring it back for a full refund.

no receipt necessary.

so i put her under my arm,

and go for it.

late night shopping

i call my master card

 customer service number to cancel

an order

i made at three in the morning,

after one

too many white russians.

i was feeling really lonely at the time.

it's embarrassing.

so i whisper the item into the receiver

cupping the phone.

can you remove

that please from my account

i tell the young woman.

she's giggling

and has put me on speaker phone.

the whole call center

is laughing.

please, i tell her, just cancel

it. i can't have this arriving at my house.

sure, she says.

no problem.

is there anything else we can help 

you with?

no, that should do it.

looking on the inside

i haven't had an x ray

in quite a while.

but today is the day.

two knees.

just to see what's in there

or not in there.

not that there's anything

to be done about it.

there is only so much tread

on the tire.

and after 50 years of

running up and down a

concrete basketball court

and paved paths along

the parkway, well,

it's a crumbly mess in there.

the body is a bar of soap.

melting slowly

away. let's take a look

and see what up.

the new strategy to life

my new strategy

to life, is to not have one.

to not plan

anything in advance.

to only buy what i want to

eat that day.

to talk to people i like,

not the others.

to eliminate

all stress, confusion, derision.

to say no

more often,

not answer the door or 

the phone if i don't know who

it is.

to listen to people

and look them dead in the eye

to see if they're

for real or not.

if not.

done.

i guess that is a strategy 

though.

the end of the world

did you hear the news

my neighbor yells to me as he

carries in

a box of canned goods, water

and toilet paper.

it's the end of the world.

it's happening,

it's really happening.

hmmm. i tell him. i didn't hear

it. i don't watch the news anymore.

you have to turn it on.

it's awful.

this could be the end of life

as we know it.

dang.

okay, thanks for the update.

aliens, virus, the stock market?

it's worse than any of that.

sorry i have to go,

i need to go back out, i forgot

duct tape.

okay. see ya later.

i was just heading out for a bike

ride, then a nice nap.

do i have time?

object dissonance

her pillars of ladies home

journal,

cosmo

and vanity faire.

jewelry and cards,

her clothes from the seventies

hung on racks.

plastic wrapped,

and the shoes.

good lord the shoes

in boxes

on the stairs.

one dropped match

and the place would go up

like a paper bomb

on a chinese new year.

she couldn't part with a thing,

not a single

thing,

including.

old boyfriends, much to my

despair.

the fish tank

people with fish

tanks

are a different sort of people.

even if you have

a small clear

bowl with a single

gold fish in it, 

what's the deal?

there's no leash, no ball to chase,

no snuggling on

the couch.

what are you getting out of this?

the filters.

the lights, the fake greenery

floating

up from the white gravel.

is that a windmill down there?

and they name them too.

there goes fred,

and jill,

and francis, and boo.

sprinkling

the little tube of food

on the bubbly surface,

talking to them

like babies

as they rise to the top with

their oval mouths open,

fluttering their fins

just for you.

tell me about it

i pick up one of my well

worn

psychology books,

dog eared with the corners

twisted down

on pertinent pages

i read a line or two, then

throw it across

the room.

i'm done with that.

i'm a walking encyclopedia

of the DSM.

if i could put my finger

down my proverbial

psyche throat

i'd spit it all up, but i can't

i've digested it.

it's part of me.

i can't help looking people

in the eyes now,

and knowing

what their problem is,

and how?

a large orange drink and a pretzel

so many people

are travelling now. i get

messages

from new mexico,

bali,

texas,

seattle.

they send post cards,

pictures.

they tell me stories

about

the red wood forest.

i write back and tell them

i'm in 

west springfield,

at the mall.

it's very cool in here

with the ac on.

i take a picture of my

large orange drink

and pretzel

and send it along.

pour me another, please

she tells me

that marriage is just like prison,

and as they

say in the Wire,

you're only there for two

days.

the day you get in,

and the day you get out.

she takes a long drink of her mojito,

getting a mint

leaf stuck between her teeth

as she finishes the glass.

you sound bitter,

i tell her.

marriage is a sacrament,

a blessed bond

between you and your loved

one, in the eyes

of friends and family,

and God.

loyalty, trust, adoration

and love.

she taps her empty glass

on the bar,

i'll have what he's drinking,

she tells the bartender.

the sad emoji face

i didn't realize

we broke up, until she told

me a few weeks

later

in a text message.

i responded with a sad

emoji face.

and she sent one back to me.

i thought it was

true love.

that she was the one and only.

oh well. next.

parting is such

sweet sorrow.

is the revolution over?

it seems like the revolution

is over.

no one in the streets.

no fires,

no looting.

no marches. no riots.

it's too hot out, people

are working

or looking for work.

or at the beach

eating

fried chicken and hot dogs.

licking ice cream

cones

and drinking beer.

maybe they're making love

too.

seems to be a lot more

babies around

these days.

diaper sales are up. i just

bought some stock

at binkies.com.

you really should go there

someone asks me if i've ever

been to the great wall of china, to which

i say no, but knowing

that they will now tell me all about it.

how high it is,

how long,

how old and all that.

they will tell me that i should go there

sometime.

it's amazing.

you won't believe it.

i nod and say hmmm. then tell

them about the wooden fence

in my back yard.

the gate, how i stained the wood

a teak color. i also tell them 

that i went to bed bath

and beyond

on saturday, taking all my coupons

with me.

they look at me like  i'm crazy, but i don't

care, they started it.

give me your broken hand

give me

your hand. no the other hand.

the broken hand.

i want to feel

the bones,

the cracked bones.

how they've healed

in strange ways.

i want to see the dark in you,

to see the hurt,

the bad dreams.

show me your shattered

heart,

your lost way.

lift the sheet and show me

the monster under your bed.

tell me everything, start

from the beginning.

i'll go next.

one more ride

some drink, some drug,

some eat

their way out of misery,

or further into it.

some starve themselves,

or cut,

or live dangerously.

some search for meaning

in sex.

in money.

the next new thing.

the roll of the dice,

in religion. chasing some

pie in the sky

nirvana.

does it happen?

sort of.

like a cheap ride on a rollercoaster.

a few highs,

a few lows. a lot of screams

and then it's over.

i'm waiting

when i was thirteen,

flush with cash from my

four in the morning paper

route

i used to lend

members of my family money.

i still have the wooden

box inked with the dates

and amounts they owe me.

mom, thirty dollars.

brother, ten,

sister, eleven dollars and fifty

cents.

all still outstanding debts.

i'm waiting.

you don't know love

she said to me once

you don't know love, because

you've never been

in love.

she was an expert on love

apparently.

the queen of love,

the professor

of eros,

of cupid.

of all things related to love.

i'll know it when

i see it, i told her

after catching her for

the tenth time

in bed with a married man.

you're right,

i told her.

i don't know love.

the rejection

i'm not looking for vanilla,

she tells me.

i want pistachio, i want

spice.

i want a man who's

edgy

and not afraid to take chances.

someone a little

dangerous and mysterious.

maybe a few tattoos,

but you

aren't like that.

you shower and shave,

you pay your bills, you work

hard.

you've never been to prison

and you use your turn

signals.

that's not me.

that doesn't turn me on. sorry.

don't zoom me, please

no

i don't want to zoom

or face

time, video chat,

or skype

or whatever the hell it is

that you

people are doing

with your phones

or lap tops,

etc.

if you can't put

your pants on, or a dress

and meet

me somewhere 

it's fine.

i'm looking for a human being,

with arms

and legs,

flesh, that sort of thing,

not a virtual flat

screen image

of someone too lazy,

half dressed,

scared and paranoid

to leave

the house.

the secret of life

i take a trip to nepal

to visit

my friend jimmy who is now

a buddha

like figure in an orange

bathrobe

doling out wise advice

to his followers

who can afford to fly

there, hire a sherpa and climb

the mountain.

dude, he says.

as i approach.

what up? glad to see you.

he has a pile

of books beside him.

eckhart tolle

and ghandi, david hawkins

dr. laura.

damn jimmy, you've come

a long way.

so what's the secret to life,

i ask him.

ahhh, he says. you've

traveled far

to hear this, but worth it

my friend.

the secret of life is to not care.

to not

give a fuck.

that's it?

pretty much, he says.

by the way,

did you bring an extra pair

of gloves,

it's cold as hell up here.

this wind never stops blowing.

the polygraph machine

i buy a polygraph machine

online.

it's on e bay.

formerly used to help

catch al capone

and jimmy swaggart.

busting them

both with lies.

it still works.  the squiggly

lines

moving up and down,

sideways, with the arm

cuff tightly wrapped.

i ask my new love interest

a few easy questions.

name, where she lives,

her school, and then

i ask her

who she really is, deep

inside. are you real, or

just pretending to be someone

you're not.

the machine begins to smoke,

it catches fire

as she gives me the wrong

answer.

if i only had this years ago,

it would have

saved me a ton of money,

and lots of time.

two eggs over easy

i  crack an egg into

the buttered pan,

crackling with heat,

then another beside it.

i wait, standing with my

spatula to turn them

over. i sprinkle salt

and pepper on them.

how many eggs have

i cooked and eaten like

this in a life time?

quite a few, i think, as

the bread pops up brown

from the toaster.

a working list of words

i go down the list

and with a wide black pen

begin to strike

out the words i no longer use

or care about.

jealousy is one.

suspicion another,

love.

worry.

anxiety.

marriage.

living together, two words.

paranoid.

guilt.

shame.

there's more words where

these came from.

but this list will have to do

for now.

complexities

there's always drama.

complexities.

there's never

an easy way in or out of things.

the world

is dynamic, in flux.

changes sweeping

through our cells

our blood,

our relationships, doomed

or not from the start.

can we wake up

once, set the sail, and move

gently down the great

river of time?

working on my short game

i think about taking up golf.

my ninety year

old blind

neighbor plays 18 holes a day.

if he can do it,

why can't I.

but it seems like such a long

walk.

a cemetery without tombstones.

beautiful lawns.

i could get a cart i guess,

and learn the lingo.

fore, slice, handicap,

back swing, putt, etc.

i'll need clubs of course

and shoes,

and a visor

and silky pants with big

pockets

for a cigar when i get a hole

in one.

maybe when it cools down.

call me in 17 years

a bug

gets into the car.

he's on my leg.

a fat

screaming cicada.

i can't even hear the radio

he's so loud.

he's all lungs.

he buzzes about, 

staggering like a drunken

sailor.

dumb

and trapped beneath

the seat.

and then it stops.

is he dead, or sleeping.

will he start

up again in 17 years,

if i still have this car?

setting goals

i have no goals.

i used to,

but i've accomplished or

bungled most of them all by now.

marriage, done that.

kid, yup.

work, business.

some dough in the bank.

house. yes.

a few books, ten thousand

poems.

short stories. read another book

buy an air fryer.

several dogs, done with that.

so what now?

what's the goal?

is there one, or is it permanent

slackerville from

here on out.

do i care if i ever see the grand

canyon,

or mt. rushmore, not really.

maybe small goals

are the way to go.

coffee,

drinks, dinner, hang with julie

bumble.

a bike ride.

martinis and a juicy steak

on a saturday night.

sleeping in.

the tow truck

it's three a.m.

when the man with his flashlight

walks through

the lot,

examining tags

and stickers.

pointing at the next car for

the tow truck

to take away.

it's work.

they are quiet, 

almost gentle with their

muscled arms

and tools.

you watch through the blinds,

the hook,

the tug

and pull of the parked car

that rolls onto the flat bed

and away it goes.

drama comes at dawn

but for now, 

the owners doze.

breakfast

there's a warm

bag of cookies on the porch.

no note.

no sign of anyone

up and down the street.

i pick it up,

open it and smell the freshly

baked sweetness

of sugar and butter,

warm dough.

it's a mystery.

i take it in and put a few

on a plate.

i put the coffee on.

i have no idea what to think.

your religion

your religion is a crutch,

a cane

to grip in your hand

and keep you

upright.

it's a wheel chair,

a stretcher,

a gurney

that you roll down

the cold damp corridors

of life.

it's an iv in your arm,

a drug,

a pill, a potion

keeping you alive

in the midst of harm.

it's a mysterious voice

whispering,

things will be fine,

go on.

it's fine for now

as the yard fills

with green

swept over the fence

on the soft

breeze,

whatever lands grows,

thrives.

natures hand.

not mine.

i'll let it build

and let

winter

take it down, it's

fine for now.

like sugar does

she leaves me

wanting more, like sugar

does.

like cake,

like ice cream,

like so many sweet

things on the shelf.

a taste

is enough to have

you running

to her store.

anatomy 101

was there

a more favorite subject in school

than anatomy.

sure math was fine,

the art of numbers,

calculations, equations,

sine and cosine,

and biology

with its blood and 

bones,

the circulatory system.

the periodic table,

so neatly

aligned,

with metals

chemicals, oxygen 

nitrogen,

potassium chloride.

but it was anatomy,

that caught my interest.

how can one deny

intelligent design, vivian,

captain of the cheerleaders,

even now

comes to mind.

before tomorrow comes

some days

you don't pick up the phone.

you ignore the 

ringing.

the beeps and buzzes.

you let it go.

whether good news or

bad,

or neither, right now

you don't want to know.

there are other things on

your mind.

small things that need to be done

before to 

tomorrow comes.

speed bumps

there are speed bumps

in the lot,

the small tight neighborhood,

they slow you

down

from ten to five miles per hour.

the little green

men with their plastic flags

are on the edge

of every curb.

you couldn't speed

if you wanted to.

but every thirty feet or so

there's a mound

of concrete you have to

go over slow

or scrape the bottom of 

your car,

and get a tow.

unfinished

is anything finished,

a note

a call

a conversation

a poem,

all can be done over

more can be said

to say

what needs to be said.

a painting on the wall,

a diary

a journal, a song.

it's never done,

and it's

never wrong.

the girl with the tattoos

i met her at Arties

along Lee Highway on a summer

night.

years ago.

ten maybe.

she was sitting on the bench

outside, waiting

for me.

she was surrounded by children.

like pigeons at her feet.

they were pointing

and touching her skin

covered in tattoos.

plants and animals 

were inked from her neck

down to her bare waist,

then below her knees.

she smiled

when i approached,

we shook hands and hugged,

then went in.

i never asked her about

the ink.

and she never told me the story

behind it all.

but we made

love in the car that night,

knowing it would never

last,  but still there

were many nights more.

the old world

at times you feel

as if the old world is slipping away.

or was

it gone already.

politeness

and courtesy.

saying hello to strangers

who pass you by

was fine. but each now

to his own device

in hand.

no longer in the moment,

but somewhere

i don't know yet, 

or never will

understand.

rules of the road

please.

a few rules before we go

any further.

don't lie.

don't cheat.

don't pretend to be

someone you aren't.

be who you really are.

for better or worse.

no game.

no drama.

just peace.

there's more to this

there's more to this than

meets the eye.

i can feel it in my bones.

taste it on my

tongue.

it's a vibe.

it's intuition.

that spider sense is

tingling

down my spine.

one never knows what

up ahead lies.

it could be wonderful

or it could be just another 

brilliant and dangerous

disguise.

holding the rail

more cautious at this age.

no longer

fooled

by a sense of immortality.

less chances

you take.

less quick to jump into

that cold

deep lake.

no longer willing to make

a work, or love

mistake.

you step lightly, you measure

your words.

you hold the rail

when descending

those stairs.

your favorite color

your favorite color,

or drink,

or season.

the way you like to sleep.

the music

that soothes you,

the books you read,

the food you prefer to eat.

if they don't ask,

don't care,

if none of these are important

to him or her,

then leave.

the promised land

some like the open road.

the trip

out.

the voyage, the journey

to foreign soil.

somewhere different than

where they are

is always on their mind.

staring at the compass

in hand,

which way now.

when will i find what i'm

looking for.

where is that promised

land.

the school yard

the noise

and clatter from the school yard

is familiar.

the shouts, and laughter,

the sound

of games.

the air is full of them.

these young children.

this new flock

of birds,

that reminds you 

that everything changes,

and yet remains the same.

let it go

to catch

a fire fly on a summer night

was easy.

to put it in a jar

and watch it

glow,

blinking gently.

was it fair, probably not,

catching beauty

like that,

but you let it go

when you had enough.

thin memories

we forget.

we no longer remember

what it was

that put us in a twist.

it's faded now,

a thin memory slipping

away,

the weather

and time,

has done it's job.

the new light

how kind the light is

stretched out

in a palette of blues

and violet,

a wash of pink.

the sun between trees.

the sun

retreating.

how kind

we can decide to be,

forgetting

pain, forgetting the dark

and waiting

for light to appear again

come morning.

the prodigal son

i decide to give religion

another shot.

doing things my way haven't

been working out

lately.

so i go to church on sunday,

but fall asleep

halfway through the sermon

about feeding the poor

in some country

i've never heard of.

i remember vaguely dreaming

about pancakes before

i clunk my head on the front

pew and knock

myself out.

when i wake up i'm in

the hospital. i see someone

going through

the pockets of my pants

and wallet.

hey, hey. what's up?

it's father flannigan from

St. Ambrose.

you missed the collection my son,

he says.

we had two after you

hit your head.

the binge

i'll be out of touch for awhile

i found

a new show on netflix.

i'm binging.

already done with season one.

four more seasons to

go.

i've muted my phone

and put a do not disturb

sign on my door.

i haven't showered in

two days.

and i'm running out of food.

you have to watch it,

it's great.

okay. have to go now.

it's on and i don't want 

to miss anything. bye.

trader moe's

the friendly grocery clerks

at trader moe's

are too friendly

as they push your food

across the counter.

so, sandwiches tonight huh?

or flowers

for the mrs, eh?

in trouble? yup, been there

my friend.

love that romaine lettuce,

you too?

i never know where to 

stand,

where to push my cart.

how do i

give them money, or a

credit card.

what's with the flowered

shirts.

the bell.

the happy cheerful attitudes.

it's a cult

i tell you, a damn satanic

cult.

the spare key

i have a spare

key

in the magnet box in the window

well

outside the house.

a spare tire

in the trunk.

a spare pair of shoes.

black and brown,

and ones i try to jump

in.

i have a spare toothbrush

on the sink.

a spare

knife in the drawer.

canned goods

in case we  go to war.

i have a back up plan

for almost everything.

even you

i'm prepared for.

the blue ribbon poem

i'm in the middle of writing

a love poem

to my sweetie.

but the power goes out.

i'm in the middle of telling

her how much

i adore her.

it's a long list of wonderful

attributes that i want

to tell her

in my poem.

the lights blink, then go dark.

the whole house is

dark.

it's gone.

i'll never be able to duplicate

it again.

it was magical. a blue ribbon

poem.

sigh, 

sweet steroids

i find an old bottle

of prednisone, next to my

multi vitamins

and vicks vapo rub.

i pop one,

and shake the bottle

and smile.

sweet steroids.

in one day

i have no pain. no knee

ache,

no arm, elbow,

or back pain.

i feel ten years younger.

i do some jumping

jacks.

some sit ups.

i put a record on the stereo

and start

dancing.

i call betty. come quick.

it's your lucky day.

mister party man

the police always ask you 

the questions they know the answers to,

but they go ahead 

and ask anyway.

it's how they do.

do you know how fast

you were going?

do you know that

throwing a wad of chewing gum

out the window

is illegal. you could put

someone's eye out with that.

do you know that you

have a tail light out,

and that your tags are expired?

did you know that?

look at me when i'm talking

to you and turn that radio off.

it's spotify on my phone, sir.

whatever, turn it off.

do you understand that

driving with a white russian

in your hand

and a shrimp cocktail

on the dashboard

is improper operation of a vehicle?

not to mention this woman

in the front seat of your car

with half her clothes off.

what's up with that, miss?

it's my bathing suit.

how old are you, he asks her.

none of your beeswax, she says.

i'm old enough to know.

he shakes his head staring

at my license.

put your dress back on miss.

where do you live?

what's your name?

i don't know anymore, officer,

i tell him.

it's been a long day.

we're just going to the park

on a date. you know, take a swim,

picnic. he doesn't see the wink

in my eye, or just ignores it.

we'll see about that, mister party man.

please, step out of the car

with your hands over you head.

swipe left

i'm very very busy

she told me. in fact can i put

you on hold

i have another call coming in.

okay, are you still there?

sorry that took so long.

it was my lawyer.

i'm in the middle of a class

action suit against match dot com.

anyway. about me.

i work a lot.

travel. i'm out of town three days

of the week.

and in the summer i go to maine.

have you ever been there?

maybe if we get along

i'll take you there.

it's lovely this time of year.

and there's no problem with wi-fi.

whoops, the phone again.

sorry. maybe we can catch up

later. i have a few minutes

between 7 and 730 monday

of next week. that's pm, not am.

i have a yoga class in the morning.

namaste.

i almost called you

i almost called you the other

night,

but i didn't.

my hand reached for the phone

and started to press

a number or two,

but then i stopped.

it sounded like it was

raining outside.

so i took a look. it was.

then i had a basket of clothes

to fold.

sweet dreams

the dream filled night

leaves

you tired, but strangely with

a smile

on your face.

no ships went down,

no clanging of bars

on a cell door.

no one died. everyone

got out alive.

whatever took on this

journey

is a wonderful thing.

maybe tonight another ride.

the love bugs

it still amazes me

their marriage, how it still works.

still love bugs.

still joined at the hip.

finishing each other's

sentences.

touching each other.

kissing all the time.

calling each other names.

like lamp chop,

or butter bean, or boo.

god i hate them.

don't you?

not my fault

maybe i was partly to blame.

maybe some

of it was my fault.

maybe.

but i don't think so, even

now with all

this time behind me.

with perfect 20/20 vision

in looking backwards.

i have no doubts.

i did the right thing

by throwing her out.

summer ball

we didn't have uniforms.

or coaches

or parents around

yelling out

instructions.

we had a bat, a ball,

some of us even had gloves.

there was no green field,

with bases

or lines, or lights.

we played on

a concrete lot behind

the bowling alley

with a strike zone

painted on the wall.

and that was summer.

footsteps in the other room

as he lets go of the house.

the home

where his daughters were raised,

where he and his deceased

wife lived for sixty odd years,

he lingers on each floor,

as they remove

the clutter, priceless clutter.

boxes arrive and boxes 

leave.

the attic has never been more

clean.

the yard he's kneeled on

religiously is in full bloom.

he says nothing

as he stands at each

window peering out.

seeing his life go by, hearing

the voices

of those he loved,

the footsteps

of them in the other room.

the pencil sharpener

i can't find the little

blue plastic

pencil sharpener, so i go

to the kitchen

drawer and pull out a steak

knife.

i try to whittle down

the round bottom to a fine

point

without cutting off one

of my fingers.

it's impossible.

chunks fall away until

half the pencil is down to

a stub.

i'd never survive

the coming apocalypse.  

she's not there

my doctor

is non existent. her picture

is on the site,

but she's not there. some nurse

is though.

and in 48 hours

you might get a response

from her.

bleeding,

dying,

it makes no never mind.

i must be at the bottom

of the list.

she can't be reached by

text

or e mail,

or phone.

somewhere she's busy

doing something besides

doctoring

on her velvet throne.

praise the lord, pass the peanut butter

starving after skipping lunch

is a most

dangerous state to be in.

i could eat almost anything

at this point, including

salmon, or an avocado,

or beans. i'm that hungry.

waffles seem like a dream

come true. with butter and

syrup, a slab of bacon.

a tall glass of orange juice.

but what would be quicker?

praise the lord.

peanut butter on saltine

crackers. twelve should do.

hurried plans

i leave so much in her hands.

her long hands.

her wise words.

her cat like presence.

so much unknown.

but that's fine for now.

i'll give it all the time

it needs to see where

it stays. to see where

it goes. i'm a patient

man, despite my recent

history of strange

and hurried plans.

floating by

i've seen enough rough water.

heard enough

crying.

witnessed enough pain

and sorrow.

how about a cool placid

lake for a while.

where i can float lazily

around with a drink

and an umbrella with no

knuckleheads around.

one more game

as i wrap a bag of shredded

ice around

my swollen knee.

i wonder

if it's worth it.

one more game, one more

summer

of running on concrete.

bone on bone, at this point.

the cartilage worn down.

there's only so much tread

on the tire.

so much time before

the sun goes down.

the in crowd

i'm off the party list,

at last.

no longer invited. i've

cancelled 

too many times

in the past, so now

i'm no longer

part of the gang, the in

crowd.

the fun bunch.

i never thought i'd

be free.

but finally i am.

so done with that.

i don't care, first

we're not a match, she says.

i'm sorry.

don't be, i tell her.

i feel the same way about you.

but i said it first,

so what you just said

doesn't count.

you can't end this before

it begins. i just did.

i beat you to the punch.

i was going to text you and

tell you, i tell her.

but i already deleted your

number from my phone.

so there. whatever, she says.

please don't bother me

anymore. not a problem.

who is this, anyway?

a second look

i was looking at your old

x rays the other day,

holding them up to the window

light.

i never noticed before

that you had no heart.

it was just an empty space.

i should have looked

closer, put my ear to your

chest. listened.

but i was in a rush, i liked

too much of the rest.

fly away, but not too far

at a certain age we're done

with children.

we love our own,

but it's time for them to go.

we've done the best we can

with them, but now

we need the room.

the space.

the silence.

the bathroom, the kitchen.

the car.

fly away young birds,

we say in our mind,

but hoping that it's not

too far.

it was dark

it was dark.

we couldn't read the menu

or each other.

we had

no idea where things might

go.

a chopped salad.

a steak,

or just an appetizer

and one drink,

then hit the road.

i need a flashlight

these days

before i know.

we stayed up too late

we stayed up too late

talking.

we drank too much.

we made love.

we argued.

we laughed.

we turned on the tv.

we turned it off.

we cried.

we held each other.

we revealed our secrets.

not all.

but some.

we forgave each other.

we fell asleep

in each other's arms.

tomorrow seemed like

it would never come.

but it did

and then you were gone.

waiting to be plucked

the sour

fruit, the rotten bite

of an apple.

the worm

filled pear,

the brown grapes.

how bitter

a lie is,

mistrust and betrayal.

when it 

seemed so

bright and sweet in

the sunlight.

still on

the vine, or tree,

waiting to be plucked.

at the end of the day

it's rare, when you ask

an elder

what they would have done more

in their life

as they near the end

and they respond with the word

work.

i wished i would have worked

harder and longer.

i wished i would

have been at my desk more,

on my computer 

at night before going to sleep.

i wish i would have

given more of me to my job,

to my company,

to my boss. i wish i'd not

taken so many days off,

when i could have come in

and made more money for them.

i regret not selling my soul

earlier in life, until the end.

her train wreck

she tells me about her train wreck

relationship.

the blood and glass,

the roar of metal,

the bent rails, the screams.

i listen with an empathetic

ear. i listen to all of it, nodding

when  a nod is needed.

finally she gets to the end

and says, but i'm over it now.

i'm healed, i'm fine.

what about you, did anything like

that ever happen to you.

i shake my head no,

crossing my fingers, not that

i can remember. 

but all my past

relationships are still

in my life,

we're all great friends.

unlocked door

i see that the door

is open

when i come down the stairs.

unlocked

ajar.

the keys still in the slot.

anyone could have come

in and taken

everything,

put a pillow on my head

and snatched

the life right out of me.

but they didn't.

the world is so nice

sometimes.

the wrong train

i get on the wrong train.

but i don't mind.

the blue, the yellow, the silver

line, who can

figure these things out.

i take a seat near a window.

all day i ride

until i hear the voice

say last stop,

then i get off.

these are the things i

do now,

with so much time.

some do

we attach ourselves

to things,

things bought or passed down.

we cling

to the past, taking hold

of it to ensure

that it really did happen,

it really did exist.

mementos. photos.

a ribbon

or a bow.

some do.

i don't.

your password is weak, yo

with an hour

to kill

i go through my scraps of paper

holding all

my various passwords

and put them all down

in one book

a place where i can find

them and stop

searching like a madman

to try and get

on worthless sites

like face book

or linked in.

who are these people

and why do they want to be

my friend.

are we going out

for coffee and a sandwich?

it used to be

i needed to find my clump of keys

to get by in the world

but now

i've got this list of passwords

to make it 

through the day.

was it caps, numeric,

ten characters?

come down off the cross

the brilliant

line

come down off the cross

we could use

the wood

makes you cringe and laugh

at the same time.

tom waits.

if you don't know who

tom waits

is, we probably won't get

along.

time though

to pull the nails,

stop with the victim status,

climb down

off the cross

and let's use the wood

for something else.

skeleton

some skeletons

are in the closet, while others

are sitting beside

you reading

the newspaper,

or knitting a sweater.

you haven't

quite put them away

yet.

all in good time.

wanting home

we all want home.

we want

comfort. the fire.

the loved one embracing

us at the end

of the day.

we want peace and quiet.

we want

conversation.

we want to share what we

think.

to he loved, and give love.

we want a lot of things

to make us whole.

to keep us sane.

the possessive apostrophe

my editor and former

lover

in ohio,

or is it st. louis

has a command of the english

language.

i get away with nothing.

no grammatical

errors, or wrong

punctuation gets past

her, especially my

achille's heel

the damned possessive

apostrophe.

the parade of friends

as you rise

in age, and those around you

start disappearing,

you lose count.

the parade

of friends has thinned.

and why you,

why are you still here

marching down

broadway.

what is there left to do,

or begin.

it would be nice if someone

told you.

memorial day club

the men

in their leather vests and pants.

patches sewn on

with nick names

like chainsaw or hank.

all new and shiny.

their grey hair

still long.

mustaches, beards,

goatees.

veterans of some war,

or no war.

it doesn't matter

anymore.

on their rumbling bikes

with their

babes on board,

some blonde,

some red. some

thick, some skinny.

in a cloud of blue smoke,

away they roar.

have at it

rainy days 

are good for many things.

one comes to mind

quite quickly 

as i see you lying

in bed,

shading your eyes

from the soft light

seeping through the blinds.

sheep's clothing

the bully is not always

the muscle

bound frat boy 

in the playground.

sometimes

it's the sheep

in wolves clothing.

the pretty, the mild,

the meek

who will try to slay you

with long

and hungry teeth.

falling prey

do not confuse

the world as being all good

or all bad.

demons and angels

are everywhere.

the struggle

is a spiritual one.

this being not your home,

just passing through.

don't hold too tight.

don't fall

prey to earthly delights,

but don't go gently either

into that good night.

back to black

i change my mind

and take off the red shirt.

i try on the green one,

the one with tropical leaves

and mangoes.

too early for that, perhaps.

then the blue shirt.

pale blue.

with an ocean rolling

across my back.

no, these will not do.

i stuff them into the burn

barrel in the yard, light

a match, then go in.

i'm back to black.

the leaf blowers

as the leaf

blower works its way down

the street

moving

leaves and debris side

to side

one leaf

at a time

into a pile to be removed

by an even

bigger and noisier machine,

i look at my

rake

rusted and sad

leaning against the shed

in the back yard.

counting her chickens

i remember the best sleep

i ever had.

it was when i passed out

after

the medical insurance examiner

stuck a needle in my vein

to draw blood.

seeing if i was worthy of

a million dollar life insurance

policy that the wife insisted upon.

after not eating all day

and being out in the hot sun,

down i went.

out for a few moments.

but it was a sweet deep sleep.

i even dreamed.

and when i woke up my son

was kneeling beside me

while my wife stood over me

laughing.

saying, look at the big strong man,

already counting her chickens.

rain checks

we do another rain check.

the list is long.

it rains a lot.

snow check.

wind check.

ice check.

darkness check.

take care of the dog and cat check.

possible tornado check.

covid check.

next time

on a sunny day, around

75 degrees.

with little traffic,

with no virus, or catastrophes

looming

on the horizon.

maybe then we'll get together.

the clara barton parkway

it's raining

on the clara barton

parkway.

as i drive in the dim

light of late

afternoon.

the roads are full of

slow

moving cars.

the alley of green,

the slope of hills

and guard rails.

detour signs

in orange,

a flare, a cop car

with its lights.

go that way, they point.

would nurse clara,

founder of the red cross

be pleased,

i doubt it.

etc....

i hate to admit it,

having been raised a good catholic

boy,

but i don't like

people anymore.

not all people. but strangers

mostly.

i have a few select friends

and relatives.

but in general, people are

getting on my nerves.

so much anger

and boorish behavior.

rudeness, discourtesy, (which i guess

is the same thing)

but in general bad manners

all around.

everyone in a rush,

everyone on their phones

or flossing their teeth in public.

narcissism run amok.

me me me.

etc.

i say etc. when i run out

of things to write.

etc.

bone dry on angst

i feel like i've been writing too

many fun

and happy, sarcastic, sardonic

and silly poems lately.

this worries me, being so content

almost happy.

i should really see my doctor

about this.

i need to write a sad poem.

a dark, bleak piece.

something that dredges up

the past, death and dying.

sickness.

something involving the pandemic

of love.

but i've got nothing, at the moment.

i need  a break up

or something.

divorce, betrayal.

something along those lines.

i need an angry client, or neighbor,

road rage.

i need an ex wife to show up

again and put me through a living

hell.

i'm empty on sad poems at the moment.

the well is bone dry

right now on angst.

maybe tomorrow.

if you could be a tree

if you could be a tree

what kind of tree would you be

my therapist asks me,

tapping her pen on her chin.

i look at my watch.

i don't want to be a tree.

but if you were, if you had to

be a tree, choose one,

she says,

choose the one that you'd

most likely pick to be you.

i don't know.

a big tree, i guess.

can you be more specific.

describe the tree for me.

i think for a moment

looking out the window at

some lame trees dying

in the median strip along

the highway.

a shady tree. i tell her,

a tree where people 

could come and lie under

in the shade and take a nap

without any interference.

maybe people could eat

their picnic lunch under my tree.

a tree with big leaves and no sap.

but they couldn't bring their dogs

with them.

you know how dogs are when they're

around a tree.

she says, hmm. i see.

so, an oak, an elm, a maple?

whatever, i tell her. just a big

giant tree with leaves.

okay, okay, no need to raise

your voice and get angry.

i'm not angry. i just think it's

a stupid question.

oh, and by the way, you have

ink on your chin.

the peppermint twist

i like to dance,

she tells me. it's my creative

outlet.

it gets my juices going.

i just love to dance.

i can do all the dances.

name a dance

and i'll tell you if i know

it or not.

the limbo,

i tell her.

that's not a dance.

yes it is, i tell her.

they even made a song about

it.

no, she says a real

dance.

okay, what about the twist.

can you do the twist.

the peppermint twist?

it goes like this, i stand

up and demonstrate 

knocking over a lamp

and a potted plant.

pink flamingo

i take inventory

of my dough re me.

(money)

trying to figure out when

it's time to cash

in and go to florida.

i check between

the cushions of the couch,

empty the green bowl

on the fridge

of loose change.

i call up my broker from

morgan stanley.

she's busy.

soon, i say to myself,

soon i'll be in the sunshine

state,

ready for my double wide

trailer

with a pink flamingo

in the front yard.

you're such a good listener

i put the phone on speaker,

then go down

to the laundry room to bring up

a basket full of clothes.

i begin to fold,

as she continues to talk.

it's the history of her life,

going back to when her grandparents

arrived on Ellis Island

with one suitcase and a bundt cake.

when i'm done with the clothes.

i do some push ups.

some sit ups.

then put a pot roast in

the oven.  i slice carrots

and potatoes.

she's on her father now, having

finished with her mother.

yup. i say. holding the phone

closer.

interesting.

then i go back to the kitchen.

i haven't cleaned the fridge

in ages. so i start that.

are you still there, she says.

i go to the phone and say, yes.

your story is so interesting

that i didn't want to interrupt.

please go on. you haven't told

me about your cats yet.

i'll get to them, she says,

but let me tell you about my

last boyfriend first.

he's coming over for dinner

soon, so i only have one more

hour to talk to you.

okay.  sorry, about the noise

over here, i tell her.

i'm vacuuming the rug.

blastoff

instead of working further

on the soured relationship

we want

to leave.

to end it and be done with it.

it can't be saved.

we want

to go to mars.

to venus. to explore life

beyond this airless

planet.

so you put on your helmet,

your space suit,

you grab your energy bar

and tang,

and go. no need for a countdown,

just blastoff.

the holy ground

it's easy

to assuage someone

who's in pain

by telling them how much

they have.

the blessing of their life,

but it's the wrong

way to go about it.

you have to sit with them.

to listen.

to not judge, to open

your heart

and be there.

nothing else matters

in the moment.

all the blessings of one's

life

are small, when one is

standing on the holy

ground of sorrow.

the orbit

we are

in orbit of our own world.

circling

circling.

but gravity will have

its way with us

at some point.

we can't stay up forever.

in motion.

going round and round.

in time

we descend, we fall, we

drift

down.

but we were up there once,

weren't we?

post card from o. c.

i like the beach.

except for the time i stepped

on a crab

and cut my foot open

the other day.

other than that,

it's fun.

the water, the boardwalk.

people watching.

the fried food,

the ice cream.

i like how my skin has turned

beet red,

and pulsates as

i try to sleep at night.

i can still feel the

motion of the ocean

in my body

as i lie in bed,

the swing and sway of

waves.

i don't mind the water

in my ears,

or the sand between my toes

at all.

i'll bring you back some

salt water taffy

and a few shells

when i come home.

miss you.

it's your turn

is it my turn to call you?

didn't i text

you the other day, and send

you a picture of

a cicada lying on his back?

i think it's your

turn now.

if you don't want to make

plans,

i completely understand.

but it is your turn.

just saying.

nothing here is true

it's not a diary.

it's not a journal. these

are poems

people.

fiction. not a single

word of truth in any of them.

all the characters

are made up.

they never existed.

this is a work of pure

imagination.

nothing here

is true.

i'm not even here.

i'm not even typing

these words.

my dog is on my chair

with his paws

on the keyboard.

bother him with your

whining complaints.

thank you.

and the beat goes on

i plan

a day off, but plans change.

and now

the day

is full of work. 

the beat goes on

as that wise

philosopher sonny bono

once wrote

and sang.

the beat goes on.

la de da dee de,

la de da dee day.

you have a baby now?

i see the neighbors

carrying in seven

bags of groceries.

the wife holding

a baby in her arm.

it looks right out

of the oven.

oh my,

i say to them,

you have a baby now?

to which they say

in unison, yes.

it's a girl, we call her

Lilly.

oh. i say, carrying in

my groceries for one.

that's great.

i have a kid too, a son.

he lives in LA.

he's thirty two.

it's me, not you

yes.

i'm yawning.

no it's not you.

it's me.

it's the day. the long

day.

the heat.

the warm breeze,

the lack of air,

the lack

of food,

the lack in general

of everything.

nothing seems

new.

yes. i'm yawning,

but don't worry,

it's me,

not you.

removing sutures

as i stare at the bright blue

stitches in my hand,

i think that i can take them out.

do i need to wait another

seven days.

the wound is sealed shut,

there's hardly any pain now,

and i'm able to flex my fingers

quite well.

will i still be able to play

the piano, of course, although

i should take lessons first,

i don't want the neighbors

banging on the walls again,

like they did when i took up

the trumpet.

what?

the sign

says, no parking tuesday

through

thursday,

unless it's a holiday.

but one hour

on sunday

between seven and eight a.m.

no trucks

allowed.

school zone.

handicap only on monday.

pregnant

vets,

on friday.

senior citizens between

the hours of

four p.m. and five

a.m.

monday through friday.

no standing or loading,

or idling

unless

it's after five

p.m.

snow emergency route

all year.

street cleaning on odd days.

the yard sale

the yard sale,

the neighborhood flea market

is on.

early on saturday

morning.

the clothes are stretched out

on racks.

the pictures taken off

the walls

and now lean

against a box, or table

also for sale.

and the owners sit

in their folding chairs

and wait for buyers to show.

there's an old rug, rolled

out on the lawn,

a pair of ice skates,

a book about New Zealand,

a felt hat,

a toaster oven full of

crumbs.

a princess phone.

a fur coat, and a man's

suit, one wedding, one

funeral,

hardly worn.

neither good or bad

we'd like to think of the world

in black and white.

of right and wrong.

of being fair

or unfair.

but it never is.

so much is in the grey.

so much

is neither good or bad,

just luck,

or destiny, or possibly

a simple twist of fate.