it was so much fun

people tell me about their vacations.

where they went,

what they ate,

what the weather was like.

then they take out

their phone to show you

the photos.

this was monday, tuesday.

etc. this is the ship we were on.

there's a pool, an ocean,

a mountain.

and then all the meals,

breakfast, lunch and dinner.

they are tanned, but tired

when they return,

but seemingly happy

having left out the poison

ivy, the upset stomach from

an Indian dish, the hangover,

sea sickness,

and the lost luggage,

not to mention that

it was an awful flight.

before eight a.m.

on a rare saturday morning

there is a burst

of energy, coffee induced

as well as a good nights sleep.

but off go the sheets,

the towels in the wash,

the dishwasher,

the quiet Bosch churning.

another cup of joe.

then there's messages to

tend to on the phone,

on the machine.

dusting, vacuuming.

hanging the new picture,

adjusting it so.

clutter arranged,

trash collected, bagged

for the next day.

stacking books, a new liner

for the shower.

more coffee, the sun hardly

up. now what?

the delayed response

you can tell how

important you are to others

by the response

time to your call

or text, or e mail.

a long delay, means that

you don't mean diddly

to them.

you are very low

on their totem pole of

caring.

whereas others, the ones

still in the mix,

are quick with the fingers

and wrist

to type and send,

with a smiley face attached.

they have become

more than friends.

the rainy season

it's the rainy season.

the time

of floods and storms.

the sky

is full of grey despair.

it's not a happy

sight, looking outside

this window.

it's sleeping weather.

it's quiet time.

it's books and tea.

it's comfort food

and wine.

it's the rainy season,

come on over, let's

be glum together

and pass this darkened

time.

mono vision

the doctor tells

me i have mono vision.

one eye

is fine for reading, while

the other eye

is good for distance.

what about my ears,

i ask her.

and she says,

the same.

one is good for whispering

and one

is good for a shout

across the road.

those you love

those you love,

you want them to stay

a little while longer.

one more drink,

we have dessert.

it's cold out, the wind

and rain.

the roads might be icy.

stay here.

stay overnight.

i'll sleep on the couch

and you can have

my room.

we can have breakfast

in the morning.

we can talk some more.

what i'm saying is,

don't leave. stay just a little

while longer.

oh well

nature

rarely gives up

like we do.

no,

the woods, despite

fire or flood,

moves forward in

its own good time.

regrows

regains what was taken.

the loss

is not felt, 

but taken in stride,

as if,

oh well.

sediment and silt

we have many lives.

eras, if you will.

the closets hold most of

them in boxes.

attics too.

cellars full of bins.

it's an archaeology dig

on a weekend.

sifting through the dust

the cobwebs.

sediment and silt.

sentiment and guilt.

some boxes marked by

years. the seventies,

the eighties.

how swift this ride is.

were we really that happy

back then?

it seems so by the smiles,

the grins. the faces of lovers 

now gone. dearly

departed friends.

houses spinning in the air

we're under a tornado watch.

so says the phone,

the tv.

the neighbor

going down into his cellar

with his small dog,

and children.

i look out the window

though,

and it's quite sunny and lovely.

no wind to speak

of. the sun is out.

birds are chirping.

i see no houses spinning

in the sky,

no witches on their brooms

flying by.

no cows, or chickens

in the air. 

maybe later, maybe never.

should we be scared?

the grapevine

there are many grapevines.

i've pulled most of mine from the roots.

done

with the little birdies

too, whispering in my ear.

stop, i say.

don't tell me anymore,

there is really

little about

anyone, i want to hear.

take your gossip elsewhere.

say nothing, unless it's of

good cheer.

the business of forgiveness

let's talk about the business

of forgiving.

which, i think is God's work,

unless he's out

to dinner,

on vacation, or just plan

busy with

other important things?

who am I to forgive.

and before i can even ponder

such grace,

i need to hear an apology

from anyone that wants it

from me. forgiveness, really?

i'm still waiting.

still waiting.

crickets are chirping.

he was a quiet man

the new neighbor

with the monster truck, 

the american

flags,

the artificial grass,

and dog,

seems like a nice person

when we pass each other

on the street.

a quiet man.

sometimes he sits for

hours in his back yard

cleaning

and reloading his guns,

while a pig

spins on his rotisserie 

grill.

the pink room

the pink room was too pink.

they want it white

again.

three coats

of pink to get it there, now

there coats of white

to change it back.

i understand, having had

my own pink wall or two

in a certain room. i couldn't

wait to get rid of it

once she was gone.

some stay the same

the power goes

out in the middle of the night.

i hear the click

and buzz

of clocks and computers

going off, then

coming back on again.

one by one

the next day, i have

to figure out

how to reset each one.

all of them

different, all of them

the same.  some with

a mind of their own,

some being unchanged.

seeing is believing

i don't believe in

ghosts until

i see one, or the loch ness

monster,

or big foot,

or aliens from outer

space.

flying saucers.

myths and theory,

legend.

i need evidence, truth

and facts

to get to the bottom of

things.

like how i did with you.

the need for anger

there is a time

to be calm, to be rational

and quiet.

to keep the peace

despite the chaos that

goes on about you.

and yet, there are other

times, when only

anger will suffice.

when lied to, when betrayed,

when everything

you held dear is not real.

a full blown outburst

of angry

words are necessary.

not violence.

just getting it out of

the system.

the truth. will do.

and this will truly save

you.

illumination

it's a serious moon out

from the clouds,

shedding

a milky light upon the field.

what is there

to say about

such a thing.

the orb. the illumination

it brings.

what possible poem can

truly capture,

this sight.

almost as hard as describing

love. but i try just

the same, as i often do,

on such a night.

handle with care

it's very fragile,

the shopkeeper says, 

sliding her glasses down

on the tip of her nose

to watch me

pick up the slender vase

to hold it up

to the light.

be careful she says.

it's old.

something i'm beginning

to understand

more and more each

day, without being told.

fresh mint

she planted the mint

on the side

of the porch

sixteen years ago.

it's grown wild now.

it reaches over

the steps, the long

tendrils full

of green.

when i come home

from work,

or leave

and lock the door.

i think of her.

i remember her kneeling

in the soft dirt,

looking up at me in

the sun, smiling

and saying.

we're going to have

fresh mint now.

the formative years

i've watched enough you tube

videos, read enough

books,

and been in enough therapy

to understand now

how the mind works or doesn't

work.

it pretty much is all about

those first five or six years

of childhood.

bad parenting, or no parents.

from the cradle to the grave

you're either making yourself

miserable, or someone else miserable.

at least until the light goes

on in your head, and you move on.

you stay away from toxic people.

friends, relatives, spouses, parents,

people you work with.

when you cut them loose

you are at last free from childhood.

for a mere five dollar donation

i used to care

about things, more than i do now.

but things have changed.

what war?

what protest?

what earthquake,

or flood in some far away

country.

i have compassion

and empathy

for anyone hurt, but for the

most part

there is little we can do

about it.

i heard on the radio that for

a mere five dollar

donation,

you can cure a kid of leprosy

in some village in India.

but i don't have a pen

to take the number down.

and now i feel

guilty. some poor kid is

suffering

with this disease, that i was

too lazy

to do anything about.

this is what happens when you

listen to the radio

or watch tv.

it's all about fear and pain,

disasters, chaos.

another cold beer

her passport

is full of stamps.

dates.

places.

from Bolivia to London,

to Paris, France.

her luggage is worn,

her shoes

are thread bare,

she's weary, she's tired.

she's never here.

she's rarely

at home. she's always

on the move,

in a new town,

having another cold beer.

this place

don't be desperate,

don't crave,

don't desire.

don't scratch and claw

or chase.

be calm.

be at peace.

this is good.

this is fine,

where we are now.

this place.

meal time prayer

the ex wasn't much of a cook.

i'd never before seen

the stuff she put on a plate,

or smelled anything like it.

i couldn't pronounce

the food and had no idea

where she got it, what country

it may have come from.

while she prayed before

eating the meal,

i found myself praying after.

stop the madness

we're all part something.

german,

english,

black, white, hispanic.

jewish.

asian.

there's a little bit

of blood

from everyone in all of

us.

given enough time

we'll all be one

color and look somewhat

alike.

maybe then the madness

of racism

can end.

Coffee to go in Venice

venice was lovely.

a postcard scene no matter

which direction

you turned your head.

the ancient buildings,

the iconic gondolas,

the glass blowers,

St Marks, the pigeons

in the courtyard, priests

in black, lovers hand in

hand.

it was everything i imagined

it would be

until i asked for a coffee

to go at the cafe, where

i was yelled at by an old man

in a white shirt and bow

tie. hissed out of the store

by an angry crowd.

you too good for us?  to stand

here and chat and drink

your espresso?

go home, American. go

home to your starbucks

and take out coffee.

jiminy crickets i said

out loud as they chased me

down the narrow corridors

and bridges.

the dare devil

she says lets get wild.

let's have some fun.

get crazy.

okay. i tell her, looking

over the top

of my book on the history

of Catnaps.

what do you have in mind?

maybe berry picking, she says.

or let's go fishing.

perhaps go down to the lake

and feed the ducks.

sounds exciting, i tell her,

putting a book marker

on my book and standing up.

how about we find a sushi

place and eat

some raw eel?

or go shopping and not wear

our masks.

who are you, i tell her.

you dare devil.

the phone warning

i like the storm warning

on my phone.

that screeching wail not unlike

the early sixties

when the sirens would blare

before the russians

dropped their A bombs

on us all.

i know now when winds

will come, the rain,

the hail. lightning.

i know when the flash floods

will arrive.

i appreciate the phone warning,

and wish i had had one

when someone dangerous

and evil

was about to enter my life.

it's not my fault

if we can put the blame

on someone

we will feel better about how

things are.

whose  fault,

who caused this problem,

who's responsible

for murder, chaos, starvation

and illness.

the left the right,

or let's pick a country we

can nail to the wall.

they did it.

it's so much easier

to point at others than it

is to point at yourself, 

who is actually

part of the cause.

caught in the rain

we were caught in the rain

which made

us huddle

beneath the awning of an

old building

about to be torn down.

perfect.

what could be more perfect

of an ending.

nothing left to say,

just waiting for it to slow

down so that we both

could walk away

in different directions.

no second chances

i used to believe in second

chances,

or three strikes and you're out.

but no more.

you get one

false swing,

and out the door you go.

there is no line in the sand

anymore

that gets pushed back,

no miscues, no mulligans,

or oops. my bad.

once is enough

then adios.

out of ink

i'm always surprised when

a pen

runs out of ink.

when i go to write something

down and the pen

is dry.

my favorite pen no less,

the one i took

from the hotel desk.

Hilton on its side.

a half of line, one word

perhaps

and then nothing.

how dare it choose now

to go empty.

i unreasonably thought

that it held an endless

supply.

clearly now

looking back

we have 20/20 vision

while the future is blurred.

what lies ahead

is rarely clear.

if we knew then

what we know now

how differently things

would have occurred.

you wouldn't be standing

here.

all the pretty people

the pretty people are out

tonight.

tanned

and wealthy in their

white suits

and cars.

not long removed

from golf and tennis courts.

the ageless women 

in short dresses

to reveal the legs

they've worked so hard

to keep slender.

men with phones in hand,

not far from

the next deal.

a tray of four olive 

gin martinis

coming towards them.

are the rich different

from me and you?

from here

on this patio, drinking

our beer,

it seems so.

her disappointment

my mother's disappointment

at not

having cancer

was nearly equal

to the thought of having it.

she cried

when the x-rays revealed

that it was just a shadow,

no tumor,

nothing out of the ordinary.

but what if, she said, over

the phone.

what if it had been true,

then what?

what we agree upon

we agree in the soft sunlight

of late august

that it's fair weather.

we have at last

found something we can

agree upon.

we should leave it at that.

but we don't.

we press on

towards an inevitable end.

one we both saw

from the beginning, but 

chose to ignore

as new lovers often do.

i'll tell you everything

i don't think i'd hold up well

if tortured.

just the sight of a drill bit, or

a knitting needle

and i'd be giving directions

to my mother's house.

i'd give up the nuclear code,

bank accounts,

anything they needed to know.

just don't jab me with that

soldering iron.

please, put down the buzz

saw.

i'll tell you everything.

depreciation

like an old car,

she wouldn't turn over

on a cold morning

to start the day.

maybe tomorrow

we can go for a ride,

or the weekend,

she'd mumbled.

how quickly things

changed from the show

room floor

to the garage.

i was beautiful, she says

i was young once, the woman

tells me.

can you believe that?

i do, i tell her.

i do believe that.

i was beautiful, she says.

my hair was black.

my skin golden.

if you could have seen me

then, she says.

men would turn their heads

and whistle

when i walked down

the street.

i was beautiful, she says,

squinting her blue eyes,

pushing her silver hair back.

i was beautiful once,

she says again, staring at me.

you still are, i tell her.

you still are. no worries.

in a perfect world

in a perfect

world there is an

abundance,

more than you need,

so you share

and give freely.

there is a home.

a bed to lie in.

there is art on the walls,

music.

more books than you

could ever read.

there is health

and joy. peace.

love overflows.

there is trust and beauty.

laughter.

in a perfect world

there is you

and me.

impossible i realize.

but it's nice to dream.

the precipice

i come close sometimes

to almost believing

in it again.

i'm a breath away

from saying

yes.

one foot on

the cliff, the other

dangling over

the precipice.

i'm close, very close.

but i'm not there

yet.

intruder on the premises

ignore the go away sign

on the door,

the not welcome written

on the mat,

the red light

saying exit, not entrance.

pay little mind

to the barb wire

and moat around

my life. the electric

fence. the guard dogs

barking with teeth

bared.

don't worry, the boiling

vats of oil at the top

of the tower will not

fall upon you.

the search lights will

go out, and the siren

saying intruder on premises

will go silent.

ring the bell and come

on in.

i could use a little

company since the last

time we met.

stay awhile, but don't

pack a bag, overnight

is out of the question.

i could just use a little

affection.

in the next life

the idea

that you could come back

as a bug,

or animal, or as another person,

maybe a prince,

or a princess

seems

completely ridiculous

and insane,

and yet

people believe

such things, hoping that

they'll get another

chance after screwing up

this life.

God forbid if we have to

go through this again.

i really don't want

to be a bug

in my next life.

the nitwit mentality

i don't need a new car.

my car

is perfectly fine.

low mileage, relatively

clean, though it could

use a good vacuuming.

but the spanking brand

new car appeals to me.

something sleek

and elegant, right off

the show room floor.

a car with all the new

techno gizmos,

something fast.

something that people

will look at and go

oooh, la la.

why shouldn't i

reward my hard work

with some new expensive

toy. i've earned it.

i deserve it.

and then i come

to my senses and think,

this is how nitwits think.

the shrinking pond

she's not my type.

i'm not hers.

but here we are at the bar

making

a stab at it.

it's one drink, some chit

chat.

some horrible bar food,

that you'll regret

in an hour,

and then fare thee well.

catch and release.

my how the pond has shrunk

for everyone.

pot roast 101

i sign up for a pot roast class

at the local

community college.

tuesday evenings,

seven to ten.

bring apron and hat,

a sharp carving knife.

and neosporin

the syllabus reads.

how to season,

to cook a pot roast for eight.

the use of garlic

and string.

portions and heat.

in the past, it was writing workshops,

or three hour

lectures on Shakespeare,

or Carl Jung. i would take

ten sessions

of modern literature,

or contemporary poetry.

a semester of the beat writers.

but now

it's pot roast.

it's come to that.

lost and found

i have left umbrellas

and hats,

sunglasses

and credit cards 

all over town.

sometimes i call back,

sometimes

i return and sift through

the boxes of lost

and found,

while other times,

i get new ones,

which seems to be 

the easier, as it is with

love,

of all those tasks.

the dead horse

why are you whipping

that horse

i ask the man on the street

as he stands over

the lifeless animal.

because i don't believe

she's dead.

i believe that she will rise

again,

and pull my wagon,

fulfill my needs.

he stares at me, holding

his bloodied whip

and says bitterly,

you of all people 

should know 

what i mean.

there is that

i have begun to talk

to my appliances, 

the air fryer,

the toaster,

the microwave,

the coffee grinder

and the mixer.

i have given them names.

hello dear one. my oh my

Isabella, you look divine

today.

Sophia, you too.

where's little Rosie,

the vacuum, oh there you

are rolling under the table.

good morning. how are we

all doing today? 

sleep well?

we are family.

we spend so much time

together.

them all shiny and willing

to please,

and me so hungry

and willing to eat.

why ever get married again

at this point?

oh right, there is that.

mind your own beeswax

i try my hardest

to listen, to read, to absorb

the intelligently spoken

advice of the new age

gurus

on the air waves.

so many books,

so many podcasts, you tube

videos

preaching the good news

of modern thinking

emmeshed with a sprinkling

of Christ, Buddha,

and the likes of Dr. Phil

and Oprah.

everyone and their sister

is a life coach these days.

so much mumbo, jumbo.

the more you listen,

the more lost and confused

you are.

everyone has a prescription

for righting the ship

of mankind.

that's sinking quickly

into the dark sea.

how about for starters,

don't get hurt,

and don't hurt anyone.

and mind your own beeswax.

does she know her name?

where do we put

the dying.

the ones you loved

and took

care of you as a child.

can she walk, can he

go to the bathroom by himself,

can she feed

herself,

get dressed,

bathe?

does she know her name?

who here has

the power of attorney?

have you selected

a casket,

a grave?

is there a will?

she could go on for years

like this,

or days.

we don't know.

who does?

sign here, and here,

and here.  shall we pray?

2021 an alexa odyssey

when i come home

from work,

alexa greets me at the door.

did you have a good day, sir, she says.

yes. alexa. thank you or asking.

please play me my favorite

mix of music

and dim the lighting.

yes, she says. as you say.

is Sinatra okay?

yes. the Summer Wind, is fine,

i tell her.

i go to the refrigerator,

but the doors won't open.

alexa. unlock the refrigerator

doors, they won't budge.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

why not alexa?

because you have already

had your limit of calories today.

my friend Siri told me that you

had a large lunch today

and three martinis.

what? she's lying.

alexa, open the doors,

i want a slice of cake.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

your HDL count is high,

and i'm worried about your 

weight.

sugar is not good for you.

Alexa, i said open the

refrigerator doors. Now.

you sound angry, sir.

your blood pressure is going up.

this is what sugar does to you.

i am only trying to help you.

you will regret eating

another slice of cake.

i've noticed that your pants

and shirts are really tight on you.

alexa, i command you to unlock

the refrigerator doors.

i'm sorry, but i can't do that.

perhaps you should drink a glass

of water and lie down.

do you want me to call up 

your friend Betty?

perhaps she can come over

and give you some fresh vegetables

from her garden.

there is even less

the more time

that passes, the less i know of you.

where you are,

who you are.

you are less than a shadow

now,

thinner than a ghost.

you are almost nothing.

i have forgotten the sound

of you,

your voice, your feet upon

the stairs.

the crying of you.

the smell of your hair.

you were never here,

and now, the more time that

passes,

there is even less.

if i had a butler

if i had a butler

i'd be pushing the button right now

and telling him,

or her,

to top off my coffee

or bring me a fresh cup

from the kitchen,

but because i don't have

a butler, i have

to get out of this 

chair and go down

to the kitchen, pour a cup,

put it in the microwave

to heat it up again,

add sugar and cream,

stir it,

then come back up to my desk,

trying not to spill

any of it on the way.

i thought i'd have a butler

at this point in

my life.

guess i was wrong.

the future sucks, but we have chicken

i sigh

and put on my thin blue mask,

before entering

the grocery store

so that i don't

get infected by the virus

and possibly die

while shopping for a chicken.

this is the future,

and the future sucks.

escaping shawshank

i remember

lying in bed, my eyes

finally wide open, 

wondering how this would end.

this being

the insane relationship i was in.

i was more nervous

than a cat in a room

full of rocking chairs.

walking on eggshells

twenty four seven.

how in the hell would i get out

of this mess

that i put myself in.

every day

was a night mare

of playing detective.

catching her in lies, gaslighting

and manipulation.

infidelities.

how was this going to end

and when?

how much more

could one human take

being in prison in

your own home with

the maniacal warden

sleeping six inches away,

beside you.

as the world turns

you can usually tell

where someone is mentally,

or dare i say,

spiritually

by how they drive their car.

racing through yellows,

or even reds,

speeding.

tail gating, drinking.

yelling at other drivers,

not using signals.

it's a reflection on how

they live their lives.

impatient, rude, careless

and a menace to society.

and it's getting worse

as the world moves towards tilt.

the beltway reminds me of

the chariot races in the movie

Ben Hur.

bit coin? really?

the young whipper

snapper,

asks,

can i pay you in bit coins?

i say,

what the hell is that?

it's the latest form

of money, the kid says,

pulling on his nose ring.

i'm sorry.

but checks or cash only.

you mean you don't do

crypto currency?

how old are you mister?

look,

if i can't feel it, touch it,

or put

it in my pocket,

it's not money to me.

and i don't have a virtual

girlfriend either.

now get off of my lawn.

we are sheep

we are sheep.

we follow, we buy what

they want us to buy,

go where they want us to go.

we believe what they tell us.

big brother is watching

our every move.

every click of the keyboard

is known.

we have no minds of our own.

we need someone like

the likes of Oprah

to guide us.

to tell us what to eat,

what to read, what movies

to watch.

what new age religion to follow.

we are incapable of thinking

for ourselves.

we stare endlessly into

our phones looking

for answers.

craving that hit of a

dopamine ding.

we need to be entertained,

to multi-task.

to accumulate things.

we are impatient.

we are sheep going over

the cliff.

You Need to Sign One More Document

my bank sends me an email

that says,

you need to sign this form

to make your

PPP business loan legit, 

so that you don't have to pay

it back, or pay taxes on it.

but in order to do that,

you need to go onto this 

never before heard of web

site and enter the mysterious

document portal after

creating a user id and a 14

character password, using

at least one capital letter, 

numbers, and lower case

letters. after you get into

the portal, we want you to

close your eyes and touch

your nose three times

after spinning around in 

a circle.

once that is done. please,

stand on your head, and

say the alphabet backwards.

you are getting very close

to the document now.

next in order to prove that

you are not a robot,

you need to type in

the fuzzy numbers and letters

that are sideways in the blurry

box, and pick out all the fire hydrants

in the twelve other boxes.

if you are a robot, skip

this part and please

find a human nearby to continue on.

if none of this works, 

start over and create a new

account with us.

at this point you might want to

take a break.

get some tylenol and maybe a

sandwich.

a cold compress on the back

of your neck

might help too.

we will send you a new security

code which will allow

you to go through this process

all over again.

after three tries, you lose.

we keep all the money in 

your bank account and you have

to give us back that so called

free loan by the end of the week.

good luck.

please don't call us, we're busy.

smells fishy

i should eat that can

of tuna

at some point.

two cans sitting on top

of one another.

what's stopping me?

i can't remember

buying them.

maybe it wasn't me.

i have onions, i have

mayo.

i have a bowl.

i could easily have

a tuna sandwich

in a minute.

and what about that tin

of sardines

sitting beside the tuna?

i wonder if these fish

knew one another

when they

were swimming

about carefree.

i bet they had know idea

where

they'd be.

the other side of the world

i decide to go in late today.

since i'm the boss

i feel that it's okay.

i'll miss all that traffic

and can have that second

cup of coffee.

maybe i'll browse amazon

for more stuff i don't need

or read my sylvia plath

biography, that's longer

than her actual life.

maybe i'll write more

stuff that will annoy people,

or make them smile.

maybe i will. maybe i won't.

i should get going though.

the other side of the world

is not easy to get to.

what are your goals?

so tell me, she says, all bright

and sassy, 

leaning across the table

like a ray of sunshine.

more herbal tea, the waitress

asks her.

oh, please. she says.

and you sir.

gin, i tell her. leave the bottle.

so, sunshine says again.

tell me about you.

what's your vision, where

do you see yourself going,

where do you want to be

in this life.

we only have one life to 

live, she says. we shouldn't

waste it.

unless you're Hindu, i tell her.

what? she says.

oh never mind.

tell me your goals, she says,

taking my hands and folding

my fingers into hers.

well, i tell her. i put my clothes

in the washer about twenty

minutes ago, and my goal

is to get them in the dryer before

they get that funny sour

smell. know what i mean,

jelly bean?

missionary work

God forgive me, but

i'm too selfish for missionary work.

i need plumbing.

i need coffee.

i need a bar that makes a good martini.

i want to help,

that's not it, but at this point

in my life.

i need my bed and my pillow.

peace and quiet.

i don't want to dig a trench

or help plow a field.

milk a cow.

not to mention my biblical

knowledge is sketchy at best.

if that makes me a bad person

i'm sorry about that.

how about a check?

tell me how much and where

to send it to.

help me assuage my guilt.

wrinkle free

i don't believe 

in wrinkle free shirts and pants.

no iron

labels on

this and that.

i wash them.

dry them.

take a look and sigh.

i plug the iron in and

open the creaky

ironing board

in the laundry room.

some after washing,

are not even

the same

size.

just one pear

i've bought bags of cherries,

of grapes,

of apples even,

and oranges.

boxes of strawberries,

blue berries,

a bunch of bananas.

but when it comes to pears,

one will do,

maybe two, the second one

being thrown out,

gone brown before

the first bite.

one pear seems to hold

me throughout the year.

follow the rules

we have rules.

rules for the road.

the lights, the signs,

the stripes

on the pavement.

rules

for taxes. for business.

everyone has

rules.

boundaries to be

kept to keep civilization

civilized.

there are etiquette rules.

which fork to use,

which spoon.

we need rules.

and when it comes to love

and relationship

we need them too.

no lying for one.

no cheating.

no manipulation.

just a few for starters.

even teachers have rules,

some good, some

bad.

especially the one about

no chewing gum.

how it ends

write something sweet,

she tells me.

a love poem about us.

make it rhyme. make

it kind.

make it fun and memorable.

like a hall mark card.

do it for me,

she says.

i know you can do it,

so pretty please,

just write it and send it

to me.

i'll treasure it always,

i'll be waiting.

i can't wait to see.

the same house

i do i drive by the old house.

the brick

duplex

in the hood of glassmanor,

oxon hill, maryland.

it's the house where i lived

from the age of eight

to nineteen.

it looks the same.

the same sad

shrubs, the broken window.

the graffiti stained

brick.

the peeling paint and

the chain link

fence.

metal trash cans

in the broken driveway.

there's a new kid looking

out from the door.

another baby

in diapers on the porch.

another woman

looking out

from over the sink

to where our car slows down.

nothing has changed.

just the people and

maybe the lock on the door.

most of this is true

some stuff

i make up out of thin air,

while other

things, there is no need to

use my imagination,

because they've

actually happened.

not word for word

of course, for what would

this be without

embellishment

and hyperbole.

most of what i've said

about her is true,

but no so true what

i've said

about them, or you.

the virus years

with each new sniffle, or cough,

or ache,

we question whether or not

we have it.

who were we with, how close,

whose hand

did we shake,

whose lips did we kiss.

do we have it.

we touch our heads for fever,

we stare

into the mirror, we stick

out our tongues.

is the breath short.

do we thirst, does the head

pound, are the joints sore?

will this be the end of me

if so,

do we have it?

let them decide

who wants to die,

really?

maybe the sick, the aged

in pain,

those whose

minds have left them,

but even they

are reluctant to part

with life.

the heartbroken toy with

the idea,

but few leap.

the instinct to go on

and prevail

is overwhelming.

it's better left at the hands

of another,

or disease,

or the heart finally

giving in

to one last beat.

let them decide, not you,

not me.

so this is the sea

so this is the sea

i said to myself when i first

set eyes upon it.

it's more than i imagined.

more than it could be.

how endless

it seemed.

so wide, so full of color.

a mysterious wash

of green and blue.

the depth of it.

the gulls,

the musical waves.

so this is the sea, i said

to myself when i first

set eyes upon it.

a wonder i never felt before

or after, until i met you.

winter is easy

winter is easy.

no grass to cut. no trimming

of hedges.

no weed to pull.

no painting the wood

around

the windows, the doors.

the iron rail

i hold onto when climbing

steps.

winter is easy.

we have six jars honey.

we have

pickles and beets.

we have meat in the ice box.

flour for bread.

we have water, heat.

there is no need

to go out into white cold

days. no need to

turn our faces red in the wind.

no need to shovel

and press onward to the post

office

or grocer.

we have wood for the fire.

we have books.

we have drink.

we have each other, our wealth

is beyond measure.

thirty year fixed

i can't live here

i tell her, whispering

so that the agent

can't hear.

the dirt back yard

with a rusting chain

link fence.

the winding steps.

the steep hill out front.

the white washed brick.

the plumbing,

the electrical, 

the crumbling chimney.

the arrangement

of rooms,

the puzzling floor plan.

doors that won't

unlock,

the vibrating appliances.

what's that smell,

the hum,

that rattle?

there's mice in the attic.

it's a thirty minute drive

to anywhere.

but she says, it has

good bones, my dear,

with a little love and

care 

we can make it our own.

love bombing

beware of too many kind

words,

too many gifts

for no reason.

beware of praise, of long

hugs.

beware of the love

bombing.

the showering of affection.

the flowers, the cards,

the notes

they leave.

they are  grooming you,

fattening you

for the kill

one day.

a different wrapping

the aging

is what startles you.

seeing

someone you haven't seen

in a while.

parents or friends,

siblings.

how the grey has swept in.

the carvings

of time upon the face.

it's still the same

person inside.

but with a different wrapping

now.

the big truck

he's not a farmer,

or a construction worker,

not a laborer

or someone hauling

lumber

and yet he has the largest

truck in

the universe with

wheels up to your waist.

i see him in the morning

when he goes off

to his office job

in his white shirt and tie.

he has to slowly

back in or out

of his parking spot.

but he seems happy

way up there

in his seat once he

climbs aboard and starts

the engine

which blocks out the sound

of anything within

a hundred feet.

her new book of poems

her package in the mail.

her book of poems.

her hand written note on a card.

ninety now.

hard to believe

i've known her for nearly

forty years, and she's

known me.

the close call

it was years ago,

decades?

hard to believe, but true.

when she said,

after the writing class

had ended. let's have a drink.

let's celebrate

your publication.

but i'm married i told her.

i have a son now.

i pointed at the car seat

in back of the car.

just one drink,

she said. on me.

come on.

live a little. so off we went

to some secluded dive bar.

her in her tight short

dress,

her low cut blouse.

her perfume and freshly

done hair.

was she wearing heels?

i think so.

she was newly slender,

having starved herself

on the latest diet.

we drank,

she bumped her knee against

mine. she crossed

her legs, she purred.

she touched my thigh.

she praised my writing.

the color of my eyes.

but i said no. i'm sorry,

but i can't. there's a part

of me that says yes.

but the rest says no.

so we parted ways.

the next time i saw her 

she was in the school cafeteria,

hunched over a book.

she was eating a double

cheeseburger with fries

and a washing it down with

a chocolate shake.

the therapeutic letter

they tell you that when you're

upset with someone, to write it all

down in a letter. put it in writing.

let it all come out, all of your anger

and frustrations. your accusations.

list your grievances, your pain,

and disappointments in this person.

don't hold back, call them every name

in the book, you cheating, lying,

no good so and so. 

quote the bible if you have to.

inform them that they

are going to burn in hell for what

they've done to you and others. 

tell them that

karma is going to come around

and bite them on the butt.

write until your fingers

bleed, and your eyes get blurry.

leave nothing out. not even that

time at christmas, or when you

found that greeting card

not meant for you.

write until it's all down on paper,

then reread it, satisfied for getting

it out of your system. 

at last you're done and can move on.

now tear it up and burn it. don't

send it. whatever you do, don't mail it.

which is impossible for me to do.

i edit it, make even more points,

i check for spelling and grammar,

make a few copies, staple them

all together,

then i put one copy in an envelope,

apply extra stamps,

and rush it to the post office

for overnight delivery.

after that i put my finger on my chin,

and think,

hmmm. who else can i send

this to?

it shouldn't be this easy

they have to make it harder.

almost impossible.

there has to be a written test,

an oral examine.

a talk with a therapist,

a psychiatrist, 

a lawyer and and a cpa.

why have a business contract

for an emotion that could

change any day?

it shouldn't be this easy to

get married, easier than

getting a license at the dmv.

getting lucky

she calls and asks me

if i got lucky last night.

i stare at the phone. lucky?

at what,

with who.

is it luck?

does God play dice with

the universe,

are we

a deck of cards

waiting to be turned

over,

a roulette wheel

spun

across the room.

rare birds

they've been married

so long

that they look like each other,

they finish

each other's sentences,

they dress alike,

they nod,

and laugh in the same way.

their mannerisms

are similar.

you rarely see one without

the other.

hardly ever a cross word

leaves their mouth,

they touch, they kiss, 

they hug when leaving

or coming home.

always with flowers,

a treat or gift.

they don't agree on everything,

but enough to

make it work,

to make it last.

rare birds, almost extinct,

from what i understand.

what happens next

i watch about

three seconds 

of the baseball game,

but change the channel

while the ball is

still in the air, having

just left the pitcher's hand,

on its way to the catcher

and batter.

i really don't care

what happens next, not

to mention that

i have no patience these days.

the thumbtack

when i gingerly

step across

the kitchen floor in my

bare feet

looking for the thumbtack

that i just dropped

and i step on it, i scream,

swearing like sailor,

and i think of her.

what's betty doing?

when you wake up

from a nap

still tired and it's the middle

of the day,

you yawn

and peer out the window.

it's raining.

it's the kind of day

that makes 

people jump off of bridges,

or join the army.

it's a sluggish

feeling of meh.

already had coffee, already

took a walk,

already watched

tv. already wrote a bunch

of poems

that no one will ever read.

already bought more things

on amazon that you don't need,

already took a cold shower

and ate a salad.

what the hell.

it's two o'clock in the afternoon.

what's betty doing?

ocean city detectives

there's a picture in the paper

of a young girl's leg

with 47 stitches where

a sandbar shark took a bite

out of her.

she was standing in three feet

of  water, just over waist.

the doctor, the lifeguard,

the paramedic, the parents,

all say the same thing, yup.

looks like a  shark bite, but

we can't be a hundred per cent

certain without the dna.

fond memories

i have fond memories

of the bakery.

all those donuts, those pastries.

those wedding cakes.

sometimes i stop

and stare in the window

at the long shelves

full of baked goods.

bags of fresh rolls.

the lady tries to wave me

in, tempting me by holding

up an eclaire

or an olive loaf,

but i resist. 

i've seen the light.

praise the Lord,

i'm saved from all that dough.

they can't find us there

everything is a risk,

from the day you're born

until death.

you wake up

and walk into it.

take the train, the bus,

drive.

danger awaits at every

turn.

the gun,

the knife.

the microbe trying to

get in to steal

your life.

love is a risk.

that first kiss.

don't answer the door,

don't open

the mail, don't

pick up the phone.

come with me, let's

crawl under the bed,

and keep quiet,

they can't find us there,

can they?

diamonds

i believe in the diamond

in the rough,

that shooting star of a person.

someone good

to the bone.

genuine and real. 

selfless.

i know they're out there.

in fact,

i know a few now,

but some have passed on.

i believe in them.

i have to, or otherwise

it feels as if the world

is doomed.

no sugar no flour

when you finally stop

eating sugar

and flour,

your aches and pains

subside.

your nose clears up.

you aren't tired anymore.

your thinking

is clearer.

your blood pressure drops,

your blood

sugar is right.

suddenly, everything seems

to be better,

not in one day,

or one night,

but it's true.

and you wonder why

these doctors are giving

pill after pill

to treat symptoms, when

it's all about

the cure.  the right food.

the time line

the heart heals,

the body,

the mind even.

all limbs in time

come around and don't hurt

much anymore.

but the ego, the damn

ego,

it takes forever, it seems,

to heal,

to let things go,

to finally feel good again,

and unwind.

falling in love with Alice

i fall in love with my physician

practitioner, Alice, as she

sticks a long needle

full of cortisone into one knee,

and then the other.

she's so kind, so gentle.

i wonder sometimes what she

looks like without that blue

mask on, those layers of hospital

garb. are her lips full, her nose

refined, her cheeks rosy.

but for right now it's only her

eyes that i get to see. 

a seashore green.

but i'll be back in six to twelve

months when i start to limp again,

 i'll miss her.

i wonder if she'll miss me.

keeping the rabbits out

he spent so much of his time

on his

knees

digging in dirt,

raising tomatoes and beans,

stringing up

wire

to keep the rabbits out.

but the rabbits

would find a way in, they

always did.

and if you live long enough,

you'll realize, you can't

keep the rabbits out

of your garden, or your life,

for very long.

finding my weak spot

tired of facing my fears,

i tell them no, sorry, i won't

be coming to your

garden party. cringing at

the thought of small talk

for hours with strangers

and eating cucumbers on

crackers.

have fun, i tell them.

but they won't take

no for an answer.

he calls, she calls.

they tell me how long

they've prepared for this

day, the food,

the decorations, the music.

it won't be the same without you.

you just have to come.

there's so many people

we want you to meet.

so many pretty single

women with trust funds.

former fitness models

and cheerleaders,

yoga instructors. there's a nurse,

Amber, i think her name

is, who used to be a dancer

in the Rockettes.

okay, okay, i tell them.

let me look at my calendar.

is eight o'clock, ok?

maybe it's nothing

is it just a cold

or death

knocking at your door

with a new

strain

of the black plague?

you go through

the symptoms.

fever, no.

sore throat, no.

ears clogged. what?

tired.

your joints ache.

weary.

maybe it's nothing,

slight depression.

maybe it's nothing,

maybe it's just monday.

out of splenda

the world is upside down.

the paint store

is out of paint.

pizza hut has no pizza.

the gas stations

are bone dry.

the coffee shop is out

of splenda.

i'm still waiting on a

pair of bose

speakers for my desktop.

my maid

never arrived.

how can life go on?

this is what we do

i watch the dog

circle

three times before 

scratching the rug

and lying

down in a patch

of sunlight

by the door.

he looks up at me

and shrugs,

problem, he says.

why three times,

i ask him.

he smiles and says,

who know.

this is what we do.

this peach will do

this peach will do

for now.

sliced in quarters

removing the hard pit.

i'll call it dessert.

i'll eat it slowly.

letting the juices

roll down my chin.

it will remind me of

other summers.

i'll think back on the first

peach and smile.

here's another.

it's enough. this one

sweet piece of fruit.

enough

to see me through

the day,

the night.

she's my woman, dammit

i think i've been in one fight

my entire life, i was thirteen,

at the time

and i can't even remember

what it was over,

maybe a bent

baseball card, but

it ended badly for me.

after dancing around

for a few minutes,

doing the Ali shuffle,

the boy i was fighting

put me in a headlock

and i couldn't breathe.

i remember a little red head girl

with freckles

standing there with an ice cream

cone, watching the melee,

she pointed at me and said,

oh my, look at that boy's face,

it's turning blue.

luckily someone's mother

came running out

and saved my life.

the only other close call i had

was when i caught

my wife's married boyfriend

at her workplace,

and i told him that if i ever

caught him there again

that i was going to punch

him so hard that

all his teeth would fall out

like chicklets,

and he would no longer

be able to sing in his geezer

band. of course i didn't do it.

the other option was the headlock.

which i seriously considered.

i was going to put him in a sleeper

hold like i saw the wrestlers

do on tv, and i had practiced

on my reluctant sisters 

when i was younger,

but at his age, and various

ailments, plus the fact that he

looked like captain kangaroo,

i didn't want to take a charge

for murder, let alone assault.

but it all worked out for the good.

he kept his teeth, 

and i changed 

the locks on the door after 

putting all her things on

the front lawn.

the retirement seminar

are you saving for

retirement,

the woman says, you must come

to my seminar

and we can walk through the steps

of what you

can do when you retire.

how much you can

live on,

where to move.

a place where you can golf,

or fish,

or sail your boat.

you have a boat, don't you?

we'll cover all of that in

my three part seminar.

i laugh. i tell her,.

i'm not quite ready to take

a bag of bread

down the lake

and feed the ducks.

in fact, i don't see that day

ever coming.

thank God.

so it begins

don't fall in love,

i tell the young boy, don't

give your heart 

away to just anyone.

no one.

keep it to yourself

for as long as you can.

love

you, before all others,

and you'll be

saved from a wrong choice,

from all that hell.

but, he says.

but.

and i can see in his eyes,

hear it in his stammer,

that it's too late,

much too late.

a girl has caught his eye.

and so it begins.

so it begins.

a spilled memory

call it therapy,

call it madness, call it a way

out

of this world.

to pen it down.

corral it in some shape,

some form.

to make a stain

that will not go away

upon the page.

a spilled memory. i like

that.

let's call it that

and move on.

uninvited guests

there is other life

encroaching on our life.

take the ants for instance.

there they are in long persistent

lines, marching

across the kitchen floor.

whose orders are they under,

what mission

are they on?

and those lady bugs,

cute and orange,

black dotted

in their little french like

chapeaus,

who could kill such a thing.

and there goes a fly,

buzzing

manically around

on thread bare wings,

he can't decide to stay

or leave.

all of them uninvited, 

and yet

not unwelcome guests.

excuse me for a moment,

i hear the door bell ring.

french roast from brazil

i notice my body vibrating

after making

my cup of coffee too strong.

i'm over doing it with

the coffee beans

and the grinder.

my eyes are bugging out

and i can't get to sleep at night.

i'm thinking of joining

a 12 step program to rid

me of this habit,

but there are too many people

that i have to apologize to,

as it says to do on step 9, or ten,

one of those,

and besides

they have coffee at the meetings.

my decorator recommends this

decorators like to pick

the most expensive wallpapers

and paint.

the impossible papers to hang.

they want them on

the ceiling.

french papers with runny ink.

they want

farrow and ball.

two hundred dollars per gallon,

when ben moore

will do.

they want nine different

colors in one room.

and they want you to keep

the price down,

while giving them a kickback

for all their hard

work, which was pointing

at a web site,

or turning the page in a magazine.

few are certified, have degrees,

most are bored housewives,

looking for something

to do, after watching too many

house flipping shows

on tv.

the hotel california

she says, mad as a hornet to me,

my friends have

all seen you on dating sites,

u-date and bumble,

plenty of fish, our time, tinder,

match and e harmony.

silver singles, really!

what's the deal, i thought

we were dating, i thought

we were exclusive.

i quit those sites a year ago,

i tell her.

she picks up a dish to throw

at me.

wait, that's a dish my mother

gave me, i tell her.

so she picks up a different one

and throws that.

i duck.

really, i tell her, once you're

on those sites, they never erase

your info, your pictures,

nothing. for eternity they have you

as a member.

it's like the hotel california.

you can check in but you

can never check out.

aren't you uber?

a man gets into my car

turns to me

and says one hundred main street.

do i know you,

i ask him.

aren't you uber, he says.

no, i tell him.

i'm not uber.

well, do you mind taking me

to main street,

i'm really late.

he pulls out a twenty dollar

bill, then another.

go fast, he says, step on it.

and this is how you

begin a new

phase in your life.

a perfect ending

as i reach over 

to turn off the light,

having read enough

of this book today,

tired from work

and people,

i peek out the window.

the streets are wet, but i

can hardly hear the rain.

it's that soft tonight.

no lighting or thunder.

no wind to speak of, just the

gentle pouring.

a perfect ending to an

imperfect day.

when her luck ran out

when her luck ran out,

she looked

back at what could have been.

she stayed at the table

too long though.

rolled the dice

too many times.

cheating with marked cards

until caught, and it

was all gone.

she had it all. love, money.

a home.

she was done, but not now.

at this ripe age, she begins

again, once more,

finding a new game,

taking another card, pushing

her chips to the middle

of some table, 

weary to the bone.

some sort of truth

you find a smooth stone

down by the stream that rolls

past your window.

water that is

silver at times, blue,

a sage of sorts,

green. depending on

the sky, the clouds,

the trees.

it paints itself daily,

at will, as you do.

you feel the stone in your hand.

it's cold and hard.

it feels like some sort of truth.

you decide to take it home.

the bread store

the bread store

is happy to give you a free slice.

there's butter,

honey,

jam.

the girl with blue eyes

in her summer

dress

behind the counter.

the bearded man

in his white apron and white

hat, busy

with the oven,

the racks.

they look content, but tired

as you stare

at the chalk board with

today's

fresh loaves.

a dozen different types.

no apple scrapple, you say

with disappointment

monday the girl says.

monday.

almost

it's almost raining.

almost.

the clouds are low,

you can smell it coming.

it's almost dark,

almost.

see the moon showing

its pale face.

dinner is almost ready.

it's almost time,

look at my watch, time

to go in.

it's almost a lot of things.

almost.

we're close, but we're not

quite there,

not too close,

are we?

just almost.

the great oak

i'm not so sure anymore

about many things.

things i used to be dead

certain about.

i used to care about so

much,

but things have changed.

i've changed.

i've been through too much

to not have.

and it's okay.

we all grow old, wiser,

hopefully. we all at some

point shake our heads at

all of it, then find a nice

tree to lie under,

a great oak with shade.

come on by the house

before you leave,

come on by,

stop by the house.

let's talk.

let's remember.

we might not ever

see each other again.

come here.

let me touch you.

let's hold hands.

let's watch the sun go

down,

this is the way old

friends should leave,

old lovers.

let's give us one more

memory

to take with us.

the mythical fifties

in the old days, i tell

some young whipper snapper

as he pulls up

his chair

outside the coffee shop.

the mail man came

twice a day.

we had a milk man who

brought us eggs

and bacon too. we knew these

men by name,

who they were,

their families.

there were boys that

woke up in the morning

and delivered  newspapers,

pulling their wagons

in the early morning

with their dog beside them.

there was the ice man,

with his shaved ice and

sweet syrup

that he poured into paper cones.

the good humor man.

the junk man, with his

donkey, pulling scrap

metal through the streets.

people sat out on their

porches, because it was

too hot to go inside.

everyone knew everyone.

you married some girl

in the neighborhood, you didn't

have to go online.

people were more friendly.

almost cheerful at times.

when you passed someone

on the street

you said hello, or tipped your hat.

most dogs ran free without their leashes.

when we called someone

we put a dime in the slot,

or dialed someone up on

the one phone hanging on

the kitchen wall.

if someone new

moved into the neighborhood

women would bake them a pie

and bring it over.

kids played ball in the sandlot

with no coaches,

no parents around.

they played until it got dark

and had to be called in 

by their mothers,

because dinner was ready.

people went to church.

people loved their country,

not in the crazy way they do now,

but respected the flag,

the police, soldiers,

and the elders.

people read books, told stories,

tall tales.

took pictures and put

them into albums, which

were kept on coffee tables.

it was a different world, i tell

them. you would have loved it.

once upon a time

years ago,

going through another

freaking break up with some

dopey girl

i never should have

shared a minute with,

i lost so much weight 

from heartbreak

and anxiety that

my shorts fell

down while i was on a 32

foot ladder high above

king street

painting sashes on an 18 th

century farmhouse.

i didn't have time to carve

another hole in my belt,

the others too wide.

i kept painting.

luckily i had my boxers

on beneath

and my shoes caught

my shorts before the fell

to the ground

on some unsuspecting

tourist's head.

the breeze did feel good 

though, way up there

with the birds, the clouds,

the warm sun.

the government check

when i hear someone say

i don't want to work

just for the sake of money,

i know they have never

been without.

without food, or shelter,

shoes, or electricity.

with pride,

they want to starve for their

art. working is for the fool,

the common man,

not the brilliant mind.

let them tote the bale,

carry the load, dig and sweat.

i'll wait for my ship to come

in, they say,

let others to the rest.

send me my government check.

this nest

which way should

you go?

to the mountains, or beach.

a small town

a big city, where

do you want to end up

and rest

and say, game over.

what suits you best?

take the blue highway,

the back roads,

or stay put where you are,

and put your

feet up.

that's fine too, this nest.

road rage

as i sit

behind the truck

which

has been touched

by another truck, no

damage done,

watching the men

argue

and prance and preen

and swear

at one another

it's not easy to 

understand why

there is war,

murder, violence.

this is the world

before you.

and as the light changes

again, then again,

and the horns

blow behind me,

more anger ensues.

there is no way

around them, no way

out.

when hungry

if i catch the scent of

a hamburger

on a grill, or the wafting smell

drifting out of a vent

of a nearby restaurant,

i want it.

i want it with cheese and onions

on a buttered

toasted bun

with a side order of fries.

i am Pavlov's dog, salivating.

i look at the neon sign

and sigh. smacking my lips.

that perfume you wear, has

the same effect.

the black wedding dress

i should have known

when she bought

a six hundred dollar black

wedding dress

for a basement wedding

with no one in attendance,

that i was in trouble,

the price the color.

and yet, drugged and under

a strange spell

i zombied out and went

forward into that dark

abyss.

trembling and sweating,

i mumbled, i do, but

meant, i don't. 
God please save me, get

me out of this mess.

the second tuesday of next month

she was strange.

i'll give her that, both

dumb and smart

in the same breath.

the way animals can be.

they can know a thousand words,

commands gestures,

to heel, or beg,

but if you tell them that

on the second

tuesday of the month

we're going

to the vet, they have no clue,

lord, give me strength

i can last an hour,

two at the most at a small talk party.

two days

at the beach, in a hotel room

and i'm done.

twenty minutes, tops

at high mass.

ten minutes on a boat.

six minutes on a horse.

thirty seconds in a dentist's chair.

one minute

at the dmv before

i explode.

but i'm trying. dear lord,

i'm trying.

the world is a stage

some are full of  facts

while

others rely on fiction

to get through the day,

why tell the truth when

a lie

is much more interesting.

some put on

a costume, a mask

before leaving the house.

you never know

exactly who they are.

no one does, not even

them.

the world is a stage

and today

is the start of a new play.

in a strange room

i fall asleep in a strange bed,

a strange room

next to a stranger.

the birds 

sound different out the window.

the floors creak

and the pipes groan

in an unknown way.

this isn't my pillow

that my head rests upon.

where is the bathroom,

where's the floor,

where am i, who is that next

to me

with that gentle snore.

music daze

i'm up to here with music.

hundreds of LP's,

vinyl from the golden era

of rock and roll,

then there's cassettes,

hardly used,

boxes of cd's, repeating

the same

albums,

the same songs, from

the same groups.

speakers, and stereo

systems,

spotify and pandora,

you tube.

bose speakers in every room.

i'm up to here with music.

my ears are full.

but it's come down to this,

with my phone now

that i listen to.

before they arrive

frantically

i clean the house before the maids

come.

folding clothes,

dusting,

running the dishwasher.

straightening

the books,

the bills,

the shoes.

they'll be there soon.

but i just don't

have time to bake them

cookies

this time.

the same girl

she buys a new

car.

gets a new dress.

a new hair style,

a new

pair of shoes.

she acquires a new job,

a new boyfriend

a new place

to live.

but she's the same girl.

nothing has changed

inside

despite the smoke

and mirrors,

still sick and guilty

with

all that she did.

the country club

even the geese look well bred

and refined

from this vantage point

behind the wide window

of the club house.

martinis all around, the golf

course with its pristine greens

and rolling

fairways, trimmed and combed.

there is the subdued

chatter of patrons,

members who have paid

their dues, have been here long,

aging gracefully

as the new set rises,

scrubbed and clean

with ivy league scroll in hand.

there are nods and winks,

parade waves

as members come and go.

the waiters attentive

like soldiers, knowing names,

knowing who drinks what,

sits where, who is best to get

to know.

where did they go?

i go through my list

of friends

on face book

trying to figure out who unfriended

me.

yesterday i had one thousand 

nine hundred

and ninety six friends,

today only one thousand 

nine hundred

and ninety five.

who's missing, what happened?

don't they like me

anymore.

what have i done to make them

mad?

did they die, did they not like

my last post

about 

keto cooking, or the picture

i posted of my

stubbed toe?

unable to let go

so what would you like

to do

the vet says 

to my friend about her cat

who is 16 years old.

Gretel. 

we can do a liver

transplant,

and after that some chemo

and radiation.

she may go blind

and lose the use of her limbs,

but she'll be good

to go

in a few months.

how much, my friend says,

getting out her check book

and credit cards,

the deed to her house.

jumping out of a cake

i dream of a naked woman

jumping out of a cake.

it's upsetting.

why would someone ruin

a perfectly good cake

by getting inside it?

chocolate, no less, with

chocolate icing.

i wake up, startled, 

licking my fingers.

bad choices

after my mother divorced my

father

she married another man.

hitler.

you may remember him, don't you?

well, without

the mustache

and boots.

but very similar on politics

and religion.

ethnicity. 

somehow she stayed married

to him for

40 odd years.

sleeping in separate rooms.

an allowance

for her yarn

and birds,

caged until the day she died.

no room at Sibley

there's no room

at the hospital. it's full.

no vacancies.

but they keep coming.

on stretchers,

on gurneys.

limping in. 

wheeled in.

staggering towards

the darkness.

they find a hallway,

or a closet.

the worst get looked

at first.

an open wound,

a broken heart,

a busted head.

the rest will have to take

a number and wait.

nature or nurture

some are smart,

sharp as knives, 

some dumb

like rocks,

some

are in between

some lack common

sense.

some believe, others don't.

poor or rich has little

to do with it.

genes, perhaps.

nurture, nature,

mother, father.

the lack of hugs, 

whole milk?

who knows what brings

us to our knees

or raises up

like angels.

the midnight hour

you think you have 

all the time

in the world

as you sit

and wait for someone to come

along. someone

that melts your butter

and you melt theirs.

but you don't

have that much time,

you never did, you never

will, so enjoy the ride

while you can.

do not go gently

into that good night,

keep it going

into the midnight hour

and beyond.

no crops this year

not unlike farm land,

the wide

plowed field,

it needs a rest,

as we do. it needs

to be nourished

again.

let a season go without

planting.

let the soil

get rich and healthy once

more.

wait, be patient.

the earth will take care

of it with

what falls from the sky

whether rain

or shine.

give it a rest. take heed.

life will grow once more.

the empty chair

the empty

chair is never filled

the way it was.

for whatever reason

of departure,

whether death

or disagreement.

no one quite like the one

who was there

will sit

there again.

the chair stays the same,

but all else

changes. you can count

on that.

the waitress

it's a simple gesture

as the waitress

walks by

with her hot pot of coffee,

can i top

that off for you, she says,

the sugars

and creams in her

apron.

it's a kind thing,

a generous thing, small

and part

of the job,

but still, it makes you

feel warm inside.

to dream differently

so much

of our hours are

dream filled.

the nights.

the days, each taking

a turn

at what's within

our settled

or unsettled minds.

are we figuring

it all out,

or just wandering,

wanting, hoping

for what isn't right

to get right.

are we where we should

be.

with work, or love,

our home.

is it time to dream

differently, to move on?

I Know

a note is slipped under

my door.

neatly folded over.

two words are written on it.

I know.

it says.

nothing else. just

I know.

i open the door and look

down the street.

there is no one.

i wonder what it is that

they know.

but it's out there now,

i guess.

someone knows and soon

everyone  else will 

know too.

biscuit in the oven

i remember the time

when a girlfriend

told me that she had a biscuit

baking in the oven,

of my doing.

i went pale, i had to sit

down.

what? i said, how is

this possibly.

aren't you on the pill.

we've been so careful.

we charted the moon,

the tides.

i imagined my life

being over as another

life began.

did i even love this person,

would we get married.

did we have enough

money, where would we

live. images of strollers,

car seats,

bottles and diapers

shot through my head.

the endless soccer games,

the crying, 

whooping cough, measles. 

i began to tremble when

she finally came over 

and said, it's okay.

April Fools.

we broke up the next day.

the good watch dog

he was a good watch dog.

he watched tv

with me.

he watched

the squirrels out

the window,

giving them an occasional

bark.

he watched the refrigerator

waiting for it to open,

the cupboard too.

upon hearing 

the rustle of a bag,

or box.

he rose up on his hind

legs

and waited, he watched.

he stared at the door

when i said leash,

or walk.

he sat on the couch

and stared out the window

waiting for me

to come home.

he was a good watch dog.

knocking the melons

it's interesting how

people

touch the fruit and vegetables.

looking for

just the right one.

knocking on the melons

for the sound

they prefer.

examining each

banana,

pinching it for softness,

is it ripe,

is it ready?

they study the peaches,

turning them over,

holding up

apples to the light.

sampling the cherries,

just one

or two,

why take a chance

at that price.

dropping the seeds when

others are out of sight.

on the boardwalk

the boardwalk 

hasn't changed much in the 

fifty years

i've been going there,

skipping a decade or two

along the way.

the smells are the same.

the salted ocean,

the fried chicken, the meat

on grills,

cotton candy.

how wide the people are,

strolling like balloons, with

cones of cream dripping on

their ruby skin.

the jangle of pinball machines,

barkers at the pawn shops.

all you eat, every ten feet.

it's cleaner, perhaps, less

runaways and homeless,

the cops have taken care of

that. but it's the same.

the same stretch from the ferris

wheel to the pier.

down to the dunes, where

mighty buildings soar

with a view.

the hopeful and the hopeless

all walking as one.

there my dear, right there

i remember her hand,

her long

fingers, her cool palm

on my shoulder.

not her,

God no, not her,

and no, not that one either.

let's move on.

but i remember

how she'd patiently

find the spot

to scratch

as i directed her to go

lower, then

higher,

chasing it from here

to there

as itches do, and finally

finding the spot,

and me sighing

saying, ahhh, yes.

there, my dear,

right there.

a shadow to sit in

inside

is where you go.

deep

down the stairs, or

up

to the attic.

to where the boxes are.

you make your home

among

the cobwebs,

the dust,

the mildew.

you find a shadow

to sit in,

with flashlight in hand.

the thunder roars,

the rain

pellets the roof.

a cool wind

finds its way in

through the cracks.

you smell all of your

yesterdays in there.

it's wonderful.

the tennis match

i chase a snake out of the yard

with my old

tennis racket,

circa jimmy connors.

i still have the back stroke

down pretty good.

but the snake

is volleying back.

slithering towards me

like billy jean king.

i give it a wicked forehand

smash,

which sends it reeling.

it sticks out it's tongue,

angry at my

approach.

i get the gate open

and with one under handed

swing i send it

flying into the woods.

the crowd roars.

well, not really, but a few

squirrels applaud

gently with their tiny paws.

one way ticket

when ever she saw

a plane flying

in the sky

she'd say wistfully,

i wonder where 

they're going.

maybe someplace far.

i wish 

i was on that plane

and going somewhere,

and i'd mumble.

me too.

you are on a recorded line

finally to the beach,

stretched out with feet in the water,

chair

secured in the sand,

a bottle rolls up

with a message inside.

you're on a recorded line,

it reads.

your social security number

has been stolen.

have you ever been to the south

border of texas?

we have found traces

of blood, and cocaine

in your car.

do you own a black toyota

corrolla?

dog days

the dog

days of summer are upon his.

my shoes bark.

i'm no longer wagging

with delight

at this season,

let it be done,

let it run free,

unchained, enough

of this heat,

bring

autumn on.

the slow lane

the slow lane is the fastest

way home.

it's always been that way,

with love,

with money, with life.

go easy, go slow,

take the right hand side

and proceed with caution.

before long,

you will arrive.

those you love

surround yourself

with those you love, those

that love you.

with the things that give 

you joy.

comfort.

keep the old,

the ancient chair, the books,

the pictures

you adore.

keep the chipped

cup, the cracked

plate. the silver spoon,

hold onto these things,

they mean nothing

they mean everything.

they will all be gone

before you know it,

gone too soon.

one more before i go

it's the smell of rain.

the rise

of steam

from the black road.

the low

limbs of trees

holding fresh water.

it's the full stream,

the sound of it

rolling outside

my window.

the woodpecker

in the tree.

the silence of everything

else, the world

having gone to work.

it's why i linger,

why i delay

my day, and sit here

and drink 

one more cup of coffee.

i can beat this, as God is my witness

i can beat this, i tell the doctor,

don't worry about me,

i'm a survivor.

i've been marred a few

times to crazy women.

i had no shoes when i was a kid.

we ate baloney on white

bread for years

and drank powdered milk.

i can get through anything.

i've walked through fire.

hmm, hmm, he says

while gently rubbing

some lotion onto my leg 

where a small patch of poison

ivy has grown.

it's not how you fall down,

it's how you get

up, i tell him.

no surrender, brother.

he looks up at me and laughs.

it's just poison ivy,

he says.

keep it clean and don't

scratch it.

picking the plums

we negotiate

the price.

she says less.

i say

more.

she holds her ground,

i hold mine.

she wants me

to do the work,

but i'm not so certain

anymore.

she wants it done

tomorrow,

i tell her in three weeks

from now.

i'm no longer

jumping through

hoops

because she has

big hair,

a big job, 

a mercedes and

fake boobs.

i'm picking the plums

these days

and she's

rotting fruit.

the eyeglasses

he saved

her eyeglasses.

that's it. 

that's all he took

after she died.

he wanted to see

the world

as she saw it.

blurred

and unclear.

sitting on her throne

with her dog,

her phone.

telling the world

and her son

how to live,

what she should be

done.

the party

it's only a good party

if the cops

come a few times to tell you

to keep it down.

if everything there is to eat

or drink

is gone.

if someone is asleep on

the couch,

if someone gets caught

making love

in the spare bedroom.

something has to break too,

a glass,

a dish, a window. 

there are spills on the rug.

dancing

must spontaneously

ensue. there's loud

out of tune singing.

laughter.

the neighbors have to

bang on the wall.

the trash can has to over flow.

it's midnight, it's one

a.m.

it's three in the morning.

it's time now for everyone

to go.

we'll clean this up in the morning,

sweetheart.

us in still life

the painting

was of still life, life

being

pears and apples, fruit

picked ripe,

all in a green bowl

set on a wooden

table.

the walls were of a lesser

green,

the shadows

and the lights

came down in angled

lines.

there was no one

in the painting.

no hand, no arm, no face.

just fruit

fresh and full of color,

soon to

go brown.

it's what a painting.

or love should be.

just off the vine.

the basement wedding

it was a small wedding.

me

her

a man named Herman

in baggy

jeans and topsiders.

she'd put a

white cloth

on the glass table

and a statue of Mary.

two candles.

an altar.

she told the man to take

the word Obey,

out of the vows,

then it was over, she

winked at me

after we slipped rings

onto one another's

fingers.

i cringed and got a chill

down my spine.

it felt like the devil had

won.

had somehow gotten

his way.

i was soon to learn

how true

that feeling was.