instant oats

we are in a world

of instant

gratification.

from the micro wave

to the phone.

what we want,

we want now.

we are restless in any line.

hand on the horn.

we desire love

in a package, add water

and stir.

we don't want to wait

nine months

for anything to be

born.

the paint can't dry

fast enough. please,

read the book to me.

i don't have the time

anymore.

said once, or twice

said once, or twice,

the can of worms is open.

too late to close it.

the thought never far from

her mind.

the pills, or knife.

a swan dive

from some perch high.

she's already there, 

in some strange way.

but living out the string,

of her dark cloud days.

the mind and body

the body

keeps score. the worry is shown

on your face,

the pain

in your chest is just

you being

a mother, or father.

a friend.

the mind will

turn

inside you.

keeping you tired, or

out of breath.

we bend to our emotions,

absorbing 

the fears

the distress.

when you blow things up

when the dynamite blows

up the old

building.

turning it into a cloud

of dust and metal.

a hundred years of debris

now clumped

together, i stare at

the billboard of what's to

come.

it's a shiny new building

with blue skies in

the windows,

trees, a fountain.

you have to go there

well before 

you blow things up.

please don't come around

i wish i could think

better of her.

i wish i could clear my mind

of truth

and think

love,

and think forever,

think

good.

but it just won't happen.

i've decided

on who she really is.

i'm fixed

and certain on what went

down.

there is no changing

my mind.

so please.

don't whisper in my ear,

don't try to persuaded me

with affection.

please don't 

come around.

chosen

she takes her clothes off

in front of me.

the blouse, the dress,

what lies beneath. 

she takes her hair down.

in her bare feet

she stands there in the slender

light of night.

the street lamp

through the shades.

she's unashamed,

she's quiet.

she's been here before,

you wonder,

am i one of many.

or chosen.

will this night lead to others.

or in the morning

will

we part as just another

lover found

around some bend.

this too is part of it

it's a near empty

bar,

the waitress, the tender,

the bus

boy

the old man in the corner,

remembering

with a glass of scotch

better times.

but then there's us.

two strangers,

across a round table.

you can hardly

hear the music, or the sound

of the water

outside the window.

the past is brought up,

the unseen future.

little is mentioned of now.

this warm drink

with the ice gone, this bad

food.

this place in the middle

of nowhere.

it's a moment in time,

soon forgotten.

this too is a part of it,

somehow.

by the time we got to woodstock

i was a roadie

for the band,

ten years after, at woodstock.

i helped them

with the jack daniels

and drum sticks,

guitar pics

when alvin lee would go wild

on a song.

it's where i met my wife,

the first of many.

moon glow was her name.

someone in the crowd,

named Jimmy Jesus married us.

we made up our vows

on the spot. using beer tabs

for rings.

she had eyes

like christmas ornaments.

a bright blue,

long straight hair

the color of wheat

and legs that went from

here to there.

i felt like i was always

talking to her belly button.

we had fun, but

it didn't last long.

three days, exactly,

then she road off with 

jimi hendrix as soon as he

finished his version of

the star spangled banner.

who could blame her?

i think i saw her working

a wal-mart the other day,

as a cashier, still as happy

as ever. and strangely still

wearing my ring.

no sugar tonight

i pack up all the sugar

in my house.

i'm done with sugar.

brown, white,

granulated, powdered.

confectionary..

i'm done with it.

so i take them all to

the church, where

Father Smith takes

the bags from me, and

blesses me.

he rubs his belly beneath

his robe and sings

no sugar tonight

in your coffee, no sugar

tonight in your tea, etc. 

ala the guess who,

then winks. 

does whatever a spider can

she told me

she was divorced, then

after a few

drinks,

she was separated,

little did i know

that they were separated

by drywall,

not residence.

it was a long drop off

the balcony

when he came home

early one night,

but i was spiderman

in those days, leaving

as sticky web

behind me, why stay

and fight?

when the fish don't bite

some days

the fish don't bite.

no matter

how tasty the worm is,

the fake fly

on the hook that you pull

and snap,

left to right.

they want none of it.

it's understandable.

we all want the real

thing, at some point

in our life.

it's grown on me

it grows on me

this lawn, this unkempt

pile of weeds.

it's green and green is

good.

thick in places, there's

something that may

be a tree,

or very strong bush

wanting to be one.

i'm sure there's poison

ivy out, there

as well as snakes,

and mice, and whatever

else hops or crawls

over or beneath

the painted fence.

i welcome them, as i sit

and read.

i've let it go so long that

it's grown on me.

don't let them lead

don't let them lead.

don't let

them pull you around,

don't let them

censor you,

or tell you what to believe,

don't let them

make you say yes,

when you want to say no,

putting words and thoughts

into your mouth

that aren't yours,

don't let them change

the music,

the channel.

the shirt you're wearing.

don't let their lies

change the truth that you know.

if they don't like you exactly

the way you are,

you don't need them

in your life.

run fast, run far.

room 101

everyone

has there own room

101.

a place where the worst

fear

is realized.

a fear so deep

and large

that it can't be fought

off.

it's the line once

crossed

that kills you,

or weakens

you

to the point of being

forever lost.

i know mine, i've been

there

a few times,

somehow i walked

out, bruised

and battered, but

leaving it behind me,

forever locked.

muffy dubois

my real estate agent,

blanche dubois,

who they call muffy,

wants me to sell quickly.

come on, she says.

prices have never been this high.

you'll make a killing.

let me handle it.

let me put a sign in the yard.

you don't need to do a thing,

but get out of here.

pack your bags and go.

we can dim the lights on this

mess here.

but go where,

to where, i ask her.

where would i go.

beats me, she says, i don't know.

don't you have friends

in florida?

his side lost

i still can see him

in his

pressure knit socks

above his knees,

sitting in the big chair,

by the window,

sipping

tea.

setting his book on

world war two

down to greet me,

his side having lost.

a new bruise

is bandaged on his face

from the latest fall,

his cap is on

as if he might go fishing,

or sailing today,

a shawl

around his boney

shoulders.

sunglasses to shade

those shifting eyes.

he smiles and nods

with a row

of broken teeth, it's

been a hard life.

but he's still able to get

up and pour you a gin

and tonic,

cut you a slice of cheese

to eat.

let's have some fun

so what do you like to do

for fun,

she asks me

on the call.

i sigh. i yawn.

it's not what you're

doing, it's who

you're doing it with

i respond.

i shake my head.

oh, it's a long list,

i tell her.

i like to jump out of planes

when the weather

is good.

wrestling sharks is fun,

or alligators.

i like to hike up 

Mt. Everest

without a shirka.

deep sea diving is one

of my favorite things.

sometimes i go up

into hot air balloons

around the power lines,

always exciting,

before the boom.

and you?

same, she says, same

as you.

the slow boil

it's a gradual thing.

the heat on low,

the flames barely licking

the pot

as you bathe

and swim

in what feels like

safe water.

but before long, it comes

to a boil,

and it's too late to

save yourself.

you're cooked,

you're done,

a dish,

she made to order.

the throw away poem

you can throw this one away.

it's about nothing.

no wise thoughts,

no epiphany,

no moral to the story.

for in this one there is no

story.

sometimes you need a break,

from yourself,

to go out to the back

yard and rake,

and rake and rake,

to ponder

the many leaves,

that have fallen,

not unlike

so many friends and lovers

that have

fallen as well.

(sorry, i can't help myself)

but then there's light

when i need

a miracle, some divine

intervention.

a true answer,

i usually get it.

it's a long way

down that dark

road of night

to reach a point of

complete surrender.

but then,

there's light.

you can't carry everything

you can't carry everything

with you.

you have to set

things down

and leave them there.

the world is too heavy

to bear.

quit lifting, quit trying

to understand

each glance, each word.

stop looking into

the eyes of others for

what isn't there.

set things down, 

lesson the load

and move on,

to yourself be fair.

the first yellow leaf

the first yellow leaf

of wet

fall,

is a gem on the glass

of the window.

the veins a lost green,

but still

golden

as the light pours

through.

how can you not

believe that there is more

to this world

than me,

than you.

the future is not what it used to be

there was a plan once.

you wrote it

down on a sheet of paper

when young.

along the way,

changes were made,

lines erased.

good things

happened, bad things too,

as can be expected.

but you imagined how

it would be.

what your life would

look like, you believed

that to live without dreams,

was to live a life of

mediocrity.

and then the future

happened.

reaching the shore

the sand

is no different this year.

this late

into the fall.

cool at night,

warm at day.

how nice it is to reach

the shore.

with chair and book.

a few days

away.

it was like this fifty years,

ago, and i imagine

it won't change.

but i will

as the shadows get

longer

at the end of my day.

at sunrise

the thought

that nothing really matters,

crosses your

mind,

as you make your bed

at sunrise.

you pour water into

the vase of flowers.

you open

the windows.

you sit with your coffee

and write.

you go on, we go on,

don't we?

best put thoughts like

nothing matters,

out of our minds,

or little

will get done in this

life.

carrying water

how could she know,

where the light is,

her hands

on a post,

the wall, the rail leading

down the hall.

i hear the creak

of steps

as she goes slowly down

the flight.

i never heard her

rise, or felt

the touch of her lips

in fond goodbye.

it worries me,

until she returns,

carrying water

in the light.

is ernie dead too?

is ernie dead too,

i ask

the little bird who

flew onto my sill.

no.

he's still alive.

somehow.

funny, how the good

go early

and the bad ones

survive.

some are never pleased

it's shame about

so and so,

we all agree. she had

it all.

a man

that loved her

unconditionally.

or so it seemed.

a house, a home, money.

a stove.

a bed to lie in.

all those comfort things.

but she couldn't

keep her dress on.

and so it goes, some

people are never pleased.

where is she?

her husband went cheap

on my mother's burial.

pinching the penny hard,

and now we can't find

where she lies.

resting at last.

no marker, no stone,

no bench to sit beside.

i can almost

hear her laughing

as we wander

the green hills.

still no visitors on sunday,

she grins and sighs.

the neighbors

she liked her

booze.

it gave her courage

and energy

to throw shoes at

her husband.

we could hear them

fighting

through the shared

wall.

oh, the words we

learned

with our glasses pressed

to our ears

and plaster.

it hardly crosses your mind

how is it possible

that what

meant so much, means so little

now.

the game,

the job, a love gone sour.

you spent so

much energy and time

thinking about

those things.

revisiting them

over and over again,

but now they hardly

cross your mind.

the welcome home

i cling

to her, she clings to me.

this new

dog.

this new life,

with a warm

heart

and bark.

a tongue that wants

to kiss.

how generous

she is with love

and comfort

when i come

home

from a long day,

why can't we all

be

like this?

sunday morning coffee

she's a good listener.

i can hardly stop telling her

a story

each sunday morning 

when we have coffee.

she's there. all there.

her green blue eyes shining.

it's a gift

that she has.

interested, it seems, even

in my embellished

tales of life.

i'm not certain that she wants

to hear me talk,

but i push that notion aside

and have it.

you're not there yet

the first writing workshop

i took,

the instructor said

to me.

you're not there yet.

no one in your life has

died yet, have

they?

you haven't lost a job,

or been divorced.

there has been no major

trauma

in your life, yet, has there?

your writing will

change in time as more

years pile up.

and he was right.

so right.

clowns

i can be around a clown

for about

five minutes.

all that pan cake

make up.

all that pretend.

the surreal personality,

the flower

that squirts.

the nose that squeaks,

the floppy shoes

and red hair.

dating is not what it

used to be.

the herd has indeed

thinned.

find the exit first

funny how we are.

thinking that love is unconditional

and forever.

but it's not.

it's not even close

to that.

it's a strange drug, a temporary

state of insanity.

always,

as in a theater,

find the exit before

the show begins.

just in case.

coughing all day

nearly all day i have a tiny

sliver

of an almond stuck

mid way in my throat.

i cough

for hours, thinking it's

almost gone,

but it's not.

i drink water.

i drink coffee, nothing

seems to work,

i gargle ginger ale,

nothing seems to loosen

it from it's

stuck place.

but all day i have

the best seats

all to myself

on the bus

and subway.

the elevators are just me

and the lines are suddenly

shortened

at the coffee shops too.

spanish leather boots

we are trendy bunch

of living things.

following

the current way of dressing.

i remember when

yellow was in.

then polka dots.

stripes too.

paisley. bell bottoms.

the thin tie, the wide tie,

the nehru jacket.

polyester and nylon.

bright blue

men's shirts like blouses

with pictures

of galleon ships on them.

i remember a pair of spanish

leather boots i

once had. boots without

a horse.

crazy times

the seventies were.

there it is

the places i haven't

been to

will be there next year

and the next.

someone else will visit

and be pleased

or underwhelmed

perhaps as i would have

been.

i stare at the picture

of the grand canyon

and shrug.

the ancient ruins of Rome.

am i less of a person

for never being there?

the Eiffel Tower too.

should i go stand

at the base

and have my picture

taken as proof? maybe

one day.

some future day, some

day in the distant

future i'll go there,

maybe with you.

i've learned a lot from last year

at 93 the man

shakes his head and confides

to his friend,

how he was such

a dope at 92,

the things he's learned

in just one short

year.

he's glad that time is

behind him.

he's wiser now.

mistakes were made,

but never again.

hit the ground running

you need courage

to leave.

you need guts. you need to be

at end of your rope.

at the ledge

of tomorrow

willing to leap.

all you have to do is let

go.

let go.

the drop is not that far.

two feet,

at most.

hit the ground running

and don't look back.

we'll make more

they know what

they're doing.

general mills, and wonder

bread. nabisco,

bryers and the rest,

they know

we like salt,

we like sugar.

we like to over eat,

and eat when we're

not even hungry,

they know we're never

quite satisfied.

so eat,

they'll make more.

reach down deep into

the bag of poison,

and grow larger,

open the box of the lab

made dough, loosen that

belt another notch,

three meals a day,

snacks in between,

at midnight you'll

be rubbing your belly,

at the fridge door.

don't call me red

don't call me red,

she told me,

first thing out of the gate.

just because

i have this strawberry

blonde hair, which

isn't red, don't go there.

i'm tired

of being called red.

ever since i was a freckled

face little girl

in school.

everyone called me

red. i'm not red, i'm

Erin.

the angry cook

she was an angry

cook.

adding salt and pepper

without

a measuring cup.

chopping with

with a heavy hand

on the board,

stirring hard

the pot.

eat, eat,

she'd say, i slaved all

day over

this meal.

sit down.

wash your hands.

it's hot,

eat now.

i put a lot of fucking

love into

this dish.

now eat, because

the kitchen's closed

after this.

taking the long way home

what does your navigation

system

know.

taking you straight to your

destination.

steering you along

the less congested roads.

straight there,

the obvious route,

but you want to go the

way you know.

past the old school.

the restaurants,

the tree lined streets

where you used to walk

when in love.

you want to go through

the roundabout, then

up hill past the ice cream

shop. the old folks home.

along the banks

of the shore.

what does  your navigation

know, it has no memory

of what came

before.

dinners are for closers

i run into my friend jimmy

at the dry cleaners,

he's getting 

his white pants cleaned after

spilling tomato

sauce on them

when a woman

from plenty of fish 

threw a plate of linguine at him

for making fun of Oprah.

that's it, he says.

i'm done with buying women

dinners on those

stupid dating sites.

from now on, dinners are for

closers.

what do you mean, i ask him,

as i put my t-shirts up

on the counter.

no more free meals or

three glasses of wine

until we're getting busy.

what do you mean by getting busy?

you know, he says,

who's your daddy, that sort

of thing.

oh, you mean sex, i whisper.

yes. he whispers back. sex.

i don't mind feeding them

if there's something in it for me,

but most of the time,

it's one and done

and i'm out a hundred and twenty

bucks.

i never see them again.

so that's it, dinner is for closers.

it's my new policy.

great, i tell him, let me know how

that works out.

maybe we can do a march

downtown one day

to support the movement.

hey Joe, i yell to the guy

behind the counter, 

go easy on the starch

this time, okay?

these are my best t-shirts.

the dead white mouse

i have a dream

about stepping on a little

white mouse

and killing it.

he gets under my shoe

and squish.

i'm horrified when i wake up.

i look at the bottom

of my shoe.

no fur or blood there.

no mouse whiskers.

what the hell

was that about, i think

as i pull out my dream

dictionary

it says that dreaming about

a white mouse

means you will have a long

and happy marriage.

yikes. the mouse is dead,

the dream

actually makes sense.

let's give it another shot

i used to do the second

chance thing.

the maybe

we should try again scenario,

maybe we should give it

another shot

and be more

than just friends, let's

bring the romance back,

be a couple.

we're both older now,

wiser, and better people,

there was love there once,

why can't there be

love again?

we'll have ground rules,

and boundaries,

no more lying to each other,

or cheating,

or gaslighting.

no more old boyfriends

and husbands, or girlfriends

and wives still in the picture.

what do you say?

i'm game if you are, i tell her,

to which she says,

what are you nuts?

as we disperse

as the  crowd

disperses, age finally a factor,

the basketball crew,

we stay

in touch,

badly,

as men often do.

willing to go lone wolf

into that dark

good night.

friends for life, but

with little effort to stay

in touch.

no 

let's get together tonight,

as women often

say and do.

men are different. 

which is a surprise, 

to some,

but no epiphany to you.

hair is overrated

when my hair thinned

and turned

grey with increasing age,

i went into a slight panic,

this would be the end

of hair gel and combs,

hair dryers.

barbers. no more

standing in front of the mirror

to get the wave

or part just right,

no more cowlick to pat down.

how would life change

without a style,

other than bald?

would i still be loved

and adored

as i once was with 

a full head of hair,

or would all 

that affection be gone?

and then she whispered

into my air,

don't worry, my dear,

hair is overrated, she said, 

while gently rubbing 

my scalp, convincing me

i had been wrong.

the heirlooms

it was only a twenty

dollar

lamp

from target, marked

down

half price.

they needed the shelf

room

for christmas.

but when it fell

from the table

with one

leg held up by a match

book cover,

she cried

and asked me i could

fine someone to glue

it back together.

it's an heirloom,

she said.

my sister gave it to me

before she died.

it's all i have left of her,

except for

the toaster oven,

a cast iron skillet and

her frozen apple pie.

distant shores

let the dead rest

though

they are still living.

let them go on with

their own lives.

there is nothing more

to think or say.

cut the strings, the cord,

the rope,

break the chain

and lift anchor,

then sail away.

distant and better 

shores await you.

the belly of time

even the wood

of the glossed cabinet

smelled

of the house, her row

house

with a marble stoop

in south philly.

she'd raise her stick

and pull

at the chains to keep

the clock ticking.

though never with the right

time, but

soon at some full hour,

from the belly of

the clock,

a chime would

boom

and out would come

the little red

bird on his platform

to sing you

a tune.

sirens in the night

there are sirens

in the night.

screams of police cars

and ambulances.

they sound close, then

eventually

far away.

they become part of your

dream,

part of your next day.

wondering

what happened.

who died,

who survived.

you'll never know

what it was all about,

like many things.

you just go on,

and soon forget

it ever happened.

paradise, sign here

a brochure arrives in the mail

from florida.

on the cover

are people smiling with perfect

teeth, and tans,

and hair.

silver now, but brushed and

combed as

they were going to a broadway

play.

but they're not.

they're playing tennis,

and golf.

pickle ball and bowling.

when you open the brochure

there are more pictures

of elderly people having fun.

laughing.

drinking, eating. 

dancing. the look

in their eyes is one of bliss,

not fear.

they are always waving to one

another.

then the next page shows you

were they live.

each house like the others down

the grid of streets,

and lanes, courts

and freshly named boulevards.

all fitted around 

the man made lakes

and pools.

there is so much green,

palm trees, blue skies.

all that seems to be missing

are headstones.

joining a think tank

my friend jimmy

invites me to join a think tank

he belongs to.

cool. i say.

what do you think about.

well, he says.

not a lot of thinking goes on.

and if it does it's when

some hottie comes into

the bar and we pause

to give her a rating.

one to ten, but

we mostly catch up with

each other

and discuss women and beer.

stuff like that. cars, 

how to work on our abs

and biceps, you know?

wow, i say. i haven't seen my

abs since the nixon administration.

he laughs.

it's a really low brow think

tank, he says.

we're not talking finance,

or politics, science 

any of that brain numbing stuff.

you don't need a college

degree or even

a GED. but two of the guys

have actually read a book or two.

self help books

before their wives divorced them.

we meet a six at Mike's Grill

at the end of the bar.

it sounds like happy hour,

i tell him.

no, he says. not at all.

don't call it that.

it's a think tank.

i'm non profit now

so many

work for non profit companies.

a labor of love

and good will.

and yet

they get paid.

how does that work?

i guess i should

say the same.

forgetting to turn off the lights

we make mistakes,

we all do.

we're only human,

right?

taking a bite of something

sour, thinking

it's sweet, we take

a drink

of something

gone south,

spitting it quickly

out.

we turn left when

we should have turned

right,

we wake up 

on the wrong side 

of the bed

with the wrong person,

mistakes

get made.

we go up to sleep,

but forget to turn

off the lights.

beats me

what's your plan,

the man

asks me.

where do you see yourself

in five years?

where will

you live,

what state do you

see yourself

retiring in,

when will you quit,

and start

collecting your

retirement checks,

settle back and relax.

beats me, i tell him.

just thinking

about coffee right now

and getting to work.

the happy people

you want to slap

the happy people. the ones

who tell you

to turn the frown

upside down.

the positive thinkers.

the preachers,

the ones who say

get back up on the horse,

it's not how you

fall down, but

how you get back up.

there's more fish in the sea.

you're blessed,

look at all you have,

there are a lot more

people worse off

than you, or me.

just yesterday i saw

someone limping

down the street,

pushing a grocery cart

with all his things. be

thankful you aren't him.

now let's see that smile,

that famous grin.

who are you?

neither of us

is who what the other person

thought we were,

she says to me,

as she boxes her

thirty tubes of lipstick

and mascara up,

her laxatives, hair dye,

and crazy meds,

for the move back

to her ex-husband's house.

you got that right,

i tell her.

i can still see my shoes

we worry

about our weight. pinching

our bellies

after a meal.

standing sideways

in the hall mirror.

our shirt has popped

a button,

and the pants are split

down the middle,

but we can still see

our shoes

and tie them when need be.

so that's good. but

maybe it's time

to put the donut down

and say hello

to lettuce,  retire

the idea of constant

snacking and three meals.

and to what end?

i care less these days

about a lot of things.

i don't watch the news anymore.

hardly spend

a minute on the tube,

other than an interesting

movie, or show.

let it get cold. let it snow.

rain,

whatever.

i'm good with it these days.

traffic

means nothing.

if i'm late, i'm late, deal

with it.

the worry of money is over,

a house.

done.

clothes, things.

i'm good.

i don't need a gourmet

meal anymore,

just boil me a couple of

eggs,

or bake me a chicken.

love, over rated.

sort of sick of love

and all the drama it brings.

politics, war, crime....it never

changes, or ends.

death. and divorce,

i've seen enough of that for

one lifetime,

why worry?

get some sleep. have a drink.

read a book.

make love.

it's strange the things i've

worried about for most of

my life,

and to what end?

stealing tuna

when i see the old woman

in the long

coat stealing a can of tuna fish

in the grocery store,

she sees me

looking at her

and says,

it's for my cat.

try the salmon too, i say

to her,  but

she shakes her head

and says

no, too much mercury.

staring into the mirror

we are all addicted

to something.

struggling

to get whole with

a substance, a food, a drink,

a drug.

sex.

our phone,

our work, our money,

our image.

there is a little narcissism

in all of us.

it's how we stay alive,

soothing our

souls,

polishing the apple

of self

daily, but hopefully

realizing that

the mirror is neither

friend or foe,

just a shallow reflection

of who we

really are.

trying to get the cap off

your head is ready to explode

when you 

try to understand God

and his mysterious

methods of running

this world.

or is He.

is He involved, or just sitting

back.

on vacation maybe?

sometimes prayers

get answered and other times

not a peep comes out of Him.

if he's all powerful and all that

why the pain,

the suffering,

disease, murder,

the traffic in the Lincoln

Tunnel?

what's up with all that.

i know, i know, free will.

always with the free will.

we have a choice in all things,

or do we.

aren't we predestined,

wasn't all of this preordained?

as i said. it's hard to wrap

one's head around it all.

meanwhile i can't even

get the cap off this

tylenol bottle.

do i turn, squeeze and pull, or

twist and push?

getting what's due

there could be a hell,

a heaven too.

i'd like to think that both

are true.

a place

for good people

and one for bad.

it makes sense, when you

think about it.

karma and all that,

everyone getting

what's due.

when, she says

the jar

of blueberry jam

stares at me when i come home

from work

rummaging about

for something to eat

or not eat.

it's never been opened.

i pick up the squat

glass jar

and look a the label.

still good.

when, she says to me.

when will you 

open me

and spread me on a slice

of toast.

when?

down goes face book

shockingly,

facebook

was down for a few hours.

i heard screaming

down the block.

the woman next door

was pulling her hair

out by the roots,

there was crying and

gnashing of teeth.

people were unable

to post their

baby pictures or

the cakes they just

baked.

now they'll have

to start all over.

pose once more with

the fish

they caught.

the heart they drew

in the sand.

memes were back up

from here

to Katmandu. 

civilization was teetering

on an edge.

it was a catastrophe 

never before

witnessed in the history

of mankind.

nothing could compare

to this horrific event,

not the Titanic going down,

or even Pompeii 

being swamped 

with hot lava.

(is there cold lava?)

when in Rome

while in Rome

she falls in love with a

handsome man

giving tours

of the city.

the churches,

the ruins,

the catacombs

below the streets.

she's only there for

a week,

so she knows she has

to speed things up,

and doesn't mind how

he skips to second base

on the first date.

cognitive dissonance

our minds play

tricks on us.

they get stuck.

they relive and rewrite

the years, or even days

behind us.

they keep

us in places we don't

want to be,

remembering wrongs

as if they

were right.

it's a strange thing,

this brain of ours.

it's a struggle to grasp

the truth

from time to time,

a terrible fight.

the last goodbye

there are people that you

will never see again,

through no fault of your own,

or theirs.

it's just the way it is,

the way the world spins.

geography. age.

circumstances beyond

our control.

each going off to

his or her own world.

the last goodbye is 

the last goodbye

and there's little one

can do about it, but remember

them well, and if needed

have a good cry.

heads will roll

once the lie is told

and caught,

there is no hope in

returning to

what it once was,

whatever that might

have been.

the lie

is the knife, the gun.

the guillotine

all in one. 

it's a clean swipe

upon the neck of this

relationship.

the head will roll.

stand back 

and let the blade fall.

it's wise to not wait

for the next lie to be told.

egg salad sandwich

i grew up on

wonder bread and  

crudely cut slabs

of bologna

swiped with french's yellow

mustard.

then there was peanut butter

and jelly, washed down

with whole milk, of course.

and then the  rare but gourmet

sandwich of egg or

tuna salad which

involved parental cooking,

a bowl,

a knife, a fork.

a delicate affair needing

a napkin or sleeve

with which to wipe

one's mouth.

who's directing this film?

is it a farce

or a tragedy,

a romance or comedy.

is it epic

or just another run

of the mill life,

born, live, death,

maybe a few kids

along the way.

school and jobs.

a dog, a cat.

a wife.

who's directing this

film.

cecil b. demille,

or 

and unknown with a

hand held camera

and no lights.

tequila and shrimp

it's a strange dream

as dreams

often

are after eating

undercooked shrimp

and 

washing it down

with tequila.

everyone is wearing

a hat,

but with no clothes on,

we're at the beach

and 

there's a band

playing music from the 60's.

donna reed is there.

so is vivien leigh.

marlon brando is up

in the lifeguard chair.

people are dancing.

it's christmas time

and someone has put

a tree up.

the sun is covered

with clouds,

and the ocean is rolling

in with enormous

blue waves.

i like this dream and

feel sad when it ends,

waking up

and rubbing the sand out

of my eyes.

feeding the women on match dot com

i'd like to get you know you better,

she says,

after our third date

in a relationship going nowhere.

you know, she says,

before we go any further.

do you understand?

the waiter brings the check

which makes her suddenly

run to the bathroom.

i wait for her to come back then

i take out my wallet and

pay another hundred and twenty

five dollars for our

dinner. 

do you know what i mean

about not going any further,

she says.

i smile. of course i do buttercup.

good she says, then asks 

the waiter for a doggy box

to put her dinner in that

she hardly touched.

i can make four meals out

of this for the week, she says.

thank you so much.

are we good for next saturday.

there's a new restaurant in town

i'd like to try out.

why don't i just take you

to safeway, i tell her,

and you can buy groceries instead.

the ticking bomb

i see a pattern here.

getting in the wrong line

at the bank

or the grocery store,

the one where the machine

breaks down,

or someone needs a price

check on

a bottle of alka seltzer

in some far off aisle.

i see a pattern.

taking the short cut

home that becomes the long

cut, with an endless

line of orange cones.

a flagman steering you back

to where you once were

a half an hour ago.

i see a pattern here.

picking something off

the menu

that keeps you in the bathroom

making impossible

vows to God until dawn. or

picking the person

to be with, who turns out

to be an inevitable

ticking bomb.

it's official

when a friend says,

a formerly free spirited

friend, who was

once the life of party, says

i'm not sure

about going out for a drink

and dinner.

it's dark so early now

and besides that it

might rain.

my knee has been acting up.

do they have valet parking?

should i bring

an umbrella.

a coat for the cold?

do they have a gluten

free menu?

were reservations made?

the white flag goes up,.

it's official.

old age has arrived.

outside the lines

you hear

lines like stay in your lane,

color within

the lines.

be who you are,

etc.

people don't want you

to be someone

other than what

they expect you to be.

it throws them off.

they thought they had

you all figured out

and now, it's

all for naught.

the box on the shelf

in time

we compartmentalize

our past.

we have to.

we can't go on

in any other way.

living with grief,

or sorrow

each day.

we have to put things

in a box

and slide them onto

some shelf

where they will collect

dust

and finally be tossed

aside because at last

we've met 

a better love in

someone else.

her vacation

i used to ask my mother,

why don't

you take

a vacation, to which she would

reply.

i'm on one, then point

towards her garden

outside.

she'd show me her sewing

room,

the puzzle on the big

table she was working on.

the box of photos she

was arranging in an album,

all scattered on the floor,

then she'd go the stove

to stir a large pot

of red sauce and turn

some music on.

infinite and few

how many stars

do you think they're are,

she asks.

how many grains of

sand.

how many lives

have been born,

then lost.

how many loves

have there been and

won?

infinite and few,

i reply.

survival

we have to leave

behind

so much

when moving on.

to get out of the battle,

and live again.

to survive.

we have

to drop from our

hands.

all the things we

once thought mattered.

even you, is

left behind.

not everyone can be saved

to save the ship,

and everyone on it,

you have to lessen the weight,

throw things

overboard

no matter what the cost

the value of

the freight.

your life is more important

than these bags,

these boxes, these crates.

don't go down

with the ship.

swim ashore if you have

to. but not everyone can be

saved.

if you were God

so what would you do

if you were God

for a day,

or less. how about an hour.

one hour

and you have all

the power that's possible

to possess.

where do you begin.

the poor, the sick,

the hungry.

maybe start with the rich

and get them on board.

early monday

i see a bird

tugging at a reluctant

worm half

in the dirt.

the bird looks at me

and sighs,

it shakes it's head.,

then goes back to it.

some days are harder

than others

i want to say, but don't

and just walk

away.

self portrait

i'd like to paint your portrait

she tells me

if you agree

to be my subject

for a while.

i see something in your

eyes that intrigues me.

mirth and compassion,

kindness even.

i see a so much of 

your world

inside. 

so i say yes,

then send her a few poems

to peruse,

but after reading them,

she suddenly

changes her mind.

she was right half the time

she decided her life

by flipping a coin

into the air.

heads she goes here,

tails she goes there.

what school,

where to live,

who to date, who to

marry, what to eat,

or drink, or dress to wear.

the coin was always in

the air.

i asked her out for coffee

the other day,

and she said, maybe,

hold on

and threw the quarter

up before slapping

it down on her palm.

heads means yes,

she said.

and tails means no.

let's see.

maybe it's the red shirt

funny

how some people you just

don't take

a liking to.

a bad vibe,

a gut feeling. the way they

pat you

on the back,

or talk loudly.

maybe it's their red shirt,

whatever the case

may be,

it's a horrible thing

to not like

someone,

but it's almost like

you have no choice

in the matter.

things will slow down

you tell yourself

that soon things will slow down.

by fall

or winter, or by

next spring.

but instead it speeds up

even more.

more

begets more

and the carousel continues

to go around

and around

while you lie wearily

in a bed of

money

show me

give me the worst

version of you.

let's start there and i'll do

the same.

i want to know what

you look like

in the morning

before the mask goes on.

i want to hear you curse

when the hot

water goes out.

show me the stubbed toe

moment,

the broken nail,

the scream when you find

another grey hair.

show me your wrinkles,

your sagging

skin,

your bruised heart.

your despair. 

show it all to me,

and i'll do the same

let's make it fair.

let's turn on the over head light,

the big light.

let's start there.

they don't build them like they used to

they don't build em

like they used to, the old man

says to me

on the park bench

while young women jog by

in their running

outfits, ponytails wagging

behind them.

when i was young, women

had hips.

women were bigger

and had pillows for

rear ends. they were like

lounge chairs you could sit on.

he takes another sip of his

liquor bottle,

hardly hidden

by the brown paper bag. 

another girl runs by, a skinny

blur in black tights.

whatever happened to breasts,

he says,  using his hands to

show me where breasts are

located.

remember breasts?

these broads got nothing

on the women of my day, he

says again. nothing.

what i wouldn't give to

see Marilyn Monroe 

slowly walk by in a pair

of high heels. whew.

hey, you want some of this, 

he hands me the bottle and i take

a long swig after wiping 

it on my shirt.

her sunday phone calls

i miss my

mother's stew, her soups,

her 

fried chicken

and mashed

potatoes.

i miss her desserts.

two layer cakes,

pies,

and muffins,

donuts fried and covered

in cinnamon.

i miss her

turkey coming out of the oven

on thanksgiving day.

the bowl of pasta.

the meatballs,

the gravy.

i miss all of that, but most

of all, i miss her,

and her sunday calls

to just say hey.

adam and eve

as i walked

through the woods, i stumbled

upon

a pair of lovers,

about to make love

in a clearing

of thick brush.

startled

they covered themselves

as best they could

with leaves

and branches,

their clothes folded

neatly at the edge

of their blanket.

excuse me, i said.

do you know what time

it is?

the mileage was rolled back

my over stuffed

bookcase of self help

books

were really bought with the intent

of figuring someone

else out.

fixing that troubled soul.

tightening the screws,

changing the belts,

rewiring her heart to suit

me better. getting her back

on the road again, like it

used to be when

she came off the show room floor,

abused and used, 

but sold as new.

from a distance

from a distance

even this carnival 

which has risen

in the middle of night

looks enticing.

you can't see the rusted iron

from here,

the rotted wood,

the broken screws or

bent nails.

but when the lights go on

and you're a mile or two away.

it looks wonderful.

which reminds me of you,

most days.

here, have some mincemeat pie

not everyone is wise,

or full

of common sense, 

learned through books

or sages, but many

have learned the catch

words and phrases

from watching bad television

most of their wasted

lives. they regale us with such 

snippets of wisdom like,

everything in moderation, or

it's not how you fall,

but how you get up.

better to have loved and lost

than never to have loved

at all. 

i want to push a holiday 

pie into their faces.

and squish it so hard

that mincemeat oozes out of

their ears.

traveling light

i like to travel light

when

i go to bethesda or parts

unknown

on the marilyn  side.

the clothes i wear, a few

dollars in my

pocket,

gas in the car.

she laughs at me when

i arrive,

holding my toothbrush

in hand, 

prepared to spend

the night.

i don't know any of this music

the bar is strange,

crowded

and liquored.

you can sense the hunt

in the air, but the music

being played

is unknown.

not a single note do i know.

not a line,

or word

is part of my musical dna.

what happened

to music?

where did al green go.

marvin gaye,

or even

elvis costello.

this noise sounds as if

it wasn't man made.

i'd like to hear one song

before i leave

the place

that reminds of yesterday.

my jersey walls

i put up a jersey

wall

around me.

i see the skid marks

of errant drivers up and down

the concrete sides.

so far so good.

let's see how long

i can keep these up

before someone jumps

the rail.

my real estate agent stops by

my real estate agent

stops by

to give me some tips on decorating

before the open house

on sunday.

she tells me

to place a vase of flowers

on the table.

bake a pan 

of cinnamon rolls, to give

the house a warm

and comforting feeling.

are you collecting empty

vodka bottles for some reason?

no? well. perhaps we should

discard those, yes?

how about we

put a wreathe on your door,

she says, and make your bed.

i can help you with that if you've

never done so.

also it might be a good idea

to get those silk stockings,

and undergarments

off your ceiling fan.

okay. i tell her, making a note

of that, happy that she hasn't

looked under the bed

or in the closet.

she asks me about the back yard.

if i own a lawn mower,

or a machete. a blow torch maybe?

i shrug. yeah, i think so.

there's no one buried out there,

is there? she whispers.

what's that fresh mound of dirt

all about?

which makes me laugh,

but don't give her an answer.

listening or waiting

some days i'm a good

listener,

on the edge of my seat

with questions

and studied interest, while

other days, no matter what

someone is telling

me, how wild the story might

be, i'm

bored out of my mind

and i've got

no game,

nothing to add to the

conversation.

clocks seem to stand still.

birds in flight

are stranded in mid air.

even snails seem slower

as they inch by.

i never know which way

it will go

until it begins.

drinking though, seems to help.

no olive please

the brilliant

short story writer sherwood

anderson,

the father

of minimalism

in fiction, died by choking

on a toothpick

from his martini.

since i found that out,

i no longer

need an olive

in mine.

the city dwellers

to get into the high rise

building

in the heart of town,

you have

to park down the hill

by the loading dock.

if there is a spot.

with only four slots

they go quickly.

then you push a button

and a man says, what?

you tell him why you

are here, what apartment

you need to go to.

he asks for your name,

the tag of your car.

at last he buzzes you in.

then you sign a clipboard

with the same information

you already gave.

he points to the elevator,

tells you to put your

mask on and informs you

that you have two hours

before you are towed.

ahhh, the city life.

a postcard from paris

she's in paris now.

i know this because i'm staring

at a postcard she sent.

a monet print.

who sends postcards these days?

she does.

she's pleasantly different

a cut above.

her eyes are full

of art

and literature,

there is little you can bring up

that she doesn't

know and have something

to say about.

it has little to do with beauty,

although she is quite

beautiful. it's more

what lies below and shines out.

i'm hoping that i'll make

her my girl,

one day.

the early start

i'll get an early start

this day,

to beat

the traffic.

i'll be on the road before

most.

a rare feat, i know.

but it's friday

and it would be nice

to finish early.

to get home, 

to say the week is done,

with no where else

to go, to just wait

for you to come.

cat calls

i miss being whistled at,

she told me,

i miss the days

when men would yell

at me from car windows

and ask me boldly out

on dates.

gazing at my body,

from lips to hips,

and legs.

i was a dish

in their eyes, hot on

a steamy plate,

but now i'm invisible,

with my weight, my age.

it's almost

as if i don't exist anymore

that men of a certain

look, brawny or sophisticated,

men on the hunt,

no longer look my way.

the late fall afternoon

when you see a man

of similar stature and color,

height,

when you see him

bending

to his cane, towards

some park

where the sunlight will

keep him warm

on this late fall afternoon,

you wonder if that is

me in ten years,

or five, or even three.

will you be that lucky

or unlucky

as the case may be.

will they miss me when i'm gone

who hasn't leaned

over

the edge of a bridge 

when one's world

had darkened and

thought

will they miss me

when i'm gone?

if i fell, or leaped

in a heroic swan dive

to the bottom of some

abyss,

would their world stop,

or would only mine?

when you first realized it wasn't love

it was while eating

shepards  pie at Kennedy's

in New York City

when i first realized

that i didn't love her,

that i was merely

ok with her.

conversation was fine.

the love making too,

was well, okay.

but we were companions

of a holding hand sort,

each taking a turn at

flagging down a taxi.

taking pictures of one

another in front of the Met,

or under the arch

of Washington Square.

but it was the first hot

bite, when blowing on

the fork, and she had gone

to the bathroom,

that i thought, it would be

fine if she didn't come back.

again, a villainous thought,

no doubt, but true.

awaiting a wave

we save things

as if

they matter. ignoring

in our human way

that one day

the sun will burn out 

and everything

will go.

all these books,

all these poems.

the cards and letters,

the art,

the journals that we keep.

photos of you

and me.

all metal

and stone, will disappear.

everything being

just a finger dragged

in the sand

awaiting a wave

to draw near.

will i miss september

will i miss september?

most likely not.

as is true

with the month preceding it.

i have no calendar

on the wall

depicting the season

we are in.

the leaves falling,

the green of spring, 

the ocean of summer,

then of course,

the snow.

no need to tack a calendar

anymore.

i've stopped counting

days,

or years. it's unnecessary

to warn me

of what lies ahead.

i only need my window.

with hands pressed together

rarely does a night go by

when i haven't

pressed my hands together

and prayed,

but the prayers are vague

these days,

less about getting me

out of hot water,

or in finding a job, or

a girl to date.

they are different now.

i pray for others, 

that their lives will

be blessed

with a minimal amount

of pain.

its a strange turn of events,

from how i prayed,

in younger days.

how to get your way

we learn early

to cry

and whine, to make a racket

when we're hungry

or wet,

or in some sort of pain.

we learn

this in the crib,

how to get what we need,

lying in

the little cage they set

us in.

one whimper and they

come running

to see what they can

do to make us smile

again.

your so called poetry

i don't like your poetry,

she tells me

in a harsh letter,

a farewell letter

to be exact.

penned not long after

i set her things

out back.

it's not poetry at all,

she writes.

it's your life,

your daily observations,

you're no robert frost

my friend,

not even e.e. cummings,

it's a diary,

a journal. but not poetry.

and the reason i know this,

is because i read

it every day

to see what you've written

about me.

terms of endearment

as the farm girl

gives a name to the pig,

or cow,

or chicken,

the lamb or goat,

a term of endearment,

falling in love

quickly

as she feeds them,

despite the warning

by her mother,

saying best not

get too close.

do we not do the same

with our new

infatuations, 

being too quick to call

each other 

an endearing name,

perhaps baby, or honey.

or both.

the Ephesus rugs

the man leading

up to the ruins

of Ephesus was quite convincing

with his wool rugs,

and other wares.

there was a white vase

i really liked,

and a black shirt with

sequins. i touched the fabric

and asked

if it would shrink

after a cold wash.

no, he said, and if it does,

you can bring it back.

maybe on the way down,

i said, feeling guilty

for lying,

as i went up the hill

to visit the land where

St. Paul preached.

being hopeful

being hopeful,

i have traveled

great distances for a bad time,

bad food

and bad conversation.

hundreds of miles sometimes.

i have sat

and endured the hour,

as they did with me, knowing

how anxious i was

to turn the car around

and leave.

hope can be a dangerous

thing.

that's all she knows

the woman

in the coffee shop feeding

her baby

her full breast bared

with no

concern that others might

see,

the baby is hungry

and that's all she knows.

the nice man from medicare

i keep the Indian man

on the phone for nearly an hour,

using my crackly elderly woman voice.

i call myself sandra pinchot.

age 78,

alone, and lonely, but quite wealthy.

he wants my social

security number

and my medicare card number

in order for him

to send me

a new plastic card.

one with a gold star on it.

i'm fixing tea, and then sitting

in the garden with my imaginary

cat in my lap,

Juniper, he's a nice cat, i tell the man,

whose name he says is James.

do you have a cat, James?

if not you should get one,

they're such great company.

hardly anything ever goes

wrong with them.

i go on about my dead

husband, Clifford, but we called

him Cliff.

his golf game was stupendous,

i inform James, he could go on

and on for hours telling me about

his short game,

but his drinking did him in.

do you drink, James?

i like a little hot toddy before

bedtime, but my

martini days are way behind me.

don't get me started on those days,

thank god the internet didn't exist

back then, or those damn cell phones,

Holy Hannah, would i have been in trouble

back then.

ma'am he says, i just need you to

verify your numbers, could you

read them off your blue and white

card. you have medicare A and B

don't you?

hold on young man, let me get

my reading glasses,

they're in the other room

in my purse, my white purse,

or was it the black one?

when i come back after i find them

i want to hear a little bit about you, okay.

i've been doing all the talking here.

unfair. let's find out

what makes James tick? 

saint joan

i fall into the couch

coming home

from work

and flick on the tube.

it's a 1928 silent movie

about joan of arc.

a silent film, with

music and what sounds

like opera singing.

the close ups

are what make it work.

the tears,

the faces

in black and white,

etched onto the screen

as if by a charcoal

pencil.

it's a violent film

without special effects.

one of betrayal 

and deception. lies.

even the clergy have 

something up their long

sleeves.

and then she dies,

a martyr until the end,

going up in flames at

the age of nineteen.

the meet up group

i will

not attend anything

that requires a name tag

be put on my shirt.

don't ask me to stand up

and review my

life going backwards

to birth.

let me sit quietly and figure

out if this is worth

the effort.

is there any fun in this

for me.

what do i get out of it,

besides,

killing an hour or two

with a bunch of old people

pushing seventy.

i'm not ready for shuffle

board,

or pickleball,

or gin rummy until

someone says, i have to go

now, it's my knee.

with scissors in hands

how would i know

how that lipstick got

on my collar,

it's a surprise to me as well.

don't you trust me?

when have i ever hurt

you

or lied to you" i ask

shelly

as she holds a pair of

scissors

in her hands.

sewing today? i ask her,

maybe, she says.

it all depends.

the nearest exit heading south

i don't miss the hangover

days,

those mornings of dry

mouth

and blurred vision, 

the head drumming

with a beat that won't stop. 

losing my phone 

beneath a bed.

my pants somewhere

in this house i've never

been to. which way is the door?

will that dog

bite me on the way out?

i hate to wake her, but

i need to find the nearest

exit to the beltway

heading south.

three payments of 29.99

i try to think if i've ever

bought something because i

saw it on tv

in a late night commercial.

tempting yes, the complete

catalog of chubby

checker, or tanya tucker,

or a set of ginsu knives.

that facial cream that will

remove ten years off

your life.

i've never bought that car

wax that will protect

the metal from fire

or being keyed by an

angry girlfriend or 

ex wife. i've never picked

up and dialed the number

for a rolex watch, or a diamond

ring, only two left, call now,

or to get in touch with

a departed relative

from the great beyond.

the chat lines too,

with the scantily clad

buxom young ladies, tempting

you with wagging fingers

and coos.

but no. it hasn't come to

that quite yet.

blood on the pillow

when you wake up

and turn the light on,

and see blood

on the pillow and sheets,

you wonder where

the leak is, where

have you scratched

yourself in the middle

of a dream.

there's no knife to be

found,

no wife either, so it

must have been you.

what do you want?

with the romance phase

of the relationship over,

the sex done,

the midnight rendezvous

and the weekends

long, all gone,

you still call to stay in

touch,

believing it's a lifetime

of friendship love,

but when you say hello,

she says, who is this, what

do you want? and then

you know it's time to move on.

saying farewell at the bus depot

as i stand at the at the bus depot

i see a beautiful woman

in the window,

she's waving.

she blows me a kiss.

i smile and blow one back.

i blow back several kisses

as the bus pulls away.

i love you, i say out loud,

i miss you already,

come back,

then a man standing behind me 

taps me on the shoulder

and says, i think that was for me. 

who's to know, for sure,

i tell him, walking happily away.

room 100

in the dark

i make the third trip to the loo,

once known

as room 100 by a french

woman i once knew.

the radical

life change

of eating has put my

kidneys

into over drive.

how much liquid can there

be in there

on such little food.

and not just a trickle

but a stream

not unlike a racehorse at

the starting gate,

the gate being my bed

and pillow,

somewhere across the room.

it's so you

how nice of you

not to come.

not to appear here on

my doorstep.

to pay respects.

thank you for not sending

a card

or gift, or flowers.

no call, no text.

i appreciate your lack

of concern for my

well being.

it's so you.

nothing less or more

did i expect.

a new season

i miss my better 

half, sometimes.

the kind me.

the compassionate and forgiving

me.

i tire of the other side.

slinging my scythe at all

that have

have harmed me.

i miss the laughter,

the grin,

the easy going nature

that i was born with.

but to all things,

their season.

the calendar page will

turn.

hope and despair

it's a dangerous

thing,

hope.

it keeps one in a state

of anticipation,

waiting

for an answered prayer, or

for the rain

to stop.

or for love to appear. hope

is a bad thing.

it keeps you

in a place of stillness.

despair is much

better.

it makes you work

towards

getting out of it.

when the child lets go

when the child

let's go, at last, parting

the air

and road with his own

desires.

you reluctantly let go,

as your

father once did.

your mother too, but less

and less so.

no door is ever closed

with her.

a room by the sea

as you put your bag down

you study the room,

placing a few dollars into

the waiting hand

of the boy who turned

the key.

the bed is large, the blanket

smoothed out over

white sheets.

there's a mirror, a dresser.

a window

that looks out over the sea.

a chair at a small desk.

the door closes as you

turn the light off and slide

the chair over, parting the curtains.

you hear the ocean, the lapping

of waves not far off.

in the pale light of moon

you see two lovers, arm

in arm, walking slowly

through the sand.

you want to yell out to them

that you're on their side.

but you don't say a word.

it would reveal too much of

your own past, your own

diminished life.

a book left open

i remember

their houses,

grandparents

and parents.

how they lived was

in the air.

the essence of them,

their  appetites, their desires.

the old wood in 

the fireplace,

the stove unclean,

a faucet leaking,

a window cracked

to let in

the garden mint,

or snow.

the curtains

dust laden, pulled closed.

the rugs that needed

beating,

the stuffing in a sofa

exposed.

a book left open, 

with a few pages left

to go.

the tin of ashes

strange to confine

the dead

in tombs, or boxes

with a stone for a lid.

six feet under, or

in an ash filled tin

for the mantle.

how odd to save

the remains

and mark the spot,

when

they're gone forever,

not waiting

quietly for a visit,

not giving any of it,

much thought.

fire and ice

there is something

good

in fire, as there is in ice.

both

leading

in the same direction.

taking

from us

what once was strife,

both

kind necessities

when moving forward.

as the snow rises

will the snow cuff

us to the house, the couch,

the things

we choose to wile away

the hours.

will we find each other

again

when the roads

are closed and the lines

go down.

will we build a fire

to stay warm,

and lean into the love

that once was, quietly

conversing, finding

each other's heart, 

as the drifts rise up.

if i were famous

if i were famous,

well known and loved around

the world,

for these words i write,

i could at last

show how humble

and modest i am.

how giving

and charitable my heart

truly is, but no,

no such luck, alas,

my attributes are going

to waste

without fame and fortune

cast upon me.

guilty pleasures

is there one pleasure

removed

from guilt?

the slice of rich cake.

the ice

cold martini with an olive

afloat.

make it a double,

the sleep in late,

the love making.

the laziness of sunday

not going to church,

what doesn't

make you feel the pinch

of God's fingers

upon your soul?

is there anything good

that isn't bad

in this world of yours?

i'd like to remember her that way

she's old now.

and weak,

bone thin, and grey,

but

i'd like to remember her

as a young

woman.

pretty and smiling

for the camera.

i'd like to keep her that

way, fresh

in a golden frame.

never aging,

never sick

or sad, always with that look 

in her eyes.

holding in her heart

a joy that will never fade.

at last we know

we grow into ourselves.

like

our clothes, well worn,

and comfortable, at last.

the wool,

the blends, the style

and fabrics,

a pair of shoes

that suits us best.

we know who we are, at last.

and now,

we just sit back and wonder

why we worried

so much,

and laugh.

going out with a bang

i spend the afternoon raking

leaves.

pulling them

towards the middle of the yard,

my hands curled 

on the wooden handle

as i work.

yellow and brown,

red and orange.

a bouquet of sorts

piled high,

from nothing, then green,

then to this,

going out with a splash of color,

a bang of sorts

is not a bad way to cease

to exist.

let's have another round

we clink glasses

together

at the glen echo irish bar.

a small piece of Ireland

is here.

there is music.

dancing of some sort.

the clicking of heels

by red haired

girls with green eyes

and pale skin.

ruddy large men

are singing,

drinking pints of  beer with

their flat caps snug on.

we clink our glasses

and listen

as best we can as a helicopter

hovers near.

doing a water rescue

in the river,

saving a life, perhaps,

or finding one

afloat behind all reach.

we raise our

hand to the waitress

for another round, this life

being so fleet.

blue suede shoes

i don't need new shoes.

but my

feet say yes.

why not.

you haven't bought a new pair

in months.

what's up with that?

go browse,

go click, go search and find

another pair

of tie up boots,

or leather dress shoes,

or sandals,

or loafers.

let's go with a different

color this time.

the closets are full of brown

and black,

or grey.

how about blue?

maybe suede.

dolores

she was a sweet woman,

at least

when i met her,

our relationship was not very

long.

and when word reached

me of her death

at 92

it darkened my heart

more than i thought

it would.

how kind in greeting

or farewell she was,

sitting her chair,

a kiss to each cheek,

whispering gossip

about her children

and husband,

a neighbor,

that i dare not repeat

or tell.

i truly liked that side of her.

with her bird like

voice, the french

in her still there. the wry

grin.

she'll be missed.

she was a soft feather, 

now in the air.

beating the light

if the light

turns yellow before

i get there,

i don't care.

let it go amber, then red.

i'm fine

with that.

to sit there and wait. i'm

done with beating the lights,

trying to go

fast

and get ahead.

but i know it bothers

you,

which pleases me somehow.

the family portrait

we called in salvador dali

to come

in and paint our family holiday

portrait.

not rockwell.

he was too busy

with the neighbors.

but dali

captured our true nature

to a tee.

the melting clock,

the hands

dripping,

the bare branch tree.

the strange sky.

and the faces and eyes

of all of us,

staring out in fish like

wonder,

pulled from a violent sea,

not quite understanding

what this is was all about,

what anything means.

the suit of grey

we are all cowards

to some degree.

never saying what we should

say, vaguely saying what

we mean.

we rarely take the leap

from the ordinary life.

we wear the same suit of grey,

take the same route home,

take our shoes and clothes off

in the same way.

we obey the rules.

we live our days as if

there's an unlimited 

supply of time.

doing what we're told

from birth, until the final

breath is taken,

when death takes hold.

you are home

when you stop,

when you

leave the crowd.

turn off the set, put

down the phone.

when you quit, not join,

you are almost home.

when you

leave behind

everything you have

owned, when you submit

to what is,

what was and what will be,

then you are almost

home.

when you desire

less, take less,

and give more, 

wanting nothing in return,

suddenly

your old skin falls away.

and at last you have arrived,

you are home.

the black umbrella

i often think of women

in terms

of the umbrella they hold

over her head and yours

in the pouring rain.

with the click of a button,

the fabric spreads open, 

i think of pastel colors,

maybe yellow,

or sweet pink.

the comfort of blue,

a mischievous green,

the laugher of polka dots,

and then there's the black

shade of a few,

where no light gets in,

held over your life 

not to hold back the sky,

but to bring you rain.

this is what i do

the bathtub spigot

continues on

despite the hard twist left.

even when i'm not home.

the hot water

keeps pouring out,

slowly,

but still

the breaths of steam

cloud the mirror.

i can't turn the faucet

hard enough

to put an end to it.

so i call a plumber.

it's what plumbers do.

they fix things like this.

take baths

is what i do.

down to a trickle

i tire myself

of

the near past. grown weary

of the tale.

dark thoughts

have bled me dry of my

empathy.

so i stop.

i let the thoughts go 

through my

mind

like water down the stream,

down to a trickle

soon

to a stop.

no one at the wheel

i will not pass

down

to my son what i do with

my hands.

he will not learn

this trade.

he will not climb

a ladder,

or hold a brush,

or paste a wall for

paper.

the young are not

inclined to sweat and bleed,

to hold fear

in their hands,

that the work will dry up.

they find

other ways.

each generation does,

as the plows rust

in the field,

the machines leak oil

and ships

run aground with no

one at the wheel.

p.s. i love you

when we would hand write

letters

to one another

in the previous century.

a pen in hand,

thoughtfully jotting down

our days chores,

or what transpired during

the week, with

kids and school, work

and such.

we would say how bright

the moon was last

night,

i wish you were here with me

to see it.

i miss your arms around me,

your kisses.

the sound of your voice.

we would go on and on,

rambling forward

until the end where we

would sign off with

affectionately, or with love,

or adoringly, then p.s.

i love you. as if necessary

to say so,

the preface not being enough.

the cat's eye marble

i would never

place

my favorite cat's eye marble

in the center

of the dirt drawn circle.

it was too risky,

too much of a gamble to lose

what was so important

to me.

the emerald

green inside the glass.

the perfect beauty of it,

round and smooth.

it was the one they all

wanted,

the one i kept

and still have. safe in

my drawer

with other things,

like your photograph,

and things i love best.

those that will never lack

we admire the hard worker.

the man

behind the plow,

the man on the roof,

the woman

with her hammer,

her iron,

her apron on.

the night workers.

the late shift.

the early risers.

the thirty year men.

nose to the grindstone.

standing at the factory machine.

we admire

the dirt, the crust of them.

the bloodshot eyes,

the broken fingers,

the bent backs.

we admire the over time,

the weekends,

those that push

through the heat of summer,

the ice of winter,

those that will themselves

forward, those who will

never lack.

the cliche club

i see a club, a wooden club

in the window

of a store.

it's thick and looks heavy,

made out of hardwood

i imagine,

but with a nice handle

so that one could

pick it up and swing it

with relative ease.

my curiosity sends me

into the store to ask

the proprietor what it's for.

it's a cliche club, he says.

whenever someone

says something like

have a nice day, or

money doesn't grow on trees,

or it is what it is, you

hit them over the head with it.

they're selling like hot cakes.

give me two, i tell him.

no need to wrap them up.

maybe we should wait on the flowers

Lydia is dying,

did you hear? yes, it's true.

she doesn't have long to live.

no one is sure

what it is, but it's taken its

toll on her.

i saw her at the train station

the other day.

she didn't look herself,

she smiled as best she could,

but had nothing

much to say. hello. goodbye,

that sort of thing.

it was almost like we were

never friends.

we should visit her soon,

before it's too late,

or send her flowers, or should

we just wait?

lost in space

i made up a dating profile once,

stating that i was

an astronaut.

i had been to the moon,

circled the earth a hundred

times in my capsule.

i posted pictures of me

in my space suit, standing

next to the flag

on the lunar surface.

i embellished and polished

my story.

in time i was invited

to parties, to embassies,

to the grand opening of

an apartment complex.

i made up my name. my age,

my height.

there was nothing about the profile

that resembled me

in the slightest.

but oh how i was loved

and adored.

wanted by those on Kalorama Road.

they wanted me to come

and regale them with my journeys

into space.

it didn't end well though 

when i came clean

and told them who i really was.

anger ensued, despite me

offering free estimates for 

a paint job and  a power wash too.

before the waiting bed

so how did you get here?

how did you

somehow survive

through it all and be sitting

here

with a bloody mary in hand,

how did all those days

and years go by

to bring you to this point

on a friday night.

not worse for wear,

tapping away at what you

do best.

remembering. rambling.

laughing the tears away

before a waiting bed.

the broken glass

it's just a small,

dent, a fissure in the window

from an errant stone,

but tomorrow

it will be longer,

and larger, deeper

as it crawls its way

across the glass,

making it impossible

to know the truth.

in time it will fail.

that's all it takes, really.

one small lie.

one betrayal.

the long game

i suppose i could tell you the truth,

but then it would be your turn,

and well,

we know where that would go,

don't we?

so let's just play the game.

my move, then yours.

let's sit at this table and slide

our pieces back and forth,

with no winner, just losers

spending time together until

one or the other files for divorce.

so much lifting

life is a lot of lifting

and setting

things down.

children and groceries.

boxes and bags.

weights.

carrying a loved one

across the threshold.

a pen onto a paper.

a drink,

a fork.

a book.

we raise what we need

into the air

until we're done with it,

or her

or him.

whatever the case may be,

then move on.

fish in a barrel

i remember the look in my

therapist's eyes

when she asked me if i was

worried if i'd ever

find someone else again.

if that was the reason i wouldn't

kick the nut cake out

of my house.

and i said, too quickly,

hell no. that's the least of my

worries.

you can just go online and it's

like shooting fish in a barrel.

oh my, she said, and scribbled

something down on her

yellow legal pad.

it seemed to be a turning point

of some sort.

that i was more troubled

than she realized. this could

take years.

it was a cha ching moment.

i could almost hear

her credit card being swiped

at Neiman Marcus.

the catch all drawer

i study the kitchen drawer.

the catch all

drawer.

if i ever wanted to do myself

in, all i would have

to do is stick

my arm into the disorganized

cluster of implements.

across the wrist would

go the knife.

the potato peeler.

the cheese grater

and the broken whisk,

one wire out.

it wouldn't be long before

i'd be on the floor,

grasping for the fancy napkins

that i've never

used, too nice to be set out.

tea talk

she would hide

behind

a cup of tea. her lips

lingering on the warm edge

so has not to show

her disapproval

of what you've said.

then set

the cup down.

and we'd begin again

at some new

beginning. a new

topic we could disagree on,

sparring

gently,

around and around.

The Tiffany Wedding Cake

i stop by the bakery on Lee street

to browse

the donuts, not buy,

when the little girl

behind the counter yells at me.

hey mister, she says.

aren't you the dude who ordered

a wedding cake?

you and that skinny angry woman?

it's shaped like a blue Tiffany box?

maybe, i say to her,

squeezing a bag of just baked buns

on the rack.

so hot and soft in my hand,

yummy.

well. it's ready, she says, while

maniacally chewing a wad of gum.

the cake is ready, would you

like to pay for it and take it home?

it's been sitting

in our refrigerator

for almost three years now.

it took us hours to figure out how

to make those stupid ribbons

out of icing.

she brings it out with the help of

a grumpy man in a white bakers hat,

and sets it on the counter.

it's beautiful with that Tiffany

blue color, a little stale, but

still looking good.

what the hell, i tell her.

put it in a box and i'll take it home.

it may be the only good thing

to come out of that nightmare.

do you take paypal?

and could you wheel it around

to my car?