sloe gin remorse

the first time

i got drunk, 

and then sick,

i was maybe

seventeen years old,

hair down to my shoulders,

in love with

vivian mysior, the captain

of the cheerleaders.

she didn't love me though,

thus the over serving

of myself

of sloe gin.

a pint bottle did the trick.

we were on the ball field

late at night with

friends i'd seldom see again,

sitting on the stands.

i remember the world

suddenly spinning,

the stars above me bright

clusters, like clumps

of lights, it was a new world,

a painful world of bad

choices,

one i would repeat over

and over again,

and try to understand.

more water this time

i step away from the pot

steaming

vegetables.

and walk away for awhile.

the water turns to vapor,

then nothing

but a bone

dry bottom burning,

all of it gone brown.

i smell it from the other

room

which makes me put down

my new book,

The Stranger,

and i start over.

but this time with more

water.

lesson learned.

creating love out of thin air

like a sculptor

or artist, or writer,

our imagination runs wild

sometimes.

we believe

in what we want to see,

not in what is.

the block of stone,

the blank canvas,

the unwritten page

are full of hopeful possibilities,

but the trouble begins

when it comes

to wanting love

when there is none

in front of you, 

just nothing.

math class

there was something

satisfying

about math class.

there was always

an answer, and a way

of getting to it.

the chalk on the  board,

the slide

rule.

the equations

all made sense.

it may have been the last

time you were ever

so assured about 

the complex world

in front of you.

you must love dogs

she liked dogs.

dogs liked her.

people not so much.

and when they died,

the dogs,

she'd carry their ashes

and dust in small wooden

boxes with their

names on the lids.

but people were a

problem.

there was no unconditional

with them

which made for a long

and difficult life.

it was so hard to put

them on a leash

and keep them from

running away.

how to be famous

it seems these

days

that to be famous

is easy.

the larger your derriere is

the bigger

the paycheck.

talent is unnecessary,

as are brains,

or cleverness.

just boobs.

one song.

one movie,

one brief marriage

to someone in the news

and away you go

down the red carpet.

let me taste that

there's something wrong

with the thin people

reaching over the table

with a fork

and taking something off

of your plate

without so much as a polite,

do you mind?

they've usually ordered

salmon

and asparagus,

no bread, no butter,

no salt or sugar.

if you wanted the fried chicken.

get the chicken.

if you wanted what i'm

drinking, get that too.

they are quick to spoon

into your dessert.

before the waiter sets it

down. you see that look

in their eyes, and hear

the gurgle in their hungry

stomachs.

they can't wait to get home

where they can actually

eat behind closed doors.

low hanging fruit

do we shake the tree

to free

the fruit,

take a stick and swing,

do we reach up

to grab what's hanging low,

and say,

this will have to do.

i don't have time to climb

and get

what's best for me.

i can't remember

i wonder where

this  bruise came from.

what door did i collide with,

what wall

or ladder

did i bump into.

who was she that

hit me hard?

it's a patch of blue, turning

green.

it's sore.

i touch it and shake my head.

i should remember where

this pain

came from, but i don't.

perhaps, that's best.

i'll be more cautious now

to avoid more.

take a long look

you have to careful who

you let in the door

these days.

don't trust pretty,

or be swayed by a soft voice.

take a long look out the peep

hole, before

you turn the lock,

and crack it open.

be ready, with the club

and sword,

you keep in the corner.

we know what we like

we are creatures

of habit.

the morning cup,

the side we sleep on.

the way we sit

on the sofa when no one

is around.

the way we linger

in the tub,

how we cook our eggs,

stir our

drinks.

how we listen to 

the same

songs,

or go to the same show

or movie.

how many times have

you read

that same book of poems?

we know what we like

and stick to it.

staying in the dark

not everyone has a light on.

some stay in the dark

forever, never

lighting a candle,

let alone flicking the switch

on a small lamp

on the table.

it's easier not to know,

to not move forward

and out of the cave

of their own misfortune,

their own delusions

of who they are and what

the world might be.

be angry with me

i like when people are mad

at me.

finally, some honesty.

you know where you stand

with them.

anger pulls back the curtain,

opens the mouth

to what one really thinks.

be angry with me, it's fine.

we don't have

enough time

or days left to pretend

who we aren't.

three times a day

i tell

her to put some clothes on.

you're naked

as a jaybird, i tell her.

she says that all birds

are naked.

not really, i answer.

they have feathers.

don't you like me with

my clothes off?

of course i do.

i also like cake, but

i can't have it three

times a day.

getting the green light

we are all waiting

for the green light 

so that

we can go.

the caution yellow

is just not

good enough.

we need the green light

for the next job,

the next kiss,

the next love to press

yes, so that we can

move forward and

get on down the road.

coin into the fountain

we wish.

we toss coins into the well.

we close our eyes

when we see a shooting

star

and wish some more.

for luck we rub

the rabbit's tail.

we drop to our knees

and pray

for mercy.

if life was really that easy

and magical

there wouldn't

be a hell.

the lamp won't work

the light wobbles,

there's a loose wire somewhere

in the lamp.

i could take it apart,

read the diagram,

you tube it,

and go at it to make

things right.

but i'm tired of doing that

for everything

and person

that i come across that's

broken.

trash

is what it is.

begone.

sleep like no one's watching

live long enough

and this will happen.

you will join the masses

in all things.

there is no other way.

if you have a heart it

will be broken.

if you have a body,

it will crumble in the end.

pray that the mind

stays sharp,

the rest is inevitable.

so what is the answer?

live a good life.

an honest life. as

best you can,

don't get hurt and don't

hurt anyone.

sleep and live,

like no one's watching.

if i was younger

if i was younger.

i'd try

harder to be in love with you.

i'd bring you flowers,

chocolates,

i'd write you poems.

give you gifts.

i would call you and

we'd have long

talks on the phone, 

we'd lie in bed for hours

after making love

and share

what we thought of

the world.

if i was younger, i'd

even miss you

when you were gone,

i'd do all these things for you,

and more,

but i don't,

and i'm sorry.

five easy pieces

i saw

the movie when i was

17

in a crowded theater

in georgetown.

i don't remember

the name of the girl i

was with.

a cousin of a friend

of mine,

someone i would

never see again.

but the ending of

the movie

has stuck with me through

all these years.

i have felt that way

many times,

wanting to just go,

to let go,

to leave everything

behind

and start over.

the dull tip

there are days

when

the point is sharp,

when the words flow,

the pencil

moves easily across

the page,

and then there are

other days

when the dulled

tip, is round

and fat,

the lead resistant

to all the words

i want

and need to say.

it's then that i turn

to the red

soft saving grace,

of an eraser.

i can't keep a secret

i have a hard time

keeping

secrets, so please don't

tell me anything.

whatever you tell me

will not go into the vault,

but will be spilled

all over main

street.

i may write it in the sky.

so whatever you're

leaning over

to whisper into my ear,

it's best you just keep it

to yourself

unless you want the whole

world to hear.

the first time

the first time

is usually the best time.

the first

time you taste chocolate,

or bite

into stew that your

mother made,

the lick of an ice cream 

cone.

the swallow of a sweet

drink.

the first time,

is the best.

the first kiss. the first

love who steals

your heart.

the first time,

whatever follows, 

seems less.

where's my shovel?

we  talk about moving my

mother

into another grave.

perhaps one closer,

one beneath a shady tree

with a headstone

and a metal bench

for us to visit, and say

what's on our minds.

let's dig her up, he says.

maybe cremate her, put

her ashes in a jar, one

for each of us.

something for the mantle.

oh, how she must be bent

over in laughter, 

at the thought of it all.

out of mind

you go from switch to switch,

button

to dial

to knob.

off, off, off.

let the cacophony of noise

subside.

let the voices die.

don't preach to me anymore,

i know

enough already.

don't tell what to feel,

or who to vote for,

don't sway me with your

detergents

and pizza.

leave me be without intrusion.

get out of mind.

there's not enough

room for all of you.

just one will do,

and that would be mine.

and then there's us

we make a game of it

as we sit

in the dark bar, drinking our

gin and tonics.

the music is loud, the bartender

quick to fill

our empty glasses.

she whispers into my ear

and says what about them,

or her,

or him. that couple over there.

and i tell her,

he's russian, and she's going

to marry him

to keep him here,

but it won't last.

the young girl alone,

has run away from home,

see the bag next to her stool,

she has nowhere to go.

the couple

at the end of the bar

are too much in love

to even notice

that anyone else is here.

at some point

they'll come up for air

and eat their food gone cold.

the unshaven boys, almost

men, are looking for a good

time, but scared

of the blonde sitting perfectly

alone, pulling at the strands

of her long hair.

admiring her fading

beauty in the mirror.

they draw straws to see who will

ask her her name,

and see where it goes

from there.

and then there's us.

the stolen apple

to steal an apple

is a sin,

a small sin, especially if one

is hungry,

one easily forgiven

and forgotten.

but what about a thought

a phrase,

an idea snatched

from someone else's

book, or mouth,

or page.

is that too forgiven?

i hope so, because if not

i'm going to hell

on a speed pass.

the last party

leave your politics

at the door,

your religion too.

leave your dietary 

restrictions, your sober

ways, your

celibacy.

leave it all at the door.

i won't allow it in here.

not tonight, tonight

we are going

to be human, to lie

to one another

and tell the truth,

we're going

to make love, to become

friends, to disagree

and argue

and then make up.

we'll play music and dance.

we're going to eat until

we're full.

drink until the last bottle

is dry. we'll

laugh until our eyes tear up.

we're going to be young

again tonight,

we're far from being through.

loneliness

you see the loneliness 

in their eyes.

in the way they walk

towards home.

you see it in their faces

as the bus goes

by. 

fatigue

in the smear of windows

behind the cold fall

of rain.

you see it in men at bars,

nursing drinks

until three a.m., in the women

with their children

pushing forward.

you see the loneliness

in the teachers, the long day.

the traffic cop.

the whores in lipstick

walking

the plank each night.

you see it the salesman,

the maids,

the shopkeepers, the priests

in black.

each one alone,

in the end.

you see it in each 

and everyone,

and in your own face as

you stand before the mirror.

don't put a poem to music

don't put a poem to music.

don't drape yourself

in black and adjust the lights.

don't make yourself the center

of attention.

let the words suffice.

don't use your poetry voice.

don't dance, don't be a clown.

don't mourn

the loss in tears, in shouts,

in groans.

simply write it down.

use words that people understand.

no need to rhyme, no need

to use mythology or ancient

history. be accessible, not

an unsolvable puzzle.

don't write something that will

make people stop reading.

but if you do, don't stop.

to hell with them. it's your

life, your blank sheet of paper,

your heart, your pen.

could this be home

when you pass through small towns

heading west

past winchester and beyond

you wonder, not out loud,

so as not to worry your passenger,

but you wonder

if you could live there.

could you be happy in this place.

with its one main road,

the general store,

a barber shop, a cafe,

all with windows

gleaming in the morning light.

and there in the fields are horses.

there are weather vanes, rusted

and pointing on the peaks

of barns, there is tall grass

and playgrounds,

a clapboard church,

a school house.

could you live here, could this

be home.

you'll never know.

confrontation

i can discuss

or debate, or make my thoughts

known,

but i don't want to fight with you,

especially when

you're wrong.

you go your way and i'll

go mine.

let's not quarrel

any longer, why waste our

time.

august days

some days are longer

than others.

they drag out

like the last days in august.

full of heat

and sighs,

afternoon rains.

some

are brief moments in time.

all of the hours

rushing by.

a carousel spinning, 

we need  both i think

in order to survive.

punching in

i had a job once,

actually several jobs,

manual labor,

blue collar, brown collar,

sweaty dirty collar

jobs.

each one had a time clock

where you slid

your card into the slot

and it stamped

the date

and time that you checked in.

at the end of the day

you did the same thing.

it's been decades, but i can

still hear the thump of that machine,

the man

keeping track of me,

as i made a few

more dollars to press on

and stave off hunger.

i want my cup back

a month ago,

my neighbor knocks on the door.

he wants to borrow

a cup of extra virgin olive oil.

i don't even know his name,

or his wife's name.

who are these people?

i hear the dog barking,

the baby crying, but i never

get a hi from them.

now they want olive oil.

i shrug and say why not.

i'm really trying to be a good

neighbor lately.

wait here i tell him then go

get a cup of olive oil.

that was a month ago.

i want my cup back.

where we go to die

i think about moving to Florida.

all that sunshine.

all those oranges

all those women strolling the beach

in bikinis.

and then i think of the four

or five people that i know

that have moved there, all of them

dead now.

so maybe i'll hold off on making

plans to move to Boca Raton,

or Tampa.

give it another year or two in

the snow, and then maybe.

what's next

i buy a bag full of nutrional

yeast

on amazon

and two bottles of Dano's

seasoning.

i never heard of either until

yesterday

when looking at another

endless stream of keto videos.

i'm a sucker for whatever's next.

and that's why i'm dating you.

let it grow

i'm done with pulling weeds.

let them

do whatever they want.

at least they're green

and filling the yard.

whatever is on the outside

of the fence is now

inside. i'm letting God

be my gardener, and while

He's at it, he can take another

shot at my life.

taking the low road

have you been faithful?

when it comes to love,

the answer would be yes.

when it comes to uncertainty,

no.

perhaps we're all this way.

defining our morality

as we go.

justifying guilt

and  taking

the low road.

the next blank page

put the bag of ifs down.

the boxes of maybe.

erase the question marks

and replace them with periods.

move on

to the next sentence, the next

page.

stop trying to rewrite and correct

the last day.

go on.

dip your pen into the ink

and proceed to have a future,

write it clearly on

the next blank page.

over night

you wake up

with the taste of last night in your mouth.

the salt of love,

the spice

of lust.

the overindulgence

of her body.

she's asleep,

in dream. but not far.

not too far

that you aren't imagining

things.

this is real.

you can smell her soul.

her skin.

the perfume on the pillow.

you could

wake her if you chose to do so.

you could reach over

and touch her arm,

or whisper into her ear

that you're leaving now,

but that would ruin everything

it's better this way.

to slip out.

to glide back into your life

without her

and see what happens next.

the funeral buffet

someone once said

to me at a funeral, well. it is what it is.

i looked at him

and said, what?

what does that mean?

and he says, you know,

it is.

what it is.

no, i said, i don't get it.

what is,

what is what it is.

that's the stupidest phrase

i've ever heard in my life.

this person just died.

people are grieving, crying,

beside themselves

and that's the best you can do

is say that inane

nonsense.

you don't have the intelligence,

the articulation

to express some sort

of sadness, or sorrow

for a human life leaving

this planet forever?

nope.

that's all i got, he said.

you know? it just is what it is.

come on.

everyone says it. hey,

are you going to the buffet

dinner after the service?

i heard they have lobster

and water chestnuts wrapped

in maple bacon.

i start my day with a smoothie

what's wrong, she asks

on the phone, you sound so tired.

i am i tell her.

very tired, but there's more.

what?  she says.

what else?

i'm kind of bitter too

and holding in a lot of anger

and resentment.

i've been having ruminations

about the witch

i was married to for a short while.

oh, my she says.

drinking her strawberry smoothie.

i hear the slurping of her

straw at the bottom of her glass.

have you tried yoga

and meditation?

it works for me.

no. i tell her. it's been mostly

gin and tonics.

slice of lime.

i see, she says. well for me,

every morning, i go outside

and get into the lotus

position and thank the world,

the universe

for all that it's giving me.

i get in touch with nature

and my inner child.

i pray to that higher power,

that some call God, or whatever

and make my peace

with Him, or Her, or

whatever

and then i start my day,

making an organic smoothie

with whatever fruit is in season.

you're making me

even more depressed, i tell her.

gotta go. namaste.

hand me the knife

at a certain stage in life

you're done with celebratory

cakes. the wedding cake,

the birthday cake,

the graduation cake,

the retirement cake.

no need to count the candles

anymore. just go with one.

stuck in the middle

like a soldier. don't

even light it.

no need to sing, or toast,

or make a wish.

if any of them had come

true, you wouldn't

be where you are today.

no more wishes,

just blow it out,

then hand me the knife.

her bird feeder

the bird feeder

she placed in the yard

brought too many birds.

birds of all feathers,

all sizes

and colors.

each taking a turn

at the green metal

box swaying

on the pole.

it was chaos.

confusion. bitterness

and hunger

like i'd never seen before.

it was game on

from the start.

and then it came to me.

this is who she was.

what she brings

to the table.

to the yard.

to my life.

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.