raking leaves

he used to rake

leaves

with his wife, before she died.

together,

they'd gather

them in piles

and place them in bags,

setting them

aside.

they were efficient.

spending hours together

in the fall.

their faces red,

the coats snug,

hats and scarves.

she'd bring out a hot drink

when done,

and they'd rest

on the green bench with

hardly a word said.

the afternoon sun at last

going down,

and now,

i look out and see him,

alone,

still at it

under a cold moon.

finding holy ground

the fragile

couple in front of me is

magically

still in love, they have

what nearly everyone

i know wants.

i can see it in their eyes.

the way,

he puts his arm

around her,

and she touches his

knee

as they find a seat

on the train.

he takes his hat

off

responding to her

nod, she smiles.

i wish i could capture

them in photograph,

but i'd never

betray such holy ground.

let's sleep, then begin

it's the small silence.

the prelude

to a nap.

the marshmallow

whisper

of wind

that pushes through

the screen.

the soft hand of the sheer

curtain.

the plump of pillow,

the sigh

from your sweet lips

as we lie

down beside me.

we are both tired.

let's sleep,

then begin.

no one gives a fig

my advice is 

don't try. don't put the pen

to paper

to write your thoughts

down

don't reveal your inner

soul,

your desires,

your troubles, stay clear

of this.

go on about

your life

without anyone 

ever knowing

what truly gives.

keep it to yourself, 

no one

really cares,

or needs to know,

no one actually 

gives a fig.

he writes the checks

when her

husband appears, at last,

at the end

of the job,

coming out to write

a check,

i'm  surprised at how

small of stature

he is. fitting nicely

into her shadow.

she's large, 

with big arms

and legs.

tall hair, red as rust, curled

in a medusa maze.

he hardly speaks

as he writes,

adjusts his glasses,

then disappears

back into the room

where the door closes

behind him,

in the dim yellow light.

the talk show

the dogs

are barking.

they run from side

to side

across the brown yard.

the chain

linked fence keeping

them in.

it's what they do.

what they need to do.

their voices must be heard,

there is no quieting them.

shaky ground

i stop listening for a while,

rude,

yes, i know,

but i grow weary

of words.

of the voices of others,

so sure

of themselves,

so certain about things

of this broken world, 

that i wish i knew.

i'm on shaky ground

thin nerved.

tired. i'm not looking

into other's eyes for answers

anymore,

i need a break

before i'm broken too.

there is proof

there is proof,

i have a few pieces of paper,

stamped and sent,

signed with mutual 

contempt

stuck in a drawer, somewhere.

there is proof,

a cracked cup

or dish, a bent fork or spoon.

there are clues

that you were here, that it

wasn't just

a bad dream,

a nightmare. an apparition

that went boo.

look, there's

a strand of hair,

a cut nail,

a tube of lipstick,

a card or letter,

a crumpled photograph 

with the face scratched out,

remnants

of the ghost of you.

the candy striper

she's a perfect

fit

for the job. bright and friendly,

excellent

bedside manner,

kind and thoughtful,

now retired,

but she looks

great in her candy striper

uniform, just

as she did when she was

sixteen.

she hasn't lost a thing

as she goes from

room to room, assisting

where she can,

making the old men

perspire.

mail through the door

i used to know

my mailman.

always with a smile,

a tip of his hat,

burly with a white beard,

the sack

upon his bent

back,

then he left, or died, or

quit.

he gave no notice, for

what notice

would there be to give.

just one more

round

of envelopes through

the door

and then gone.

the next man or woman up,

as the beat

goes on.

the twelve apostles

she has to leave.

there is no other way around it.

the mind

has slipped,

a cane is needed.

the stove is being left

on, bills

unpaid.

spills are everywhere,

sometimes she wanders

in the night,

but the strings

must be tied,

loose ends connected.

to where

all the money is,

the accounts,

the important documents

that must be signed.

what is the password

for the discovery

of her life?

what words, what numbers

has she typed in before

she says goodnight.

maybe there,

on the nightstand

her magazine

that's titled

the 12 Apostoles. 

why not, let's try.

in slow drips and drops

life ends not so

quickly for most,

but in  slow

drips and drops of lost

memory.

of new aches, new pains,

strange imaginings

appear.

the past is suddenly

large and clear

again in

our silvered heads.

the wires crossed,

the power

fluctuating between

on and off.

the world now 

has to find

a place for

us.

where we'll be cared

for,

fed and clothed,

bathed

and watched.

jimminy crickets, say it ain't so

i watch the new documentary

on netflix

that proclaims that Jesus

never existed. they insist that

there's no proof

that He ever walked the earth.

it disputes everything

that peter, paul

and james ever did or

said, or wrote, or thought.

it's a bunch of made up malarky

the atheist experts proclaim.

road to Damascus, my foot,

it says. virgin birth,

the resurrection three days later?

water into wine, get real, yo.

not even david copperfield

or houdini could pull that off.

i watch it, straight through,

cringing, nervously

clicking my rosary beads together.

they seem pretty smug and sure

of themselves.

i look at the cross

on the bedroom wall,

my bible on the nightstand

underlined according to whatever

drama i've gone through.

i rub my knees

that are calloused and scarred

from decades of kneeling

in hardwood pews.

at the end of the show, 

i quickly switch over to watching 

it's a wonderful life,

with jimmy stewart

and donna reed.

i really like her.

will you visit me on that day?

my mother would start baking

cookies

and shopping for christmas gifts

sometime

around the end of july.

then she'd brag about it,

slapping her hands together

and saying, i'm done.

i'd look in her freezer

and see the wrapped parcels

of cookies, a stripe of tape

across with our names

written on top in black magic

marker.

the gifts would be in her sewing

room, stacked up in the closet.

christmas made her happy.

so when i visited her in the senior

home years later

and told her that tomorrow 

was christmas, she looked at me,

and said, really?

i didn't know that. will you come

to see me

on that day?

the eggnog

as a kid

i remember sneaking

a sip

of my father's eggnog

when he

left the room

to go yell at the other kids

to be quiet

because he was watching

it's a wonderful life.

what the hell, i said out

loud,

burning my tongue

and lips

on the whiskey infused

drink.

who in their right mind

would want to 

drink this.

and now, as i sit by the fire,

stockings hung,

my sugar plum

beside me, snuggled

against my hip,

i sip away, kind of liking

the taste

of it.

the ball of christmas lights

who hasn't struggled 

with

a ball

of wires, christmas

lights

in the box.

searching to find the one

dead bulb

when the whole string

won't light up.

all of them

unraveled from the tree

a year ago,

come new years

week.

and there you sit on

floor,

beginning to weep,

giving up

and going to the store

for more,

a new string,

a state of the art string,

to hang on the plastic

tree.

it's all good

before lunch

then recess,

i remember my third

grade teacher

taking me aside and putting her

hand on my shoulder,

tenderly asking me

what was wrong, what was

i so worried about,

afraid of, why are you so shy?

you're way to young to

have all those lines.

i couldn't tell her about

my father beating my mother

last night

after coming home drunk,

pulling her hair

and breaking her arm,

giving her a black eye,

or that she was pregnant again,

so i put a smile on my face

and said, i'm good.

can i go out and play now.

the other kids are 

already outside.

the neighborhood forum

i like reading

the morning posts on the neighborhood

forum

website.

it reminds me of the old days,

when people

would

talk across the fence,

or while walking the dog.

did you see those lights in the sky

last night.

did you hear that bang,

what was that?

someone was in my yard

this morning, or it could have

been a deer.

the clerk at the store was rude

to me again. i'm not ever

going back there.

does anyone have a good chicken

recipe?

i'm having company

tonight.

the saturday morning pancake prayer meeting

one of my wives

made me a join a church

during the second year

of our marriage.

she was holy for a while.

this was

a few years before she started

sleeping with my son's

karate teacher, Carlos.

she signed me up

for the saturday morning

men's prayer meeting pancake

breakfast.

i was to make pancakes

and bacon

for the men in the congregation.

i knew nothing about pancake

batter, where to start,

where to begin, plus i liked

to sleep in and then

go play basketball,

so i didn't go. i was a no show

and got written up

in the sunday bulletin.

it read:

for those who sign up to

do things in the church,

who volunteer in the name

of God to help out

and don't show up with

no explanation, we pray

for you.

the basket case

when she took up basket weaving

i began to worry.

she'd sit for hours

on the porch, not speaking,

but with a strange smile on her face

her hands busy with long

strands of bark.

the push and pull seemed

mindless, as the house fell

in disarray. 

she'd go at it from morning

until the sky grew dark.

they were beautiful baskets.

small and large.

she'd fill them with fruits

and cakes, small jars 

of jams and jellies

then pass them along as gifts

for holidays, or birthdays.

at some point they took her away.

two men in white coats came,

a woman with a clipboard

for me to sign. from the back

of the van, she smiled,

she even waved.

a change of seasons

i knew we were drifting apart.

i could feel it

in the way that one does when

the weather changes

and a new season begins.

the air is different somehow,

cooler,

as it is in here

where we sit in separate rooms,

reading or deciding

what to do next

while love ends.

please, don't hug me

i must admit,

the man hug is awkward,

other countries

seem just fine with it,

including the double peck

upon the cheeks,

but here,

specifically in my neck

of the woods.

the hug

must last about one second

and be a quick

embrace,

maybe with shoulders

barely scraping against

each other.

no lingering, please.

several hardy pats on the back

are fine, but

no full on

chest to chest, belly to belly

hugging.

no arms around the waist.

in fact, let's just bump

our fists together,

or do the old fashion

manly, strong handed shake.

there's a knock at the door

i look through the peep hole.

the line is long.

it wraps around the block.

it's the we're mad at you line.

and we

want an apology,

or an explanation for all

the things

you've done wrong.

for the way 

you live your life

like you don't care.

that's not fair when we're

struggling

from day to day with

everything.

you don't understand the pressure

we're under,

the challenges we face.

we've all had terrible childhoods

and we must be heard.

we can't stand your callous

and carefree air.

we demand some answers.

i signal the bowman

on the roof to fire at will

and to turn over the vats

of boiling oil, when ready.

the bakery window

i stop by the bakery

before it opens 

and stand at the window,

staring at the cakes.

the donuts set in place,

the pastries arranged

according to creams

and icing.

there's a birthday cake

on the top

shelf, a three layered

wedding cake

on the bottom.

eclairs and scones.

cookies.

breads and muffins.

i hear the door open, the bells

ringing

as a waft of warm air

caresses my face.

the baker leans out,

and says,

are you coming in.

we miss you.

where have you been?

come in, come in,

it's early but we don't want

you to wait.

between the mattress and the sheets

i ask a few

somewhat knowledgeable people

what to do with

a little extra

cash i have lying around.

some say bonds,

others suggest 

that i put it all

into the stock market,

another suggests long term

health insurance,

annuities,

cd's, a saving account.

my broker says, send me the check

and we'll figure it out

later.

another says

take it to vegas and put it all

on black.

someone says, take a trip

around the world,

or buy the car you've

always wanted.

update your 1968 kitchen.

put it into bit coins, or

rare stamps. it's confusing

to say the least.

as i stuff another stack

of bills between the mattress

and the sheets.

the wonderful few

most of my life

women

have been telling me

what to do.

mothers, grandmothers,

teachers,

lovers and wives.

they've been telling me

what time

to be home,

who to hang out with,

where to go.

what to wear, how

to comb

my hair.

do this, do that.

don't be late, chew your

food,

sit up straight.

is there one that i haven't

walked on eggshells

with.

some.

not many but

a glorious and wonderful

few.

please, no encore

some,

just some are different

off stage

than on.

when the play ends,

and the lights go down

and they retreat

back stage

to remove their

masks,

their sparkly gowns. 

it's then

that you see them 

for who they really are,

the sweetness gone,

the angel

now an awful bore,

but wasn't the performance

grand

i'll remember that,

but won't stand and applause,

or yell bravo

for an encore.

what's happening?

having not watched

the news in seven months

i'm behind

on the shootings, the celebrity

marriages

or divorces.

what brad pitt is up to,

or the kardashians.

i've lost track of the body

count for the virus.

what trump is doing

in his big

blue suit and red tie.

what gaffe

has biden done, or said.

has he fallen down

the ramp again?

what's the latest scandal.

who's gone missing this time?

are the ice bergs melting.

what about the fires,

the floods,

oil prices, bread, the food

chain. who cares, who knows?

what's the point.

are we back to wearing

masks again?

it seems to be the same old.

same as it ever was.

don't tell me,

i don't want to know.

where's hank

he loved to grille.

to put his apron on, his tall

white hat

and stand by the heated

smoke

on the patio

flipping meat.

patties and sausages.

chicken legs.

vegetables for the girls.

it was his go to place

for the party.

no time to make small talk,

no time to join

the crowd, to

sit down and drink.

he kept his beer in hand.

guzzling while he cooked.

a cooler at his feet.

his face red.

his eyes blurred.

you could always find him

there, when you arrived.

where's Hank?

you'd ask, and someone

would point with a thumb,

he's out back.

cooking.

i got this

you have to be careful

who you ask

for advice.

worried about your money,

you don't just

ask anyone

where to put it.

your love life, the same.

not every mechanic

can fix your transmission,

not every doctor

can mend a bone.

not every therapist can

straighten out

the nightmare you're

having at home.

careful who you hire.

sometimes in the long run

though, it's best 

to figure it all out,

quietly alone.

stealing from paul

when i was in my cell.

there were rules

that she insisted on.

lights out by nine.

bland food.

the disney channel

on the tube.

no books that gave a

clue as to what she

was up to.

no movies. no fun.

no sex. no laughter.

no puns.

punishment was silence.

punishment was another

day behind the bars.

never seeing no one

nice again, like you.

a turn of the screw

i set aside the day

to fix things. to go through

the house

and take

care of the drips,

the squeaks,

the creak in the stairs.

the hinge

on the door.

a valve, a washer,

anything that needs a turn

to be tightened.

i get out my tools.

and go at it.

i'm good at fixing things.

i can fix nearly

thing, anything

but you.

working in a skiff

people like

to tell you that they're working

in a secure place.

a skiff, or some other

jive joint

where it's hush hush

sweet charlotte.

i can't e mail, or text or

make calls

from there,

they say.

the information we have

can't ever leak out

or be shared.

you look at them and laugh,

put your lips together

and go pfffft.

really?

what's the big whoop?

just tell me one single

secret, one tiny itty bitty

little secret

that the rest of us can't know.

is it the chinese,

the russians. aliens?

something about the virus.

i can't they say,

i'll lose my job.

but we do play gin rummy

a lot

when there is no scare.

the traveling show

she wore me out.

not in a good

way though.

she tore my ticket in half.

she turned me inside out.

upside down.

spun me around.

she was a carnival

ride,

the fun house.

the house of horrors.

the freak show.

the lady with the beard

the hunger artist

the lion tamer

i was shot out of a cannon

my head

placed inside an alligator's

mouth

i was slung around

on the roller coaster

dropped from the high

wire.

i was the sad clown

with big shoes

and a bulbous nose.

i was under her tent,

the big tent

cleaning up after the elephants

in her traveling

show.

and i have

about twenty years

ago,

while riding my bike,

an old

man in a straw hat

yelled to me as i spun by,

enjoy your life.

he said,

enjoy your life, 

i looked back and smiled

as he waved,

limping

gently down the path.

and i have.

the narrow path

my brother in law

loved to 

fish. he spent most

of the last years

of his life

waist deep in water.

both on shore

and off.

i can still see him,

when we

were teenagers,

casting

out, the line snapping

in the late sun

of summer.

his heart was good.

but like most

of us,  he struggled

on the narrow path

down to the river.

she won't get in tonight

i go out into the cold

night

to check

the barb wire.

the electric fence.

i pet the dogs.

feed them.

i turn off the search

lights

and set the alarms,

adjust the cameras.

i raise the draw

bridge at the moat.

get the vats of boiling

oil ready

in the tower,

along the high walls.

i'm ready,

so ready.

she won't get in

tonight.

a bowl of rice

to each man

his idea of fortune.

for some, it's gold.

for others

it's power.

the trinkets of life.

what glitters

for some is fine.

to have and hold

a lover

is for others suffice.

the hungry

soul, just a dish,

a simple stew,

a crust of bread,

a bowl of rice.

if i told you, i'd have to kill you

i like when people tell you

their favorite recipe for their

patented dish,

but then tell you i can't

reveal the one secret ingredient

that makes it so special,

as if they're holding

the blue print for nuclear fusion

or a cure for cancer.

usually the secret is

ketchup, or brown sugar.

maybe paprika, 

or shaved coconuts.

who knows.

but they will go to their grave

without revealing

everything it to took

to make it so wonderful.

that's just the way it is

on occasion

you look at someone 

and think

i'll never see or talk to this

person again.

this moment that we're

in, is pretty much

the end.

whether a friend,

an acquaintance, an

ex wife,

or girlfriend.

a stranger on the bus.

it's over.

done.

there's no reason to

ever see each

other again. you will

never cross paths with

this person.

it's just the way it is.

off we go

without a care,

flying into the wind.

the coin is in the air

i have a friend

that plays the banjo.

i don't like the banjo.

it's annoying to my ears.

not my musical cup of tea.

but he's always strumming,

he takes it with him

everywhere he goes.

he puts a long

piece of straw in his mouth

and plucks away

like he's on a porch in the grapes

of wrath,

with the dust in the wind.

he's the banjo man.

but i have to make a decision,

either

the banjo goes,

or i do.

life is full of choices.

hard choices.

i've made more than

my share,  quite a few.

the coin is in the air.

the love of my life

i fall in love again.

with myself, though,

not another.

i take myself

out to dinner.

i buy myself some new clothes.

a fancy

new watch.

a car.

i get a massage.

i fill the tub with bubbles

and put some music on.

i light candles.

it's romantic, to say the least.

i'm totally in love with me.

it took a while,

but when i look

into the mirror, i say wow.

look at you.

where on earth have you been?

so glad you're back.

i wrap my arms around

me and squeeze.

what do you want

to do today, i ask myself.

tell me.

anything. i aim to please.

the long steel pan

i wonder

what happened to the long

rectangular

pan that my mother cooked

on for decades.

it stretched out across

two burners.

big enough to cook for

seven children

and herself.

it should be hung in a

museum, somewhere.

i think of all the pancakes,

the bacon,

the pork chops,

the chicken that was cooked

on that pan.

unbreakable, sturdy.

reliable.

like her.

don't do that, it's stupid

i give her the look.

she ignores it

and goes back to cross

stitching

another plaque to hang

on the wall.

no place like home is one.

love makes the world

go around

is another.

what's this one say, i ask

her.

never get married, she 

says, laughing,

then turns to me,

making a little heart

with her two hands.

don't do that, i tell her.

i hate when people do that.

it's stupid.

i know, she says.

i know, it's why i do it.

the arrival of winter

i see a  squirrel

with a  small plaid coat on,

l.l. bean, perhaps,

a scarf.

a wool cap.

he's blowing

his breath onto his paws

while scraping

frost off an acorn.

i guess it's here.

winter

has arrived.

it's all in the kiss

sometimes it's all in the kiss.

does it

light the flame,

melt the proverbial butter,

or is it

nothing to write home

about, bland

and cold,

nothing that stirs

the fire.

one never knows until

lips connect

to see if there is further

desire.

burning sage

after burning 

a stalk of sage and waving

it about,

i rework the extra room,

the one with the white leather

couch.

it's a nice calm space,

once a dark, gloomy corner

of the house,

with a storied bed,

but the walls are painted a pale

blue now. bright pictures

on the wall. flowers adorn

the dresser. the closet is

painted white, the shelves

clean. there's a book case there.

a vase in the corner.

a clock.  a small tv.

the sheer curtains are parted

to bring in the light, the shine

of sun, or moon.

not far are a bouquet of trees,

the silver stream.

at last, once more, i love

this room.

i'm pleased.

writing while soaking

i hate when i get an idea

for a poem

while soaking in the tub.

i have to get up, grab a towel

and drip my

way to the chair in the office

where the computer is

and log on.

then, with the double

log on system, find my phone

to confirm that it's me,

then start typing,

by then though, most

of the poetic idea has left me.

so it's back to the tub,

to water that's going cold.

and i have to twist the hot

knob to bring back up to an 

acceptable tub soaking

temperature.

best not to think too hard

when in the tub.

twenty minute christmas shopping

there was the one year

when i gave

everyone a pair of gloves.

black.

leather. nice gloves.

good for

driving, or making snow

balls

if it came to that.

ten pairs.

all a variety of sizes

depending on the person

i was giving them to.

male

or female.

i got the last xx large for

my friend

Olga

from the Ukraine.

massive hands.

i wiped out the glove rack

at Norstroms

for the day.

but the xmas shopping

was done.

finally.

privileged?

i know

the push cart days.

the punched clock.

the boss

peering, not far away.

i know the grind,

the hustle,

the uniform, the short

lunch

the long day.

i know dirt,

and grit, paint and

debris.

dust in my eyes.

the heavy climb.

i know what it is to

break a shovel

against the frozen

ground.

to shiver in the wind,

waiting

for the food

truck to come around.

i know sweat, and blood.

fear. callouses

cuts and bruises.

i know

how to stretch a dollar.

how to save

a buck.

i know how to count

and make

it to the next week.

so don't tell me i'm

privileged because

of the color of my skin.

i have to go now.

work

awaits, again.

around the world

the dream

made me happy.

i went around the world,

the blue skies

full of clouds, soft

and sublime.

i flew slowly

across the oceans

with arms stretched out.

i wanted it to last,

but the alarm of morning

woke me up.

as usual the good things

run out of time.

above water

when looking

down

into the clear water

we see

the life

of fish.

the swirl and bend

of bodies,

smooth

and swift.

living without

effort.

do they look up at

us

and wonder

what the problem

is.

you can be whatever you want to be

they lie to us early.

santa claus,

etc.

you can be whatever you

want to be,

they tell us.

whatever you set your heart

and mind to,

it will happen.

but so few make it.

so many fail, setting

the bar too high,

out of reach for many

reasons.

they are rarely

taught that the greatest

achievement 

lies in finding peace

within,

not outside in the world.

the rabbit hole

i fall down

into the rabbit hole of tik tok.

i suddenly

don't like the world anymore.

i don't like people.

how they behave.

what they do with their lives.

what's gone wrong.

it feels like the end is near

after scrolling

through a dozen or so

inane posts.

i'm scared.

too early for that

someone says to you,

it's a marathon

not a sprint.

you tell them to shut

and go away.

you're in no mood for

platitudes

and memes this early

in the morning.

go post that junk on fake book.

it's not how you fall, it's how 

you get up,

they say.

i have nothing to throw

at this person, so i

just shake my head, putting

my fingers in my

ears as i walk away.

rise and shine again

it's on cold monday

mornings

like this

that i think about quitting.

stopping.

getting off the work train,

how much

more money is needed.

at this point i know i'll

die with most of it 

in the bank, or in the safe,

or the kitchen drawer.

why work?

why keep at it. pounding

the pavement.

but i shrug and rise,

i shower

and shave, make coffee.

i am my own slave.

worms on a griddle

no man wants

to hear

the words. we have to talk.

we need sit down

together,

to discuss

where we are,

what our future looks like.

men become

worms on a griddle

when we hear those words.

we can't imagine what

the problem is.

everything seems just right.

but sure, we tell her.

sure.

maybe tomorrow,

if that's okay? next week?

no she says, hands on her

hips. standing

in the doorway, no.

we're having this discussion

tonight.

just words

we tell the worried not

to worry.

we tell the impatient

to be patient.

we tell them that

time will pass,

you'll see.

it will get better, but

for most of us we're already

there.

and all the soothing words

don't make a dent.

it's too late despite

they're care.

the lamp repair

he bends over the wooden

table

glasses perched at the end of his nose.

i can't place

the accent,  maybe german,

but he speaks clearly

as he takes the lamp apart, 

holding the curved

waist of the jar with one

hand. he looks

for the loose wire,

the thin metals that may

have broken from too many

turns on, or off.

i can fix this for you, he says,

looking up. no problem.

then he gives me a ticket

and a price.

i can fix, he says. will

after the holiday, be alright?

promises

how soon, before we say

i do,

she asks.

picking petals off a sunflower.

do you really 

love me,

or is that silly to ask.

of course i love you,

i tell her.

soon, soon.

it might be may, it might

be june.

no need to worry,

it won't be long

before we say i do.

rough love

you want the bitten lip.

the ache

of it.

the blue blood drip

of violent

love.

the rough and tumble

struggle

to be free,

to be caught. the hair

pulled,

the clothes torn off.

you want 

the anger, the pulse,

the drum

of heated hearts.

you want it all, you

want it all.

now kiss me, i'm

not asking, now let's

start.

get off the couch

give me the blustery wind.

the ice capped

waves.

give me the steel curtain

of frozen rain.

the sinking vessel

split from stem to stern.

throw me into the ocean

and let me

flail in the storm,

adrift in a hurricane.

at least then

i'll know that i'm alive

before i drown,

before i die.

a day at the dmv

if there is a hell.

a place where we'll burn in eternal

damnation

with the gnashing

of teeth, forever

in pain.

we may all be in trouble.

those without sin

remain seated, while

all the others

step forward

when you hear your name.

i think the dmv prepares

us for such

a fate.

taking a mulligan

there are days when

you'd like to take a mulligan on life.

to get another

chance,

another shot, another swing

at the ball

on the fairway,

or a short putt.

knowing what you do now.

how you

don't keep your hips straight

your eyes down,

your swing fluid

and sound.

how much better the next

round would be

after so many games played.

come on.

put a new ball on the tee,

find the flag and

let's swing away.

a pocket full of sand

in time

things rise to the surface.

like the ocean

giving back

what came.

so much

is uncovered and floats

to the top

as if in

a dream.

a picture without

a frame,

a slip of paper holding

a number

without a name.

ticket stubs, a bracelet,

a vacant

jar of perfume.

a pocket full

of sand.

winter breakfast

how can you not fall

in love with someone who yells

up the stairs

and tells you

breakfast is ready, come and

get it.

the smell of bacon

rising to the bedroom,

eggs

and waffles.

coffee in the air.

you hear the pop of the toaster.

the fridge door

opening and being closed.

how could this not be the girl

you've waited for

your whole life?

to say the least

is it fear

of losing someone that

defines love.

or is it more than that

selfish

feeling

of possession?

it's confusing to say the least

once

the arrow

has pierced your

welcoming heart,

ready to bleed

and even die for another,

the life

of you oozing out.

can i put you on hold, God is a little busy right now

God is so busy

during the football season.

all the players and fans

praying,

raising their arms

to the sky,

asking for the kick to go through

the uprights.

help us to get this first down

and go into

overtime. they plead

and beg from the stands,

or on the sideline.

it's a busy time

of the year for God

with so many games, not

to mention Christmas.

you have to get in line

with your own prayers.

petitions or otherwise.

you have to be patient and

wait your turn,

to have His ear.

the company we keep

i ask him,

the elderly man, though

not much

older than i'm about to be.

i ask him

why does he take

such long walks

through the cemetery.

and he says,

i enjoy the company

of people

close to

the same age as me.

it's just your turn

it's in the face,

the eyes.

the look of a person.

just a glance

before they notice you

and you can read the story

of their life.

relaxed and calm,

a gentle smile, someone

quick to say hello,

or a grimace,

the carved lines,

as if they're holding on

with both hands to

what's missing.

to what's gone wrong?

they hardly notice you

as you pass them,

dark and forlorn.

sometimes it's your turn,

and other times

it's mine.

the last piece of pie

i'm full,

she says. rubbing her belly.

i'll never eat again.

i promise you,

as God is my witness

i'll never

put another forkful of

pie in my mouth.

ever.

there's one piece left,

i tell her.

split it? be a shame to

throw it away.

you know, the starving

people in India.

okay, she sighs, but

after this.

never again will i

eat pie.

any whipped cream left?

shake the can.

carrying the weight

we all have a weight that we carry.

some large,

some small, some with a hole

in the bag

spilling out as you

walk along.

some want to set it down

and talk about it.

others want to keep it going,

carrying it on

their backs like their own

personal cross as they 

they drag it to Golgotha.

shake it off

there is too much

space

to wrap your head around

and understand.

too many stars, too many

galaxies, more than all

the grains of sand

on every beach in

every land.

where does it end,

or begin.

you can only think about

these things so long

before your mind

begins to spin,

and you shake it off

and go for coffee.

is it too late for me?

i can't kiss just anyone,

she told me.

let alone

do the next thing, or the next.

oh my, she said,

slightly blushing,

or was it the wind

against her cheeks?

it was too cold to sit out,

but we did just the same.

she wanted to catch up.

i always felt bad when

we left each other.

carrying coffee cups

towards our cars.

i could never find the right

words to make her

feel better.

i know he's out there,

she'd say in parting.

the perfect match. my 

soul mate.

it's not too late for me, is it?

never, i'd say cheerfully,

then hug her as she tried 

to smile

the tears away.

the work out

my mother's arms

were strong.

i remember watching her

twisting a wet towel

in the cool sun before pinning

it to the clothes line

in the yard.

then our dungarees,

our sheets,

our socks and shirts.

she said nothing

as she bent over, pulling

one heavy piece of clothing

after the other,

twisting the cold water out 

with no complaint.

if alive, i'd imagine

her chagrin at all the women

her age, the age she was then,

lifting weights,

rowing

and stretching

riding bicycles at the gym.

the fool in me

as if there are two of us,

the fool

in me does many things

i wish he wouldn't

have done.

he has so often

taken me down the wrong path,

accepting the wrong

job, or marrying the wrong girl,

when i should

have passed.

he's said things that i wish

i had never said.

i want to make him stop,

but at times he's

the stronger of the two us,

and i give in

instead.

the almond story

in a moment of complete

insanity

i almost

mutter the words,

i love you.

but i somehow choke them

back and give

a fake cough.

what, she says. what?

did you say something?

something in my

throat, i tell her.

had some almonds earlier.

you know how

they stick to the back

of your throat sometimes?

no, she says.

you said something, i

heard you clearly.

did you say that you love me?

i look at her, the almond

story suddenly

behind me.

maybe, i tell her. maybe.

well. it's about time,

she says,

after ten years of

being together,

and at last i hear those words.

holiday shopping

i admit,

i'm bad with gifts.

i either give too much,

or too little.

always the wrong size,

or color,

or something.

it's nerve wracking this time

of the year.

i remember buying

something for

the first wife, or was

it the second,

standing in line at

victoria secrets for a special

gift

to bring us closer

together.

to celebrate this season of joy.

the leather boots

and the whip

may have been taking it too far.

oh well.

the waldorf salad

there was this one woman

who always

brought

waldorf salad to the dinner.

you know.

cool whip,

nuts, fruit, a gooey mess

of sweetness

that no one touched.

it's been awhile,

but i can still remember

turning my head

as i used a long

wooden spoon to push

it down the disposal.

a good man is hard to find

when jake

was alive and kicking,

i'd pick him up for work.

he'd be sitting on

the steps at the 7-11.

he was usually

half sober

at eight in the morning.

smelling of cigarettes

and last nights booze.

he'd have a new

cut on his face or a fresh

black eye.

i'd ask him to roll his window

down when he got into the truck.

rubbing my nose, inching

away from him.

he'd be sleepy and tired,

exhausted from the weekend.

but then he'd see a girl

walking by and wake up.

he'd whistle to her.

hey baby. hey baby.

he'd see a pregnant woman

pushing a stroller

and yell out to her.

asking her what she was

doing later, then

turn to me, and say

with a loud laugh, you

know what she's been up to.

it was a long day

with jake the snake.

but he could paint.

have i lied to you, yet?

i remember how,

she put her finger

to her chin

rolled her eyes around,

pondering hard

my question.

have i lied to you yet,

she said,

tapping her finger

against her cheek.

let me think about that

for a moment.

probably.

but it's just a start, more

to come my dear.

i'm just getting started.

the season of miracles

i stare into the great

cool mouth

of my sub zero fridge 

and sigh.

i've wrapped so much in

plastic

and foil.

yesterday's uneaten food.

i'll give them each one

more day

before tossing them

in the can.

it's a positive thing though.

my new optimism

towards food.

left overs.

the possibility that i might

reheat them

for another meal.

i'm proud of myself,

how i've changed for the better.

this may leak over into

my feelings about love.

who's to know.

it is the season of miracles.

the i'm sorry poem

i'm sorry that i snore.

don't blame me,

blame my mother or father.

heredity.

the alignment of my nose.

i'm sorry, that i'm late,

and that i forgot your birthday

again.

our anniversary.

or that i forgot once

more to close the gate.

the dog will come back

at some point.

i promise you.

i'm sorry for being so

forgetful, but the clocks will turn,

the calendar

will circle back

to the same day.

i'll have another chance

at pleasing you,

if you let me.

i'm sorry for all the things

i've said,

or haven't said.

or done, or haven't done.

believe me, i'm sorry.

it's exhausting being with you,

oops,

i'm sorry for admitting

that too.

tell me less about you

tell me less

about you. don't give

me the blow by blow

details of

gloom and doom.

leave out the train wrecks,

the heartbreaks,

the missteps,

etc.

give me the shiny

bauble of you.

tell me your favorite

colors,

your favorite food.

tell me that your

life is wonderful and

it's always been that way.

look into my eyes and tell me

that no one needs

to rescue you.

too much of a good thing

sometimes

too much of a good thing

is just enough.

we spend so much time

on moderation.

taking careful steps,

speaking

cautiously while

walking on eggshells.

what is life about?

to be cowards,

to be less than what

we're born for?

eat, drink, be merry

and make love.

have your fill of the world

before it's gone.

for the night ahead 

is terribly so long.

santa's skin rash

i get into a conversation

with the pretend

santa

up at the store.

he's so unlike  the real

santa.

his arm is about to fall off

from ringing

that bell.

it's loud and annoying.

he scratches his skin

below the fake

beard.

it looks like an ugly rash

has spread down his neck.

i drop a quarter

into the bucket.

that's it, he says. a quarter.

yes.

i tell him

but i'll give you ten

if you stop ringing that bell.

a hundred,

he says.

twenty, i counter.

twenty five, he says.

take checks, i ask him.

by the way,

you should have that neck

checked out

before an infection sets in.

land ho yo

if i was on a ship today,

i'd be worried.

the breakers, the wind,

the cold.

i'd be screaming for the captain

to drop anchor

and go down

below.

who can sail in this weather.

what the hell.

who's idea was it to go

fishing

on this november day.

safeway has fish now.

scallops, crab,

flounder,

and tons of old bay.

finding her man

in the first time in years

i don't hear

from the jersey

girl.

no call, or text

on this

holiday.

i figured she's found her man

at last.

no longer

lingering

as i often do 

in the near past.

the morning after

the war

is over. the skeleton of a turkey

sits on the counter.

heaps of cold

vegetables are stuck

to the bowls.

mounds of starch

and hardened butter

once full of warm promise

sit still in the cold

battlefield.

we were ravenous.

animals

yesterday.

the blood of cranberries

is splattered

on the floor.

knives and forks

lie crusted

in the sink, having

eaten the beast.

a bottle of red wine

is dry, tilted with one

red tear

still in its eye.

i want to wake you,

but i don't. i want to run.

i want to hide.

who blushes these days

who blushes

these days. the young boy

or girl?

perhaps. but

hardly

anyone above a certain

age

is surprised anymore,

embarrassed

by what the world offers.

we have opened

pandora's box.

so much of what was

hidden

is no longer

behind closed doors.

what do you need?

are you going,

my friend jimmy asks me.

it's black friday,

everything is on sale.

everything.

his eyes are bugging out of 

his head.

come on,

hop to it, we're going to be

late.

for what?

i ask him.

what do you need, what is

it that you so

desperately want to have

at this stage of your life.

at any price?

i don't know, he tells me.

i guess i'll know

it when i see it.

now let's go. the store opens

up in three hours.

we have to get in line.

the windy day

the wind is so intent

today,

so sure of itself

in the shaking of every

leaf

off every tree, and even

us, it pushes

around,

making us lean upon

each other, unsteady

on our feet.

the lug wrench poem

i realize

that i'm out of control.

if i stare at a rock long enough,

which is three seconds,

i have to write a poem

about it.

same goes for a paper clip,

or a lug wrench.

i've lost my marbles,

speaking of which, i still

have the same one

from when i was ten years

old.

there it is on the sill, full

of wonder, a clear glass orb,

with a story waiting

to be told.

across the pond

she goes to London

for the holiday, a short four

day

jaunt across the pond.

where are you

going, she asks, as she

spreads butter onto

her biscuit, sipping 

a cup of earl grey tea,

preparing, no doubt,

for her journey.

oh, i'm not sure yet,

i tell her. i'm pondering

several invites. 

Jack in the Box, Popeyes,

or Denny's.

they make a mean turkey

dinner i hear,

from homeless

people on the street.

7 a.m.

it was about this time

that my mother would be up,

putting the turkey

in the oven

to the music of dean martin.

the tree would

be decorated,

her snow globes out.

a wreathe on the door,

stockings hung on the wall.

a little train set circling

her fantasy world.

the windows stenciled

with fake snow.

candy canes, and stars.

this was her happy time

with everyone coming over,

at last, driving from points,

far and far.

i doubt it

could i move

for love.

relocate, pick up my stakes

and say

adios

to this house, this neighborhood,

my friends.

could i say goodbye

to the woods

beyond the fence,

the stream.

the path i visit daily.

could i leave

this place i've made

my own,

for love, for that

elusive dream?

maybe.

we'll see, 

but i doubt it.

the last organic turkey

as i go back to the store,

having forgotten

a can of black olives,

pitted, i see three aging

hippies wrestling

in the parking lot for

the last organic turkey.

each with a coexist sticker

on their car.

but for this all bets are off. 

it's not love, but war.

that's all i need

i'd like

a glass of water.

that's all.

a clean, cold

cylinder of 

water.

spring water.

that's all i need.

for now.

fast asleep

in truth, 

i liked her best

when she was asleep.

fast asleep in the snow

of sheets and pillows.

she almost seemed nice

and honest

as i listened to her breathe.

her silence gave me a feeling

of hope

that one day

she would leave.

the key drawer

when i go through

the key 

drawer, which is not just

for keys, but

for pins

and needles, too,

scissors, that sort of thing.

i wonder

what keeps me

from tossing these old

keys out.

browned or silver,

bent or straight,

forgetting which

lock they turned,

looking back i wish i would

have made

a scrapbook with each

key, and beside it made note

of when and where

they unlocked 

a door, and who else

had another, besides me.

the mirror

i read somewhere

that a mirror

shows your face

while a poem

reveals your soul.

if that's true,

i'm in big trouble

here.

don't be like us

we expect too much

from people.

presidents and kings,

priests

and cops.

we don't want them to be

like us.

we want them to be better.

to live

their lives

at a higher level.

without scandal.

we want to trust.

it's an impossible thing

to do.

and yet we expect

so much from them.

much more than we do

with me

and you.

getting her act together

the sky appears

disorganized. the clouds

unmatched

the sun

a cold melt of yellowed

white.

a patch of grey

lingering

along the range of

hills.

it's early in the day.

maybe by lunch she'll

get her act together.

auchtung baby

in the heat of the moment,

Rimute

yelled at me,

and said, don't do that.

stop that,

in her thick German accent.

i am not a race horse

she said.

do not do that again,

or i promise

you, that you will regret

such behavior.

my bad, i told her.

i'm sorry.

it was an errant hand

that hit your behind.

so so sorry.

okay, she said, you are

forgiven, but remember

i am not one of your show

ponies, now auchtung

baby,

continue on.

we need our wins

we spend a good part

of our lives

waiting for that ship to come in.

the job,

the love,

the house,

the big break.

the corner window.

a lawn without weeds.

some ships are small though,

mere boats,

row boats.

a drop the mike moment.

saying just

the right thing.

the wish for clearer skin.

or to be first

in line

at the coffee shop.

the first anywhere

to get in.

to make the yellow light.

the last second kick.

we need

our wins.

define love

define love

i ask her.

and she looks out

beyond the walls of this

dive bar

playing the eagles

on the juke box

and says.

love is never wanting

to lose somebody.

we clink glasses.

nailed it

i tell her, then we

both sing along with

the eagles,

you can't hide your

lying eyes.

where do i begin

i stare at the rock

i found

down by the creek.

i've wiped off the mud

and algae after lugging

it up the hilll. i've swept

away the little insects

that are crawling

all over, now staring 

up at me.

it has a marble like look

about it. some sparkle

and shine,

as if it may be of value.

maybe it can be

broken down into

valuable gems

that can be given to

love interests on special

days.

valentine's, birthdays, etc.

i can probably, with the right

tools and mining equipment

get fifty rings out

of this rock.

maybe a necklace or two,

but where do i begin.

a little whipped cream

my barista

asks me how i'm doing.

but i'm not in a good mood.

i just found

out my ex won the lottery.

how are you,

he says again.

feeling okay?

what are you a doctor?

i snap back,

then immediately say

i'm sorry.

i'm having a bad day.

extra shot of espresso?

he asks, maybe a little

cinnamon

on top? whip cream too?

sure, i tell them, that 

should take care of things.

unlike the silent treatment

it's different than the silent

treatment

it's the constant babble

treatment,

when anything that comes

to mind when angry,

gets said.

not unlike striking a beehive

with a bat.

out they come,

the words,

the barbs and stings,

the future regrets.

the silent treatment

the silence

is deafening. saying

nothing

is saying all there is to say.

everything

is clear

in the purposeful

absence of words.

it's not golden

it's not

bliss, it's a terrible

thing

to wait, to sink lower

and lower, 

without so much

as murmur

into

loves abyss.

finding Betty's house

we had maps back then,

i tell my son.

big thick maps

that weighed twenty pounds.

they had grids.

numbers and letters, it was

not unlike what the bombers

used during world war two

over Berlin.

we would turn on the dome

light in the car and pull

over to the side of the road.

squinting, we'd drag

our finger down the lines

of the right page

until we found our target.

Betty's house.

what it's all about

we all remember

the first time we made love.

the age,

the place,

the person.

that strange feeling of

really,

is that all it is.

you recall the wet

grass,

or the seats in the car

or the bed

in your mother's house.

the quiet of it all.

the touch, the smell.

the secrecy.

the fear, the doubt.

is this the beginning of

love,

of growing up.

it left you bewildered,

and

to this day, you aren't

quite sure

what it's all about.

indifference

indifference

overcomes you at times.

a grey cloud

of fatigue.

not caring

as much as you once did

about the news.

about the neighbors,

about old loves

or the job you're on.

you do your best,

but surrender.

you avoid arguments

or debates.

you have no opinion

you wish to share.

you find it best,

to leave it all be,

and just walk away.

midnight walkers

as kids we used

to drive down

to 14th street to peruse 

the street walkers,

drive around

the Mayflower hotel

to see the fare there.

what was this world

of painted ladies?

we were just old enough

to drive, and to have

enough money

to buy a tank of gas

and food at the window

of the little tavern

where they pulled out

palm sized burgers

from a drawer,

fried the day before.

there was always

one instigator leading

us down the wrong path.

Ike, or Jimmy.

cigarettes rolled up

in their sleeves, self inked

tattoos on their arms

of skulls, or bees.

a year older, but so much

more wiser

than their age.

was it wisdom, perhaps

not. the world had just

caught them by the tails.

d. c.

it's a town

where who you really are

doesn't matter.

it's what do you do,

what's your job in life,

how big

is your house,

what car do you drive.

where did you go to school.

where do your

kids go now.

let's put a sticker

on the back window

to show

that we've arrived, that

we may be better

than you.

sketches on napkins

i save up enough money

to go to Paris.

a week or two.

i've bought my chapeau,

a black

beret.

i start smoking,

and talking about baguettes

and cheese,

bordeauxs.

i begin to recite poetry

and to make

sketches on napkins

ala Picasso.

i peruse

the map, where to go, what

to see.

the 

West Bank, the Tower,

the Museums.

but in truth,

it doesn't matter

where we are,

i just want to hold your hand.

i want you to be

with me.

the tipping point

just one drink,

one stiff gin and tonic

with a slice of lime

makes you happy,

increases your light hearted

mood,

then two arrives

and suddenly

you're smarter,

saying clever things,

bordering on wise.

and with three, well,

that's the tipping point.

flirtations begin,

and your mind starts to 

wander about where

the night might end.

what ended us

even now,

i smell your hair,

your skin,

i feel the touch of your long

hand upon me.

i taste

your lips,

hear the sigh of your

heart

after making love.

even now, with time

and miles

between us.

i wonder

what it was 

that ended us.

because

sometimes the only reason

we possess

is the word

because.

it contains everything said

or unsaid.

the beginning or the end

of love.

or loss.

why did you do that, or

this.

because. just because.

that's all i have for now,

maybe tomorrow

i'll have more.

don't be surprised

why do people surprise us.

the priest

in jail.

the politician

caught with his hands

in the till.

the teacher,

the lawyer, the doctor

gone awry

with pills.

the wife who cheats,

the husband

with his double life.

why does this still amaze

us that there seems

to be more wrong

in the world, than right.

milk and butter

my father

at ninety-two

tells me about the one room

school house

in nova scotia.

his horse,

his cow.

the old stove where

his mother

would keep biscuits

warm.

he talked about the wealth

of milk and butter

on the farm.

how the gate swung.

how

the rooster crowed.

the corn grew.

i can see in his 

soft blue eyes,

that he wishes he was

forever young.

before you go home

you don't create art,

you find it.

it's in there. already

in the stone,

the wood.

the blank canvas

that waits

for paint,

life to be drawn.

the words

come out already

formed.

all is there. you just

have to find it

before you return

home.

first frost

when you come of age

and discover

for the first time frost,

the thin layer

making the grass white,

the windows

glazed.

you kneel down to touch it.

and now,

at this age, it still amazes

you. leaning over

gently on your knees,

to wave your hand across

the tendrils of frost covered

grass and leaves.

blowing a circle

onto the wintered glass.

before night ends

not all poems

are meant to be read,

or printed.

some

instead, are just thoughts

fallen

from the tip of your fingers,

or the point

of your pen.

a memory.

a pain,

a laugh.

it's all there waiting to

be on the page.

some

will stay

and have a second chance

at life

while others won't last

and will be

gone, before the stars

appear

at night.

there is no starting over

it's not about starting over,

rebooting

your life.

that's impossible.

you can't just leave

something,

or someone without taking

part of it with you.

starting over

never happens, 

you can't go back to

the line, as if that race

had never

been run, instead

it's a continuance

of things, but

now with wisdom

gained to take

a different path than

the one you were on.

does your ladder reach those lights?

it's a week of stragglers.

last minute

paste beneath an unruly 

seam.

a dab of white

on the door frame.

a dining room wall

painted blue.

people are coming over,

so we must get ready.

all year,

we paid these things no mind,

ignoring the frayed

edges of the rooms,

until now.

what about that ceiling

stain, can you caulk

the tub, can you paint

the front door red

does your ladder reach

those lightbulbs

in the hall, brighten

up the gloom?

pass the stuffing, please

i don't give

a fig about cranberries

until

thanksgiving rolls around.

same goes for

sweet potatoes,

or roasted brussel sprouts.

not a single

thought is given

to pumpkin pie,

or turkey.

it's all a one shot deal.

gravy

and olives stuffed with

cheese.

celery in rows.

pass the stuffing please.

and yet

it's my favorite holiday.

la dee da

i admire the genius

of those who have found a way

to avoid work.

to live

off the state,

or big brother,

or sister.

a mother who never

untied the apron strings.

the wife

at home.

the husband pushing

the stroller.

the trust fund baby.

they've found a way

to walk la dee da down

the path.

how nice

to not worry about where

the bread is coming

from, the car,

the gas.

how to afford a trip

to Paris.

they've got it figured out.

i've been too dumb

for all that.

punching the clock for

years,

hoping the job lasts.

falling out of favor

i fall out of favor

with a few

people.

i can't exactly put my finger

on what happened

or why the communication

has dropped

off to zero.

the year is all a blur

now.

something i said, or did,

or didn't do,

i suppose. but

i don't spend my time on

worrying about

such things anymore.

after reading the last page

finally the book is done.

i've read

the last page, and now

my heart is broken.

i'll miss these people.

this story.

this tale that held me captive 

for so long.

i'll keep it nearby

on the nightstand,

like a picture of an old love, 

an old memory.

i'll keep the book nearby,

within reach,

until a new one comes

along.

i'm sorry that i'm not sorry

i didn't mean to slam the door

behind you

when you left.

i really meant to gently

close it.

lock it tight.

and go upstairs

to at last get some

long awaited rest.

i didn't mean to yell

and scream and curse

at you, calling you names,

that i should regret.

but don't.

that's not who i am.

and when i tossed you out,

with all your things,

your bags,

your clothes, your purse.

don't take that as a sign

of some sort

that i'm done with you.

i am of course,

but it's best we part

not as friends, but as two

people who never should

have met.

waiting on you to arrive

maybe it's the water.

the atmosphere, the environment.

plastics.

maybe it's the news.

the media.

our phones.

our constant need for attention.

politics and crime.

maybe it's

the end of the world.

the end of good times.

or maybe i just

need a good nights sleep,

and for you

to arrive.

a bad hair day

it used to be

when i had a bad hair day,

it was about

the cowlick,

the part that wouldn't part.

the shape,

the cut,

the length of it,

nothing could be done

to straighten 

things out, or make

it look okay.

but now when i say

i'm having a bad hair

day

it's about my ears,

or eyebrows.

my nose,

the stubble on

my chin, the few 

remaining strands that

i miss

when i shave.

the night is like the day

i dream of water.

blue water,

black.

deep water, violet

and violent

at times.

mysterious lakes.

i'm swimming, or riding

on the next

enormous wave.

it's not a fearful dream,

but one

of survival.

there is nothing i can't

cross

or stay afloat in.

nothing,

the night is just like

the day.

the yellow sticky notes

i make a note

to do something tomorrow.

but i can't read it.

it's scribbled

as if by a chicken's claw

crawling across the page

with ink.

i should have been a

doctor.

i have doctoring skills

it seems.

when hurried, 

my handwriting

stinks.

when trouble has gone

we rub out hands

against

the fire, 

the pit in the yard

burning bright.

the crackle of wood.

our coats on, a blanket

thrown around

us.

we can see the stars

of white embers,

the rising flames.

this is what life is

when trouble

has gone.

let's go out

it's an old

bar

stuck between

a dry cleaners

and a

burger joint.

the writer's center

nearby

where i've listened

to poetry.

the bar is neither

long or wide,

but the food is good,

the drinks

strong.

the crowd neither

young or old,

but hungry

for life again,

willing

to wander out

into the darkness,

into the saturday

night cold.

don't hope

hope is a dangerous

thing.

it rarely arrives, though

we keep

waiting, longing,

standing at the kitchen

sink,

looking out the window

for him

or her to return.

my mother was full of

hope.

getting off the train

the woods call us.

the mountain. the lake.

the ocean.

we need them.

places to recharge.

to get away.

to stop the train

and get off for a while.

we need places

where we're unknown.

where we have no

name.

when i get older

i need to throw

in a religious poem,

a spiritual rendering from time

to time,

to prove that

i don't just think about

sex all day.

women.

and then i fall off the wagon,

and go right

back at it.

does the hunger

ever subside?

a decline in appetite?

i thought it would by

now at this age,

maybe when i'm ninety nine.

proper attire

she surprised me

when she showed up in her

leather pants.

a shiny black pair

with boots no less.

ummm, i said. where

we going tonight?

to which she

said, no where.

now get undressed.

like and lust

afraid of love.

that lush banquet

where we over indulge,

you never get close to anyone.

you put

out your arms

to back away from the table

and say, that's enough.

you avoid

saying how you feel.

you don't ever want

to go through that kind of

pain again.

it's a hard life, 

but you manage by

living off the crumbs

of like and lust.

the culture police

the culture police

are busy with the new dictionary.

every word in the english language

that begins with man

is being replaced with the word,

people.

man hole is now people hole.

it's confusing.

Manchester is now Peoplechester.

Manhattan is now Peoplehattan.

you can no longer say, you need to man up.

come on,

people up. people up.

etc.

you get the picture.

the end of the world is near.

it's 1984 once more.

George Orwell call your office.

the weather report

brittle,

is what i'd call this day,

if was the weather man.

don't go out there.

stay home.

the roads are slick.

do you really need to go

shopping.

eat what you have

in the cupboard,

the fridge.

so what, it's saturday.

i'm telling you straight

up,

don't go out there.

the wind will

blow your clothes off.

you'll be stuck

in a ditch on the highway.

it's cold as

a penguin's butt out

there.

stay home.

ice, snow, wind, sleet.

don't be a dumbell.

stay home.

now back to the news,

Jimmy, how's that virus count?

what do the polls say?

we are all politicians.

smiling for the camera,

making sure we're seen 

in the best light.

posing.

mincing our words,

getting our hair,

our clothes, just right.

we want to be liked.

we want every vote.

we want to win this

election, 

this life long campaign,

this fight.

turn up the volume

you know

that things will change.

you've felt that.

you've stood in a crowded

bar

with the music going,

with all your friends

and thought,

this too will end

at some point. we will

grow out of this,

grow older.

get married, have children.

this kind of fun

will come to a close.

and it did for a short

while,

but now it's back again.

and where

this stops, who knows.

Breaking News

breaking news.

breaking news.

we're sorry to interrupt

your regular broadcast but

something terrible has happened.

we don't have any details yet,

but this is what we know so far.

something has happened.

we're not sure where

or what, or who was involved,

all we know at this point

is that something has happened.

and that it probably occurred 

on this planet, earth,

investigators

will go the scene once

they know where it is.

we will keep you updated

on this event that we know absolutely

nothing about as more

information becomes available,

so stay tuned to our news

team four. Bill, Chuck, Dave

and Daisy. Weather on the fives.

the sports wrap up is at nine.

and now back to your

regular programing.

how about this weather?

the cold

gives us something to talk about.

we've pretty much

worn out all

the other topics.

avoiding politics and religion

altogether,

ex wives and husbands.

we pull up our collars,

secure the top

button on our winter coats,

and say.

whew. this wind.

something, isn't it?

really whipping up today.

feels like snow is on the way,

doesn't it?

another cup of coffee

i press the button

to signal

my butler to come and take

my empty cup

for a refill.

but he doesn't answer.

i yell out his name,

Frederick.

still nothing.

I call for the house keeper,

Sophia,

nothing.

no reply. hey, i yell out,

is anyone

working today.

and then i look out the window

and see them

together,

hanging clothes on

the line,

the sun is in her face,

she's beautiful.

he gently kisses her neck.

she's in love with him.

i'll miss my hot coffee,

but for them

it's time.

the divorce party

it was a party for the ages,

the divorce

party.

there was a cake

and champagne, music

and dancing.

confetti fell from the ceiling.

there was wild laughter.

food and more food

catered in from Alta Strada.

friends arrived

from out of state.

siblings, kids. dogs.

all welcome to celebrate

not the end of something,

but the beginning

of something wonderful,

a chance at a new life,

celebrating the great escape.

chicken thoughts

i think about

chickens a lot lately,

as i throw some thighs

into the air fryer.

how many millions of chickens

are killed

and eaten everyday.

i guess i could google that.

i shake my head

and push the button.

it's a little blue icon,

with the face of a chicken

on it.

i guess i care about the lives

of animals,

but not enough to not

cook and eat them.

it's a dilemma a conundrum,

oh well,

past me the salt.

the new yorker magazine poetry

i try, i try again

to read some of the poetry

in the new yorker

magazine,

but i get a headache

at line one.

i really want to know what

the poem means.

honest i do.

but the words just bounce

off my brain.

yet, i'd like to

raise the bar and write

one, that will not

come back to me

after i send it with my

tattered resume.

i want to write a poem

just like the one i'm

reading,

puzzling and full of 

bizarre references, ancient

mythology.

i want to confuse

the reader, make him struggle

and think that he's

not smart enough to get me.

please i beg of you,

new yorker magazine,

pick me, pick me.

the dented cans

although you've lowered

your expectations,

still you expect more

from others.

but no.

we are at the dented can

stage of life.

the last chance bin.

the day old bread,

the meat with the red tag on.

get it now,

half price. sadly the herd

has thinned.

fighting a cold we peruse

the used car lot

fenced in near the woods.

see the balloons

tethered to their hoods.

no money down, drive it

home today.

no credit, no problem.

but there are no guarantees.

raising the rent

the rent was 215 in my first

bedroom apartment.

a one bedroom garden unit

on the ground floor.

i was twenty one.

scraping by,

but doing alright, a car,

a watch,

a gallon bottle of aqua

velvet by the door.

clothes, food and beverages,

you know,

the usual thing.

it had a stack washer

and dryer

in the hall closet.

a dishwasher,

a big tub.

a sliding glass door that

opened up to the woods

which bordered

Rosecroft Raceway.

i could see the basketball

court outside the window.

a pool too with a diving board.

it was paradise.

guest parking for anyone

i was seeing

back in the day.

and then i got the notice

in the mail that

rent was going up to

235 next year.

that was it, i had to get out

of there.

over the bridge to Virginia

where Susie, Michelle

and Donna lived.

did you hear that?

what's that noise,

she says, startled,

waking me up.

i hear

footsteps,

the creaking of stairs,

something

rattling

in the attic.

did you lock the doors?

shut the windows.

it sounds like

someone is in

here.

go back to sleep,

i tell her,

looking at the clock.

it's 3 a.m.

just a few ghosts

from my past.

this is when they like

to get up.

the smart guy

the professor rubs his hand

against

the dry paint.

a worried look on his face.

he squints at

cabinets.

how long will this last,

he asks,

rubbing harder,

now dragging his nails

against the wood.

look,

it's chipping already,

he says,

looking up at me.

well, stop doing that,

i tell him,

slapping his Harvard hand

before going back out to

the truck to get another

wet brush.

beware of beautiful

beware of beautiful people.

men and women, alike.

beware

of their glow,

their kindness, the nectar

of them.

none of it is real,

or earned.

beware of the words that leave

their mouth.

the twinkle in their eye.

they haven't worked

yet for what the rest of have.

and they want it

badly.

you'll never be more lonely,

if you let one

into your life.

the love note

after i pour all the change

into an

empty peanut jar.

the two pound size.

i pick out the nails

and screws,

the lint, the little

pieces of paper,

the strands of string,

and receipts, shreds

of coupons that i'll

never use.

a paper clip, a twist or

two. a rubber band.

crumbs from a cookie

i had for lunch.

an old stained

love note from you.

i realize that

my pockets are a perpetual

waste basket.

walk?

i dip

a leg out the door.

it's sunny,

quite warm.

walk?

i ask the dog.

she runs for her leash,

twisting herself

in joy,

bouncing

on the floor.

this is why we

grieve

so hard when they're

gone.

the best xmas card

i look at my dwindling

box of

christmas cards.

it started with a hundred.

the bulk box.

everyone getting the same

card.

the tree, the gifts beneath it,

the lights.

the fireplace, the dog looking

up the chimney where

the stockings hang.

dad, mom, son,

friends.

etc.

i sign them and send them

out.

and then i look at the card

the exxon station

gave me last year.

a picture of baby Jesus

in a manger on the front.

signed by all the greasy mechanics

the guy who inspects

my car,

the oil change guy.

the girl at the counter.

with love and affection,

it reads.

have a warm and safe christmas.

we appreciate your business.

happy holidays.

don't forget, in january,

your emission test is due.

no mending of things

i admit it.

guilty as charged.

i throw myself onto the mercy

of the court.

i'm rough on things.

clothes

and chairs.

cars.

past lovers, or

strange friends.

i get the most out of a pair

of shoes, or gloves,

then replace then

at the first

hole or tear.

i'm not looking for the glue

or needle and thread,

or tape.

i'm not into mending things,

as you well know.

patching things up,

is not for me.

i just move on.

the frozen rain

they're not unlike

barnacles,

some memories.

a voice from the near past,

stuck to the vessel

of you.

most scraped clean from

the hull,

but a few remain.

just words, phrases,

crazy things said

as we sailed aimlessly

in the wind and frozen

rain.

ready for what's next

they're not war wounds,

exactly.

but the day to day

collateral

damage of work and play,

of careless walking

into doors.

who hasn't stepped of a curb

and twisted a knee.

slipped on a sheet of ice,

bruising our head.

who hasn't rolled out of bed

to trip on a shoe or dog,

or glass from

last nights martini.

to the bathroom we go

for aspirin,  a cold compress,

a bandage or two,

and we're put back

together,

ready for what's next.

are you awake?

the earlier we rise

the more

we get done.

and as we age we

don't want to miss

a moment

of raking leaves,

doing laundry

going to the store

for something

we don't need.

it wasn't always this way.

for so long,

i never saw a sun rise,

unless i felt your

hand upon

my shoulder, asking,

with a tempting voice,

are you awake.

the red dress

the yearly yard sale

begins

at dawn.

the tables set up with

the metal folding chairs.

the same old things

dragged out

from the attic

or cellar.

books and dishes,

pictures and lamps.

a bed

with broken springs,

stuffing sticking out

for anyone to see.

on a hanger,

there's a sparkly red

dress with a tear,

a matching

pair of heels beside

it, one broken

in need of repair.

on a wobbly table

are two champagne glasses

on a silver tray.

i stop and take a look.

there has to be a good

story somewhere in there.

the truth shall set you free. com

having learned

my trade the hard way,

my new side business

will be ratting people out.

married people.

people in relationships.

anyone cheating

and lying, betraying

their spouse.

i'm for hire.

phone tap, i'm your man.

tracking,

breaking into e mails,

hacking phones.

no problem.

i'll wait outside the

motel on the outskirts

of town.

i'll check out the parks,

the empty lots.

i'll check out their lunch

dates,

their happy hours.

i'll eaves drop,

i'll snoop around,

i'll put my binoculars

on them.

i'll put my ear to the ground.

you want pictures, 

no problem.

all them will be busted.

no money down,

trust me. low monthly fees,

all work guaranteed. 

i'm your man.

you don't deserve

to have scum

in your life. give me a call.

the truth shall

set you free.