national french fry day

it's late in the day when

i hear on the radio that it's national

french fry day.

it's amazing how time flies.

it seems like it was here

just yesterday.

i text and call all my friends

and try to figure out

how we can celebrate

this wonderful day, but they're

busy and seem annoyed

that i would be calling them

about such a thing. i guess

i'm on my own this holiday.

i'm so sad, as i wander the produce

section selecting potatoes.

the dopes you know

before you find out that someone

is a complete dope,

you actually listen to them, 

you take them seriously.

you nod your head and say hmm,

maybe i'll try that.

you know, i'm becoming a better

person because of you.

you know so much about life,

religion, food and family.

and then you discover what hypocrites

they are, they lie to you

and you discover their double life.

suddenly you realize what lunatics

they really are, full of baloney,

everything they ever told you 

goes right out the door, and them

too as your boot swings swiftly

at their behinds.

a canned sardine

i could live underwater.

despite

the lack of air,

it would be ideal conditions.

cool and warm.

the sun

above,

the tropical fish,

the sea life, the sea plants

decorating

my new home.

no one would knock on

the door,

the phone wouldn't

ring.

i'd be as perfectly happy

as a canned

sardine.

go fund me

some have it,

some don't, a work ethic.

some

rely on parents,

or others to make their way

in the world.

hash tag this.

go fund me.

a trust fund.

why work when the world

is so generous.

each street corner

is a bank

waiting to be opened.

there's no shame, no guilt

in letting

others take care of you.

why dirty your hands

with work.

work is for the dumb,

the trapped,

the unimaginative man.

it's not their turn

it's what we make

of it, cheer up. be grateful.

be thankful.

there's more fish in the sea.

you are so blessed.

think positive

and see the silver lining.

these are things said,

by those not

in pain.

it's not their turn,

not yet.

an early death

the rusted

tools in the shed,

still

there, still in place

where they were left

twenty years ago.

the hoe,

the rake, the trimmer.

not mine,

but those of a previous

tenant.

how hard

she tried to keep the yard

alive, to keep

it green, to keep it

free of weeds.

pristine.

she told me once that

she would not

live to be an old woman.

and she was right,

dying at 43.

the yellow kite

the small child

thinks of nothing else with this

string in her hand

tethered to a yellow kite

aloft in the sky.

a splash of color in the blue.

there is no worry, no fear,

no thought about tomorrow.

it's just the unraveling

of the string, letting go.

but this lesson will be forgotten,

despite it being new.

when someone hurts

when someone is in pain,

you want to help,

you want to say the right things.

take a hot bath,

relax.

have a drink.

do nothing. do heat, do ice.

just lie back

and read.

you throw darts at a moving

board,

none hitting.

they just want the pain to end.

and so do you.

you want to mother the person,

to be gentle

and caring, empathetic,

you want to kiss it and make

it feel better.

she was perfect until this happened

she was too happy

for my liking.

it disturbed me how she was 

always a ray of sunshine.

pleasant

and kind, courteous

to everyone passing by.

thin as a reed,

praying over every meal,

never a bad word

about anyone,

friend or foe,

relative, or spouse, sibling,

even people she didn't

know.

she was perfect from head

to toe.

so it surprised me

when i saw her picture in

the paper,

after going on a murder

spree

at the local organic store.

the guilt trip

i used to feel guilty

about paper bags, all those poor

trees.

and now

i feel bad about plastic

bags,

thinking of whales

and fish,

and other animals in the sea,

choking

unable to breathe.

now i only buy what i can

carry out

in my arms, 

or balance on my head,

then go back

the next day for more.

but i'm leaving

my carbon footprint

all over the place,

gas  for my car,

the exhaust fumes,

the wear of tires on 

the road.

there's no way around this,

is there?

it's the same thing

i can't read what you write

anymore.

so much of it is the same thing,

over and over again,

autobiographical.

i've had it up to here

with your romances,

your loves lost,

your work, your aches

and pains.

i can't read what you write

anymore,

she tells me,

as she logs on once more

to see what's up with me.

Hope

she goes down to the courthouse

and changes

her name to Hope.

i try not to laugh, because she's

taking it so seriously.

i'm Hope now, she says,

not Betty anymore.

okay. i tell her, rolling

my eyes.

whenever you address me,

call me Hope, okay?

okay, i say, sighing, staring

out across parking lot.

she's a child of the sixties.

peace corp. an environmentalist,

recycler. namaste, kumbai ya.

peace, love and harmony.

free bobby seal,

angela davis,

the chicago seven, etc. etc.

you got it, i tell her.

giving her the peace sign, taking

a bite of my cinnamon scone.

don't take the brown acid, i 

remind her.

no news is good news

strange how i don't need

the news anymore.

i don't need an update on the scores.

on war,

on politics,

on death and disease.

funny how

that is, when letting go

of the world,

getting unstuck from

bad love,

or current events.

i open the door to see

what the weather is.

i look up at the sky.

yes. we're still here.

that's good. 

the first night

i need to lie down,

she tells me.

i'm not feeling well.

she draws the shades,

pours herself a glass of water.

she takes off her

shoes and sits on

the edge of the bed.

can you close the door,

she asks.

put the sign on the knob

do not disturb.

she lets her long white

dress fall to the floor,

then lies down.

would it be okay

if you slept in the other

room tonight?

in fact, from now on?

evolution

they find a skull.

an empty head in a well,

a million years old.

(it looks curiously like

my friend jimmy's head)

okay, now we understand

who we are,

the guy in the white smock

says,

standing in front of a 

monkey cage.

we know now

where we've come from.

we crawled out

of the ocean, growing legs

and what not.

swung from the trees

and moved on

to achieve greatness. it

took a few more million

years before

we invented the rotary phone,

but at last we arrived

at where we are today.

this is who we are today, 

he says,

holding up his new i phone.

the eighth grade

i think i peaked

in the eighth grade.

i had it all figured out.

bylcreme in my hair.

my blue jeans on.

my white t-shirt tucked in.

the fastest boy on the block.

i even had my

first kiss that year.

my grades were good.

i discovered books

and art.

poetry.

i had a pocket full of

money from

my morning paper route.

i had a dog, a best friend.

i could sing, i could dance.

swim. i would listen

to the radio, knowing

all the songs.

i heard california dreaming

for the first time

that year.

i want the eighth grade again.

the long fall

i ran towards you.

arms open,

legs churning like the wheels

of a locomotive.

i was full of fire,

desire.

lust and something like love.

i ran towards you

and then you stepped aside.

over the cliff i went,

down and down.

i'm still falling. sadly,

i may never die.

abstract

it's a blue bruise

folding into green and yellow.

i am fruit

off the vine,

slowly turning

under house light. i am

a pear, an apple, a once

ripe mango.

no longer sweet.

it's where the needle went in.

the pinch

and push of medicine,

the pull

of blood from an opened

stream.

it's a soured patch

upon my arm.

an abstract painting

beneath my sleeve.

unoiled

unoiled

we get cranky.

we rub against each other.

we squeak

and moan as we

turn the wheels.

we grind.

there is nothing smooth.

nothing spins

easy.

we need oil

to make this work.

pour me one.

leave the bottle.

this will change your life

this will change your life,

the ad says.

the you tube video says,

the book,

the article in a magazine.

buy this mattress

and it will change your life.

drink this,

eat this avocado. take this pill.

go here, go there.

everything will change

for the better.

namaste.

don't wait, don't hesitate.

just do it.

don't forget to call

under a stack of papers

i find what

i'm looking for.

a phone number scribbled

in haste

on a wilted scrap of paper.

dated and underlined.

the words.

don't forget to call.

important.

i stare at the number, no

name.

no clue as to who it could be,

or what it's

about.

but i remembered it just the same.

i shrug, then put it back

where it was found.

too much coffee

i drink too much coffee.

my only vice,

other than this.

which isn't a vice at all, but

like air,

something i need to do

in order to live,

to make sense of the world.

or at least

attempt to.

it's nearly impossible.

so much and so many

have gone off the deep end.

don't send me your poetry

please, please,

i beg of you. don't send me your

poetry.

your stories.

your manuscript.

if you do, i will be brutally honest

as others are with me.

the knife is sharp

and it will cut deep, prepare

yourself for the worst.

and if you want to be a writer.

read.

read books.

read poetry.

write until you bleed.

everyday. every chance you get.

wake up and write.

before you go to sleep, write.

and for God's sake,

stop looking at your phone.

three foot tall batman

when my son was about four

or five

he threw a tantrum when i wouldn't

buy him

a thirty dollar

illustrated book about batman.

he already owned everything

they ever sold

about the caped crusader.

everything but this enormous

magazine.

he was wearing his

batman costume at the time,

shredded from

wearing it 24/7 around the house,

to the playground,

the grocery store and to the beach.

he screamed and yelled

as i picked him up to carry him

out of the store.

his cape flew up in the breeze.

i told him to calm down, relax.

how about a happy meal, i asked him,

trying to persuade him

to settle down.

instead he screamed even louder

staring at me behind the mask, 

his brown eyes tearing

inside the batman cowl

and said.

i still love you dad, i'm just

mad at you.

is anything okay?

when we'd talk by phone,

i'd ask her,

is anything okay?

then paused and waited as she

took out the list.

i sat in the big chair

by the window

and drank gin and tonics

as she went on and on.

the seasons changed.

i watched

the leaves fall.

i watched as the snow

covered the ground,

and then spring.

are you still there, she'd ask.

yes, i'd say.

i'm still here, please, go on.

the long way home

i don't go that way anymore.

i don't take

that road.

i go around.

i take the long route home.

no need

to see reminders,

things that lie dead on the road,

the ghosts

that linger.

i don't go that way anymore.

i go around.

so many other streets

to travel on,

to get to where i need to go.

88 weighted keys

i think about buying a piano,

despite my last

violent experience with one.

not a baby grand,

not a stand up deal, but one

of those

keyboards that you set on

the table.

one with 88 weighted keys

that feels like the real thing.

how long would it take to

learn how to play this thing,

how many lessons would i need

before i'm giving elton john,

and liberace

a run for their money.

i google lessons. tutorials

on you tube. chords and what not.

pedals. white keys, black

keys. what the hell.

i scratch my head and wonder

if i have enough time for that.

i google harmonicas.

taking no chances

as i measure the wall,

stretching the metal tape

from the door to the far wall.

i think about how many times

i've done this.

i should know

the dimensions by now.

i should know the center,

where to hammer a nail,

i can see where

the old holes remain.

i could go by those,

to hang the next picture

frame, but

i take no chances these days,

with art, and

many things.

boris, my new masseuse

i go in for a massage at the local

parlor.

i strip down

to my birthday suit

and lie flat on my back, waiting

for my regular

masseuse, Ashley, to come

in and begin.

but it's not her.

it's a man. a man called Boris,

from Russia.

what the hell, i mumble to myself

as he begins

to dig into my muscles.

my shoulders.

my arms, my neck, my legs.

i groan with pleasure

as he kneads my aches and pains

away.

i ask him about Ashley,

and he says, nyet. she go back to 

the country.

her hands too weak.

dang, i say.

are you going to be here next

week?

the beauty of cortisone

as the  doctor examines

my knees

raising the chair, to gently

touch

the front and back, he says

with a laugh,

welcome to jiffy lube

in his bulgarian accent.

he's dressed in a nice blue

set of pajamas.

periwinkle, i do believe,

and wearing the customary

mask.

he shows me a miniature

progression of knee

deterioration, made of balsa

wood and plastic. he tells me

which stage i am at.

the final stage being a shiny

piece of metal holding it

altogether.

then the needle goes in.

straight through the front,

not quite to the back.

i feel the swish of cortisone

going in.

i ask him if i'll be able to 

swing dance tonight with my

buttercup, and he says,

sure. do what you want.

see you again in six

months, putting a sticker

on my forehead as a reminder.

no diamond in the rough

it's a large rock

embedded in the ground. not gold,

not silver.

a plain

rock. not a diamond

in the rough.

it's been there for ages.

has anyone paid attention

to it.

so quiet.

so normal. no shine to it.

no glimmer,

no reason to be dug up

and taken home.

i wipe its face,

i dust it off. i sit beside it

for awhile and listen.

my dear morticia

i know that howling

in the woods.

the full moon.

the screech of the owl.

the flutter

of bat wings.

i know those nights.

the eerie clouds,

the haunting music.

the bitten neck,

the pale skin,

those wanton eyes.

they were such fun nights

with you,

morticia. 

don't be a stranger,

fly over, soon.

making a pinky promise

i remember making a vow

to never, never ever

get married again.

i made a pinky promise,

a butt promise to myself.

but i  made the same 

vow about eating indian

food again, or raw oysters

and look what

happened.

similar results, as i lie

on the cold tile floor, pale

and shaking.

118 in portland

it's hot enough

okay.

that's good, stop there.

we get it

mother nature.

all the recycling doesn't matter,

does it.

you laugh at electric cars.

paper and plastic

in bins.

you're in control.

is that your middle

finger raised, or what?

you seem angry.

it's too late, isn't it?

a day trip

i forget why i came here

was it find

someone

or get away from someone.

it's blurred

the reasoning for this trip.

i stand with my

feet in perpetual sand as

the ocean stretches

its cold blue

arms before me.

the waves are generous.

coming one after the other.

the sun hardly warm, but

trying.

the latest flame

something about a fire.

its passion

to burn, the ribbon flames

a blend

of colors.

you can almost see

blue in the dance of heat.

something about

its mystical power.

dangerous and life saving

all at the same time.

so much like

love. i do believe.

an eight point five day

i count it as a good day.

an eight.

and eight point five

perhaps.

we slept in,

we ate,

we drank.

we made love twice.

we took a nap

in each other's arms,

we didn't fight, we

cuddled on the couch

and watched a movie

until the sun went

down.

we read our books.

we kissed goodnight.

not a single bad thing

happened.

maybe a ten is in order,

and eight point five

too light

the dangling conversation

the herd has thinned.

not physically,

except for hair, but in population

of available 

men or women interested

in starting up love,

or like, or lust once again.

can we just be friends

sans benefits?

for some the thrill is gone,

the libido

run bone dry.

scrabble is more fun,

checkers.

it's too much trouble driving in

the rain

on a tuesday night

to meet the next potential

love of your life.

eating bar food, drinking wine.

the drinks are never

strong enough,

again she forgot my slice

of lime.

the parking never

validated.

are you vaccinated, can i see

your blood work,

i want to know your current

state of mind.

it's a dangling conversation

full of superficial sighs.

thank you paul

for that last line.

the sculptor

i can feel

the painful

chipping of stone.

which is me,

as she takes her hammer

and chisel

and goes to work

trying to make me into

someone

i was never meant to be.

always late

i'm on my way, she says,

i'm so sorry

i'm late. forgive me. again.

no problem, i tell her,

no worries.

i understand.

she'll never change.

she'll always be late,

and i'll always be on time,

or early

for our date.

keeping us afloat

as the house ages,

it needs tending to, 

by plumbers, and carpenters,

men on the roof, but

so do we

need a helping hand

upon

our bodies.

setting bones,

tying knots into wounds,

looking in

our eyes, down our

ears,

our throats.

we need assistance to keep

this fragile

body afloat.

the wooden frame windows

i miss my old windows.

the wooden

frames,

loose on the sill,

fissured glass, hard to pull

up or down.

i miss the bugs

coming in,

the seer of wind.

the feel of cold when

winter arrives.

i miss my hand upon

the pane,

feeling

the weather,

inside

and out. peering down

to the yard

to see you

kneeling at a flower bed.

i miss the broken latches.

the stuck ones,

frozen by paint

and dirt. 

for fifty years they worked.

we would be proud

to say the same

about ourselves.

look at me

at times

the world bothers you.

sickens

you,

so much aggression.

so much

pain.

it's all about money.

fame.

look at me the ego screams.

to each his own

false god.

technology has made

everyone

a star.

where has the beauty gone.

where

is the quiet.

the humble.

it doesn't seem that long

ago, when

you could understand

the world you live in.

it seems that

we've gone

backwards,

while coming so far.

the cold water

dripping

from the bath

i make my way to the ringing

phone.

it's someone

i don't want to talk to.

but i do.

too tired

to speak, or say otherwise

i sit

with a towel

in the big chair

by the window.

she's crying again.

i listen.

my feet wet on the floor.

my bones

still warm.

i let her say what she has

to say.

i let her go on

until there is no more.

we hang

up.

i go back to the tub,

touching the water

with my hand.

it's cold.

adrift

i help her shove away

from shore.

loading up her small boat

with all she'll

need to get away

from me.

okay, i tell her, that's

it. be safe,

take care.

adios  i push her

into the current

and watch her flounder

about,

going nowhere again.

adrift without

her oars.

good days bad days

some days

i'm sentimental. caring.

loving,

almost an empathetic

human being,

handing dollars

out to the corner

man.

waving to let others

go first.

i'm forgiving

and kind. i surprise

myself

with my generosity

and words.

i hear a song, i read a line

in a book.

i remember

a poem

and my eyes well up.

but then

there are the other days

to contend with.

where everyone

and everything gets on

my last nerve.

cold beer in her hand

at the end

of each hike, 

she sends me a picture

of a cold beer

in her hand.

she's happy.

she's climbed another

mountain,

navigated another

trail,

crossed off

another destination

on the globe.

but the world is large,

so much more

to do

before enough is enough.

she'll know

when she gets there.

as she runs towards the door

i pull out my pockets.

see. i say.

nothing.

nothing to hide.

i empty my wallet,

take off my shoes.

i lie down on the floor

naked to the world.

see, i say again.

i have no secrets.

no lies.

i am who i am.

nothing less.

nothing more.

now it's your turn, i tell her.

as she runs

towards the door.

till closing time

i listen to the keys

struck with nimble fingers.

black and white

ivory stones.

foot on the pedal.

a voice

soft, and low.

it's a song i know.

i could sit here all night

and listen

to these blues.

to these fine notes.

pour me another

my new friend.

i'll be here

until you close.

gaslight

i asked her why

the lights were flickering.

she said.

i hadn't noticed.

when?

just now i said.

didn't you see the lights dim

then go

bright again.

no. she said.

have you been drinking.

perhaps it's all

in your head.

you're imagining things.

there they go again,

i said.

you don't see that?

no. i have no idea what

your talking about my

love,

her hand on the switch

behind her back.

when we were young

we were young.

we were lost.

we were found.

we were nowhere.

we were stuck

in a small town.

we were with friends.

we were alone.

we were drinking

beneath the stars.

we were singing all

the songs we knew,

and then you

came along.

we got out together.

we didn't look back.

we were young.

we were hopeful.

we were in love.

but all of that's gone.

whose strand of hair

a long strand

of  brown hair lies across the sink.

not mine,

obviously.

but whose?

what person has stood

at the mirror

and brushed her hair?

did she sit

on the bed,

the chair.

did she open drawers.

pick up books.

did she peruse the ice box

to see what

i've cooked?

who was here?

who left her hair?

come and get me

i'm distracted.

the bird on the sill.

the neighbors

in their yard.

the green of trees.

the quiet of empty rooms.

i'm not here.

i'm elsewhere.

come and  get me.

skin deep

she shows me a picture

of herself

from two years ago. before she went

blonde.

i hardly recognize her with this new

frozen face.

i knew her

before the implants,

the chin reconstruction.

the nips and tucks.

the weight loss,

the botox.

can you believe that was me?

she says.

it was a lot of work, but

worth it.

i'm getting so many dates.

married men stop me on the street

and give me their numbers.

and what about you,

she asks,

sipping her third martini.

what are you driving now?

do you have a boat yet?

just ask me

everyone knows.

and if they don't, i'll tell them.

i promise that.

ask me anything.

go ahead.

anything.

i'll give you the whole sordid

tale

from start to finish.

just ask.

i have nothing to hide.

no one to protect.

not opinions. just fact.

go ahead, 

i dare you, ask.

what will come to pass

two golden

eyes

flash in the woods, the red

fox

hunched

in waiting.

hunger

makes us impatient.

coming out

in the low light of days

end.

ready for the kill.

crouching

towards

the cat

that lingers

in the grass, unaware,

as most of us are

as to what

will come to pass.

what would Oprah do?

before i buy a book,

or watch

a movie,

or decide on where to live

or how to live

my life,

i google Oprah

to see what she would do.

how would she

handle this situation,

does she approve?

what should i eat,

what should i wear, what

new age religion

should i investigate.

dr. phil, dr. oz, eckhart tolle,

joel osteen

and the rest them.

what knowledge can they give

me so that i too

can become a star.

like Oprah.

where is this going?

we clink glasses,

bottles.

we toast, we sing,

we bump hands and elbows.

feet under

the table.

we wink, we sigh.

where is going

we wonder

as it  grows 

increasingly dark outside.

the french poodle

i adopt a dog.

a fuzzy little thing.

cute as a button, hardly barks.

house trained.

will fetch a ball.

a little finicky with his food,

and likes to wear

a red scarf around

his neck,

and yet he doesn't understand

a word i say to him.

he looks at me

and shakes his head.

i look at his collar,

he's from france, no wonder.

she wants a boyfriend

she wants a boyfriend.

someone to hold hands with.

someone

to do things with.

music, a club, an event.

she wants to lie upon some green

lawn with her guy

and take pictures.

make memories.

she wants a prince, she wants

the dream,

the fairytale, the movie script,

she wants what the child

in her believes in,

she wants it all

before she dies.

table to table

the food is without taste.

the meat

hard to cut.

the drinks are warm,

the coffee cold.

the bread stale.

but we say nothing.

what is there to say

as the waitress goes

from table to table

for so little pay.

light slips in

how light slips

in through the sheers,

softening the walls

with shadow.

incidental art, abstract

and subtle.

beauty in the moment,

leaving you

hopeful

as you turn towards

the door.

taken by hand

in another life

i was told what to read,

what to watch.

what to say, how to think,

how to believe.

i was a child

led around by another's hand,

under a cold

spell.

it was strange place to be,

a wearisome land.

looking back

with clear eyes,

i wonder how such a thing 

could happen,

determined to never let

such a person

into my life again.

intelligent design

we see a building.

the architecture. the fabrication

of metal

and glass.

wood and concrete.

how the lights 

go on.

the elevator rises.

the porcelain, the marble,

and we wonder

who was the genius

that built this, and yet

we stare at each other,

each creature,

the moon and stars

and think, at least some do,

how it all came together

by chance.

i'm a good person, really

i almost feel like i'm a good

person today.

i haven't written anything too snarky

about anyone,

ex's, friends,

siblings, relatives, or even

strangers.

okay, maybe a little,

but that's to be expected,

what else is there to whine about?

i think i've turned a corner

on being a better person.

and i've pretty much done it

all on my own.

i'm very proud of myself

despite what my parents

and ex wives

did to me.

my goal is to be good the entire

day, to be nice and forgiving

of everyone,

starting now.

shut up, she says

i like you more in the winter

i tell her

after arguing where

to put the blanket.

she lies next to me at the beach

covered in oil.

the ocean

at her feet.

the heat makes you irritable.

very cranky.

i think i just want you to be

my winter girl friend.

is that okay?

shut up she

says.

i was almost asleep.

the mayor of the cul de sac

my neighbor becky

leaves

a note on my door. rather a manifesto

not unlike

luther's

during the reformation.

you have

put your trash out too early.

and it's not

double bagged.

today is a holiday, didn't you

read the memo?

plus, i see you've painted

your door a color

that's not on our list.

you have one week

before fines are imposed.

i don't hate becky.

i don't despise her or wish that

she'd get poison

oak where it's embarrassing

to scratch.

but she does annoy me.

i'll leave it at that.

you're not there

you can fake happiness.

joy. 

you can smile

in the middle of a storm,

tell a joke, laugh,

eat and be merry, drink.

even make love when it

means nothing to you.

but despair is different.

you're not there.

traveling man

i feel as if i'm at the station

waiting for the train

to take me to my next

destination.

leaving behind what was.

i look down the track,

beyond the curve of woods,

i see the plume of smoke

from the stack.

i hear the whistle,

the sound of the wheels

grinding to a stop.

i hear the conductor yelling

all aboard. all aboard.

i'll get on again. it's what i do.

arriving and leaving.

i'm a traveling man.

two minds

there are two

of us

in one. two minds.

two

thoughts against each other.

the higher road,

the lower.

the child

and the adult

fighting it out.

do this, no don't.

say this,

write this,

choose this.

it's a quiet duel

that's been

going on

since you first put

your shoes on.

standing in water

it's not about the fish.

the line,

the hook

the bait.

it's not about

hunger.

it's meditation.

standing thigh deep

in a stream

casting.

thoughts of all else

away.

it's the blue sky,

the cold

water.

the mountains tipped

in snow.

the quiet and the sound

nature.

the absence

is why you came.

the apple butter festival

let's do something fun today,

my significant other

says,

stretching her arms out

as i lie in bed reading the new

york times. page one.

let's go pick some berries.

wouldn't that be fun.

safeway has berries, i tell her.

they have these little

boxes all wrapped up.

clean, no bugs.

i know, she says, but wouldn't

it be fun to drive out to the country

and pick our own?

we can take pictures

and post them on facebook.

then we can go to a wine tasting

or to the apple butter festival

in winchester.

come on, don't be a sour puss.

let's go.

i put the newspaper down

and sigh. okay. okay. let's go.

then i hear thunder. the sweet

cascade of rain and wind,

the room goes dark as streaks

of lightning appear beyond

the window.

oh no, i say. it's raining. come

back to bed sweetie.

maybe next weekend okay?

okay, she says, lying down

beside me.

you're the best boyfriend

ever.

same old

i walk up to the church and peek

inside,

it's been awhile.

father smith sees me and comes

rushing up

to give me an uncomfortable

hug.

so good to see you, he says.

come in come in.

i'm just passing through, i tell him.

was walking by

and thought i'd see what's up.

same old, he says. same old.

sins, repentance, rinse and repeat.

you know how it goes, right?

yup. i tell him. yup.

the sun burned neck holiday

i get ready for the 4th of july party.

neosporin, check.

bug spray.

watermelon.

bandages,

red white and blue beer.

half smokes, ten pack.

potato salad, check

lighter fluid.

long stick matches.

illegal fireworks.  check.

carton of cigarettes.

heavy metal cd's.

leather pants and matching

vest.

jack daniels.

aspirin.

bail money. check.

epiphany

talking with you 

gives me a serious headache.

not unlike

the one i used to get

in physics class

in school.

unable to wrap my head around

what a black hole

was.

although i think i have

it figured out now.

it's you.

see you soon macaroon

i believe

in the part time dog.

to visit

on occasion, to pet,

to play with,

to throw the ball.

a part time cat would be

fine too.

leaving it to sit

on a sunny sill,

ignoring you.

the part time lover is

also ideal.

no fuss no muss,

no arguing,

just making love 

throughout a long

afternoon.

see you next week,

my love.

my delicious macaroon.

the puzzle piece

you cannot force

a piece into the puzzle that

does not

fit,

and yet we try, we spin

the piece 

around and around,

backwards, forward,

upside down,

trying to get it in.

we want to finish, to have

the satisfaction

of being done.

through the wall

there was banging

in the middle

of the night, loud noises

coming

from beyond

the shared wall.

screams, the rattle of

springs.

a lamp crashing

to the floor.

the calling out of names.

sailor talk.

i didn't know whether

to call

the police

or applaud.

three colors

she sees grey.

i see blue.

he sees green.

perception is in the eye

of the beholder.

one

color

and three takes.

it makes no difference

to me

as i pour the gallon

into the pan

and begin.

take two of these twice a day

my doctor tells

me

to take medicine i'm allergic

to.

she forgets to tell me

not to eat 12

hours before

blood work.

she misspells my name,

she's unavailable

to speak.

unreachable.

it's almost like she

doesn't care.

is it her, gaslighting,

or is it me.

keeping time

my favorite watch 

is still ticking.

i see it in the drawer,

picking it up

to hold to my ear.

i haven't worn

it in ages.

a gift from someone

i once knew,

i suppose. was it

someone dear?

the sounds of silence

there are certain sounds

in life that i personally could live

without,

that i don't care if i ever

hear them again.

i list them in no particular

order, but here goes.

the song, the edmund fitzgerald.

what's worse? going

down with the ship in the icy

great lakes, or listening to

the 20 minute dirge

by gordon lightfoot.

then there's smoke alarms,

car alarms,

air raid sirens. not good. not good.

bag pipes, leaf blowers.

babies crying. i have nothing against

the little bambinos,

i just don't like it when

they cry. 

nails on a chalkboard,

long banjo solos. snakes

hissing.

a knock at the door.

the phone ringing after midnight.

firetrucks, police cars.

politicians, the left or the right,

giving a speech.

long winded preachers

talking about the pancake 

breakfast at 5 a.m. on sunday morning.

i'm sure there are more sounds

that get under my skin,

but that's the list for now.

oh, one more,

wedding bells.

what does yelp say

should we go in there

for a donut,

i ask her, as we stand outside the bakery.

hold on she says,

let me see what yelp has

to say.

oh no. it only gets three stars.

one person says

that her muffin was stale

and very crumbly,

and someone else says, they had

to wait in line on a sunday

morning

and missed church waiting

on a loaf of sourdough bread.

plus the staff was rude

if you didn't take a number

and wait your turn.

look, look,

here's an italian bakery

across town in the village,

we can take the cross town bus

and then the subway and be there

in an hour.

it's the best bakery. four stars.

the best in the city, the reviews say.

i just want a donut, i tell her.

one donut and a cup of coffee.

okay, let's go in,

but don't say i didn't warn you.

how much time

we count.

we count the steps going up,

going down.

we count

the number

of days gone by.

the number of lovers

we've had,

vague shadows

in our mind.

the number

of places lived,

the cars we owned,

husbands or wives.

we count

the number of jobs

we've taken,

we count our money.

we count the days

gone by,

the ones left.

how much time.

the red ball

the house sells quickly.

freshly painted,

a manicured lawn.

new carpet and buffed

wood floors. it's

empty now,

pictures off the wall.

furniture

taken away.

just a worn red ball in the lawn

is left behind.

which says so much,

so little

about who was here,

who is gone.

it taste like tuna

the news comes

out that there is no tuna dna

in a tuna

sub sandwich from

subway.

why are people surprised?

it's an undefinable

fish,

or chemical concoction

that can't

be determined by science.

but it taste likes

tuna,

so there you go.

deception is the new norm.

trust me, i know.

a way to a man's heart

i hate men,

she tells me. all they want

is sex.

and food,

drink.

they don't want to go to the mall.

or to the museums.

walk on the beach

hand in hand.

they have a one track

mind.

wham bam

thank you ma'am

and away they go

to be with their friends

playing 18 holes.

sure they send you flowers,

or give you chocolates,

or a piece of jewelry, but

only when they want

something in return,

or are apologizing for some

stupid thing they did.

a way to a man's heart

is with a sharp

knife.

pfffft. men.

i'm switching to the other side.

Ellen is my true

best friend.

my paternal instincts

i think about buying

a goldfish.

feeling paternal, having

the need to

love something,

to be needed.

it's time to stop making

the world

all about me.

so i buy one.

shiny and gold with a wavy

tail.

i give her a name.

although it might be a boy.

so i go with

Pat.

it dies about three days

later.

too much food,

perhaps.

but i did it out of love.

now i'm thinking about

a plant.

blowing stuff up for the fourth

as kids we liked to blow stuff up

with firecrackers

on the fourth of july.

coke bottles.

fruit. one of my sister's dolls.

anything that would explode

and make us

scream like wild

monkeys.

this was back when you could

buy firecrackers

just south of the border.

there was always a kid

with some paroled

dad who gave no nevermind

about kids blowing

stuff up

he would bring home enough

packs of firecrackers

to supply us

for the whole day.

matches too.

coney island hot dogs

i decide to enter

the hot dog eating contest on

coney island this

july fourth, trying to impress

my new girlfriend, Olga.

so i begin to practice.

i can almost get one

down

before my stomach hurts

though.

so i'm thinking gorging myself

with all beef

hot dogs on a 90 degree

day might not be in

my skill set.

i google the watermelon

seed spitting contest.

Hello.

there we go.

when the light goes on

she packed up

all my books into boxes,

ready to be hauled

away

to some dump.

what are you doing, i asked

her as i came

home from work

and slowly opened

up each box.

i stared at my worn

copies

of books. updike, cheever,

salinger.

plath and sexton.

levine and bukowski.

books i've been reading

since high school.

you've read them all, she replied.

i need room on

the shelves for knicknacks.

i'm collecting porcelain

pigs and cows

and i've run out of window

sills to put them on.

she's a whip

her wit

saves her. the quick

reply,

the clever

word,

the sarcastic sigh.

the roll of

her eyes.

she's a whip

against my psyche.

a bee sting.

a strong cup of coffee,

a shot of tequila

on a moonlit

night.

she's a deep

dive into the cold

ocean

in the middle of july.

you don't really exist

several of your passwords

have been

compromised

my busy web root defender

cyber security

norton

big brother informs me

with a red

squared flag

when i log on.

your identity has been stolen.

you are no longer

the person

people thought you were.

you aren't real.

you don't really exist.

a fake you is walking around

pretending.

all of which reminds

me of a woman i married 

a while back.

fractions of me

i'll give you a tenth of me

for starters.

we'll work up

to an eighth

then fourth. we'll come

close to half,

but not far

past that mark.

i can't give you the whole

number.

the all of me.

i've learned that lesson

the hard way,

if i do,

then there's nothing left

to see.

making a wish

i throw a cup full of loose

change into the wishing

well at the national park.

i hear the splash and wait.

i wait an hour,

two hours. i go get lunch

and come back.

still nothing.

zippo. this well can't handle

one lousy wish.

did my wish come true,

hell no.

i look around

for a park ranger to make

my complaint.

he laughs at me.

i tell him you need to take

that sign off the well,

this is a rip off.

i'm going down there to get

my money back.

do you have any rope?

it's false advertising.

let me see some id, mister,

he tells me as he calls for back up

on his crackling

shoulder phone.

maybe your wish was stupid,

he yells at me,

as i start to run.

zigzagging through the trees.

buttercup in the stable

i'm scared of your horse,

i tell my friend,

veronica.

the teeth,

those enormous eyes checking me out,

trying to decide

which hoof

to clobber you with.

the tail snapping flies

away

like a bullwhip.

the sneezing, the loud neigh.

i avoid

walking behind it.

keeping my distance, 

holding out a carrot

with a long stick.

i put a sugar cube on a shovel

and inch it  towards

his mouth.

they're so big,

so muscular,

a frightening beast.

what's his name, i ask her,

as she nuzzles

against his face.

buttercup, she says.

just once a week

too much of a good thing

is bad for you,

so i've heard,

not experienced.

sounds strange how anything

that good

and pleasurable

could be detrimental

your health,

your state of being.

but i'll take their word for

it and avoid

as much fun as possible.

from here on out i can

only see you once week,

not seven. sorry.

chicken dinner

if i make you

a chicken, will you love me more,

she asks me,

standing

at the stove, buttering

a fat bird.

it's hard for me to love

you less.

i tell her,

putting my arms around

her, 

undoing her apron,

the latch

on her dress.

answered prayers

sometimes

the devil is in the room.

she's in bed

with you.

she's married to you.

you can smell

the stench of lies on her.

the rot of deceit.

the blackness of her heart.

and yet

there she is a foot away

asleep.

strange how we fall prey

to the demons

that walk this earth,

disguised as angels.

in tears, in sorrow, you

bend your heart

to God and pray

that this will end soon,

that it won't go on

another day.

the rice burner

my uncle would

buy only american cars.

chevys

for the most part.

they'd be in the shop for

repairs

every month, something

going wrong.

i'm not buying any japanese

cars, he'd say,

or german.

not after the war.

not after pearl harbor.

he'd look at my new honda,

the hood rarely

opened and he'd laugh and say,

how much did you pay

for that rice burner.

aren't you a patriot,

anymore?

why aren't you kissing me

in the throes of

infatuation and blooming love,

fake love,

like

and lust

combined, she'd say to me,

why aren't you kissing

me.

which eventually made

me propose.

but once i carried her

across the threshold,

it was a different

conversation altogether,

why are you

touching me, she'd say,

why are you so clingy,

standing so close.

get away, we're married now.

a small hole

it takes a small

hole

to sink a ship.

a word,  glance, a single

lie.

a slip

of lips,

and down she goes,

not fast,

but slow,

and eventually to the bottom

she'll go.

ancient history

you can't tell your children

how hard

it was for you as a child.

they look at you and laugh.

it's ancient history. they

shake their heads.

they say, right dad, sure.

you had no food, all your shoes

had holes in them

and you had no car, no gas

to get around, even if there

was one.

you tell him about bunk beds,

shared beds,

shared clothes.

your mother standing out in the cold

hanging sheets

on the iced line.

the charity baskets of food

from the church left

on the porch.

you tell him about the electricity

being cut off from

an unpaid bill.

there was no air conditioning,

the clang of the old black

fan falling from side to side.

broken windows,

the leaky roof.

you tell him about your paper

route. how you woke

up at five in the morning.

the lawns you mowed, the cars

you washed to buy your own

clothes.

you tell him how

they almost broke the family

up, putting some of the kids

into foster homes.

the welfare woman at the door

with her clipboard

and camera.

you tell them the whole story,

the whole story

and more.

and he looks at you and says.

let's go to morton's tonight, dad,

okay?

haven't had a rib eye

in weeks.

twisting the night away

in the early sixties

before kennedy was shot, well before

the first moon

landing.

the war 

just getting started 

in southeast asia.

my father built a fall out shelter

in the back yard

so that when the commies

sent their missiles. 

our way, we had a place

to go, to hide, to stay alive,

to pray.

the world was about to be

destroyed in a few hours,

what took God

seven days to make.

my father stocked it with

canned beans. powdered milk.

boxes of indestructible foods.

we'd go down there

sometimes, for a dry run.

he'd put a record on,

chubby checker,

and we'd dance,

doing the peppermint twist,

twisting the night away.

the dance floor

when i was in my twenties

you couldn't get me

off the dance floor.

i had happy feet.

and now you

couldn't get me on one.

funny how

we change, 

going into observation

mode.

taking it all in now,

making sense

of it all.

when the war ends

nothing arrives

nothing leaves. the phone is still

for once.

the mailbox is empty.

there is no one here

to tell me what

to watch, what to read.

what to say.

how to bleed.

sweet bliss

this silence is.

when the war is over.

a thousand miles from nowhere

the flight is cancelled.

i'm stuck

in  a strange city, sitting in a bar

eating

a hot dog.

drinking a beer, a stack

of magazines beside me.

strangers

are hunched over

like bears in their overcoats,

some snoring,

some with that long distance stare.

a four layover.

the snow is three feet deep

on the tarmac.

the wind is blowing.

all the flights blink red.

i am in between nowhere

and somewhere.

there's a baby crying.

wish you were here to join

me in this misery.

shake it out

i stop

to remove my shoe

on a step.

i shake out the pebble

that has been

there all day.

maybe all my life.

a sharp

edged pebble

biting into my soul.

remorse, regret.

why has it

taken so long 

to be done with it.

the park wedding

i see a wedding going

on at the park

under the muffled roar

of planes passing over.

the bride in a long white

gown, the nervous

groom in an ill fitted tux.

friends and relatives

have gathered on the lawn.

sitting in the folding chairs.

the sun beating down.

i want to yell out, please

stop. don't do it. but

i don't as i sit under the shaded

tree and observe from afar.

a million miles a way.

like some soft blinking star.

the neighborhood watch update

the neighborhood watch

makes me nervous

with their continuous updates

on the online forum.

there was a strange van driving by,

did anyone else see it.

someone knocked on my door

yesterday, they said they

were mormons, but i don't believe it.

i think there was

someone in my yard stealing

carrots.

did anyone hear that loud

bang last night?

fireworks, gunshots?

what's the best way to get

gum out of a child's hair.

i saw a fox coming out of

the woods with a cat in its

mouth. has anyone lost a cat?

black and white with a little

bell on it's collar.

what's the best way to make

guacamole?

please vote yes to make our

neighborhood a nuclear

free zone.

meeting at McDonalds

noon, tuesday.

i'm sorry, did you say something?

i like to talk

until i don't, and then i'm

pretty much

useless in this conversation,

i'm bored

by what you're talking about.

i can't help it.

my body sags,

my voice lowers, i roll

my eyes,

i'm easily distracted

by anyone walking by,

i nod and say, yup.

i swat the air,

trying to

hit a fly.

a new start

a new start, a new

house,

a new

heart to love.

a new

set of keys, a new

way of

going home,

a new way

to leave.

the seasons change,

and so do

we.

fire or ice

will it be fire or ice

that ends things, the world

and us.

will it be the rage of flames,

or the hardening

of hearts

the freeze of change,

that will make

one or the other

depart.

either way, we don't choose,

it just comes upon us.

split pea soup, god help us

when my mother

would make

a pot of split pea soup, we'd

all roll our eyes

and sigh.

why, mom, why.

because your father likes it,

she'd say.

we'd scramble

for the stack of wonder

bread on the table,

pushing hard butter

across the slice, trying

to fill up.

there'd be a hambone

in the soup pot,

which apparently was how

my father liked it.

and which could

be used for a weapon

when he

didn't come home that

night.

selfie problems

it's getting harder and harder

to take a good

selfie these days.

finding the right angle.

the right light

to minimize your increasing age.

the lines,

the wrinkles, 

the pull of gravity.

i turn left, then right.

i hold the camera up then to

the side.

maybe i'll stand by the water,

or a tree.

i look better than that,

i think. but after all 

it was a rough night.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll give it another try

and send you a picture.

i may even try to smile next time.

in the middle of the road

i feel bad for squirrels,

their indecisive

natures.

busy to the point of being 

stir crazy.

unable to decide

which side

of the road to go to.

which tree to climb.

which nut

to pick up and gnaw on.

i see myself

in them sometimes.

judgmental day at the park

i make fast

and erroneous judgements on people

just by looking them.

looking at the car

they drive,

the boat they sail.

the places they went to school.

i stare at the name

brand

on their shirt

or purse and think,

that's not good.

my opinions are based

solely on where

i'm coming from. i have no

idea who they really are.

what kind of a person they are,

but i'm swift with

the like or dislike, the swipe left

on them.

how is that beautiful woman

with that guy

with the mustache, a handlebar.

who needs a boat that big?

an electric bike?

a hundred thousand

dollar car?

feverish

fevers come

and go.

with time and ice,

and maybe

a round

white pill of cure

that promises

to take us

out

of the sweat and heat

of illness.

get some rest

they say.

not knowing what's

really behind

it all.

take it easy, they say,

you deserve

a day off.

a day without

love in your life.

needed sleep

it's a two hour

sleep, mid day. a summers

nap

in the oppressive heat.

the cool

breeze of the fan

swims

against me,

as i stretch out

sans clothes, 

in the darkened

room,

the comfort of home.

not worthy of the new yorker

i understand what this poem

is saying,

so it must not be any good.

it will never make

it into the new yorker magazine.

there is no

puzzle to it,

no mention of greek

mythology. 

or references to ancient

worlds. i  don't need

a dictionary to get the meaning

of any of the words.

it's clear and accessible.

after one or two readings,

i know exactly what the poet

means. i can relate.

what kind of poetry is this?

did a child write it?

or me?

no thanks

you reach a point,

a turning point where you no

longer

do the things you don't like doing.

it's a refreshing

and welcome turn of events.

the relief 

of not going where you don't

want to go, or participating

in things that you

have no interest in.

no longer following the crowd.

why has it taken so long

to be who you really are

and not concerned 

about the consequences,

or what others think?

a life time, that's how long.

how about bird watching?

you need a hobby, she tells me,

you need

a new interest,

a new past time, something

to wile away the hours

before death.

checkers, perhaps.

chess.

collecting stamps.

you could volunteer

down at the shelter, 

she suggests, or

how about bird watching,

or wood  carving,

there must be something

you can do, she says,

her fingers tapping on her desk.

the round table

as we talk

about the past around the round

table.

coffee poured,

some smoking, some holding

newspapers,

there is bragging,

there is talk

of glory days.

of the one the got away,

fish,

or a woman.

we are old, but not dead,

we are still

sure of that.

we are here, still here,

aren't we?

while others, god rest

their souls

have not come back.

healing

as the wound

mends,

as the skin repairs itself,

stitching

slowly

back together, there is

still

a twinge of pain,

of trauma.

even with time

with age,

you can stretch your

hand out

upon the table and remember,

realizing that

it may, or may not

ever completely

go away.

the day before this day

each day

mirrors the day before it.

so much

sameness, so much to yawn about

and not

remember.

sometimes when you look

out at the ocean

it's hard to tell

where the sea ends

and the sky begins.

it all blends into one grey

swath of light.

each day mirroring

the day before it.

as i lie in bed

i lie in bed

in the early morning. in no

hurry to get up.

it's sunday.

i will not be going to church.

i will

leave that for the unbelievers.

for the sinners who

need constant washing

and reassurance.

my faith is safe

within me.

i don't want it bothered

by others.

we are human. we fail

one another, ourselves.

we are forgiven.

i lie in bed

and await the next thought

to awaken me

further.

decisions decisions

i don't like to make plans.

plan ahead.

mark my calendar to remind

myself on such and such

date, i have to do this, be here,

be there.

go someplace on time.

i don't want people to ask

me, are you coming,

are you sure?

did you make reservations,

did you call ahead?

i'm not a planner.

but i'm not spontaneous either.

i'm sort of like

the squirrel in the road,

avoiding traffic

as best i can.

either side of the road

is fine, or the middle.

just don't make me decide.

a peaceful walk

needing some

meditative quiet,

i go off the path

and into the woods, 

i find a slender dirt trail

that leads through

the trees, along the blue lake.

it's quiet until

i reach a clearing where

a picnic is going on

and people

are dancing and blowing horns.

it's a chaotic

party of men and women

half out of their

minds with sangria. 

come join us, they say. 

come on mister.

come on.

what the hell, why not i think.

they hand me a bottle

of tequila

and say, chug, chug, chug.

the next day

wake up in a motel

i in laurel maryland

with a tattoo on my arm,

and the name

rosalita across my chest.

lying still in a dark room

there comes a point

when you just want to get away

from people.

go to your room, like you did when

your were a kid

and lie on the bed,

not answering the door when

your mother bangs on it,

asking what are you doing in there.

why is the door locked.

you're not reading one of your

father's magazines, are you?

sometimes you need a little down

time.

some personal time.

some peace and quiet away from

the maddening crowd.

you just lie there

with a pillow on your head,

and blink your eyes, letting the other

world float away.

some nature poetry

i try to read some

mary

oliver, a well established

poet

with more medals

and awards

than

you can shake a stick at.

not sure what

that means,

but i've heard it before

and so

i'm using it here.

she's a nature poet.

she's got trees and flowers

down.

hills and valleys.

that sort of thing.

i know about three different

flowers.

maybe four or five, now

that i'm thinking of

them in my head,

but that's neither here or there.

she's all over

the nature stuff, but i can't connect.

i don't feel

sad, or happy, or anything when

i read her poems. i just

think,

oh, okay. that's nice, then turn

the page.

it's like a bowl of white rice.

spoon after spoon of it goes

in, goes down.

so what.

the rock climbing date

she wanted to go rock

climbing

after sky diving and deep sea

diving,

swimming with the sharks,

and playing

with crocodiles.

don't be such a wuss, she said,

as i stood back

with my coffee and watched

her grapple

up the side of a steep

cliff.

i waved to her, yelling

out words of encouragement,

you go girl, and stuff like that,

but when she waved back,

she slipped, losing

her grip, falling into a deep

jagged crevice about thirty feet

below her

where a sign read, beware

of rattlesnakes.

yikes, i said.

continuing to drink my coffee.

hope she's okay.

i guess the date is over.

and it seemed so promising.

surprise rain

it's a surprise

rain

an unexpected deluge

from

an errant cloud

blown over.

we find

an overhang

to go under

and wait it out.

we embrace.

it's in this moment

we

find each other.

sometimes

it takes

a storm.

thirteen steps

thirteen steps

up

thirteen steps

down.

when i was young

they were

no trouble.

how easily i'd

go up

in leaps

and bounds

and now

i hold the rail,

i let each

foot fall until

it's firm

then take the next

step

towards higher

or lower

ground.

the protest movement

i'm a radical

she tells me. a left wing marcher.

i go to

demonstrations.

i'm all about the environment

and the man

keeping us down.

do you know what plastic

wrappers

do to sea turtles?

no, i tell her, do tell.

it's horrible, she says

and takes out her phone to show

me a turtle with

a plastic bag over it's head.

i have my own megaphone

and make my own signs.

my protest name

is tanya.

are you with us?

we're going downtown

tomorrow

to protest the treatment of chickens.

i lick my ice cream cone

as i stare at her 

wild eyes, her twitching

legs that look stubbly, sort

of like a chicken legs.

i'm thinking i should have

gotten

rocky road and not butter

brickle as i continue

licking my cone.

well, she says, are you in?

i can't date someone that isn't

part of the solution.

but it's going to be hot out

tomorrow i tell her,

nibbling on the edges of

my sugar cone.

are there any shady areas

we can throw a blanket

down and picnic,

shout from there?

not a drop to drink

my son,

home from college one day,

tells me

frantically,

dad, we're out of water.

i go to the sink

and turn

the spigot on.

water pours out.

no, it's fine, i tell him,

pointing at the water.

look, turn this knob and you

get cold,

the other knob is hot,

but you might have to wait

a minute or two.

no, he says.

we have no filtered

water.

no bottled spring water.

what can i

drink,

how can i brush my teeth.

mom says 

that this water is full

of chemicals

that will kills us.

oh, and we're out of soy milk too.

cat crazy

one cat is fine.

two

is still okay, but the third

cat

has pushed things

over the line.

three bowls

of wet food

on the floor beside

the shredded couch,

saucers of milk,

the squared box with 

sand in the bathroom.

the fuzzy ball

toys,

the stick,

the wand, the sign

that reads, wherever i go

there i am.

warning labels

careful of the small print,

i've learned

my lessons the hard way

through experience,

now i break out the magnifying

glass

and study the tiny letters

and numbers

typed upon

the jar, the box, the bag.

i tell you to come closer

and let me look

into your eyes

and read the warning labels

on you.

we won't be fooled again.

her pipe dream

when i retire

she says to me, closing her books

on another year

of teaching,

i'm going to buy an RV

and travel.

take the blue roads across

the country.

meet new people

in out of the way places.

she's been saying

this for three years now.

i don't see her leaving though.

or quitting.

her life's blood

is in teaching, in the kids,

the school.

her complaints fall on deaf

ears.

she loves it.

just one need

the printer has a mind

of its own.

she keeps running and running

even after i've

left the room.

scolding me,

more paper,

more ink,

what size, what font,

nagging me

with questions,

how many copies,

both sides?

tell me what you want.

she has so many needs.

while i have just one.

buy oranges

the doctor says

we need to lower your cholesterol

and get

you back on

a good diet.

fruits and vegetables.

leafy greens.

oranges, that sort of thing.

we see plaque

in your x-ray, calcium

deposits.

your arteries are like a plumbing

pipe full

of you know what.

no more fried chicken, yo!

who is this, i say on the phone,

surprised that my

doctor would actually call me.

you need to exercise more,

she says,

nine hours a day isn't enough.

and you need to find a way 

to lower your stress.

i exhale.

okay.

okay. quit nagging me.

i make a stress reduction list.

divorce, done.

stop dating.

take only the plumb jobs at work.

sleep more.

massages

and more frequent sex.

under that i put, buy

oranges

and call Escort Service.

don't sweat the small stuff

if you see the book

don't sweat the small stuff 

on someone's nightstand

run.

run fast. get out of there

as quickly as possible.

pretend your pants are

on fire and run.

this will not go well.

anyone that owns that

book is a mental train

wreck waiting to run

you over.

well, okay, maybe not

everyone. i do tend

to exaggerate at times.

size doesn't matter

people swear that size doesn't matter,

and yet

there they are buying

a bigger boat,

a bigger house,

adding to their bank account,

making it bigger.

they want a bigger party,

a bigger

trip for vacation.

a bigger steak with a bigger

knife.

is it about something else

they're making up for,

is something lacking?

or is a cigar just a cigar sometimes

as sigmund freud suggests.

the bridge was washed out

i'm trying to think

of excuses to get out of this party

i'm invited to.

the host is relentless

with the evites,

the phone calls, the text

reminders.

i used the sprained ankle

last spring

and then covid in the fall.

i miss covid.

i could use the upset stomach

from a bad piece of fish,

or i have relatives in town.

sort of equal pain with that one.

i dropped my phone in the toilet,

maybe.

and lost all  my contacts

and directions to the house.

maybe it will rain and the bridge

will be washed out.

but is there a bridge on the way?

never need ironing

i ask the young clerk

if she can absolutely guarantee that

these shirts i'm about

to purchase will never need ironing.

i hate ironing,

getting the creaky board out

in the laundry room,

filling up the iron with 

water for steam.

then there's the starch can.

too much, too little?

wondering if i turned it off,

heading back home to check.

she points at the label

on the plastic bag and says,

see that, 

says right there mister.

permanent press.

she moves her finger across

the words.

can't you read?

are you blind or something?

it says 

never need ironing.

she shakes her head

and rolls her eyes.

will that be cash or credit,

are you a member?

you can get reward points

if you buy two bags of shirts.

my writing professor, neva

i send my writing professor

a few

of my books,

well, two, because that's all

i have

at the moment. being lazy.

i should have five out by now,

but i've

been busy with other

things, things like, like...

anyway,

i don't hear back from her,

so i assume she hates my poetry.

she's a stickler for grammar

and punctuation

and the traditional styles.

she told me once, reprimanded

me in fact and said,

you can't just tell stories.

which pretty much eliminates

most of what i write.

i even dedicated one of the books

to her, but does she write back.

no. well, not yet, she's ninety-two

after all.

eighteen holes

i'm not a golf person

but i like the look of a golf course.

how green it is.

the manicured

lawns.

the little flags blowing

in the breeze 

off a pole on each hole.

i like the slopes of the fairway,

and the sand traps,

like gaping

mouths awaiting an errant swing.

the bikini waxed greens.

i like the costumes

they wear.

the civility of it all.

yelling fore and what not before

striking the ball.

it's  a beautiful cemetery

without the headstones.

i text her, Yo

i send her a text.

yo.

just the word yo,

but get

no response.

sometimes that's all i got

after work,

after writing on here

until my hands

bleed.

but i think yo

is an all consuming word.

it means, how are you.

i miss you.

what are you up to.

when can i see you again.

you'd better buy some chap stick

because the next time

i see you, we're kissing.

(on the lips, this time)

etc.

this one little word

is full of affection and adoration,

and yet she doesn't

get that, yet.

taking a trip to paris

i get a key ring

holder that i screw into the wall

so that i can

stop losing my keys.

two hooks, one for me and another

one for whoever.

it's grey and looks like stone

and has the word

Paris inked on it, in black.

fancy shmancy.

the clerk when i bought it said

ah,

taking a trip to paris, are we?

which almost made me throw

it across the store into a pile

of antique wicker chairs, but

i didn't. i needed a key holder,

so i bought it.

five bucks. what the hell.

off the grid

this is what happens

when you stop watching the news

or following people

on social media.

joy. bliss.

this is what happens when you

mute your phone,

turn off the tv,

stop reading the daily news.

peace and quiet.

this is what happens when

you stop

looking out the window

for answers

that are already here.

sleep and relaxation.

try it.

numbers on a page

dates mean nothing.

anniversaries, birthdays,

holidays.

the first time this, or that.

imaginary numbers

gripped with two hands

on the calendar wheel.

worried that others might

forget.

make the best of this day.

don't worry about the rest.

do you need a day

to celebrate, to tell someone

you love them.

to you need another card

to send, or bouquet of flowers.

just put your arms around them

whenever you see them.

that's enough.

don't buy into the phony world

of guilt and shame

and not enough.

spin class

i call up my friend betty to see if

she wants to go to happy hour with me

now that the bars are opened up again.

i tell her that a new shipment of calamari

just came in after they dredged the potomac

near the blue plains sewage treatment

plant. a dump truck full of calamari

is ready for dipping into secret sauce.

i know how much you like them, i tell

her, smacking my lips for effect.

ding dang, she says. i wish i could, but

i have a spin class coming up in ten minutes,

huh?

what's that?

it's a class, we have a certified spin

instructor, Bambi, i think she's from california,

so you know she's cool.

we spin the wheels and she

yells at us on a microphone,

while they play music.

we're all lined up in rows.

so you're on stationary bikes?

yes. but they're really nice ones,

very sturdy, a pretty orange.

sometimes the seats are a little

mushy and gooey if there was a class

before yours, but once you wipe them down 

with bleach

they're good to go. the bleach and wipes

are included in the membership

fee, by the way.

why don't you just go for a bike ride?

no one yells at you when you do that

and you don't have to worry about the bleach.

i guess i could, but i don't like all that

wind in my hair,

and putting air into my tires.

plus the bell on my bike broke off

and i can't find it.

okay, okay.

well what about after that, i can

meet you then. happy hour should still be on.

darn, sorry, but i have a walking class

after that.

what? a walking class? really?

yes, yes.

i'm learning how to navigate

the local trails.

which can be very tricky

when they switch over from pavement

to gravel, then dirt and then back again,

all within an eighth of a mile.

the instructor carefully

guides us on how to avoid geese doo doo,

tip toeing around it,

which is everywhere, and how to step

around puddles.  he showed us

how to put a board down over 

a puddle,

if there's one around.

Buddy, our instructor, said that it's good

to carry a stick with you

in case of snakes, or if you need

to stab at a rabid animal coming at you.

i use my umbrella, which has a nice

metal point at the end of it.

i'm learning so much about walking.

it's not just one foot in front of

the other. you should join up.

in fact join the spin class too. you'll love

it.

maybe, let me think about.

okay. i thought about it.  no.

i need a drink now, maybe two.

adios amigo

i put a note in the suggestion

box

beside the front door.

i state my desires and complaints

clearly.

being nice,

but firm too.

it's important that i get this

message across

to the owner

of this house, which is me.

if we're going to live

here in peace and quiet, there 

are rules

and boundaries that must be

adhered to.

there will be no second chances.

no line drawn

in the sand further

and further back.

once you step over,

it's adios amigo.

i should have thought of this years

ago.

the writing in the sky

i pick up my book about witches

in salem during the 1600's,

volume one,

and begin to read, but

immediately put it down.

it's too real, too scary.

this isn't fiction.

i look out the window and see

a woman dressed in black

flying on a broom,

with a chanel handbag.

she's circling my house,

writing something in the sky

in black smoke.

what the hell?

quickly i jump under the bed,

and repeat the words, there's

no place like home, there's

no place like home.

the sound of music

it's amazing

how many songs you know by heart.

each word,

each bang of the drum

strum

of the guitar.

you know from the first

note how it starts, the middle,

where it ends,

when to tap the dash board

and begin

again.

decades of listening

to the same songs

over and over,

ear to the little red radio,

the records,

the vinyl, the tapes, the discs,

now back

to the speakers

holding everything

you bought

three times over.

the sound track of your life,

a loyal friend.

the maple syrup break up

when she brought me back

a bottle of freshly tree tapped

maple syrup

from canada

i thought it was the beginning

of a long

and beautiful relationship.

i barely poured it on a

few pancakes though,

when she told me she was

leaving.

i'm going back home she said.

i met a guy from my old high school,

Maple Leaf High,

in Montreal, who's a mountie now,

and he wants to get married.

i was in the middle of

pouring out the syrup when

she gave me the news.

it poured so slowly, as i tilted

my hand, shaking the amber

liquid out. i looked at her.

really? i said.

oui, she said. oui.

enjoy your maple syrup. bye.

i kept pouring.

the false religion

it's getting harder and harder

to watch

professional sports of any kind

on tv.

i can't buy into it, no matter

how hard they sell it,

and want us to believe that

it's important to our lives.

sort of done with athletic heroes,

which they never were

to begin with.

it's a false religion begging us

to kneel at the altar

of the television, and buy.

the spies next door

i think the neighbors

are up to something, they're too quiet,

too nice,

too friendly.

i think they may be spies

for moscow.

yesterday i saw the man kissing

his wife goodbye,

who does that?

they drink vodka too.

i see them out

in the back yard under their

strings of edison

lights, whispering while

drinking their vodka

and playing a kazoo.

when it snows they're out

their playing in it all day long.

reminds them of home, i guess.

i'm telling you, they're up

to something.

tonight i'm going to put

a glass up to the wall

and listen in.

see exactly what's going on

over there.

sleeping dogs

you made

your bed, now go sleep on it,

she says

to me.

but i rarely make

my bed i tell her,

unless company is coming over.

well, well,

you know what i mean.

and you mean sleep in it,

not on it? right.

this is why it will never

work out

between us, she says,

trying to think of a another

cliche to tell me.

you're always correcting me,

you can't let sleeping cats

lie, can you.

you mean dogs, right?

don't miss the train

you can

smell it in the air.

the change.

the change is going to come.

the ripe

of summer.

the bliss of sun.

the touch of lips,

a caress of hand.

you feel lit

before it arrives.

you can smell it in the air.

be ready for it,

don't miss the train

this time.

a closer look

when you see the light.

when you

know

that your parents aren't what

you hoped they were,

when a friend

is no longer

true to his word, when the lover

you threw yourself

into is a fake,

a figment of your imagination,

you take a step

back and reassess your

way of thinking.

wishing them all the best as

you pack

and go.

dry clean only

the label

says dry clean only, but when

have i ever

cared about instructions,

labels.

directions.

never.

i ignore the small print,

the warnings,

the dire

consequences if the rules

aren't followed.

and now i have

a very small sweater

fit for a child.

half the size

of what it was before

the wash

and dryer

spun it around to dry.

the sharp edge of a table

catching the edge

of the table,

in a hurry to be somewhere,

you lift your shirt

and stare

at the new bruise

growing blue,

a tinge of red.

it will be a sunset of

colors

by noon.

you rub it out.

absorb whatever it is

you bump into,

and press on.

the broken vase

it's a blue shard

of porcelain, a broken vase

beneath

the dirt

in the old yard by the tracks

that once

led to the river port.

is there a story there,

perhaps,

who poured

water into the glass

to keep the flowers alive,

what kind of

flowers were they,

were they given in love,

or did someone

die, or just flowers,

cut in bloom

to bring the room alive.

i have arrived

i empty

what once was full and overflowing.

i remove the clutter

from my life.

there is no

more time or patience

with

such things

as love,

or books

that bore me, that i'll

never read.

i empty

the shelves, the drawers,

i go into attic with a broom,

down to the cellar with

a shovel.

i can hear my voice

echo

against the bare walls,

the open floors.

i've been heading

in this direction

for a long time now,

and at last i have arrived.

until sleep is done

mistakes are made.

fatigue

setting in.

you're just one person

doing the work

of two

or three.

you grow weary late

in the afternoon.

your hands

are heavy, your legs

go slow.

you get careless, then

finally you say

enough,

and go home, where you

lie down

on the long couch

and sleep

until sleep is done.

the ten year dog

i still dream about my

dog.

the ten year dog.

longer than any marriage.

more love

and affection too.

i dream he's asleep

beside me.

i dream he's running across

the great lawn.

i hear his bark, feel his warm

body next to mine.

he's always happy

to see me.

as i am seeing him.

this love has not dimmed

with time.