olga

i send away for a russian bride.

olga.

from the ukraine.

she's blonde

and blue eyed.

she's standing in a field

of wheat.

she could be an angel.

she's half my age.

she's a doctor.

she's eager to please.

she's a dream come true.

there's a fair down payment,

and when she arrives

and the deed is done, then

the balance is due.

the evite

it's an evite.

a party up the road.

we have a pool

we have hot dogs

and potato salad.

there will be music.

fun.

there will be drinks,

and laughter

it will be like the old

days,

you remember them

don't you,

when we were young?

bring nothing,

bring a bathing suit.

bring

a friend if you want.

we have all our shots,

we hope

you do too.

going down under

i go under water

for awhile.

to a place where i hear

no sound

but the beating of my heart.

i sink to the bottom.

my feet in the cold sand

of the ocean.

i look up

towards the light, 

the milky light,

but this icy depth

is where i feel at home.

at least for now.

don't bring me up.

let me stay

a little while longer.

it's safe here,

despite the lack of air.

i can hold my

breath for months 

if i have to.

i've done it before,

and will do it once more.

to lessen the weight

the sifting

of papers, paper work.

stacks

of white sheets.

the loose ends of years.

notes

and bills, some by me,

some by

others.

unboxed and kept

unsafe in a drawer,

uncertain what to keep,

what to throw

away, what to choose

to lessen the weight, 

by tossing

them overboard.

we lock eyes from across the room

at the dance club

a woman keeps staring at me

from across the room,

we lock eyes,

she's very pretty, young.

a beautiful girl.

finally she gets up and makes

her way over

to the table where

i'm sitting with my friends.

i tell them to slide

over, give me some room,

i'm about to hit the dance

floor and shake my booty.

dang, i still got it.

the girl comes to the table

as i slide out,

and says, i'm so sorry for

staring at you mister,

but you look just like

my father. he passed away

last year. he was 87, but

you look exactly like him.

can i give you a hug?

i miss him so much.

i just wanted to say hello

and tell you that. have a nice

evening.

passing time

bored out of my mind, i humor

myself

with telemarketers, scammers

from india.

they call five or six times

everyday warning me about

my amazon account,

social security fraud

and microsoft hacking.

i do the old man voice,

in a wheel chair,

unable to find my wallet,

which is in the laundry

room, down three flights

where i have to take the elevator.

or the kate hepurn voice.

shaky and slow.

i drag it on as long as i can,

making dinner, folding clothes,

doing yoga stretches.

they beg for my numbers,

my age, my name, my credit

cards. i make them all up.

it never ends well.

they curse and scream, so

i throw at them a  few hindi

curse words i've learned from other

you tube videos.

it's all fun and games and

then i get bored with that too

and just don't answer the calls

anymore.

please, like me, thanks

i go into my facebook

thing

to update my profile,

but i forget the password, it's

been a long

time.

i have a cake i baked

that i took a picture of and

i'd really

like to share that with some

of my five hundred

and sixty seven friends.

i should catch

up with them.

let them know what i've

been doing.

which isn't much, but maybe

i can make some stuff up.

post some pictures

of my new girlfriend

heidi klum, or show them a

picture of me sky diving,

not me of course, but with

the helmet on and the air

pushing my face into a grotesque

death mask, who's to know.

muddled

towards

the middle, she'd forget

if she had

lunch or not.

was it christmas, was it the fourth

of july,

she wasn't sure,

she'd peek out

the window

of the senior home and see

roses

and ask if she was home,

would i take her

home.

would i visit again soon,

who are you?

be gone, damn you!

and don't forget your frozen

peas

i yelled to her

in my best dramatic voice,

learned

from my mother's shakespearean

life

with my father.

tragically comic.

take your damn frozen vegetables

and be gone,

wench.

not sure if i used the word

wench, but

looking back on it, i wished

i had.

her dark eyes grew darker

as she

stuffed the bags of carrots

and kale into

her large purse strung around

her vein bulging

neck.

get thee to a nunnery, i yelled out,

pointing at the door,

not knowing

what it meant, but

having it roll off my lips

like butter.

slipping through the cracks

like coins,

shiny or dull, things

slip through the cracks, into

the cushions

get swept away by shoes,

by brooms,

by the cat.

people too get lost

in the unending shuffle

of days

going by.

forgotten before they were

hardly known.

mere blinks in the flutter

of a weary eye.

employee of the day

some stores can't keep their help.

yesterday

i was in home depot

and the young guy with his orange

smock

was mixing me a gallon of paint.

in training,

his sticker said, stuck to his shirt.

new here? i asked him.

yes, he said. first day on the job.

last too. i'm quitting.

i hate this job.

dunkin donuts has an opening next

door, i can move up to manager

by the end of the week.

the kitty cat poems

i start the collection

for my third book of poetry.

weeding out the junk.

a lot of junk.

i'm looking for the deeper poems.

the ones not

so bitter

and revengeful.

the softer side of me.

bring out my feminine side,

my blouse wearing

simon and garfunkel side.

people are tiring of the dark

stuff. the angst.

i should write a poem about kittens.

a nice gentle poem.

put a kitty on the cover.

these shackles are chaffing me

we need a safe word

she tells

me

as she gnaws at the ropes

around her

wrists.

why do people in the movies

smoke

cigarettes

after sex, i ask her,

lying upside

down on the bed.

i usually want something sweet,

like

cake, or ice cream

or both.

i don't know, she says.

but can

you untie me now. those

shackles

around my ankles are chaffing me.

oh, yeah,

sorry.

where's the key?

what's out there?

i buy a telescope

and set it up in a field, far

out in the country,

where there are no lights,

but a house here

and there on farmland.

i point it towards the stars

and focus on the bright

white sparkle

of forever, then i turn

it towards the farmhouse

where i see a woman

in the window.

she's staring out into

the darkness, wondering

too, what's out there.

the beginning of things

we celebrate

the end of things, the beginning

of things.

hard to tell

which is which

these days.

one leading into the other,

disregarding the fear

of change.

of the unknown.

and what isn't unknown,

despite how hard we try

to keep it all

the same.

good luck with that.

good news

it's news.

the man inside the whale.

the girl

in the lion's cage,

rescued,

the woman

stuck in the turnstile,

for a day.

what about the man who

fell from a plane

into a haystack,

or the largest sandwich

ever made.

the world record

for eating hot dogs!

and she lived, amazing.

i like this kind of news.

it's so much more interesting

than the real world.

fatherhood

if i leave now,

i can be there in three hours, maybe

four

on a sunday.

i can change a light bulb

for him.

take him for a haircut,

a shave.

find the day old meat

in the frozen

section of the commissary.

will we talk.

not much.

will we understand each other,

of course not.

this is set in stone.

from cradle to the grave.

how can one

be a father when he had none

as his own?

the golden child

the lightning bug,

slow

in flight, so easy to catch,

but why.

why

steal his life

away,

let him blow gold

into the dark,

be what he

is.

let him find whatever

comes his way.

it is not for you to

decide,

for you to say.

building ships

as children

in the woods, 

on the wide ponds

of castle de fels we would

build ships out of corks

and toothpicks,

a sliver of squared paper.

we'd push them

off with a fond fair well

watching

the wind catch their

sails.

this imaginary world,

still

has not left me.

hold on, i'm here

the road is slippery.

hold on

to the rail.

step lightly forward, don't

fall.

lean into the light,

the stars

will guide

you down the steps,

down the walkway,

you know

the way home, you've

always known which way

to go.

hold on.

i'm with you,

i'll catch you if you fall.

call it love

if you'd like.

this night in june

as i push

past another page of this thick book,

i rest my eyes

for a moment, closing

them

to the words.

i let the weight of it all

lie upon my chest.

a written hand

upon my heart.

not the one i want, but it

will have to do

on this night

in june.

they whistle

beware of the man

or woman

who whistles a happy tune,

they can't be

trusted.

they are distracting you

with a false

sense of security.

they pretend to be song birds,

but they aren't.

there's blood

on their claws,

past victims in their beaks.

plug your ears,

shield your eyes.

run.

what remains

into the long night

we discuss our lives, what's left

of them.

we ponder

on the long couch, with wine,

our dismissed dreams,

the places

we'll never get to.

and strangely none of it matters.

we have this moment.

this moon

outside the squared panes.

we have the trees,

the sleeve of a darkened

stream

to make this night what it is.

the stone hat

it's a wonderous thing.

this

box turtle on the path,

yellow

hatched, the helmet an iron

brown

hat.

he pretends to be stone,

unmoving

and oblivious about the future

about the past,

who hasn't,

at some point in their life

done that?

the sharp knife on the counter

when someone moves into your house

you quickly realize

that the house is too small,

makes no difference if it's a mansion

or a double wide trailer.

suddenly you develop claustrophobia. 

you can't breathe.

you can't find one private place to be.

the other person is everywhere.

knocking at the bathroom door,

asking you what you're doing,

telling you not to leave the seat up.

what you're cooking in the kitchen.

they ask you,

they show you how to load the dishwasher.

no, not like that, like this,

they ask you

if thursday is trash day, the regular

trash, and if wednesday is for

recycling.

this is how it's going to be from

here on out you realize, staring

a sharp knife on the counter.

is this your hummus?

i find a plastic tub of hummus

in the back

of my refrigerator, next

to a stick of unsalted butter.

what the hell is this,

i say to myself.

i pull it out and open it up.

it's a  brown paste, with

little specks of pimento

in it. the label

says chick peas, soy

and shredded kale,

but there's no expiration date.

in fact it says,

this will never go bad.

forever, the tag says

in bright yellow.

i give it a quick smell test,

it smells like

fishy spackle.

who put this here, i wonder.

what person left behind

her chick pea paste?

the occasional pajama party

i find myself almost falling

in love again,

but quickly throw a cold glass

of water over

my head and slap myself as

hard as i possibly can

without knocking out several

teeth and breaking my nose.

i shake my head and come

to my senses. whew, that was

a close one, i say to

the mirror, wagging my finger

at myself.

no more of that, i lecture

my swollen face. it's just

friends and the occasional

pajama party from here on out.

got that?

no more mush, no more

vows. no more soul mates,

or cell mates. done.

the low budget burial plan

an insurance agent

calls

to sell me a low cost burial

plan.

i ask him, what he knows.

and how

he came across the information

of my early demise.

he says nothing to this.

he's in Delhi.

i can hear

the hundreds of young men

selling

beside him.

chattering in Hindi.

what does the plan include,

i ask him.

i'd like a gold coffin,

maybe a pyramid too, sort

of like

king tut.

he tells me the price for that

plan, but

it isn't in my budget.

what about a parade, i query.

again, too expensive.

how about a cardboard box, 

then

and some small roman candles

lit off when they

throw the dirt over me.

he says.

that can be arranged.

i give him my credit card info

and he signs me up.

turn off your phone

where are the days

of walking into a bar, sitting down

and seeing an attractive

woman across the way and

sending her a drink and waving.

whether it goes further,

doesn't matter.

the world has lost it's way.

paranoid and scared of human

contact.

it's skype now, vid chat, facetime

and all the other

crappy ways of saying hello

to someone new.

god forbid you actually meet

and rub elbows.

stare into one another's eyes

and see if there's

a spark. a chance, a flash

of heat.

what nut are you?

it's a big red

holiday bowl

of mixed nuts, i think as i look

back

on a long

line of

miscalculated relationships.

shelled and unshelled.

cashews,

brazil, pistachios, 

macadamia nuts.

almonds.

some salted,

some

raw, some still stuck

between my teeth

that i can't completely

spit out.

a weak spot

we all have a weak spot.

an achille's heel

of some sort, whether

it be drink

or drug,

chocolate or sex.

gambling, perhaps.

there is something

that melts our butter,

floats our boat,

gives us reason to live.

what's yours my dear?

i'll put you on the list.

the carnival ride

as i handed over

my little son to the carnival worker

so that he could

secure him

in the tilt a whirl machine,

i cringed.

his hands were black

with oil

and grease,

he had no teeth and only

one eyebrow.

i was assuring the safety

of my son

to this man with a tattoo

of satan on his arm.

what possibly could go wrong?

trust is a funny thing.

the color platinum

people would often stop

her on the street

and ask her what color her hair was.

sometimes it was red,

while other times it was more

of a crimson hue.

occasionally it would be a dark

deep brown, like how a

bear rug looks.

i'd stand there and listen to these

conversations

between complete  strangers,

and think about my own hair,

or lack of it.

i told the girl at the dmv to put

down platinum, which made

her laugh and call over

other employees to laugh

with her.

that ain't no drivers license color

she said.

try again.

this just won't work

i met her family

and i didn't like them.

loud, boisterous,

opinionated right wing

flag wavers

with loaded guns.

they didn't like me either,

so it was a mutual

awkward meeting.

trying to say the right

things, or saying nothing

at all,

which always works

better in situations

like this.

that went well, she said,

as we drove away.

and i looked at her and

realized i really didn't

like her either, or her me.

the artistic lad

the artistic lad

tells me that he  doesn't want to work

just for money.

the time card into the clock,

the apron,

the name tag, a bloodied

smock.

he wants

a higher calling, one

of art

and performance,

with pen in hand,

he sees himself as

a renaissance soul,

a new age song and dance man.

why should he push the plow,

dig the earth.

plant seeds,

bent over on hands and knees

in the boiled sun.

why should

he drop nets

for his crust of bread

into the sea?

work is for the dumb, the lazy,

the uneducated.

work is for fools, not for the talented

and anointed men

like me.

the good fire

there is beauty in fire.

see how

the flames

lick

in colors.

the rise and fall of it.

the heat.

see how

things burn, how

steel is tempered,

how ashes rise

and float away

as if what they were

never existed.

the spill of sand

i'll bring some of the beach

back with me.

sand in my shoes.

in my ears,

my eyes.

my skin will be red.

my hands soft from the ocean.

books

will be half read.

my eyes will wander down

the shore.

ships will appear and disappear.

the sun

will swing over to the bay side.

i'll go home

and turn my shoes over,

spilling another summer into

my hand.

the common denominator

i try to think back and remember

if there was

any pain

in my life that didn't involve

a relationship

with a significant other.

nothing comes to mind.

it seems to be the common

denominator when it comes

to stress and anxiety.

fear and loneliness.

heartache.

and yet here i am again swiping

right, swiping left.

the art of no art

i leave the wall blank.

once

holding

pictures. small and large.

a mirror too.

the holes remain where

things hung.

the scrapes,

the dents, the markings

of measurements.

it's an empty canvas now,

which is fine.

life has a way of telling

you what works

and what doesn't.

which is when you 

come to mind.

out of the gate

up too early.

i left some sleep on the table.

i'll get back

to it later.

the bell has rung.

the race is on, i'm out

of the gate,

but at a slow trot

towards coffee,

then a cautious merge

into the race.

you can't quit now

i tell my boss

that i'm thinking about quitting next year.

he looks me

and says, why.

why would you leave me

in the lurch like this.

i straighten my

tie, and look myself in the eyes.

i'm sorry i tell myself.

but it might be time.

after all these years.

after everything i've given you,

the best years of my life,

and now this?

maybe two years, i give in.

okay, he says.

chin up, and get back to work.

they want ice water

i want to believe that everyone

is innocent.

kind

and compassionate.

trustworthy and loyal.

i don't want to believe in a cruel

world.

i want you to be

good.

to say the right things, do the right

things.

follow the golden rule.

i want things differently

than they are. i want the impossible,

as people who are

in hell want ice water.

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.