as she lay dying

as she lay dying

in the bedroom she loved,

all by her design.

she told me to promise that

i would

find a another woman

after she was gone,

someone else to love.

i don't want you to grieve

too hard,

or too long.

you deserve a life without me.

promise me she said,

her eyes half open,

her mouth dry.

her heart week.

okay, i told her, holding

her hand,

growing colder by the minute.

i promise you. i will

try to find someone else,

but, she whispered,

as she faded please

don't ever change the curtains.

i love those curtains.

i picked out the fabric

myself. it took forever.

the joy ride

the rich guy,

with his pockets bulging

off the profit

of day laborers,

builds a rocket and goes

an inch

above the atmosphere with

his chosen pals

he waves

back to earth, with

the joy of a child

on his first ferris wheel.

look at me, he

yells down.

he's happy.

he's an astronaut now.

what will tomorrow bring?

feed the poor?

doubtful.

unfixable

we talk about broken things.

glasses

and bones.

hearts

and homes.

the debris of life,

some swept and tossed

away, so much

unfixable while 

others are mended

with wire and scotch tape.

it's difficult at times

to decide what to trash,

or what to save.

you should make note of that

i ask her if she wants coffee

early in the morning

as i grind

down a handful

of beans and boil water.

this angers her.

you know i don't drink coffee

because of my heart.

i drink tea. 

green tea. you would think

after all this time

you would take note 

of that.

i get out my spiral notebook

and flip through

the pages.

i finally find her name

and scroll down with my finger.

yup. i did make note

of that last year.

no coffee, just tea.

my bad.

left at the light

the glare of the sun

in our eyes

keeps us from walking fast.

but by

the map there is the promise

of water over

the next dune, or the next.

there's an oasis out

here somewhere.

our throats are dry, our

skin burned, 

our lives are in the hands

of nature

as we begin to crawl.

we've stopped arguing

at least, though

you continue to whisper

in your hoarse voice,

telling me that

at the light we should

have gone left.

get a window seat

there's no air there,

no water,

no food,

no coffee, full caf

or decaf.

nothing but rocks.

no life

to speak of

and if there is, it's

microscopic

at best.

but let's go there.

sounds ideal.

let's spend a trillion.

to plant a flag

on mars,

or jupiter, or whatever

planet we can reach.

this earth is boring,

worn out

and no longer what

it once was.

we need something new.

it'll be an adventure.

we can be the next

pilgrims.

it's a long trip, but

if you get a window seat,

you'll have quite a view.

inching forward

he grabs his cane

to make his way to the mobile

chair,

she puts on her hat,

and straightens

her dress, 

positions the walker

towards the door.

we'll be back, they both

say. just going to lunch.

they're serving

turkey today

in the cafeteria. call us

if there's a problem.

the black door

i get into another long line.

it's what we do

when we see one.

slowly it moves towards

the black door.

there is no grumbling,

no shuffling of feet,

if anything, people seemed

to be relieved.

there doesn't seem to be

a way out, and no one

appears to be leaving.

i tap the guy in front of me

on the shoulder.

he shrugs and points at

the sign. it's an exit he says,

not an entrance.

the slowness of God

i don't have the patience

to be a farmer.

pushing the seed under,

watering it

and then waiting, hands on

hips. looking

up at the sky.

i want my potatoes now.

my string beans, my

carrots. put those

legumes on my plate now.

why is God so slow

with answering prayers.

waiting on rain

a delicate rain 

spots our shared umbrella.

we are under

it together, as close

as we will ever be,

no further.

but it's enough for now.

standing here

waiting for the harder

rains to fall,

and then slow down

the weather check

the minute hand

is racing

as i slowly get out

of bed

then shower.

coffee.

i take a peek outside

to check

the weather.

i see neighbors

doing the same.

one bare leg out

the door

testing the temperature,

then quickly

moving back inside.

the good and the bad

when word comes that

someone good,

someone young has died

you automatically think, 

that's a shame.

especially since so and so

is still alive.

how can bad people keep

living, when the good

are gone?

seems crazy that the evil,

dark ones, still walk 

the earth when the good

have died young.

more fun needed

i feel like i'm missing out

on something.

i'm not sure what exactly.

but it's a thought

that passes through my mind

then out the other side.

maybe i should be having

more fun.

have more interesting friends.

get out and do something.

do fun things that i can post

on face book, and take pictures of.

maybe i need a big stupid

boat, or a house at the beach.

maybe a log cabin in the woods.

i could learn how to hunt

or fish, or buy a tent and 

a long flashlight and go camping.

maybe next weekend i'll

get started on this new

and improved life, have some fun.

but right now i have to finish

this never ending book

called the Comet about

Sylvia's short but brilliant life.

a cat is missing

a picture of the missing

cat

is posted

on every door.

Lily

is gone.

long haired and black.

friendly

and sweet. the note says.

it reminds me

of when i did

the same

when a girlfriend went

missing,

or refused to take my calls.

never to see her

again.

friendly to a point i wrote.

with long

claws

and sharp teeth.

don't try to hold her

too long.

she has a mind of her own.

from a distance

from a distance,

in the road

that cracked shard

of glass

looks

like a gem, a diamond

or a pearl

perhaps.

but up close

it's not anything of value.

and when you

pick it up,

it pricks your finger

bringing blood

to the surface.

a shallow thirty minutes

i run into my

friend jimmy at the liquor store.

he's asking

the clerk if the vodka

he's buying is keto friendly.

the clerk

scratches a spot

under his turban and shrugs.

beats me, he says.

hey jimmy,

i say to him, tapping

him on the shoulder.

how's it going?  still out there

on the dating sites?

yes. he says.

shaking his head,

it's costing me a fortune.

i never knew there were so

many poor, hungry

women around here.

i'm like the statue of liberty.

give me your tired, your

poor, etc.

i hear that, i tell him.

it's a jungle out there,

everyone is looking for love

now, he says.

they want that forever

kind of love, deep love,

you know what i mean?

but at this point i'm just

looking for a shallow thirty

minutes.

look at me

the frog

is loud in the shallow pond.

it's almost

as if he wants

to be found.

to be looked upon

and admired.

all day and night

you hear

his voice, the desperation

in his calling

sound.

garlic in the kitchen

the house is full of the aroma

of garlic

which makes sense

since i just stirred a few

cloves into a sauce pan

with olive oil and onions.

preparing a dish

for later.

it's a good smell. 

it smells like how i imagine

italy smells.

i almost see sophia

in the kitchen beside me

in her red apron,

singing

a song, her hands in flour,

her black eyes, like olives,

alive with mischief.

those formative years

there are those you don't love

and never will.

you just can't

get the words out of your mouth

and utter them.

and yet there you

are standing at the altar

saying, i do.

what's wrong with you?

who dropped you on your head

when little.

who didn't give you enough

love and attention

after you were born.

i blame all on those formative

years.

it can't be my fault,

can it?

do we not pretend

do we not pretend

at times

to be happy 

when we're hardly content

or even close

to being satisfied?

when we're unsettled

or blue

do we not

hide our true feelings

with a smile

and laugh,

a joke?

it's so hard to be real to

one another,

and more so, 

to oneself.

the next life

will we know each other

in the next life?

she asks

as we sit at the table

eating eggs,

nibbling on bacon.

buttering toast.

i don't think we know

each other now,

i tell her.

so, i guess the answer,

is probably not.

we'll keep things hidden

and have secrets

then too, i imagine.

but i guess if we run into

each other

when we're out and about,

we'll stop and say hello.

the four channels

there are 

four channels now.

they've finally narrowed 

it down

to hate, fear, hearsay and escape.

nothing else.

there is no

in between.

click in every direction 

and you get

one or the other,

leaning left or right.

time to pull the plug.

a fellow traveler

i see the lost dog

in the court yard.

he's tired

being so long away

from home.

his leash frayed

from being dragged.

his tongue out.

he looks left, then

right, before 

continuing on.

barely pausing to

look at you.

he knows a fellow

traveler

when he sees one.

even at this age

you want to think the best

of everyone

when you meet them.

you want them whole, and good

and full of sincerity.

even after meeting

and living with

evil, you continue to

feel this way.

it's an aberration, you tell

yourself. you had your

blinders on. you didn't

listen to your gut, or take

notice of the red flags flying.

still, even at this age, your

naivete surprises you.

no need for words

maybe it was best

that we didn't speak the same

language.

it lengthened

the love affair.

we had paris.

we had each other.

we had long nights

and bright days.

we wrote poetry and

drank wine.

we ate.

we read. we went

to the cinema.

we made love.

we walked the boulevard.

we were as close

as two people

can be in this life.

who needed words

to make

it right?

the maple scones

i go to the local

farmers market to eye some

overpriced lettuce

and tomatoes.

organic of course.

coffee. to stroll around

and ponder the cauliflower.

i say excuse

me as i bend towards

the apple crate,

the cider jars beside it.

a stalk of celery perhaps,

or maybe 

a few squash.

there are meats too.

fresh sausage from a farm

not far.

all laid out

and packaged on the square

table,

the apron cloaked woman

behind it, smiles

as i nod, then move on

towards

the maple scones before

they're gone.

ticking clocks

the insect tick

of the watch, all the watches

in the odds

and end drawer,

continue on

as if they matter, as if

needed on someone's

wrist

to tell time.

they keep at it, alone,

and persistent,

as we do.

making a wish

i relish you, i tell her,

one hand

on her boney white

knee

that has perhaps never

seen the sun.

hardly a difference

between skin and sheet.

relish, she says, what

a strange word to use

when expressing

affection.

i know, i tell her,

rubbing her leg as

if making a wish that

will never come true.

but is there nothing not

odd about this

attraction for one another?

the closed door

doors close

for a reason, to keep

safe oneself,

or to keep hidden

what one

wants to hide.

add a lock

to be even more 

more secretive

and secure,

but in time all will

be revealed

and even the smart

won't survive.

the new cold

is there

surprise in the new cold.

the first snow,

the chill

of fresh wind?

yes, there is.

despite it being your

sixty fifth winter.

and as you pull up

your collar

while tightening

a button

your memory

returns

to a different time.

to younger days.

a younger body.

an innocent mind.

knock on wood that it doesn't happen

i try to wring out another

piece

of writing

from my soul.

but i'm not wringing

hard enough,

or maybe everything

that needs to be said,

has been told.

i need another heartbreak

or something

to toss me around.

some drama and chaos,

how life has always

been. i'm worried about

this calm

and contented plateau

i've found.

the end of that

i forget how

your voice sounded.

or what your hand felt

like in mine.

i forget

the scent of you,

or how you walked,

or sat.

or kissed.

i forget nearly everything

about you.

the memories

are all gone.

so that's the end

of that.

wrinkle cream

we want to look

younger.

to act younger, to be hip

and wise

and healthy.

we want to jump rope

and play

jacks,

bounce the ball,

run the bases. we want

time to stop

or at least slow down

to a crawl.

we don't ever want

to be as old

as our parents were.

two spoons

we fall asleep

together with a heavy

sigh,  two spoons.

two peas

in a pod,

arms

around what an arm

can find.

legs entwined.

the love making over.

at least for now.

but there's always

morning when a new

sun will rise

in our sleepy eyes.

her summer travels

she's in her white

pants

in california.

the sun in her eyes.

a wine glass

held high.

her long legs stretched

from her to

santa monica

and back again.

she's living the high

life.

making the most

of her summer

travels.

enjoying the autumn

of her life.

an exit strategy

we all need an exit 

strategy.

no matter how well life is.

love is.

marriage or work.

where you live,

or friendships,

we need a way out

of the box we're in.

a side door,

a back door, a window.

a basement hatch

to crawl through

to the other side.

a fire escape.

this cannot last.

the middle will not hold.

be ready.

trust me, i don't want

to be the one that

told you so.

are you a member

the store clerk

is a little too happy this

morning.

good morning, he chirps,

smiling.

and how are we today?

we're fine, i tell him.

nice day, he says.

good weather. how about

that rain we had?

yes, it was something, i say,

setting my pack of gum

on the counter.

lovely day.

are you a member,

he asks.

no, i tell him.

would you like to

be a member?

not really.

it'll just take a minute

or two.

i just need your name,

address, phone

number, and e mail.

no thanks.

but you'll save a lot

of money

and you'll be notified

hourly on our 

sales and new products.

no thanks.

are you sure?

maybe tomorrow, okay?

okay.

do you need a bag

for this?

nope. i'll just carry it

out.

okay. you have a wonderful

day. Next.

what storm?

the storm they've been

talking about

for a week or two finally

arrives and blows through.

a little rain, some wind,

no big whoop.

no one drowns, no fires,

no lives lost.

the weatherman says

we dodged a bullet, we

got lucky this time, 

but he seems disappointed

and a bit blue, as he

says, sunny and hot for

today and the week

straight through.

what you can live without

it's surprising what you

can live without

when you decide

what's good for you.

after a while you don't

miss sugar, or flour.

or anyone toxic in your

life. day one is the hardest,

then less so on day two.

if your life was a book

if your life was a book

already written

would you turn to the middle

to see where it's going,

or just jump to the last page

to see how it ends?

i prefer to go back to the

beginning, page one,

and rewrite my mistakes.

now we agree

at times i wish

i could change you.

alter the way you think

and behave.

maybe you think the same

of me.

and if that's true 

for the both of us,

perhaps we should 

just move on,

and agree to disagree.

mysteries

so many things

we do not understand 

the nature of.

from sky

to sea.

and all that lies,

or breathes in between.

but what a blessing

this strange mystery is,

we are never done

with wonder

of this world

until we die and even 

then who's to know 

such things.

father smith at the 7-11

i run into the local

priest, father smith, at the 7-11.

he's buying a bottle

of red wine, a box of twinkies

and a carton

of cigarettes.

he looks stressed.

he looks like he's gained the covid

40.

hey, i say to him. what up?

oh, hello there, he

says, making no effort

to hide what he's buying.

haven't seen you in a while.

not since you broke up with that

crazy woman you were with.

did you give up on God?

he says,

tearing off the twinkie plastic

with his teeth,

and putting  the whole

thing in his mouth.

no, just the church, i tell him.

i'm still down with God.

well, come on by

this Sunday, three masses,

one in Spanish.

we miss you.

the choir will be singing

motown this week, we're trying

to jazz things up.

maybe i tell him, pointing

at his cheek where a dollop of

cream filling clings

to his beard.

amanda's freeze gun

i send an email to my dermatologist

Amanda,

telling her to fire up the freeze gun.

i'm coming in, i tell her.

i've got some suspicious itchy spots

on my back,

my head, my face

and leg.

there's one that looks like a tiny

map of italy, which

might be nice to keep if it's not

going to kill me, but

some could be bug bites,

because of all this wet weather

we've been having.

some could be something else.

i don't know.

that's why i'm writing you

and paying you the big bucks,

well,

a ten dollar copay, at the most.

can i bring you a latte?

one black fly

i don't know how

this one fly got in, 

buzzing about the room,

but he seems

friendly, or she.

hard to tell in this light.

maybe they,

or them?

the mushroom cloud

i turn on the fear and hate

channel

on the tv

to just get a small taste

of what

the world is going through.

same old.

thirty seconds in

and i'm off

to netflix or prime, or some

such escape.

just text me when it's over.

i'll put

my ear to the window

and look out

over the horizon for the 

mushroom cloud.

the precious rocks

when my dog would find

a rock in the woods

and bring it home,

then attempt to bury it in

the corner of the room

by rubbing his nose until

it bled, trying to push

carpet fibers on it.

i'd shake my head and

yell out to him. hey.

i see what you're doing

over there. 

he'd shrug his little shoulders

and move it

somewhere else.

i couldn't understand why

this dumb rock was

so important to him,

and then i looked around

my own house, at all 

the things i've saved, and

the light went on.

they and them

it's a new world.

and us

old folks are cringing

at it all.

tik tok.

what the hell is that

but narcissism run amok.

they, them.

please.

look down your pants

or hold

up your dress and see

what you are.

enough with this nonsense.

if you're confused

about what sex you are,

it's going to be  long

hard life going

forward.

the morning pick up

you wonder where it all goes.

off to some landfill

on the other side of town,

hauled to a barge to drift

aimlessly until the world ends.

but you're happy that it does go.

all the bags, all the trash,

the garbage we set out for

the men in the loud orange

truck on mondays and thursdays.

we don't thank them enough

if at all. in fact they are looked

down upon, as if they have

no ability to get another job.

they remove our things we

no longer want. the food

we no longer eat. the broken

plates and cups.

the debris of our lives that

are no longer any use to us.

i've lost track of the wedding

rings and mementos 

i've tossed into a bag

and set it out by the hydrant

for the morning pick up.

always thankful to see them go.

smiling at the mighty bins roar.

what's your second favorite color?

what's your second favorite

color i ask her

as we meet for a drink

for the first time.

green she says.

what about food, what's your

second favorite

food?

fish, she says. no, wait,

maybe pasta.

okay.

and your second favorite

position if we ever make love.

huh?

what's wrong with you

she says.

i'm not telling you that.

are you nuts, or something.

i'm just trying to get to know

you. i'd like

to know what makes you tick.

is that wrong?

she gets up and puts

her coat on.

you're leaving already?

the calamari hasn't even

come out yet.

that's not very Christian of you

i realize that i'm a very

very reluctant

forgiver.

if someone slights me,

abuses me,

lies and cheats

on me,

or snubs me, i have the

hardest time

in turning the other cheek.

i can quietly hold a grudge

until the cows come home.

(i don't have any cows)

my therapist tries

to bring it all back around

again

to my childhood and low

self esteem. not being

hugged enough and told how

wonderful i am.

maybe i wasn't that wonderful,

or huggable.

not all kids are.

most are smelly brats.

i digress.  forgiveness.

aaaargh.

i'd prefer to blame my lack

of forgiveness on

the people who offended

me.

maybe if they grew up

and matured and actually

apologized for being

inconsiderate

immoral dopes, i'd give

them an apology.

stop being narcissistic

buttheads, and then maybe

i'll give you something that

resembles forgiveness.

or maybe just a pat on the head

and a firm boot

out the door.

packing egg salad sandwiches

my friend howard suggests

that i montoize

my blog.

a word i absolutely hate.

i'd like to think of this as a poetry

forum,

a place

to empty my brain and heart

before moving

on to the next catastrophe

or blessing that comes

down the road.

sometimes i can't tell the difference

between the two.

i tell howard no.

i'm not putting an ad for

baked beans,

or tide detergent on here.

i abhor commercials,

i tell him.

he sighs and says, 

you could be making easy

money. every time

someone clicks on one of

your stupid poems,

a little coin drops into

your pocket.

i roll the words stupid poems

in my mouth for

a minute or two, before

spitting them out

on the street like lima beans.

this is coming from a man

who once packed

egg salad sandwiches in

his suitcase when he and his

wife went to Bermuda

on their honeymoon.

reason to live

she gives way

as water does, when

i'm in her arms.

her generous embrace.

she lets me in.

let's me feel the warmth

of her.

i touch her soul.

her eyes tell me everything.

the smile

as she kisses me.

such bliss is rare.

but worth living for.

the first fallen leaf

as the first orange

leaf

attaches to your shoulder,

you sigh.

at last

a reprieve from

the summer heat. not

yet, but its coming.

so much of

what we want is coming.

hope is about that.

the state of men

i listen quietly as

he argues. tossing erroneous

data

and theory,

around

like knives.

he gets red when i don't

agree,

his voice growls.

i see the hair

of the animal he is

rise

upon his back.

it's easy to see why men

murder and rape,

pillage,

go to war

when i watch him speak.

don't answer that

it's best not to answer

that knock at the door,

or pick up the phone.

no need to gather the mail

from the floor.

no one of significance

writes or calls anymore.

few meet for coffee,

or lunch.

they type.

and send. with an emoji

no less.

God help us.

the end of the world feels

closer and closer

old friends.

life in a can

no need

to go out and kill anything

or harvest

a field.

it's right

there in a can or box,

packaged

and stamped.

available 24/7 at the local

grocer

or drive thru.

no need to hunt, or fish,

or trap.

no need to plant a seed.

no need for any of that.

if there's money

in the works,

they'll get it for you,

but with ingredients on the label

that you'll never

understand.

the sparrow with specs

as she spoke

of sylvia and mark strand,

larkin

and levine, wallace stevens

and frost,

standing

at the front of the class,

the chalk board behind her.

she was like

a sparrow

with specs.

brown winged and fragile.

but holding the keys

to my heart,

my hands,

my mind,

my chosen profession

of doing this.

her knight in shining armor

she says

i'm looking for my one

true

love.

the knight in shining armor.

the soul mate.

the real thing.

someone special.

someone with money

and a boat.

i don't even care if he's

married.

i just want to be loved

and worshiped,

adored.

someone who kisses

the ground

i walk on.

someone that sees no

wrong in who i pretend

to be.

i want his life to be

all about me.

i want him worried and 

jealous.

wondering where i am,

and with who.

i want that kind of relationship.

i want the red carpet,

the house,

the trips,

the rings.

i want him to be sick

with love, and forever

bound to me.

when we need something

we butter each

other up.

my you're looking fine

today.

lose weight?

you're getting younger

every day.

you're the cat's meow,

you're a sunshine

ray.

a daisy, a wild flower,

a celestial

object

in the sky.

a dream come true.

oh and by the way,

can you do me a favor,

later today?

going electric

like dylan

i've gone electric.

the stove,

the furnace,

the mixer, the blender,

the clocks,

the computer,

the car.

i'm all plugged in

and strumming

my assortment

of guitars.

leading a horse to water

it's hard

to have a conversation with

difficult people.

uneducated.

blind

to what truth is.

it's a long day with

someone

with a closed mind.

refusing

to turn the page

and read on.

it's best to say nothing

after a while.

what's the point

of arguing

with someone

who has their

hands over

their ears, their eyes,

who will never

admit they're wrong.

how will she rise

she is silk.

blue eyed and wise.

lean

and studied.

still with a nest

full

of children.

but soon, what's next.

what love

will knock upon

her door.

what

window will open

and call to her.

how will she rise,

this time.

forever is shorter than it used to be

how fragile we are.

twigs for bones,

skin

so easily punctured.

injuries come

too soon,

too often.

our mortality

surprises us.

just yesterday we

were young and strong,

and now this.

we live

as if nothing could

ever go wrong.

forever is suddenly

shorter than

it used to be.

before we sleep

we have many lives,

not just one.

when young,

when old and all the variations

in between.

we can remember

them as if

yesterday.

the loves we had,

the work we chose,

the children,

the detoured dreams.

we have many lives,

and many more

before we

sleep.

don't hurt anyone

we don't do that at my church,

she says.

we have no men

in gowns

with pointed hats.

there are no gold

chalices,

or silver crosses hanging

around.

there are no statues,

or stained glass

windows.

we aren't puppets,

kneeling,

standing, sitting, going

up and down.

mumbling rote words.

we just go in and 

fold our hands to pray.

someone says a few words

and then we go

home and try to be good

people

and not hurt anyone

for the rest of the day.

intelligent design

when you see

a building,

you never think

that it just appeared

over a million years.

that the glass and brick,

the wires

and iron

all came together

to make it rise

from the dirt

and yet.

when some people

look at a human,

they say, 

it can't be intelligent

design.

despite being so complex.

there is no 
God, no creator.

people rose from a puddle,

struck by lighting

upon the ground.

where and what time?

i get an early morning text

from a number

not in my phone.

hello, it says. good morning.

how are you?

i miss you, and i think i still

love you?

we should get together

sometime

and see once more, where

it could go.

who is this, i type.

do i know you?

it's Shelly, aren't you Mark?

no, i tell her,

you may have the wrong 

number.

i'm so sorry. she writes.

but you sound nice. do you

want to meet anyway,

see if there's a spark?

sure. why not? i tell her.

what time?  casual wear?

the old town park?

are you a family man?

i like to dance

she says. i tell her i don't.

i have two left feet.

i like red

wine, she offers. i say no.

i get a headache.

i like

to hike and fish and

camp, she says,

pulling out a map

of nowhere.

i'm more of a hotel

guy, i tell her. preferably

four star

with room

service.

okay. she says. i guess

i can live

with that.

what about family. are you

a family man.

do you get along with your

relatives.

do you like kids?

not really, i tell her.

they give me a rash.

excellent she says.

i think we're a match.

one last look

as the barber

ages

so do his customers

children

turning

into adults.

and in time their

hair

less thick,

less brown or blonde,

or red,

now streaked

in grey.

and the barber

with his

swivel chair, his

clippers,

his scissors his combs

still

goes at it.

tossing the sheet

around your neck,

the powder,

the one last look

in the mirror

before you go.

safe and sound

there is comfort

in

food.

in drink.

in a person's arms

around you.

there is less fear

when 

you are warm

and sheltered.

safe

and sound, protected

from all

the harm

the world can give.

it's not strange

that we

keep returning there,

to the womb

where we were

once found.

she needed alone time

i see a puddle of blood

on the floor.

should i be worried?

it's not mine.

maybe at last she made

good on her promise

of leaving this world.

is it time to say,

clean up on aisle six?

or is she still curled up

in a ball in the dark

room, chattering on

about something

that happened to her

fifty years ago.

then i see the can of tomato

juice, turned over.

i breathe a sigh of relief.

honey, i'm home,

i yell up the stairs.

do you need some more

alone time?

i'll boil the kale

and put the salmon on.

the new toaster oven

i take out one of my

wedding

suits.

not the white one though.

it's way too tight

now,

seeing that i was twenty

two

when that ship went down.

but i remember

wearing it,

the cake stain on velvet

black lapel,

the spilled

wine.

the lipstick from drunk

aunts and frisky bridesmaids,

and then

i remember hanging it

in the closet

next to her wedding dress

wrapped in

plastic, saved for the smithsonian

i suppose.

i then remember

looking out the window

of our one bedroom

apartment,

her carrying the dress back

to her mother's,

with a new black and decker

toaster oven,

still in the box,

under the other arm.

it means nothing

it's a fierce rain.

a hard

pour.

how can so much

water

and thunder

be in those clouds.

where did this come from.

what's it

all about?

nothing, most likely.

not everything

means something.

the cross roads

we started

with beer. cans of beer

sitting around

talking

about girls.

spinning records.

all of us friends

in the same neighborhood.

we played

ball together.

went to school together.

and now we

were at a cross roads.

about to grow

up and join

the world, but not quite there.

we passed a joint around

before

some went off

to work, some to college

or married early,

a girlfriend giving birth.

some put a needle

in their vein,

those you never heard

from again, but wish

you could.

you imagine grabbing

their hand and saying

no, putting

them back together.

all of us

having a second chance.

sitting in a circle,

laughing, drinking beer.

denial comes first

sometimes you grieve

early.

you have a premonition.

you see the end

before the end

comes.

you can feel the death

and dying.

the lack of love.

you begin to grieve

while she lies

still beside you.

denial coming first, 

followed quickly

by anger

and acceptance.

just one plague away

california burns.

louisana

floods.

a hurricane

comes up the coast.

murder

is rampant.

road rage. lying,

cheating,

infidelity.

world wide disease.

sex slaves.

child abuse.

wars and rumor

of wars.

no leadership,

no moral compass.

technology is king.

the priests are corrupt.

the policemen.

the mayor.

the governor.

the president.

i think

we're one plague away

from the end

of times.

drink up.

she finally agreed

she finally agreed

after seven months of dating

to have

sex.

i was excited, to put it mildly.

i had fallen in

love.

she was beautiful.

inside and out.

i was nervous.

she said, wait here, then went up

to change into some slinky

sheer outfit

she found at a lingerie shop

in georgetown.

i saw her legs first coming

down the stairs.

her stiletto heels.

the stockings.

a glimpse of her

silky negligee,

and then she fell, the heel

of her shoe

catching on the carpet,

she grabbed the rail and 

screamed, dislocating

a finger, then

tumbled to the bottom.

i rushed over to help her,

pressing one of my socks

against her bleeding forehead,

then to the hospital.

i guess, tonight's not good then

i asked her

in the back of the ambulance.

so, you live alone?

so, you live alone, 

he asks me,

as he picks

up his child,

and yells to his wife

to hurry up, we're late.

yes.

i tell him.

divorced? he asks.

happily, i respond.

but so you live alone, he

asks again incredibly.

no pets,

no kids.

no plants either, i tell him,

but i do have these

voices in my head.

her puzzles

as i sit here

in the sunday sun

searching my brain for

six letter words

across or down

in the times crossword

puzzle

i think of my mother

doing the same.

a cigarette in hand,

her cup of coffee

black,

sitting on the back

porch with her high

school education, having

the puzzle done

before the first

diaper needed changing,

the first meal cooked,

the first run

of the washer,

then hanging

of the clothes on the line.

ruminations

the sharp

nail

beneath the rug

rises

through the wool

runner

and catches

me going up

the stairs.

there is pain

and blood.

i tend to the new

wound then

get the hammer

out.

i knock it

back down and

move on.

it's a daily thing.

decorating for spring

most of her house

was in shambles.

broken chairs, wobbly tables.

the yellow stuffing

popping out of the sofa.

a bed on the floor,

leaky faucets,

squirrels in the attic,

mice in the cupboard.

but she used to tell

me to go

into the bathroom and

look at the new

shower curtain she just

hung on the pole,

proud as can

be with the plastic

pink flowered sheet

now hiding

the brown tub.

early karma

it will trickle down.

reap what

you sow, etc.

karma will come around.

be patient.

be unfooled.

we all get what we 

deserve in the end,

although

some get it in

the middle, karma

arriving early

my friend.

we got to get out of this place

i'm always surprised

when i call someone and they

say i'm in denver,

or portland,

or italy.

i thought they were at home,

like me

eating bon bons

on the couch

watching reruns of

barney miller.

they send me pictures

of mountains,

and oceans.

the grand canyon

and the leaning tower

of Pisa.

i sigh when we finally

hang up

and shake my head.

i look at my cat and say,

we got to get out of this place.

pretending to eat pasta

i order a vegetable splicer

so that i can

spiralize

zucchini

to make it look like

pasta noodles.

there was a time

when  i could

eat a boiled box

of penne noodles

with red sauce

and a handful of meatballs

in one sitting.

not to mention the bread

and butter.

but it's come to this now.

twisting the handle on a

new gizmo

to make strands of a strange

vegetable that

i've almost never eaten.

i used to be Italian.

really.

how come you never visit?

after a dozen

or more random telemarketer

calls, most from India,

which

i take,

because it might be

work related, i finally

lose it

and yell into the phone

quit fucking 

calling me.

please stop.

then i look at the number

and it's my

mother.

rough day? she says.

how come you never visit?

the ice cold beer

my friend

is rarely home.

she's away, but someone

takes in the mail,

checks in

on the cat.

keeps the grass trimmed.

the locks turned.

she's far far away,

but in my mind,

she's here.

right here with her long

legs stretched

out in the sun,

talking about Nepal,

while

sipping an ice

cold beer.

we can't imagine being old

we can't imagine being

old.

being slow

of foot, of mind.

of trembling hand, of

weepy eyes.

we can't imagine

the cane,

the helping hand

across a road.

the cupped ear

to a voice so close.

we can't imagine 

ever dying, like in

all those stories we

were often told.

what light shineth in yonder window, yo

if you read enough Shakespeare,

immersing yourself

in the dialogue,

or go to a play,

or watch a movie

of Hamlet or Macbeth

you begin to talk like that

the whole day.

you put a cape on, 

strap a sword

around your waist.

you bellow at the moon,

at ghosts

in the hallways,

you make long soliloquies

on life and death,

you question your existence,

you mourn for love,

you cry out for Juliet.

you swoon.

it's all very annoying to the people

around you.

what the rain does

the rain will keep me

home today.

the wet wood, the puddles

of thunder storms

that crashed

last night.

the rain will make me

clean and read

and drink coffee.

i'll text, i'll talk.

i'll search the tube for a good

movie to watch.

the rain will send me

to this.

to type, to write, to make

things up,

or embellish what little

truth there is in

the world today.

i like the rain.

slippery times

my father at 93,

who can hardly see

and uses a walker

to get around, is going

through

a lot of baby oil lately

with his new girlfriend, 

Esther.

we just had amazon

deliver another two pack

16 ounce bottles.

i think i have the same

bottle

i bought when my son

was a month old.

for diaper rash, i think

it was used.

i'm not sure what my father

and his 85 year old

girlfriend are doing

with bottles of baby oil,

and i don't really want

to know, or have that image

in my head.

but i guess they're having

fun.

the unquenchable well

when you run low

on things to write about,

the various mundane

events

of broken laces

and popped buttons, 

coffee spills,

and work,

you cut a vein

and return to the unquenchable

source of pain

and misery

that another person

brought into your life.

(insert laughter at this point)

it's a deep well.

and strangely fun too.

what didn't kill you 

has made you stronger, as

the cliche goes.

it's so easy to fill the pen

with that ink,

and go at it once more.

although,

i'm past it now and wish

her well, sort of.

the good old days

better days turn 

into better nights.

then on

to better weeks,

at some point it's a good

year, one that

you look back on and sigh,

and say, oh my,

those were the good 

old days.

the bug bite

i tell her to text me.

send me your address, your

information

and i'll be there at noon tomorrow.

the text never comes.

i sift through the numbers

and can't for the life

of me figure out

which number is hers.

so i wait.

i sit with my coffee and scratch

my leg

where a bug has decided

to bite.

witches and goblins

i like halloween

but not everyday. i don't

want to be scared,

to be tricked

to be nervous and jittery

with every

knock at the door.

i don't want to hear

groans

and footsteps down

the hall

every night of my life.

the sound of

crying, of tossing

and turning.

i don't want to be in fear

each morning.

i want her mask to come

off, to stop this

game, to stand back

from the boiling cauldron,

as she cackles while

stirring up another potion

i want her to move on

and turn

the calendar page.

raise your arm, honey

when you forget things

you should remember, when

you lose your keys,

or phone,

when you can't recall

a date, or time.

you start to wonder,

is it my turn now.

has it begun, that downward

slide.

will i be taken to a home,

will there be a stranger

feeding me oatmeal

on a spoon?

giving me a sponge bath,

telling me gently

to raise an arm.

life is good

the cat is languid

in the puddle 

of sunlight by the door.

she hardly moves

as i walk by.

her eyes blinking

sleepily, her paws rubbing

at her ears.

she doesn't have a care.

life is good.

i want to join her.

she kept reading

after a while she finally

stopped reading

what i wrote.

who could blame her.

the mean words, vindictive

and vengeful

pouring out of me

like blood from a well

cut wound.

exposing her to the world

as to who she really was.

what pleasure was there

for her in reading

what i wrote.

and yet, she kept on.

i could feel her eyes upon

the page, her fingers

on the keyboard,

to the next, to the next.

i think it gave her pleasure

to think that i

had yet to move on.

what to wear

there is something that

everyone does,

every morning 

when they awaken.

they decide

what they're going to wear

for the day.

no matter where you

are, who you are, how

poor or rich.

you take a moment to lift

a shirt, a pair of pants,

a dress, or burlap sack

and think, is this it?

for the best

no one likes progress.

not really.

we like things the way

they were.

we find comfort

in the old.

despite the ruins around

us, we want

things to remain as

they always were.

change is painful,

even though it's 

the best for all concerned.

the cherry tree

year after year,

there were so many

cherries

on the tree

in her yard, that we

no longer cared

for them.

so they would fall

and rot.

the worms would have

their fill.

the birds,

the animals taking

as they wished.

all the red gone

brown.

how quickly we had

aged and moved on.

in the other room

i hear her in the other room,

down the short hall,

the door ajar.

no music on.

just the tapping of fingers

against the keyboard.

i listen. i stop

what i'm doing, i put my book down.

and listen.

i hear the worst.

i hear everything

that i was never meant to hear.

no need to rise

and go see.

no reason to ask what are you

doing, or who are

you writing to.

i know.

i've made up my mind

i've made up my mind.

it's autumn.

it's the last three months of the year.

why bother

with the rest,

let the leaves fall.

bring color to the earth.

let the sun grow dim

and set early

behind the hills.

let the air cool.

let us open the windows

and make love

in this new fresh wind.

crossing the line

who hasn't murdered

someone

in their mind.

taken the law into their own

hands.

who hasn't lied

or slandered, cheated.

who is sinless

in their thoughts, what

keeps us

from getting out of hand,

crossing

that moral line.

loading the gun,

sharpening the knife,

to make the world

good again, to make all

things right.

words to sleep with

as i lift each scattered

book, going

from table to nightstand

to floor and chair,

from bedroom

to kitchen,

to the shelf at the top

of the stairs

i search for one author

to comfort me,

to read me to sleep

and to clear

the unrest that stifles

the air.

just a few words will do.

a gentle kiss

of brilliance upon my brow

to send me towards

a sleep,

afloat upon the clouds.

is there a harder word

than no

in any language? to

say no.

i'm sorry,

but i don't love you,

that i don't want to spend

the rest of my life

with you.

a simple word, two letters.

but a blow.

a hammer, a dagger

to the heart of those love

stricken

and standing there

on the other end

to hear it.

what's to come next

they arrive

unexpectedly. packages.

people.

falling stars.

letters in the mail.

luck, or no luck.

pennies found,

pennies dropped.

who knows

what's to arrive, 

what's to be gained,

or lost.

what's

to come next.

what won't. what will.

the best meal ever

the best meal i ever had

was

when i solved the puzzle

of that

love gone wrong.

i felt better about where

things were

going,

or not going.

call it surrender, call it

what you will.

but i was done.

i had no more to give.

enough, my body said.

suddenly i was famished.

i remember boiling the water

and dropping

fettucine into the pot.

tossing sausage in

a pan.

heating up the sauce.

i remember garlic bread,

toasted, a salad,

and red wine.

i remember it as being

the best meal of my life.

i'd never been so hungry,

so weathered and starving,

and i'm almost

there again. once more,

i'm done.

rooms available by the hour

i take notice 

of the vacancy

sign

flashing

on the highway.

rooms to rent.

the neon light

with

one letter gone.

the empty gravel

lot.

the deadly hum

of nothing as i drive by.

it reminds me

of someone i used to know.

also vacant.

i'm on hold

i'm on hold.

not just the phone.

but life.

i'm in limbo.

i'm waiting for the bus,

the train,

the ship.

i'm ready to go.

i truly am.

i'm standing here

listening to muzak,

waiting for you,

to appear,

i'm on hold.

kiss me like a stranger

i want to know less

about you.

just a name is fine.

don't tell me

where you live, or

what work you do.

there is no need to know

your education or 

who your family is.

don't reveal

to me your favorite

color

or food, or season.

let's keep it like this,

strangers, 

always strangers 

getting that

first magical kiss.

the carnival ride

i can look

at a carnival ride 

going around and around

for about ten seconds

before i get

sick to my stomach

and have to find a trash can

to spill

my cookies.

i get that same feeling now

when i drive

by a church and see

a wedding going on.

be the cat

sometimes you say too much,

while other times

you haven't said enough.

saying nothing,

just nodding 

and politely smiling

seems to be the best

way to go.

you're neither agreeing

or disagreeing.

let them figure it out,

it not your problem to worry

about what they know

or don't know.

be the cat on the sill.

quiet and still.

the meal time prayer

when her thirty two

year old son, who never

worked or had a girlfriend,

would visit

we'd pray over

the dried salmon

and a mushy pile of kale,

holding hands with

our eyes closed

as the new wife,

who was getting stranger

and stranger

with each passing day,

went on and on in prayer.

she covered all

the bases. friends

family, dogs, cats.

kids, parents, neighbors.

the weather, etc.

and then the son

would suddenly blurt out.

and God bless

all the various tribes

and villages in Africa.

i would take a peek out

of one eye

as the prayer went on,

and stared

at the food getting cold

on the table,

wondering what i would

eat later.

the short life

the new boss

wants to make changes

get things done

improve morale and be

one of the crowd

the new boss

has a meeting, a lot

meetings,

he wants to know

everyone by name

he wants to have lunch

with you

go to happy hour

with you, he wants

to know what makes

you tick.

he's a go getter, a

smiler, a back patter,

an attaboy kind of guy

with charts and graphs

and goals

that will be met.

he lasts about a week.

the stress

is just too much.

sugar daddy dot com

my friend jimmy

joins sugar daddy dot com

to meet

young women

in need of money.

it's an exchange i suppose

that i won't go

into detail about,

but it's not unlike the world's

oldest profession,

thinly disguised

as a dating site.

when i see him on the street

he's exhausted

and broke,

he's wearing an old moth

eaten

jacket and pants with

a hole in them.

the pockets are out

and empty.

what up? i ask him.

nothing he says.

i think i'm ready to quit

that site and join

old rich widows dot com.

i surrender.

that about sums it up

i confess my sins

at saturday confession

in the dark booth. but being

a little vague on

the details.

the priest, says, go on,

go on.

is that all?

there must be more.

i tell him. that pretty

much sums it up.

i did some of this,

some of that.

a lot of that, but

never that. i never

killed anyone, okay?

can i go now, i say,

with one foot out the door.

too much of a good thing

can there be too

much of a good thing,

does everything

have to be

doled out

in moderation.

laughter and love.

sunshine

and wine.

do we have to curtail

our fun

just to keep ourselves

a little hungry.

our satisfaction behind

the line?

why can't we immerse

ourselves

in pleasure,

in good times.

would we drown?

what endears us

what endears one

to others

in the beginning

is what annoys us

a year later.

that light snore is now

suddenly a roar,

the nervous giggle 

is a nail dragged

against the chalk

board.

the lateness is a bore,

the clutter

becomes a mess, picking

up after each other

has become an endless chore,

the things that endeared us

to one another

have now become

the things that we each

abhor.

just one more day

i'm tired of people dying

around me.

come on

people.

stay alive a little longer.

i'm not done with you,

nor you with me.

we have more to say to one

another,

more laughs,

more joy, more love to make.

just stay a little while

longer.

come on. 

don't leave me. 

come on, just one more day.

what love isn't

if you can't love yourself.

you can't

love anyone else.

but pretend.

go ahead, give it a try

once more,

like you did with me.

mirror those around you.

see it in movie,

read about it in a book.

color by numbers

what love to others is.

but why bother with this

notion, you'll never

comprehend.

a house of her own

she belongs to her sadness.

it owns her.

she has the keys

to that house.

she knows the layout

of the rooms.

it's where she lives

and rarely leaves.

rarely steps out her door.

it's what she knows.

the town,

the city, the state.

it's her own personal

zip code.

she belongs to her sadness.

why leave,

how could she when this

is all she knows.

if you could read my mind

i write a letter.

a long letter. ink and paper.

the whole thing.

i sit at my desk. the light on.

the window open.

i begin.

word follows word.

thought into thought.

i tell you exactly what's on

mind, in my heart.

i leave no doubt

as to where i am or where

i'm going.

i read it again, then again,

then fold it

and put it in an envelope.

placing it in a drawer

with all the other letters

i'll never send.

labels and tags

there are so many stickers

and tags,

on my

new clothes

that are hard to pull off.

electronic buttons the size

of coasters

so that you can't leave

the store without setting

off the alarms.

i can't get a nail under the labels

to peel them

off,

so i leave them on.

what do i care if people find

out i'm wearing

an extra large shirt

and pair of pants, have you

ever heard of shrinkage?

even my fruit of the looms

have tags.

the fun times

oh there were fun times,

for sure.

sweet memories.

it wasn't just all pain

and agony, anxiety and fear.

trust me, there were

fun times.

hold on, let me think

for  minute.

they're on the tip of my tongue.

wait.

i'm thinking, i remember the time 

we....

no, wait, that was with someone

else.

ummm.

we were together for a few years,

why can't i remember

any of the fun times

we had.

my mind draws a blank.

maybe later i'll think of some,

or one.

there must have some

fun times there.

with feet off the ground

i feel dizzy.

is it the lack of food, or drink.

have i gone

too far with this fasting,

or is it the merry go round

i'm on.

feet off the ground

spinning madly

in the air

with no one to hold

onto.

no strap or bar, no hand.

just me

going around and round.

lowered expectations

i've lowered my expectations.

so no worries.

no need

to put on a good face,

or to be well informed,

or smart

and funny.

i expect less and less out

of nearly everyone

now.

as they do me.

life is so much easier

that way, when you just

don't give a damn anymore

and let everyone

go their own way.

1984 is now

it's eerie, it's

strange and ominous.

how were close to being

in the world

of 1984 by Orwell.

take down the statues,

burn the books.

erase and rewrite history

to our current liking and needs.

making the past

not what it used to be.

the hate speech on both sides

is all day.

all night.

we are watched

by both parties, by technology,

and corporations.

there is not just

one big brother, but

a dozen vying for your attention,

or vote, your adoration

and dollars.

stealing your soul,

your freedom, 

your diminishing hope.

everything you type, or watch,

or google

is recorded.

every step you take, every

breath you make.

big brother is upon us.

be careful what you think

dear comrade.

Drama Free and Low Maintenance

when you hear the words,

i'm drama free.

run.

get away as fast as you can.

in fact don't run,

uber,

take a cab, drive.

low maintenance. same thing.

i'm happy

and content with my life.

i'm friends with all

my ex's.

start drinking heavily, you're

going to need it.

when you see the book

don't sweat the small stuff

on their nightstand

or the five languages of love,

or rosary beads hanging from

their rearview mirror,

call a priest.

you'll need an exorcism

within a week with this person.

when you hear the words,

i don't really care about sex

anymore, or

my therapist thinks that i

should...

don't wait for her to finish

that sentence.

check please. giddyup.

the game

it's not a game.

although it feels like it at times.

her holding her

cards so close, so tight.

looking into

your eyes.

does she have a hand to win,

do you,

it's hard to know as we

look into one another's

eyes.

who's bluffing, 

who's cheating.

who has an ace up their sleeve.

do we know each other's

tell,

can we hear the lie

before the next card

falls, before the next

hand is dealt?

rain check

you make a rain check.

it's your

go to line when you're tired

and don't want

to drive another twenty miles

because you've driven

a thousand this week.

bone tired,

weary.

plus the rain, the wind.

the traffic.

you just want lie down

and take your shoes off.

do nothing. say nothing.

go nowhere but to dream land.

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.