i need a new hobby

i need a hobby.

i'm writing too much.

repeating myself.

beating all the dead horses

that litter

the years

of my life.

i need a vacation too.

a beach,

a city

i've never been to.

i need to get lost

somewhere.

meet a stranger in a bar,

be in love for 24 hours.

no more,

no less.

i need a hobby.

maybe stamps, maybe

there's something out there

besides

old girlfriends

that i can collect.

hotel sheets

is there anything better

than a freshly

made  bed

with cool blue cotton

sheets, 1000 count,

brand new,

pillow cases too.

the bed made, just

waiting for me

and hopefully you.

whispering my name

in the dim light of day.

see you soon, i tell her.

i give her wink,

and brush my hand

across her folds,

i caress the edges

of her hem,

tucking them in.

soon, i tell her, be 

patient, soon.

dropping the ball

i think we broke up 

for good

this time.

no calls.

no text.

no emails.

i wonder what happened.

where did i go wrong.

how did i drop

the ball.

yes.

it does feel like de ja vu

all over again.

my monkey youth

i could do chin ups

all day long,

push ups,

climb the rope without

using my legs

all the way to the top

of the gymnasium ceiling.

i could leap

over the horse,

circle the track

like a gazelle,

swing like a chimp on

the rings.

and now i look across

the street both ways

and wonder

if i can make it

to the other side 

before

the traffic once more

begins.

we all need a butter churn

i think people were

more thoughtful, more philosophical

when they

had to churn butter,

or milk a cow,

or plow the lower forty.

you had all that time to think

things through.

there was more time

for reflection

when you

had chores to do.

fixing the pig pen,

shearing the sheep,

sewing another patch on 

a pair of trousers,

or greyed sheet.

sometimes it would take

all day

to climb up onto the barn

roof and hammer down

a board,

or straighten out the weather

vane.

and at the end of the day,

there was no energy,

no desire

to sit around and complain.

whatever was bothering you

was gone.

sorry, i need to block you

i go through my list of blocked

numbers.

scammers,

salesman,

old lovers, potential

trouble.

some i remember,

some i have no clue.

i look at your

number and laugh,

of course

not dialing.

i assume you've blocked

me too.

home cooking

not everything

is home

cooking

seasoned to taste.

stirred

and added to the point

of being just

right.

sometimes you have

to leave

the comfort of your

home,

your bed,

your life, and taste

the bitters,

the overly sweet,

the soured

dish,

or fruit unripe.

what love should be

it is on days like

this that i

see her hands

pushing a bowl in front

of me as

i sit,

still cold from the snow

and sledding

down

the hills behind our house.

i see her hands

push the hot meal

before me.

i smell the heaven

of stew,

the onions and potatoes,

the carrots.

it's not love, but it feels

so much like

what love should be.

a fine way to go

i find an open field

of fresh snow

to lie down in. 

it's pristine.

the trees are full,

the wind is soft

and cold.

a chandelier of stars

swings above me.

if this was the end,

i could deal with it.

left frozen here

with a smile

on my flushed face,

a fine way to go.

chelsea

i see her sometimes.

the daughter

i never had.

i see her face, her green eyes

like mine,

her sweetness.

i feel the love she has

for her father.

the warmth of her smile,

that grin.

i hear her soft

voice on the phone,

read it in the words she

writes.

telling me, i love you

dad. i miss you,

it won't be long, before

i'm home.

who was she?

i read about the man

who leaped

off the highest point of the bridge.

the dark water

below

and rocks did not

welcome him

kindly.

what brought

him to climb over the rail

on that cold

night.

with the stars out.

the city lit with christmas.

what reason

was there.

who was she?

the unearthly greens

i think of the jungle.

the thick

growth of bush and trees,

the vines

and bramble,

the black earth

below

the unearthly greens.

the white stones of the beach

once through.

i think of

what could have been.

being lost

forever, never finding

what's true.

across the lake

i find the picture

in an old

roll of film, forgotten

in a drawer.

i'm surprised at what i find.

your face,

unseen,

hair across your shoulders,

sitting in front

of the boat,

me at the oars.

the water dark

without sun,

the white of wind

in waves.

it's me rowing towards

shore,

your shadow

a cold and portent

shade.

iron and steel

so much

has been soft metal.

bent

and torn,

melted in the heat.

my spine

a spindle of foil,

twisted

into every direction

she wanted

me to keep.

and now you wonder

why

i'm made

of iron and steel,

unmovable

no matter what words

you speak.

what's true

we have favorites,

the black

sweater,

the jeans.

that yellow dress

you wore

when

we first met.

we have places.

drinks,

food.

favorites, all, 

music.

they mix in with what's

good.

what's true.

it's clear to me

i don't need

your hand to read,

or a pack

cards,

or a crystal ball

to know and see where

you've been.

it's clear

as i witness the tears

that slip

down your cheeks,

wiped against

my sleeve.

with each new sun

i wondered how

things

could be done,

how a man or woman

could

stand

and work all day,

to shovel

or carry the load

they've chosen,

rising

with each new sun.

i wondered how

was it possible

to live a life

such as that, but i see

now.

i see clearly, as

i stand

at the door, looking

back.

today is no exception

today is no exception.

there is no

asterisk

beside the number

or name.

it's an ordinary day,

like the one

before it

and the one yet

yet to come.

people will die.

babies will be born.

love will be made,

hate will arrive.

all things will become

new and old 

at the same time.

the last page

she bought tickets

to go

see

the irish poet.

but he

died

before we arrived.

it was in the paper,

a small

square

on the last page.

his picture.

a line or two

of a poem

he wrote when he

was still

alive.

i imagine he's still

at it.

with a similar

audience

no doubt.

listening at times is hard

some people,

their lives a wreck from

side to side,

top

to bottom,

decide to give you advice

on what you

should do next.

trying to straighten

out the wrinkles

of your life.

you listen.

you nod.

you let them go on and on,

as if

what their 

saying is right.

you let them have

their say,

and then you go home,

and rejoice

at the silence of the night.

stay put for now

the itch

to move, to go south

gets under

your skin

for a few hours.

usually in times like now.

with

the earth

frozen,

the snow knee deep.

no way

to get out.

and then it passes.

change

is good.

i don't see change

in the panhandle.

i don't

see the turning of leaves,

the plume

of smoke,

the breath of new

air

come spring.

so i'll stay, 

at least for now.

songs from another age

i slip

the black disc

from its sleeve.

worn

and tattered.

stained.

it's a record i've

played

endlessly in my younger

days.

lying on the couch,

or bed.

listening

to the granular

music escape.

knowing when to rise

to lift the needle

from the skip.

i know every word.

it's a friend

that i'll never

leave.

the dry cleaners

i see no joy

at the dry cleaners.

the line

of patrons holding gowns

or suits,

dresses.

the party is long over.

it's just a matter

of getting

out the stains now,

such as memories

are.

like confession,

guilt soon

gone.

snow storm

the bowl

of earth

upended in white,

the new

elephants of cars.

the thickened

trees.

the sky no different

than the ground.

we are in

it now,

aren't we?

forward

there is no other way

around.

april seems like

a far away

dream.

the first ones out

the first ones

out

have cleared their sidewalks,

their cars,

they've shoveled

and plowed

before the slightest

light of day

has shone.

i look out the window

and they wave.

broom in hand,

shovel,

scrapper for the car.

a bag of salt.

the wife comes out with

another round

of hot chocolate, she

waves too, as

i wonder where my

mittens are.

all these books

these books

will not survive. the pages

will yellow,

the binding

will fail.

all these words will

fall

through the crevices

of time.

but we will

remember what was,

won't we?

the tender kiss,

the gentle

smile.

the treasure of each

other that we

found.

my new assistant sasha

i hire an assistant

to help

with whatever needs to be done

around the house.

laundry,

cooking,

massages and putting lotions

on my back

after a gentle 

scratch.

she's from sweden

and doesn't speak a word

of english.

which is fine.

keeps the small talk down

to a minimum.

we communicate

in the way that jane goodall

would with her

primates.

thirst, hunger, sleep.

a big smile for happy.

a lot of hand motions

and facial expressions.

she's not a good cook

and she refuses to change the oil

in my car,

or do my taxes, but

for now it's working out.

she's in the kitchen now

making strudel.

the heavy snow

when i see snow coming

down

like this,

already a foot on

the ground,

i immediately think

of eggs

and bacon.

hash browns. two slices

of whole wheat

toast with jam.

a glass of juice

and a hot cup of coffee.

and you of course

coming down

the stairs in your 

christmas nightgown.

selective memory

i lack selective

memory.

i remember it all.

it weighs me down at times.

each word,

each sigh, each glance.

i wish i could

shake the box

and erase.

start from scratch

with the dials,

turning left and right.

a clean screen

for the new year would

be nice.

they mean well

my hands

are dirty. there are specks

of paint

and debris

embedded in the skin.

beneath the nails.

there are

cuts

and scrapes.

wounds,

some healed, some

new.

they are my hands.

the hands

i use

to cook, to clean,

to turn pages in books,

to write with.

hands that i place

in yours,

hands that i move slowly

across your skin,

or use to touch your

beautiful face.

forgive my

hands, they mean well.

truly, they do.

i enter the room

i enter the room

and find

a chair, it may not be the right

chair for me

but i take it

and sit.

the room is dark.

a small window

lets in what little

light there is from

the moon.

i'm alone.

it's my birth.

the beginning of the end.

i will

become part of it

once more.

it's as if i've always

known

the truth

about everything.

i have forgotten nothing.

i will

embrace the day

as if there's hope.

i will vow to say less

and to listen

more.

there is so much left

to learn.

distractions

the distraction

of light

and color,

of sound

keeping us busy

with less important

things.

we do fly into

the pleasures

that life provides.

not often

for our own good,

but down

a wrong path,

towards

a soured demise.

i need a cookie

it feels like sunday

again, i tell her.

because it is, she says.

look. she holds

her phone up.

see.

see.

pushing it towards my

unshaven face.

it's sunday.

yesterday was saturday.

etc.

why are you

so mean in the morning,

i ask her.

i don't know

she says.

i need coffee.

maybe we should go for

a walk

get out of these

pajamas.

we've been in them for week.

are there

anymore christmas cookies

left?

i need a sugar cookie.

look at my hand.

it's shaking.

i hope you understand

if someone

put a gun to my head,

or set out a million dollars

in cash

in front of me,

or promised

to save the world

from hunger

and bring peace

to every land.

i still wouldn't

say i do again.

i hope you understand.

unmovable

i get it.

that holidays bring out the sadness

in many

people.

that want their

lives to be different

somehow.

they want others to behave

better.

it's impossible.

the woe is me is too

strong,

too deep in them.

still stuck

in the unmovable past,

victims

for another year.

the long party

we hang on to youth

as long as

we can, 

with creams and lotions,

blonding our hair,

exercising

at dawn. swallowing

handfuls of vitamins,

eating carrots 

and lettuce 

like hamsters

going round

and round.

and then we don't

care as  much anymore.

the hell with it, we say.

i'm old. i'm grey.

my skin is like

parchment.

these wrinkles

last all day. i'm tired

and in bed

by ten. we count

our blessing and submit

a prayer.

ah, but the fun we

had, the riotous

life, the long nights,

the amazing days.

immortality seemed

possible and 

we believed that the party

would never end.

no one can take

that away.

the five year old

i learn something from the five

year old

i'm sitting next to

at christmas dinner.

he mixes all his peas into

his mashed potatoes.

the gravy too,

the cranberry sauce,

the stuffing.

it's one big pile of goo.

he looks at me

and smiles as he takes

a bite, a slice of

turkey still in his mouth

unchewed.

i do the same, but with a

long swig of gin and tonic

beforehand.

the blessing of hunger

to know

lack is a blessing.

to be hungry,

to be penniless,

to be threadbare

with holes in your

shoes

is golden.

to sleep on a hard

shared bed,

to be cold

in winter,

to be without a fan

in summer,

to eat

every meal

at the small table

in the kitchen,

not asking what,

but when.

all blessings. all lessons

learned,

with wisdom

arriving

when at last it ends.

her hands in dough

i fall in love with the woman

baking

bread

at wegman's.

she's wearing a tall white

hat, fluffed

just so. the dust of flour

on her face.

an apron is strung

tightly

around her slender neck.

her hands are pink from

kneading dough,

i imagine if i could

get close enough

that she'd smell like cinnamon,

or nutmeg.

a jelly roll.

she smiles at me when

i stop

to watch her take hot loaves,

still steaming,

off the racks.

i squeeze the muffins she

just set out

and wink. 

my heart leaps when

she winks back.

picking the plums now

we say

in age, now i'm just picking

the plums

from the tree.

the fat juicy

plums

reachable with a stretched

arm.

we leave the high

ones be.

the ones on the ground

scattered

we walk around,

leaving them

for birds,

for animals, for 

hungrier mouths,

for bees.

nothing good comes to mind

where once i couldn't

get you out

of my mind,

i now have

to force myself to remember

you.

nothing good

or kind

returns.

no act of love, no

kiss.

no meal shared, no memory

of joy arises.

it's strange how

our brains return

so often

to the scene of a crime,

staring at the scar

now healed

in time.

and then they scratch

are not women

not cats,

so hard to understand.

so needy

and yet, not.

curious and aloof

in the same

breath.

secretive and brazen

with

the arched back,

the seductive

eyes made up.

they slink, they rise,

they curl

lovingly into your lap

for a soft stroke,

and then

they scratch.

a prayerful knot

i slip into the side

door

of  st. bernadette's

and find

an empty pew

in the back. stage right.

i hit my knees

on the soft kneeler,

tie my fingers

together

in a prayerful knot

and confess my sins

in the direction 

of where i presume

sits God.

listening once

more to my same old

story,

hoping again

that he'll let me off.

a good year so far

ten minutes in.

it's been a good year so far.

best not

turn on the news,

or read the paper,

or answer the phone.

i think i'll

burrow

into the house, the couch,

or bed,

my cocoon,

and keep it this way

for a while.

a few people

a few people 

still give me faith in the world.

it's not lost quite yet.

there are those,

the stragglers

of good will

and honesty out there,

holding tightly onto

compassion,

but so few.

so few.

a cameo appearance

it's a strange dream

but with a familiar cast of characters.

old friends,

and lovers.

a dog,

a cat.

even you

make an appearance,

a cameo,

one might say.

a few lines, a dramatic

turn

of events,

then poof,

once more you're gone.

sorry, but it's time

the christmas tree

gives me a look when i finally

get home.

the near bare

branches

thirsting for water.

needles puddled

on the floor.

i'm sorry i tell her,

but it's time to go.

i unwrap the lights,

take the ornaments off,

but

i leave the tinsel on,

the angel

hair.

let her go out to the curb

with a little dignity,

a little bit of holiday spirit

still there.

the ball drops

as we

grill meat on the flame

and the smoke

alarm

rings,

she throws a grape

across the table

to my open mouth.

i pop the champagne.

we make a toast,

we yell,

we scream.

the alarm so persistent,

so loud,

the tv on.

i miss dick clark,

she says,

as the ball drops on

another year.

unlike real life

rolling on the tarmac,

gaining speed,

the plane

lifts gently into the clouds.

the window

seat is mine

as we glide along,

i see a smaller world

below me,

all troubles

left behind.

the wings 

hold steady

on this smooth ride,

so unlike

real life.

the world is scary

sometimes you go out

and it seems

that the world is full of

circus people,

carnival workers.

everyone looks strange.

oddly shaped,

bone thin,

or obese with

a look in their eye

like maybe they've escaped

from an asylum,

or cage.

planet nine?

the ink, the piercings,

the blue hair,

the leather and latex.

when did pajamas become

all day

wear.

just needed a reason

it was disagreeable weather.

the kind

of weather than makes

you shake

your head and say no,

when you open the door

and take a step out.

the chill running up your leg.

nah.

i'm staying in.

yes. i know i'm getting

married today,

the whole thing is planned

and she's waiting

at the altar,

but no.

i can't go out into this

cold and wind.

tupperware

slow.

let's take it slow.

no.

slower.

slower than that.

shhh.

say nothing.

let's keep our thoughts

to our self.

zip it.

why ruin things.

i'll bring

your tupperware

back.

the very short holiday visit

he wants

to talk politics. always.

he tells me

he's reading the constitution 

the magna carta

the bill of rights.

he's pondering

running for mayor, or

something

in his small town

of one hundred.

he says the police

are too scary,

they should wear pastel

colored clothes.

pinks and blues, soft greens,

and be armed

with water pistols.

more stimulus

checks, please.

more government

gifts.

everything should be free.

i yawn, and smile,

and ask

him where the remote

is.

i think there's a game on.

the world needs saving

has the world gone

dumb.

stupid,

are there no readers

left.

no scholars,

no one

looking up, or around

instead

of at their own

navel,

which is now

their phone?

it may be time for

the great

flood,

or for dr. strangelove

to drop

the bomb.

one way or

the other, the world

needs saving.

the trader joe haul

feeling a tad glum

and blue

my nose runny as i sneeze

into a handful

of thanksgiving napkins

i head up to trader joe's

for some soup.

chicken soup, minus the noodles,

you know,

this whole carb thing.

but then i pick up some

flowers to brighten

up the house,

a bottle of champagne,

some shrimp

and oysters. all about the zinc.

a jar of coconut oil,

some candles

in case a storm blows through.

then go to the check out

counter,

once i figure out which lane

to steer my cart.

do i stand here, push the cart

there, or do i zig zag

over to that register

where the girl

in chuck taylors and a

Hawaiian shirt stands?

Jimmy, a kid with a straight

pin through both eyebrows

and a tattoo of a dolphin

on his arm,

waves me over.

far out, he says. party tonight

eh?

candles, oh yeah.

coconut oil. chicks dig that.

you da man. bringing in 

the new year with a bang?

shut up, i tell him, or i'll

sneeze on you.

it's not that simple

i want people to work.

to get their hands

dirty, to join

the grind.

i don't

want them on the corner

begging.

i want

the lines to be shorter

in the soup

kitchens.

the shelters empty,

the tents to be gone.

take a job,

any job.

i whisper.

naively, simplistic

as always

with what's wrong.

if you were closer

if you were closer

we'd be in love

by now.

if we lived in the same

town?

maybe.

or perhaps we'd grow

tired of each 

other, as lovers often do.

would poetry

be enough

to see us through?

the end is near

masked

and blue gloved.

the hospital workers,

doctors, nurses,

go eyes forward

down and around

the patients.

finding a corner in the elevator,

mumbling

their floors, or

taking the stairs.

everything about them,

screams beware,

the end is near.

coming undone

who hasn't come undone,

fallen apart

at the seams.

crumbled like a stale

cookie

in soured cream.

who hasn't

fallen off the wall,

shattering shards

of thin shells

upon the street,

i raise my hand, both

hands in fact,

to it all.

the new portrait

i should settle down

again,

get married

to someone named muffy.

have a few kids.

a dog,

a cat,

a fenced in yard.

i could have new neighbors

who wave

to me and say

hello, how's

the wife, how's life,

i see you've

taken care of the weeds

in your yard.

i could have

norman rockwell come

over and paint

our porrtait.

this will be life

the way it's supposed to be.

we can send out

long holiday letters

telling all our friends

how wonderful

things are.

i can rewrite the whole story.

start over.

fresh and new.

but then again, on second

though, i'd never

have met

you.

a new flight of stairs

winter

reminds me of what i haven't

done.

the end of the year.

the books unread,

all the things i planned

on doing,

have gone

mostly undone.

i need your shove,

your push upon my back.

in fact, carry me up 

the new flight

of stairs

of another year,

together we'll find a way.

or not.

you go your way, and i'll go mine

i have wasted 

a lot of hours, spent a ridiculous

amount of time

on useless

endeavors.

but so what.

it's my life. my days

to wile away

as i see fit.

i'm past the point of being

pushed into

another direction,

of being 

admonished, or corrected.

i'm purposely, 

without purpose

on the path i've

chosen.

live with it, or don't.

the next snow drift

this snow.

knee deep as i plunge

one boot

after another

carrying a bag of groceries

up the yard.

i see you in the window,

at the sink, below

the yellow light,

your hands in

water.

you smile.

i return the smile, but

there's a part

of me that wants

to keep going,

to find another house,

another place to live,

somewhere

past the next snow drift,

i might find 

a different life.

being buttered up

when  someone wants

something

from you

they usually begin by buttering

you up.

oh my.

have you lost weight?

are you working out,

i've never seen you looking so

young and fit.

new love in your life?

tell me your secret.

i want what you're having,

they say, chuckling,

with a big smile.

then they ask you for a ride

to the airport

the next morning

at 5 a.m.

last meal requests

she asks me

what would be my last meal

if i was going to be executed the next

day.

what?

what crime did i commit, i ask her.

doesn't matter,

that's irrelevant.

wait.

wait a minute.

what possible crime would i do

that they would

put me in the electric chair.

she sighs.

oh brother.

just suppose, she says. just

imagine that you have one night

left on earth

and you can choose anything

you want for a last meal.

anything?

yes, she says, with exasperation.

anything.

hmmm.

maybe a standing rib roast

or tacos.

tacos?

yeah, i haven't had them in a while.

with hot sauce.

i stopped eating them because

of acid reflux, but

if i'm being executed the next day,

why not?

a little bit up and to the left

i start wondering why

my skin

is so itchy this winter.

i'm scratching at it all day.

rubbing up

against

the corner of a wall,

or sticking a wooden spoon

down my shirt

to get to that one unreachable

spot.

i pick up a stray cat on the street

and place it on my

back. 

when Lulabelle was

around, she took care of it

with her long

dagger nails.

but she be gone.

i google itchy skin

and tumble down that rabbit hole.

it's either

impending doom,

or nothing

but cold air.

Betty gives them four stars

i go up to the tire

store

to get four new tires for 

the truck.

i have a set picked out.

on sale.

i see the ad online.

where the rubber meets

the road it says.

yelp gives them four stars.

bob in mechanicsville

says they're the best tires he's

ever owned.

betty in spotsylvania county

claims

it's the softest ride

this side of her Serta bed.

wide, good traction

in rain, or snow.

of course they don't have that

particular tire anymore,

the ones i'm holding

a coupon on.

the man shrugs and taps

his greasy fingers

on the counter. Covid,

he says. Supply chain.

ya know?

but we do have this tire.

this one here.

the ones we never sell.

pull up over there

and we'll call you when

we're done.

i read the news today, o boy

i'm down

to the sports page,

a casual glance at scores

about games

i really no longer care about.

the metro section,

straight to the obits

to see who's bought

the farm.

the rest of the paper

i tear up

and put inside my hamster

cage.

at some point i'll get

a hamster.

there used to be a time

when i read the paper

everyday,

picking it up off the porch,

the cold baton

of news

freshly printed.

the black ink smudging

my eager hands,

but i'd almost rather not

know now

if the world is nearing

an end.

i have coffee

and a window, that's enough.

bamboo sheets

i should never have

bought

these ice blue bamboo sheets

800 hundred count.

i can't get out of bed

now.

bamboo, who knew.

i expected

splinters, or a cold

hard wood feel.

no siree bob.

they're as soft as, well,

you fill in the blank.

don't open that door

it's best not

to look under the bed

or in the medicine

cabinet.

best not

to open a shut door

to a closet,

or to open a drawer.

the temptation

to look at phone is there,

but don't.

it's better to not know

what's unknown.

we all have our secrets

that are best left

undiscovered.

to the moon alice

i find a foil packet

of atlantic

wild salmon

in the cupboard

behind a can

of lentil soup, both

left by a previous

short lived relationship.

i guess it's still

good. unspoiled

by time.

sealed with the look

of astronaut food.

ready for a moon

trip, or better yet

a one way trip to mars.

guys night out

guys night out is different

now.

it used to be wild

with drinking and dancing,

carousing

with dangerous girls,

almost women

with their fake i.d.'s

but now

howard

won't drive in the rain

or too far.

mark's neuropathy

is bothering him,

so he needs

a cane.

jerry is watching his

weight

and has special dietary needs.

jim is having trouble

with his third

wife, and can't stay out

past ten.

Elgin brings his coupons

and insists

on a booth

near a window to keep

an eye on his car.

Randy asks me on the phone,

what are you wearing,

will we be out late?

the enormous white lie

i give her a bouquet

of words

freshly cut

and dug up from somewhere

deep inside

my brain.

i put them

in a vase with water

and say 

with a white lie,

here you go.

i'm sorry for the past,

the present

and the future.

it's not you, it's me.

i'm the one to blame.

what now?

lately, i find

children

hard to be around.

from one

to the age of thirty

and beyond,

stuck somewhere

between an adult

and child.

so messy.

crumb laden,

loud.

the spills,

the selfishness,

the ups and downs.

each day

a new drama.

you wake up and

ask

as the phone rings,

the knock at the door,

the crash,

the tears,

what now.

the sea of distance

i look back and think

that we

would be

friends for life.

not so.

whatever binds that held

us close together,

have been

cut.

by the dull knife

of time

and age. 

the sea of distance,

and yet hardly

a day goes by

when i haven't thought

of you.

yellow peeps

do i take the decorations

down now,

or wait until

after the new year.

or maybe i should

just leave them all up.

why does

christmas have to be

such a short span

of time.

i get out my frozen

yellow peeps from

the ice box.

and set them on

the window sill beside

the candles

and the shamrock.

the peeps look

happy, all fluffy and yet

hard with their

sugary marshmallow

bodies.

never too early for them.

the world can wait

my hours have changed.

i'm suddenly

leaving the house

later

than i normally do.

i'm taking my good old

time, as they say.

lolly gagging. 

it's almost as if i'm

my own boss. 

which i constantly

have to remind myself

that i am.

i'm in charge here,

dammit, what's the rush.

the world can wait.

the warm old coat

i'm missing a button

on

this old

coat.

the collar frayed,

the pocket torn,

but i love this coat.

it's kept

me warm

through many winters.

it's seen better

days, as i have,

i hope

there will be

more.

curfew....pfffft

i remember

sitting in my car outside

of her house.

suzie's house.

well, not hers, but her parent's

house.

i'd lay on the horn

as i combed my

hair again

in the rear view mirror.

i could see her mother

in the window

cursing me in Lebanese.

her father

shaking his

head, holding a club

in his hand.

but suzie loved me,

and out she'd come,

smelling of baklava and

stuffed cabbage.

a pair of kibbeh rolls

on a plate.

off we went

with an eleven pm

curfew.  pffffft.

when a war ends

when things end.

at last,

whether

war

or trouble,

divorce

or sadness.

we dance in the street.

we drink.

confetti

falls from the sky.

it's the end,

it's the beginning

of a new

and better life.

kissing in the car

it's awkward

kissing

in the car, what with

all the gloves

and scarves,

our big coats,

the stick shift in the middle.

the seats that

won't go back too far.

how quickly

the windows steam,

as we reach over

and smooch,

using out hands

to balance ourselves

against the seat 

and dashboard,

crimping our kidneys

and spleen.

the car behind us honking

his horn and cursing

as the light changes

from red again 

to green.

just say no

i warm

up my new phrase

that i've vowed to use

throughout the year when

i'm asked to do things

i don't want to do.

i'm sorry but i can't make it.

it's my new mantra.

i've embraced the power of 

no.

i've seen it used in the past,

by mostly

fathers,

or grumpy men.

they've had enough of doing

all the things

their wives or children made

them do.

the opera, or hallmark movies,

string quartets.

museums and hikes up old rag,

mountain,

wineries.

pickle ball.

perusing lettuce at

the farmer's market.

a trip to the mall,

then holding her purse while

she tries on a dress.

a weekend in pittsburgh

because the grandparents

are getting old

and won't be around much longer.

fishing or bird watching.

getting up early to watch sunsets.

no, i don't want

to taste that Indian food

on the end of your fork,

or take a sip

of your cold beet soup

the holiday

there is good food.

and drink.

each with

one in hand. uncle bill

is on

the deck smoking.

sister jane

is in bathroom crying.

the sisters

aren't talking,

the brothers are gathered

around the game.

a grandmother needs

help down

the stairs.

children

are already full of cookies.

as the oven

heats the house.

the dogs need walking.

the cat is on the table.

the phone is ringing.

the smoke

alarms blares.

the young folk are staring

at their phones.

wondering,

just why are we here.

the dry field

the shadows

are long 

on the dry field

as the sun slips

warmly

beyond the hills.

maybe rain

tomorrow. maybe.

there is always hope.

maybe love too.

we'll see.

there is joy after all

i find a lovely

cake

on my front porch.

in a white box,

tied neatly

with a ribbon and a bow.

who has taken

the time

to bring me such a treat?

carefully i take a peek

inside.

i'm so happy.

so full of joy,

the world is not so

bad after all,

and then i see the note.

it's for neighbor 

next door.

will he be angry if i

take just a slice,

a tiny piece,

really small?

peace on earth

cars are being broken

into.

stolen.

rummaged through.

glove boxes

emptied.

devices swiped.

wires

cut. packages

carried off in the dead

of night.

windows broken.

a band of holiday

marauders

have struck again.

santas in reverse, taking

what's left

behind. it's christmas time

once again.

another prince arrives

when she fell

off her high horse

i wasn't worried.

more horses were on their way.

she picked herself up,

dusted off her

shiny crown

and found a new lover,

a new savior,

a new victim

to take her home.

there's always a new

source of supply

riding around.

let it go

i feel no shame about

the yard,

the unraked leaves, the vines

crawling

along the fence

and wall.

there is no residue

catholic guilt about the

shape it's in.

no angst about

the unpulled weeds,

or in not trimming

what needs to be trimmed.

i smile at

the saintly statue tipped

on it's side,

the water bowl

gone dry.

i'm more accepting now.

life is often

in strange disarray,

and so am I.

like a lion or lamb

do you rise like

a lion

in the morning, or more

like a lamb?

i lean

towards the later.

going slowly

into the new light

of the new

day.

i'll roar later perhaps,

but for now,

i'll tread cautiously

towards coffee

down the stairs.

laugh and listen

my father at 93 sounds

great

on the phone, 

lucid and together.

up to date on the news,

the weather.

he's got a handful

of blonde jokes that he

wants to tell.

i hear christmas music

in the back ground.

the rustling of wrapping

paper, the snapping

of his teeth

on cookies.

the sound of coffee

being sipped.

what do you get a man

of that age?

nothing.

you just laugh and listen.

new friends and family

i'm disappointed in

my gifts

this Christmas.

socks again.

coal.

a plaid tie i'll never wear,

a sweater

with wide stripes

of unearthly colors.

a fruitcake.

a subscription to a gym

that closed.

last years calendar.

batteries to my smoke

alarm,

a six pack of red white

and blue beer.

i make a vow

to find

new friends this year.

the morning after

it's leftover city

in the fridge, where do i begin

to lessen

the load

of food taken

home and chilled

now in

various dishes,

containers and bowls.

is it cranberry

and stuffing for breakfast,

or a turkey

leg.

perhaps a slice

of prime rib, still pink

in the middle.

and what's this?

aunt mabel's apple pie.

joan's brownies,

mrs. smith's

lemon cake.

iced cookies in christmas

shapes,

who made these deviled

eggs.

i don't remember carrying

in a whole pork roast

with the trimmings.

perhaps i'll start from

the top shelf and work my

way down.

hold it tight

it's a fortune.

a life's savings,

a gold

mine.

a handful of diamonds.

it's blessed

sleep,

a full stomach,

a quenched thirst.

it's calm,

it's a summer night,

a swing

cast upon the breeze

holding

new life.

it's everything you

ever dreamed.

the rainbow,

the unicorn,

the impossible.

and when or if it

ever appears,

hold it tight.

prove me wrong

i trust

that tree, the stream,

those rocks.

all of them

full of some truth,

some beauty.

there's no lie out there,

no deception,

no cruelty.

how much i wanted

to see the same

in you

and did until you

proved me wrong.

my thirst

i day

dream

about you.

the length of you.

the paleness,

the cherry lips that open

your mouth.

the silken

hair.

the banquet of your

limbs.

i drift quickly

towards

dessert, when i dial

your number

to hear

your voice

and you my thirst.

a world apart

the world

cannot hold together

what's made

by our hands, in time,

so much

of what we've built succumbs

to wind

and rain,

the impulsive nature

of gravity.

and our love, sadly too,

falls apart

for reasons just

explained.

making preparations

before she

she passed away

she dropped off all her

gifts

at the post office.

she cleaned her house.

watered each

plant,

the christmas tree

in the corner.

she paid all bills

and set them

out

where they could be found.

her papers

were neatly organized

on the table.

the last load of her

laundry done

and folded.

don't buy

us dinner yet she 

said cheerfully

on the phone,  three

days before she died.

adjustments

it's about

adjustments. the wheel

needing

grease.

the gate wanting a longer

nail

to hold 

it tight. the meal

wanting

more salt,

more spice.

more

touching and kissing

for us,

getting closer

throughout

this wintry night.

with desire gone

for reasons

unknown to me, the red

bird,

a cardinal

keeps flying

into the big window

facing out.

again and again,

he hits

the glass and tumbles

down.

there's something in

here that he

sees

and wants.

perhaps he'll give up

in time,

as i have often 

done, with my desire

gone.

christmas morning

i lifted the

amazing turkey off the front

porch,

pulling it out of

the basket it arrived

in and carried

it in to my mother who was

asleep on

the couch in the living room,

her bed

after my father had left.

wake up i said to her, mom,

look, look.

she put her glasses on

and said

where did you get that.

she followed me

to the front porch

where the bag of potatoes were,

the canned goods,

the breads,

the gallon of milk,

fruits, a cake, a pie.

all overflowing.

she began to weep,

which surprised me, as

we gathered around,

filling our arms to bring

it all in.

finding a small space

there was a time

when there was no quiet.

no silence.

the house

full.

the line at the bathroom

door.

a radio always

on.

the tv too.

a cat on the sill,

a dog

coming through the ripped

screen door.

it was

a doable but chaotic

house

of siblings, parents,

friends,

animals.

all finding a small space

somehow

to be

oneself.

a giant hunk of red meat

i buy a ninety eight dollar

rib roast.

why is meat so expensive

now.

lack of cows?

i'm scared.

now what?

i lay out 

this giant hunk

of red meat on the cutting

board

and salt it down,

pepper.

i stare at the recipe,

finding it

on you tube. they're talking

too fast.

i can't mess this up.

the pressure is on.

will it burn, will it be

undercooked,

will anyone like it?

will i have to call 911 to save

them from food

poisoning?

for back up i call the local

restaurant and make

reservations for six.

should i do a ribbon too?

if  someone

put a gun to my head

i still couldn't properly

wrap a present

with christmas wrapping paper.

i'm hopeless.

the scissors, the scotch

tape.

the paper so thin,

and ripping with the slightest

of tugs.

the weird angles

on wrapping a tennis racket,

or a cup.

where do i put the bow,

should i do a ribbon too?

name tag?

where the hell

are the name tags?

wait a minute this is

birthday paper,

not christmas paper.

the ten benefits

i realize one night,

lying in bed, that most of my

knowledge

is coming from my phone.

you tube videos

to be specific.

medical advice,

therapy,

cooking lessons.

what to eat, what to wear,

where to go.

how to improve my

posture

and enhance my sexual

prowess.

i read the ten benefits

of cold showers,

the ten benefits of 

intermittent fasting.

the ten benefits of going

no contact with

past relationships.

it's always ten, rarely four

or five benefits.

do this to sleep better,

to get bigger biceps,

to grow hair,

to remove skin tags,

to stop ruminating,

to increase your memory.

i'm overflowing with new

information to the point where

i have to click

on the meditation videos

of waves rolling onto shore

with seagulls

squawking in order to get

to sleep.

bar hopping

trying to stir up

our plateaued

relationship

we go bar hopping

one night.

well, actually we move

from the seat by

the window

to the bar area

after it's cleared out a little.

we ask the bartender

if he could turn down

the music a little.

it's almost nine o'clock.

we both look

at our watches,

sip our drinks and chew

on the last

cold rubbery ring

of calamari on our 

shared plate.

should we go, i ask her,

and she says,

okay. the cat is probably

wondering where

we're at.

should we get a box for

this?

nah.

not a big hugger

i ponder the idea of

shopping for a new church.

having been

catholic

all my life,

i already feel the pangs of guilt

and punishment.

i'm a little tired

by the smoke and mirrors,

the rituals

and rote prayer.

the architecture is nice

though and the gowns

the priests wear. i love

the stained glass,

the solemness of it all

with the statues of saints

staring down at you.

i'm always a little bit scared

when i go to mass,

and repentant.

but i need a little more

than that.

a little more connection.

of course i don't want the snake

handling congregation,

or the ones

where there's a lot of jumping

around and shouting,

speaking in tongues with

everyone hugging each other.

i'm not a big hugger.

maybe something in between

all of that.

a day like that in winter

the sun

heavy in the sky, barely

able

to lift it's shiny

face above

the trees,

looks white.

a pale resemblance

of what it used to be.

who hasn't

had a day

like that in winter.

that Christmas spirit

determined to improve

my self-image

and be like Becky, my neighbor,

who was voted woman of the year

in our cul de sac,

i decide to be a volunteer.

i buy a yellow sweatshirt

that has VOLUNTEER

stitched on the front

so that everyone knows

how altruistic i am.

i think about what skills i have

and how

i can use them for good,

contributing in a positive way

to society. after all it is 

the Christmas season.

i'm very good at ladling

soup so i put my ladle in my

back pocket and off i go to do good.

i go down to the local

soup kitchen, but they're

already booked up with helpers.

why do all the homeless people

look so fat? their buttons are

popping off their shirts, i ask

a man who introduces himself

as Pops.  he seems to be in charge.

are you hungry, he says.

split pea today.

yuck, i say and get out of there.

i try the shelters,

the halfway houses. dang.

i'm beaten to the punch

at each stop. the parking lot

is full of range rovers and good

samaritan big blonde haired women

with the sleeves of

their fur coats rolled up.

i'm about to give up when

i see an elderly woman

stepping off a curb and about

to cross the street.

i run over there and take

her arm, here we go miss,

i tell her, let me help you

across. she turns to me and

screams, whacking me across

the head with her umbrella

and spraying me with

pepper spray. she blows

a whistle and starts yelling

for help. police police.

quickly i run away,

sitting down in an alley

where a stray dog walks up

to me.  my eyes are swollen

from the pepper spray.

i have some beef jerky in

my pocket, so i offer it up

to him, he takes it, but

bites my hand

before running off.

as i'm wrapping my bloody

hand with a handkerchief,

i set my hat down beside me.

within an hour it's full of money.

i got you a cat

i decide to get everyone

a cat

this year

for christmas.

i go down to the Pet Store

and tell the young

woman

in a red smock, holding

a dustpan

and broom,

give me all of those cats

in the first two

cages.

i count them out.

one to ten, but then say,

no, not that one,

i don't like that weird

stripe, or the color

of her eyes,

how about that one over

there with 

the stubby tail?

i back up the car, where

i've laid out

a big blanket and spread

out a bunch of cat treats.

then i tie red ribbons around

each of them,

wearing gloves of course

to not get scratched.

the office circa 1985

the longest hour

of the day

was when the minute hand

was climbing

towards

twelve,

eventually making

it five o'clock,

setting us free from our

cubicles.

allowing us to be

unchained from

the drudgery

of the office that

barely paid our bills.

could we get to happy

hour fast enough

in our cheap suits,

and dresses with 

big shoulders, 

our gelled hair?

with arms above our heads

i don't really know you.

nor you me.

but let's keep it that way

for a while.

why ruin things with deep

conversations

about fears and mistakes,

why muddy the water

with talk of the future,

or the past.

why not

just get on the ride

and strap in,

make the most of it

while we still can,

arms above our heads

as the coaster screams

madly down the rails.

savor those days

in full measure

you will

know the long stretches

of doldrum.

the benign

years.

the calm sargasso seas.

it will be

a grey wash

of sameness.

boring

to say the least,

day in

day out,

year into year,

but drama free.

savor those days.

it's a feather now

it's a feather now.

hardly

that

in weight. it's a small

dark

spot

so far away, one might

suspect

it's

a grain of sand

or dying star,

it has

no voice, no

life.

how nice to be so

far

from the distant

past.

dear diary

if you really

want to know what a woman

is thinking

go to her bed

and lift up the mattress

at the corner and find

her diary.

she started it when she

was ten.

women will write down

everything.

everything in their

heart and mind,

whereas with men

you need a

blow torch and a drill

to get in.

hey, i've got eggnog here

i bought too much

eggnog

the other day.

the gallon jug was going

too far.

but i thought i'd have

more visitors

this time of year.

i go to the front door

and yell out,

hey, hey.

i've got eggnog here.

and rum.

dark rum.

i smell the carton,

it might make it until

the new year.

the minimalist christmas

there are christmas people

and then

there are those

that go phooey

to all that.

a tree on every floor,

the lights,

the blow up snow men

in the yard,

a wreathe

on every door.

stockings hung,

the whole shebang,

while i'm more of a

minimalist with just

a mistle toe

over the transom.

one more for the road

sure you have  your doubts

at time.

who doesn't?

whose faith doesn't falter

when the chips

are down,

when the dark clouds

form.

but it's your only crutch,

your only

rope

to pull you up.

and you've seen a few

miracles in your

life, so

why not one more time.

if you were here

if you were here,

i'd kiss you on the lips,

play with your hair,

nuzzle your neck.

if you were here,

i'd whisper sweet nothings

into your ear,

i'd put my arm around

and squeeze.

put my head into your lap.

but you aren't here,

are you?

why is that?

i stir some more

i take the big spoon,

the wooden

one

from the drawer

and stir

what's in the bowl.

i look out the window

as i stir.

oh, they're home early,

i say to myself.

and

who's that?

with the suitcase,

never seen her before.

it's not his wife,

where's his wife?

very interesting, and

is that the mailman.

with his bag?

at this hour?

i look down into the bowl,

almost done,

i stir some more.

why work anymore

it's a generation

of entitlement.

we've given too much

made life too easy

for our sons and daughters.

their bones are weak,

they lie awake at night

because they aren't tired.

their hands are soft.

there is nothing that they need.

we loved them

too much,

as they yawn in front

of their phones their tvs.

if you cut them, i'm not

sure they'd even bleed.

the whispering bed

i hear the bed whisper.

come now.

now is a good time.

i'm ready for you.

see the clock,

it's dark, it's late.

it's cold.

come soon, don't read

or write another

word, or make another rhyme.

you need your rest.

you need to dream,

we've been waiting for you.

come, come soon.

let this day go.

it's time.

backing up the truck

i back the truck up

to unload

on you.

i need to tell you how

i really feel.

it may a take a while,

because the load is large.

so much to say.

it's a delivery

way overdue.

the midas touch

when given little

we expect little, but

the child

given much

in youth, expects

even more

as he grows

into his clothes,

his suits,

his shoes.

he expects much,

because this is the lesson

he learned, his

tears

have become the midas

touch.

it goes like this

in the fourth grade,

when it rained

and recess outside

was cancelled,

our teacher

Ms. Ingrid from 
Ireland,

green eyed and red haired,

with a light

lisp,

would make us stand

at our desks,

then she'd put on a

45 record

with chubby checker

doing the twist.

okay, now class,

watch me

and you go like this.

so many years have gone

by, but

i'm still madly in love

with her,

remembering little of

what i learned

that year, but

never forgetting her

mesmerizing hips.

waiting on a rainy day

in later years,

for my birthday

my mother

would send me five dollars.

a crisp bill

folded in

a small card with a bird

on it,

or maybe a cake with

candles.

she'd sign it

and say save it for

a rainy day or

don't spend it all

in one place.

love, mom.

i put it with the others,

then looked up

at the clouds, 

wanting it to never rain.

mistakenly

mistakenly

i counted you as 

more than a friend

one of few

that can be counted

on one

open hand.

but it wasn't to be.

me here

and you over there.

with someone else

holding you

under

the apple tree.

tell me less

before you speak,

do something rare 

and think

about the words

that may

come out of your mouth,

half formed.

be hesitant to say

too much,

when saying less

is much more interesting

that telling

me all the rest.

rollover and play dead

i don't want a trained

dog.

i want a wild

dog.

one that doesn't bark

on command,

or sit, or heel, or rollover

and play dead.

i don't want a dog

that went to school.

that listens,

that obeys,

that patiently waits

to pee.

i don't want one

that never gets into

trouble,

or the trash.

i don't want a dog

that follows the golden

rules.

i want a dog like me.

waiting at the lodge

i wait for her

at the lodge. my feet up

on a table,

stretched out

with eggnog

spiked hard.

she's out skiing, i 

suppose.

climbing some mountain

in the frozen

snow.

skating on the ice,

hiking in the near dark

with her

grappling ropes.

if she comes back

i'll be here

for a while.

i check my watch

and adjust my turtleneck.

i'll give her another hour

then see

what's happening

at the bar.

perfectly imperfect

i keep the tree

near

bare this year.

a bent trunk,

with a bellied shape.

some sort of spruce

i imagine,

the man at the lot

wasn't clear. i

circle the lights around

then carefully thread

tinsel on

the branches, a live

sparrow suddenly

pops out.

i continue on.

i scatter old ornaments

from earlier

years. it's perfectly

imperfect.

i put a star on top.

then plug it in.

then on comes dean

and frank

and bing.

then back comes

the bird,

flying home.

the lemon face

the annual

guilt trip phone call arrives.

he's sad.

again.

more than yesterday

or last year.

nothing is going his way.

the worshippers

are fading

fast.

age is upon him.

the light

has dimmed a little,

not quite

in full fade.

i have no gems of wisdom,

no secret sauce

to ladle him with,

no joke to tell that will

put a smile on

his lemon face.

it's all his doing. not

mine.

time to grow a pair

and man up

before there isn't

time.

the magic wand

how wonderful

it would be

to have a magic wand.

to walk around all day

tapping it on

shoulders.

making people happy,

even if just for a moment.

making them

content and full joy

for a good hour or two.

tap tap tap

i'd go about the day

until my arm grew weary

and there was only

one tap left

for me.

trains going somewhere

the train doesn't

come through here anymore.

i used to watch it as a child.

listening

to the thunder of wheels.

furious on the rails.

the engineer pulling the chain

to blow the whistle.

the tracks are covered now

in bramble,

and weeds. tall grass. the

first start of start

of trees.

i would watch the trains

for

hours and count the cars.

the coal cars,

the passengers looking out

from fogged windows.

waving to children unlike me, 

going somewhere.

every time a bell rings

i get the christmas

message from my son that i'm

not a good father,

never was and never

will be.

i expect it

with his mother in

his ear

poisoning the well

he drinks from.

it's an annual thing.

i listen, i nod. i make

a mild attempt to defend

myself.

but what's the point.

it puts me

in the holiday mood

again.

the one i grew up with.

i guess i still won't get

my wings,

with the ringing of the bell.

my ex tik tok girlfriend

i break up

with my new girlfriend

because she's

on tik tok.

she's baking cookies,

she's jumping

over fire hydrants,

holding her breath

under water.

she's filming every stupid

thing she does.

she's singing Christmas

carols with

her cat. she's standing

on her head.

she has nine million

followers

now.

she has no time for me.

look at her,

she's in her underwear

and showing

the world how she can

put her ankles

behind her neck.

under the willow tree

we plan a picnic

under the willow tree

in the park.

her idea.

it's summer and the sky

is bluer

than it's ever been.

she brings the basket

full of egg sandwiches

and cut melon,

drinks, and wine

of course.

but it doesn't last long

on account of ants.

red ants.

and my laughter 

only made it worse.

just suck it up

i throw myself

off a bridge into the raging

water below.

but halfway down,

i question what

i'm doing. maybe i shouldn't

be killing myself,

maybe i should just suck

it up like everyone else

and live.

go back to the cubicle

and toe the line.

then i wake up, shaking

the dream out of my head.

i go the shower,

gingerly stepping into

the basin, being

careful not to slip.

i think about Friday

being right around the corner.

happy hour.

how the words just came

while hank

williams wrote

your cheating heart on the back

of an envelope

while near

sober in a bus station

somewhere between

fear and doubt,

just outside of

nashville.

did he stop and think

of immortality.

that his words and songs

would be 

remembered forever,

or did he wallow

in the pain

and make the most

of it.

yes.

saying later, as he stummed,

how the words

just came.

what i don't do

what i don't do

is call

my father to ask him why

he never

drove the one hundred and

eighty miles

to visit me.

why he never took 

the train, or bus,

or drove in my direction.

he never flew.

instead, i pack a bag

and go to

him. with

no resentment,

no complaint.

love like that is true.

cold coffee

it's cold coffee

in the paper

cup.

the wind encircles

my

weary knees, up

the leg

around

the cuff

as i walk down a new

path.

i am lost at sea.

no sexton, no map,

no way

of knowing,

which way is west,

which way

is east.

the road taken

i feel his

sadness in my bones.

flesh of

my blood.

his disappointment

with life.

the shadow of impossible

failure

at his feet.

doors unopened,

wondering

why.

is it passion, or luck,

or something else

yet to be unveiled

within his life.

perhaps

will i ever see you again?

i'm not so sure

of that,

we're both on different

paths,

but why worry,

each is leading

to the same place,

a life after death,

perhaps.

all of your tomorrows

all of your tomorrows

come not

at once

but in small lines

etched

upon your pretty face,

once smooth

once young.

i catch you smiling

i catch you smiling.

i'm surprised

that at last 

you've let your guard down.

there is hope in you

after all.

the gloom of grey

about you

is perhaps just a temporary

weather front.

can it be

that the light within, 

behind your clouds,

has finally leaked out.

the feast

love is tricky.

lust

and like

are easier paths to take.

but

oh, the beast

of love,

of more,

begetting more

and more.

it's magnificent

but

a never filling

feast.

pleasing no one

you can't please

everyone.

impossible.

you don't even try

anymore.

what's the point.

my mother

figured it out

early in life.

this is what we're having

for dinner.

pull up a chair, grab

a knife

a fork.

dig in, or go hungry.

your choice.

out of chaos

out of black

chaos

comes a star.

stay still in the midst

of it.

be patient.

be of no fear,

you will

come out

the other side,

this is not an end

but a start.

the bent nail

we are

all chipped, splintered,

partially

or fully

worn through.

live long enough

and the wear

and tear

shows.

the frayed collar,

the thin sole

of your shoe.

the bent nail 

where you

hang your heavy coat

is suddenly

loose.

his cousin Bernadette

i run into Father Smith 

up at the liquor

store, near trader joe's.

he's got a grocery cart

full of booze.

he sees me and smiles,

showing the gap 

between his teeth.

tis the season, he says.

ho ho ho.

i've never seen him happier.

attendance must be up.

this isn't all for me,

he laughs.

i'm picking up for the whole

gang.

tonight's the annual

christmas party.

you should come,

bring a date if you want.

it's going to be in the small

chapel. we've cleared

out the pews and made

a dance floor.

my cousin Bernadette

will be there. she's still single

by the way.

he winks.

she decided not to be a nun

after all.

so she's back on the market.

she cuts a mean rug.

i think you two would really

hit it off.

casual wear, i ask him.

yes, that's fine.

starts at seven after the last

mass.

my new medical alert device

i get a random

call for a medical

alert device that informs

the paramedics

or friends, or

family

when i'm in distress, when

i've fallen down

a flight of steps,

or slipped on the ice

outside when

going to the mailbox.

i ask the kind man what

colors do they come in.

can i get the bracelet

instead of the necklace.

seems less feminine.

black goes with just about

everything i tell him.

but  a silver one would

be nice too.

is there a limit as to how

often it can be

used.

sometimes i get lonely

and would like

visitors when it's winter

and i'm feeling blue.

things not forgotten

i may lose my keys

at times,

misplace my wallet, or glasses,

or some

thing

when i'm in a careless state

of mind,

i might be late,

or forget

a date on the calendar,

but what i don't forget

are words,

looks,

askew glances.

lies, or truths meant

to prick my thin skin.

i never forget

a slight,

which is an awful burden

to carry around

when these memories

pop up again.

to raise a glass

i asked Jake

once, what made him drink

so much.

why drink and make

yourself sick

in the morning

for that fleeting moment

of immortality

the night before.

and he said.

i drink when i'm sad.

when i'm grieving some loss.

i drink when i'm happy

when things

are going well.

there is never not a reason

to make a toast

and raise a glass.

can we not talk about that

i'd like

to have a serious

conversation

with someone,

but i'm afraid it will hurt

their feelings

bringing up a touchy

subject.

so i tip toe

around the room

trying not to crack

any more egg shells

scattered about the floor.

i carefully negotiate

my way around

the elephant,

fat and grey,

the long trunk,

the ears

flopping, once more

ignored.

under the full moon

i have known my share

of vampires,

people that suck

the life out of you.

drain you

of joy

and leave you in 

a sallow puddle of flesh

and bones,

but i too

have taken a bite out of a few

necks along way.

we all have fallen

prey to

full moons

and wolves that bay.

dot dot dot...

when there is nothing left

to say

you still

find more to say.

maybe put it in a letter,

an email,

maybe write something

in smoke

across the sky.

a phone call, a text.

you can never put

a period at the end of

your sentences,

put a stake into the heart of it.

there's always more,

another thought to finish,

another word

to say.....

your life is a continuance

of dot dot dot....

who left the milk out

after growing

up in a house with seven kids

cats and dogs

parents

cousins on occasion, 

a stray aunt or uncle

bedding in the basement,

i'm done

with sharing, having a

roommate.

wife, girlfriend, brother,

sister or son.

i don't just want to be alone,

i need to be

to maintain my sanity,

which is fragile

to say the least.

if the house is a mess,

it's my mess.

something breaks, i did it.

i get to eat the last piece

of cake,

leaving it on a plate

with no worries that someone

else might take it.

if i leave the milk out,

it's okay. there's no need

to interrogate people to get

to the bottom of it.

i did it.

and i'm fine with that.

getting the pink slip

i get the pink

slip

for the house.

it's done.

all paid for.

the last coupon sent

in to

one of a dozen banks

that bought my loan

over and over

throughout the years.

i painted a lot of

houses

to get here.

wallpapered plenty

of walls.

i've fallen from great heights.

been bitten by dogs.

climbed forty foot ladders

onto rooftops,

shimmied through attics

and cellars

to get to a post, or board,

i've been shocked by

loose wires,

my hands cut from nails

or broken glass,

my head sliced open

by a falling brick,

gotten woozy from leaking gas.

i've met nice people, mean

people,

had a few flings with some.

made friends with quite a few.

i've worked

in the heat of summer

and in the dead

of winter,

sometimes with a cold or flu.

through marriages

and divorces.

deaths.

no questions asked.

okay.

now what?

surf's up

i have a dream

about Lynnie, an old

girlfriend from the eighties.

she passed away

a few years ago.

but here she is in 

the dream, in her

little vw bug,

pulling up outside my

door. smiling.

waving.

beeping the horn.

come on she yells.

let's go.

let's go have some fun.

surf's up,

we're going to the beach.

updates

my tv informs

me that it needs to update

its software.

same with my phone,

my computer.

my sirius

pandora and spotify

radio.

i go to the basement

and slide

an LP

out of it's sleeve.

Grand Funk Railing.

i'm getting closer

to my home.

i set it on the turn table

and drop the needle.

i lie on the couch with

my eyes closed.

it's all the updates i need.

mystery meat

i don't want to complain,

but i have

to say that

she wasn't a good cook.

i think her mother

passed down

her skills, which were

none.

boiling water was a challenge.

but she wanted to

make it a real home

like the ones she saw

on tv when growing

up and tried to cook.

some families

pray before a meal,

but i prayed afterwards.

a dish was never

placed on the table

without me asking her,

what is it?

pardon my french

every now and then you

have  a crazy

rumination

or two

about a past

relationship. how it went

down.

the insanity of it all.

but it doesn't stick anymore.

it's quick and painless

and brings a smile

to your face.

what the hell were

you thinking

you mumble to yourself.

pardon my french but,

jimminy crickets.

whew.

the actuary table

is there anyone more slick

and calculated

than the insurance

salesman?

maybe the used car guy,

but the insurance man

has charts and graphs,

numbers, the history of

how it ends for people

of all ages. you need

to prepare for the future,

he says, showing you an

actuary table of how

it's going to end for you.

you don't want to leave

those you love hanging

in the balance, coming

up short on cash when it

comes time to dig a hole,

or turn you into ash.

buy now before

it's too late, trust me,

he says, pushing the contract

across the table.

i've been in this business

a long time, and 

so far no one gets out alive.

it's been a hundred

per cent so far, so what

do you say. sign here.

how long do i have doc?

the doctor comes in

shaking his

head sadly.

ah oh, i blurt out, what

what is it.

give it to me straight doc,

how long do i 

have to live.

cancer, tumor, my heart,

what is it?

come on, tell me, i can

take it.

lupus?

what? he says scratching

his head.

did you say something?

then mutters,

can you believe it,

my tee time was cancelled

on account of rain.

one more year

like an old car

we stick

with loved ones,

tried and true.

one more year.

let's hope she'll

get us through.

six miles under

i can't enter

a parking garage without

thinking of

Edgar Allan Poe.

being buried

alive

if an earthquake

occurs.

what if the end of the world

happens now.

how do we

get out of here, stuck

forever in lot B

the blue level, slot nine,

six miles under.

the peaceful break up

my friend told me

that this was going to be one

of the most peaceful

and easy divorces

in the history of marital

break ups.

we'll just split everything.

down the middle.

have joint custody with

the kids, share the dog

and go our separate ways.

after all we still love each.

we just can't live together anymore.

the next week i saw him

putting a tv in his car,

a toaster oven

and a vacuum cleaner.

that bitch is not getting these,

he said, angrily. no way.

a town full of churches

i'd never seen so many

churches

in one small town.

each corner

had an old wood

and stone

cathedral, or temple.

a simple shack

painted white

with a cross

on the steeple, far

off the ground.

was there even enough

worshipers to fill

the pews on sunday.

what was the need,

what were the sins, 

that drove them here,

those that were

lost and then found.

let it rain

i remember catching

her tears

in my hands as they rolled

out of her baby

blues.

go ahead, i told her.

cry, cry it out.

why not.

this is the world we live in.

don't worry about

what comes next, or who

loves or doesn't love

you.

trust me, i've been there

and back.

put your head upon my

shoulder,

and rest.

no need to worry.

cry and cry it out,

let it rain, let the streets

fill up and flood, until

there are no tears left.

imagine that

i almost thought of you

the other day.

i can't remember exactly what

happened.

what time it was,

a scent in the air,

the season, perhaps,

a face in the crowd,

a head of hair

in front of me.

but i almost thought of you,

imagine that,

with all these years gone

past.

the top shelf

don't go cheap.

don't settle.

pay full price. go

into

the deep pocket and get

the best

you can afford.

the same goes with love.

don't pick from the lower

shelf.

it won't last.

in time, you'll be lonely,

you'll be bored.

the afternoon show

i slide into

the back row of the theater.

it's dark.

it's sparse.

i have my choice

of seats.

i'm prepared to be underwhelmed,

but it's okay.

i just need to get out.

to be somewhere

other than home.

and this fit the bill,

this B movie.

this matinee.

this enormous bucket

of buttered

popcorn.

the corner of asaph and gibbons

john and i painted

that house

thirty five years ago.

a pale

pink on the siding

to her wishes.

the wallpaper

inside, to his.

we were young then.

death was

what happened to old

people,

grand parents.

we would never die.

we'd keep on like this

until the end of time.

on ladders,

with brushes in our hand,

side by side.

he's gone now,

but rarely a day goes by

when i don't talk

to him,

between the pear trees,

the wires,

the sun beating heat

upon the sunny side.

what's the point of living

what's the point

of living, he told me,

if you can't smoke

and drink,

chase women and tell

bad jokes.

they want to take all our

fun away.

no red meat. no potatoes,

no cake, no pies.

Jesus Mary and Joseph,

if they push another 

plate of kale in front

of me, i think i'll die.

swimming in circles

i'd rather not,

but i can tread water

if i have to.

i am strong enough

to swim in circles above

and under

the waves.

i can paddle,

lie on my back and kick.

i can do just

about any stroke

you name

to stay afloat,

my feet won't touch

the bottom.

but at some point,

i'd like to stop.

i'd like to swim to shore

and find you.

keto bread

after spending hundreds

of dollars

on kitchen equipment and

cookbooks,

almond flour, coconut flour,

flax seed,

swerve, xanthan gum,

egg whites, 

baking powder

and parchment paper

i throw in the towel

with keto bread.

it's not bread, it's not

anything you want to put

into your mouth.

it's cardboard.

if you want bread, it's

okay, God will not punish you.

break your keto fast

and go down to a

bakery and get a hot fresh

loaf of French bread

and fill it up with deli

meats, cheeses, mayo, 

lettuce, tomatoes,

onions and peppers.

olive oil.

toast it if you want.

stop with the stupid

keto bread.

it's not bread.

just like almond milk isn't

milk.

there is no almond cow.

the hair cut

back in the day 

i loved my barber, Giovani,

a hefty

older fellow from Italy

with big bushy

eyebrows. i think he may

have been connected

at some point

and was now

in a witness protection

program.

he smelled

of onions

and garlic, a spot of red

sauce always on his shirt,

but he did he job.

i had some hair back

then,

so he had his work

cut out for him.

i'd bring him in a picture

of bobby sherman

or billy idol,

whatever era we were

in and said,

there it is.

that's the cut i want.

he'd laugh then

turn around

and take a swig

of chianti from his scissors

drawer

and away we'd go.

he was good with sharpened

blade

when he trimmed my

sideburns.

don't forget to hydrate

my friend Amber Lynn

who works

out like an Olympic

athlete at the mall gym,

reminds me to hydrate

when she sees me

in my slippers,

walking the dog

to the corner hydrant.

don't forget to hydrate

she says,

making a motion of

a water bottle going

to her mouth.

she's in her gold tights,

wrist bands

and head band

holding back her wild hair.

she looks like a dancer

in a 1980's van halen video.

hydrate, she says again.

it may be the most complex

word she knows.

i pause, and write that down.

hydrate.

drink when thirsty.

i underline it

several times.