the jimmy leg

i wake

up to a shaking bed.

i turn the light on.

what's going on i ask her.

looking at her leg

twirling,

shaking.

if her foot was in a tub

of milk,

we'd have butter

by morning.

it's the

restless leg syndrome

she says.

you mean the jimmy leg.

yeah.

the jimmy leg.

sorry, i can't help it.

it has a mind of its own.

something

to do with the nervous system.

sometimes it lasts

all night long.

should i go home?

i know you can't sleep.

ummm. sure if you want to.

lock the door

on the way out.

night.

we trust too much

trust.

what do we trust,

who?

in God.

in each other.

with secrets we're meant

to keep.

we trust

the plane we're on

to land safely.

we trust

the food we eat

will not poison us.

we trust the ice not

to break

as we step across the pond.

we trust the cop,

the leaders,

the priest.

we're so easy to trust.

taking

vows,

making promises,

that few

can keep.

let's monkey around

monkeys

get a lot of attention at the zoo.

who doesn't

love a monkey.

that noise they make,

those big brown

eyes,

swinging on the vines like

a bunch of,

well, monkeys.

we talk about monkeying around.

hot monkey love,

or say things like

well i'll be

a monkey's uncle.

there's the monkey

wrench.

chocolate monkey ice

cream.

we look at the time line

of the evolutionary 

THEORY,

and we see the monkey

somewhere in the mix,

slowly learning to stand up

and put a coat and tie

on to go to work.

hopping on the subway.

it's close to what

we are now. and yes,

there is the last train to

clarksville.

who doesn't like a monkey,

raise a paw,

i'm mean hand.

the sex therapist

i see my wife

coming out of the therapist's

office.

the sex therapist.

we bump into each other

in the hallway

as i'm leaving

my therapist, my weekly

visit to understand

why my mother didn't

hug me enough.

maybe having seven kids

limited her time

with each kid. my guess.

really, i say to my wife.  you're

seeing a sex therapist?

yes. she says. but it has 

nothing to do with you.

it's about me and some other guy.

you don't know him.

whew, good, i was worried

there for a moment.

no need for sherlock holmes

you can find

anyone

these days.

social media, the white pages.

public records.

everything is exposed

to the light of day.

we can

know anything there is to

know. nothing stays hidden.

income or

addresses,

phone numbers,

relatives alive or dead.

schools

or children,

what job you have

or had,

how many times divorced,

or married.

traffic tickets,

we can see that you

didn't make your bed.

no one

is without tracking, without

a footprint

in this digital age.

sherlock Holmes

would be out of a job today.

her part time job

a hundred years ago,

i like to say that now

because it does feel that long ago,

but it might have

been ten years

for all i know,

anyway i digress.

i met a woman who was quite

bossy.

quite strange in

an interesting sort of way.

at the end of our

first meeting, i reached

around her waist

to kiss her goodbye

and she slapped me hard

across the face, saying,

did i say you could do that.

do not kiss me until i say

it's okay. she suddenly sounded

very German.

okay, i said. okay. feeling my

hurt cheek.

then she opened the trunk

of her car, saying she

had something to show me.

she waited for my reaction

as i stared at the whips

and chains, the leather boots,

the mask and other assorted

mechanical devices

that i'd never seen before.

interested, she asked.

do you like to play?

are you into the game of pain?

it's my part time job.

ummmm, you know

what, i got to get going.

i may have left the stove on.

then slowly backed away,

before running down the street.

she yelled at me, Achtung!

come back here you coward.

i demand you come back

here.

ask Heloise

i used to have someone

in my life

that i could call

to figure out the recipe

for gravy,

or to instruct me on how

to get a wine stain

out of a white shirt, or how

to fold a fitted sheet.

but i don't have that person

anymore, i'm in search mode for

an ask Heloise kind of gal.

(can i use the word gal

without being hit over the head

with a frying pan?)

feels like the day before

as i lift

myself from the warm bed.

this cloud

of dreams

now gone.

i twist the clock towards

me.

neither late, or early,

my feet find the cold

floor.

sometimes it's a repeat

and rinse

world.

each day not unlike the

one that

came before.

the image

i don't believe

in photography. or poems.

snapshots

in the moment.

the lighting

is wrong, the choice

of words

too soft,

too strong.

it's an image though.

a memento

of sorts,

for that day, or hour,

or second,

already evaporated

into time.

the butterfly

it isn't the red pants,

the hair,

the lips or eyes.

it isn't the confidence

or intelligence,

it's that je ne sais quoi

factor.

that surprising

flutter of the elusive

butterfly.

it was going to be epic

i was going to write a poem.

a masterpiece.

an epic

journey of the soul

in words,

an uplifting saga

of doom and rebirth,

but the phone rang,

and i talked too long.

there was no way

to politely end 

the conversation.

an hour passed,

and sadly, the poem was gone.

so you get this instead.

my apology.

the beaten track

after a drink or two,

you realize

that truly

you're a good person.

despite it all,

the tainted 

history,

you are true, you are loyal,

you are good.

you're just missing

someone exactly

like you.

shuffling through the

madness

of less.

the beaten track of love

has beaten you.

to the green fields

i do want to fall into your arms.

i do

want to

follow you down

to the water, to the green fields.

i want the sun.

i want the warmth.

your heart.

i want to be done with this.

this cold

this winter

storm.

this.

i do want to fall into your arms.

i'm here.

let's go.

open wide that heart.

i'll be yours 

you'll be mine.

let's start.

put her in a wheelbarrow

find a corner,

a lane,

a room,

a place.

somewhere new.

somewhere with a different

point of view.

change colors,

change

your shirt,

your shoes

leave the house

at the back door.

sleep

on the floor.

in the basement.

wear yellow.

eat nothing

but fish

all day.

walk backwards.

speak in a language

you've never

learned.

get out of this rut.

take a different

road.

kiss the first you girl

you see,

fall in love with her.

put her in wheelbarrow

and wheel

her home.

set yourself free.

a word of advice learned the hard way

i'm harsh

with advice these days.

i'm cruel.

i listen for a while

then tell them

to stop.

i shake my head and say.

get out.

they'll never change.

this will be

your life until

your last day on earth.

get out.

this isn't love.

love isn't toxic.

love doesn't lie.

love doesn't cheat

and deceive.

it's not love. trust me.

get out.

do whatever you have

to do,

but stop trying to fix

the other person.

you can't.

the only solution 

is to leave.

life is too short.

it was just a job

it was just a job.

one of many.

the first being a paper route

as a kid.

cutting grass,

washing cars.

shining shoes at the bowling

alley.

hustling empty

bottles

for two cents.

washing dishes.

a janitor.

hanging sheet rock,

hanging pink batts of

insulation.

carpenter's helper.

brick layers helper.

ditch digger.

backhoe operator.

a salesman,

a color consultant.

a fortune teller.

a magician.

a sous chef.

a song and dance man.

a computer programmer.

a goffer.

a waiter, a bartender.

a back up singer.

a roadie.

a plasterer.

a wallpaper hanger.

a painter.

a writer.

done, at last.

always in mourning

in the old neighborhood

in south

philly

all the italian

women seemed to be in mourning

for something

or someone.

there was always a death,

a reason

to put the black

on.

the shroud,

to hold the rosary beads

and mumble

through

the prayers.

you'd see them on the street,

at the stores.

in front of their row

houses

scrubbing their

marble porches.

opening the windows to

let the stench

of death out.

we need to see papers

there's a line at the pearly

gates.

they're checking

vaccination status.

it's confusing.

we thought it was going

to be different

up there.

no lines, no sickness,

or sorrow.

just a life of la dee da

from here on out.

but they are passing out

hot coffee

as we wait,

and cinnamon buns,

so we take a seat and

wait, on a nearby cloud.

your drug of choice

i understand

your drug of choice,

we all

have one, some have two.

whether

drink,

or pills, sex, or

food.

there's a go to thing

in most lives

to get them

through.

i guess religion could

be one too.

the go fund me wedding

i get a text.

i'm asked to contribute to a go

fund me

wedding.

a honeymoon,

in Europe,

a new house and car.

they want to start off their

new life with

all the trimmings.

they don't want to work

that hard.

so i do.

i send them a few dollars,

and then a year later,

they write back,

we're having a go fund me

divorce.

the lawyers are killing us.

a party to follow,

and i'm invited too,

but bring your own

drink, your own food.

coming undone

we are under 

the threat of rain,

the threat of

floods,

in the news there's the

threat of war,

the threat of change.

the threat of ending love.

the threats

are everywhere,

disease, inflation,

crime.

the man across the street

with a gun,

the woman

in the window

with a knife.

the dog off its leash,

everything could

at some point

come undone.

the splinter

it's a small red

splinter,

a wooden speck

that's

lodged into the tip

of my small

finger.

a hard push of the back

gate

and there it was,

under skin.

unmovable and dark.

and the day

was going so well.

an apple for the teacher

you rarely hear teachers

talking

about how fulfilling their jobs

are. how rewarding

it is

to see children grow

and learn

and become

knowledgeable in whatever

subject

being taught.

no one gets an apple

anymore.

it's tests, it's scores, it's

quotas, it's unruly

students,

administrative

issues,

grades.

and angry parents knocking

at the door.

this is where you come in

you truly do not know

what sour

is

until you've tasted

something sweet.

the same goes for bland

or spicy.

which is where

you come into the picture.

let's not call it love, just yet

let's not call it love,

just yet.

why we haven't even had

our first quarrel,

our first slamming

of a door,

or one of us being exiled

to the couch.

let's call us very good

friends for now,

and save the love talk

for later, that is

if things progress like

they have been and

we're both still

around.

to each season

each season

has its own merit.

i used to care more

about one than

the other.

but no more.

now each holds

a special place

in my heart.

there is some joy

to be found

in cold or heat,

wind or storm.

or a cloudless night

with a full moon.

i embrace them all

in the same way.

no different than how

i embrace you.

as she stood ironing

ironing,

was a private thing

for my mother.

standing at the board,

the radio on,

a pile of clothes at her feet.

her children's

shirts and pants,

dresses

now off the line

and in a basket.

i'd peek in

to see her softly humming

to a song.

left alone

at last under the bare

bulb,

her feet on the cold

slab floor.

the steam would sizzle

from the hot

iron

as she pushed it along.

sometimes

she'd see me looking

in,

and stop

to ask me what,

what's wrong?

nothing?

i'd tell her. nothing.

four hail marys and some quaker state oil

i stop in at the church

across

the street for a tune up.

a tire

rotation,

an oil change

and to have my transmission

fluid topped

off.

i'm running on bald

tires,

the wiper blades

are sloshing back and forth.

my anti-freeze is leaking.

there's this clicking

noise

i hear at a certain speed.

father, i ask the priest,

can you help me,

please.

pull her up son, i know

what you need.

a little bit more

is newer better,

more

ever enough.

when

the bowl overflows,

when you're full,

then

can you stop?

or do you keep going,

keep pressing

on,

until

you drop?

cut carrots

some women

like to quarrel, like to prod

and poke

the bear within

you.

they like to point out

your deficiencies,

your occasional

laziness

or indifference.

they give you a list

of things to do.

pointing at a cob web

in the corner.

they pull lint off your 

sweater,

tell you about the lettuce

in your teeth.

they have become

your mother,

packing your lunch with

cut carrots.

not a single cookie, or

treat.

shaking the ant farm

i used to have dreams

of you.

but now i don't.

the slate is clean.

i've shaken the ant farm

of my

life,

and started all over

again.

with a new set of ants.

new sand.

let's see where this takes

me.

it's not over yet

she changes colors

in midstream.

we're not happy with the baby blue.

we're thinking

something different now.

something deeper,

something that reflects

more of who we are.

the room is done.

the furniture

pushed back,

the switch plates

attached.

the brushes are clean,

the roller,

the tray, drop cloths

are folded,

the tools gathered,

the truck idles patiently

as i put out my hand for pay.

it's not over. 

not yet.

anyway.

Dostoevsky 101

the book

is crime and punishment.

a generally

praised book,

a must read

if you are to have a complete

and knowledgeable 

literary life,

but

i'm the one feeling punished.

the names

are long.

the details

seem superfluous. 

the plot slow in developing.

when will

the twist or turn

arrive.

how many more pages

must i read

before

i'm into it,

before i gently 

set the book aside?

the divorce lawyer

my friend jimmy

the divorce lawyer

is over the moon

on the phone.

i've never heard him

happier.

what's up, i ask.

you sound giddy.

i'm moving to new york city,

he tells me.

it's a gold mine.

they just passed a law

allowing same

sex marriages.

i'm about to double my

income.

i can finally get that jet plane

and yacht i've been

dreaming about.

you have to come up

and visit,

i'll be buying

in Southampton.

how's june, i ask him.

perfect.

perfect.

this will never work

i knew it wasn't going anywhere

the first

time i met her.

when she told me to sit up

straight,

and unbutton the top

button

of my shirt.

she corrected me on her

name.

i'm katherine, she said,

not cat, not cathy,

not kitten.

call me

katherine.

okay, i said. okay.

by the way

you should eat fish

tonight, she said.

and go on a hike

with me tomorrow

after

we go to the save the whales

march

in town.

you're a feminist, right?

of course i told her.

i've never met a woman

with long legs

that i didn't like.

my lucky day

i dive

into the deep end.

i go down and touch the bottom.

i let some

air out

and sit there for a while.

i'm good for

about thirty seconds.

it's calm,

peaceful.

i can't see or hear

a single

person now.

i find an old penny

lying there.

unfound.

it's my lucky day.

the villages in florida

i check out

the villages in florida,

the place

where

north america goes to die.

the cookie

cutter houses.

like cemetery row.

the golf course,

the pool.

the granny with blue

hair giving me

the eye.

there's bowling on wednesday

night,

charades on

thursday,

friday is swing dancing,

and saturday is the adult

party.

bring your blue pill

and wine.

sunday morning, for those

still kicking,

it's a free penicillin

shot and pickleball.

at nine.

there's no end in sight

it's just a sidewalk.

and yet

three weeks later, they're

still working on

it. back hoes,

plows,

cement mixers.

a gaggle of

men with white helmets

arriving each

day to adjust

the wood frames, the yellow

tape. hammering in again

the signs saying

don't park here.

it's endless.

the transcontinental

railway was built

in a week,

the empire state building

took a hundred days.

but the sidewalk

in front of my

house,

there's no end in sight.

a sunny holiday parade

gas

was 29 cents per gallon

at Scott's

on Indian Head highway.

the oil cans

were stacked

perfectly

outside the office.

a gleaming work of art.

six pumps

and a man dressed in white

with green

trimming,

a hat,

black brimmed

pulled down,

who came out to pump

and wipe

the glass. he'd lift

the hood and 

check the oil.

the air in each tire.

sometimes you'd

get a cup

or a plate for filling up.

they'd

wave.

you'd wave.

then off you'd go to

some sunny

holiday parade.

rising to the surface

they will rise

to the surface, given

time,

with eyes wide

open. 

the lies,

like dead body.

will appear.

truth will

make things clear.

you can't keep a good

man down,

or woman,

from what i hear.

the orphanage

is it not too

an orphanage of sorts.

this center

for the aged,

but not

for the new,

but for those whose lives

are short.

left behind,

discarded, not picked

again

for a different life.

widowed too soon.

new love

never came or if it did,

it wasn't

love at all.

but a well played

game.

disinterest

i no longer

know

what's in the news.

my caring

is at an all time low.

who's famous now,

what scandal there is.

who died.

who lied.

who's rich, who's lost

it all.

who's on the moon.

none of it matters.

the longer the years

are 

of your life,

the more you don't care

about such things.

it's more

about the trees, the river.

the sky.

the change of seasons.

books.

friends.

you can go now

i grieved

the death of my mother

for several

years before she died.

and when

she finally passed on.

it was a relief.

for her,

for me.

for nearly everyone

who stood by her side.

it wasn't her

anymore.

without words, without

movement.

lying

in a state of newborn.

helpless

again, and yet

in her soft brown eyes.

you could see that

she was still

hanging on. i remember

whispering in

her ear. it's okay, you

can go now.

the day is young

my new shoes

arrive.

finally. it took nearly three

days

of me looking out the window.

i take them

out of the box

and hold them up to the light.

i deem them

my good shoes.

still paint splatter free.

no mud.

no grime.

no spilled drinks, or

food on

them.

yet.

but the day is young.

which do you prefer?

would you love me

more

if changed my hair color?

she asks,

brushing her

long red hair in the mirror.

it's impossible to love

you more,

i tell her.

i know, but what about my hair?

what?

i said.

should i dye my hair?

i shrug,

concentrating

under the turned

lamp shade,

trying to get a splinter

out of my thumb

with a pair of tweezers.

sure.

whatever you want to do.

it's your head.

but,

she says.

do you prefer blondes,

or brunettes?

it doesn't matter, i've

had trouble

with all the hair colors.

even red.

the rain day

their spirits are lifted

as the rain

comes down.

how quickly they move now.

covering the wet

cement.

collecting tools.

it's a rain day.

they're laughing,

gathering together

around the truck

to plan

the afternoon.

my place or yours.

who's buying?

there's no pay today,

but still,

what luck.

the last piece of bread

we make do,

don't we?

we boil an egg,

eat

the last piece of bread.

the end.

we smell

the milk.

we reheat rice in a white

box from

the weekend.

we find the can opener

and 

grind open

a can of tuna.

we are nothing

less

than survivors.

roughing it with our

first world

problems.

we'll be happy again

we'll be happy again.

i promise,

the bluebird

sings

on the sill.

trust me, she says.

fluttering her wings

and turning

so that the sun radiates

off her bright

blue feathers.

we'll be happy again,

she says once

more, i promise,

then flies away.

less than love going on

it's raining.

a deluge.

i can hardly see the road.

it's late.

i'm too tired to keep

going, and there's

so far to go.

i pull into a roadside

motel. the word

vacancy 

is an orange blur against

my windshield.

it's a run down place.

one floor.

a gravel lot.

a man with one eye

hands me a key.

i give him twenty

dollars.

he asks is it for the night

or just a few 

hours.

what's left of the night

i tell him.

i find the room, number

ten, along

the stretch

outside the office.

a bed, a sink.

a machine that vibrates

the bed,

a slot to put quarters

in.

i stay dressed and lie

down.

i listen through the thin

walls.

there's something less

than love

going on.

three a.m.

i sit up in bed,

startled

awake, but there's nothing 

no noise,

no sound of wind

or rain. it's

just what's in my

head.

it's unclear

why i'm wide awake

at this hour.

three a.m.

what is there that's

on my mind.

what chore

left unattended to.

what have

i forgotten,

are the doors unlocked.

or once again,

is it you?

nothing changes

i like that stream

outside

the window.

the pull of it,

a rugged blue,

erasing fallen trees,

shaving

the sides

of each shoreline.

smoothing

rocks,

carrying with it the debris

of limbs,

of leaves.

in fact i love that stream,

it shows me

how everything must

change

and yet somehow

remain the same, including

me.

almost you

as in painting,

we often

write from memory, not

getting it

exactly right.

but close enough.

we still

have some burning

rays of light

to set the canvas up,

to place the paper

before us

and write.

it's almost you.

this color, this hue,

these

words i've chosen,

to set down.

all of it

my own disappointed

view.

the low white sun

is it the cold

that brings us closer.

the low

white sun of february.

is it the season.

is it our dwindling time

on earth

that makes

us almost as one?

has the herd

thinned that much

that we're willing

to at last compromise

and be done?

what the hell

everything now

is excusable because of

Covid.

i can't see you tonight.

i have a headache

and sniffles.

it could be the virus.

Covid.

no milk at the store, Covid.

no meat,

no bread.

Covid.

the newspaper doesn't come.

gas prices

are high.

Covid.

no shoes my size

on Amazon

to buy.

Covid.

this coffee is cold,

this scone

is stale.

sorry. Covid.

i'm in mourning

i'm in mourning.

my housekeeper,

Milagro,

can't come this week.

there's no parking

out front because of road

construction.

she'd have to push her

vacuum all the ways

around the back,

along the snow covered

path.

i write her a note.

i tell her i'm sorry, but

this week won't work.

i don't hear back for days.

i wonder

if she's upset with me.

i pace the rooms,

looking at the unmade

bed, the trash cans,

now full.

crumbs and spills

are everywhere.

there's dust 

on the shelves.

there's dishes

in the sink.

who's going to fold

the fitted sheets?

sugar bear

we're formal at first.

in the beginning.

addressing

each other with our full first

name.

and then we

sleep together

and soon it's honey, sugar bear,

sweet petunia,

or baby cakes.

after a while though,

once the honeymoon

has faded.

and the toilet seat

has been left up

one to many times,

with bad aim.

it's back to the same,

but louder and 

with finger wagging,

now including

the first and last

name.

replying to a critique

i get a poetry critique

in a snide

little text.

a passive aggressive

stab

at my

style and content.

so who are these people

that

you're so

disappointed in?

so called friends,

lovers?

i think about sending her

my standard

reply to such comments.

the second word

being you,

but i resist, trying to clean

up my language.

just one night away

i pack light.

a toothbrush.

some congestion meds

in a plastic

baggie.

cash in my pocket,

the clothes on

my back, my

phone

and done.

whereas you, with

your sherpa

hauling your luggage,

behind us

have a bit more

to carry,

for not three nights away,

but one.

who are you?

i am slipping.

i admit it.

sometimes i do put

the keys

into the ice box.

the milk

in the cupboard.

i often can't find

my glasses

that are resting on

my head.

i leave the house

wearing

two different shoes.

sometimes i wake

up,

roll over

to tap you on 

the shoulder

and wonder who are 

you.

mowing the lawn with style

you realize

at some point that you

are still wearing

the same

exact style of clothing

that you wore

in your twenties.

khaki shorts, and t-shirts.

long or

short sleeved.

tennis shoes.

a hat.

blue jeans,

and boots,

and off you go.

long gone are the days

of cary grant.

the white shirt

and tie,

the grey flannel suit.

a splash of cologne on

your cheeks

as crank up the mower

to cut the grass.

i'll take care of that tomorrow honey

i procrastinate.

i admit

to it.

one of a multitude

of faults. 

why do something

today

that i can put off until

tomorrow?

thank God

i don't have a farm.

how the animals

would go

unattended to, the fields

would turn brown.

i'd make

excuses as to why

today

is not good day to milk

the cow or

slaughter

the pig. 

or harvest the corn.

i'd let the cattle wander

into town

through the broken fence.

the eggs would pile

up to the roof

in the run down barn.

my brother john

he was my best friend.

sports.

art music.

work.

we shared

so much in common.

he played

the guitar,

wore a black beret.

had a goatee

styled beard

like Pacino.

he loved cats.

his Fiat he was always

working on.

tennis. ten thousand

games

of basketball.

he loved his wife

and two

children.

honest as the day was long.

sensitive

and smart.

sly and clever

with a wicked sense

of humor.

we spent hours

on the telephone

and grew old 

together, arm in arm.

rest in peace, 

my brother

john.

i need a cookie

dizzy

from lack

of food. basic 

unhealthy nutrients

like

cake

and ice cream

i go to the ice box

to peruse.

i see spinach.

cauliflower,

eggplant

and kale.

my hands begin to shake.

i look

into the mirror.

i've grown thin,

i'm

winter pale.

i need a cookie

in a bad way.

waiting in purgatory

what is that prayer?

i ask her

when i hear her repeating

the words

over and over again,

as she kneels

down

at her home made altar.

it's the prayer

of Saint Gertrude

the Great, she says.

each time i say it,

a thousand souls are

released from purgatory.

so far i've released

ten thousand people

just today.

interesting, i tell her.

do you want me to lower

the tv.

no she says, i'm watching

dateline.

okay. well,

i'm going for a walk.

keep at it.

it's must be hell to be

kept waiting.

just one night

she tells me

that love will never come

again in

her life.

i'm done with it, she says.

men.

the whole parade

of hope

and wishful thinking.

i'm better off

without a husband,

without

someone around the house

all day.

there's no one left,

they're all taken, the good

ones at least.

how about you?

are you free tonight?

pack a bag,

you can stay.

train music

the old trains.

the real ones. black hulls,

like hearts full

of smoke.

grizzled

men at the wheel,

who've

given up

on many things,

always

looking down

the steel curve of track.

how can one

not fall

in love with someone

on a train.

the music of it all.

impossible,

i declare.

let's try it

and don't come back.

the plum darkness

is there a better night

to drown

in.

perhaps.

but this one will do.

the plum

darkness.

the steel water

moving hard

and fast,

no longer blue.

how easy it would be to

fall

or leap,

or step into a tomorrow

full

of no tomorrows.

some pray that i do.

i pour

i pour myself into you.

i pour

i pour

i pour

and still it's not enough.

you want more.

i never see the hole

within your heart

as i spill upon

the floor.

endless inspiration

running dry 

for a while,

i dip into

my box of muses.

there's Sylvia Plath

and Larkin, Strand and Poe.

Bukowski

and Levine.

Hemmingway

and Cheever.

Vincent van Gogh.

and then there's you.

a bottomless pit

of inspiration.

tyrannosaurus rex blocking the 14th street bridge

the world

is dying. things, animals.

that little turtle

you never heard of.

only one left

and he's in intensive care.

the ocean.

but

it's going the way it should

go. natural

selection and all that.

there's no stopping it.

relax.

at some point

everything comes to an end.

take the dinosaurs

for instance.

thank goodness

they're gone, be happy about

that,

traffic on the freeway

is bad enough

as it is.

didn't see that coming

i stop by to visit

my gypsy friend,

Rosa,

to see what's up.

she's taken her sign down.

and i see her crystal

ball in the trashcan.

Her Tarot cards

are flying around in circles.

what is going on i, ask her.

are you closing up shop?

no more palm readings?

yes, she says.

i'm done, kaput.

covid.

damn virus. i didn't see that

coming.

so what are you going to do now?

i'm doing day trading

she says.

getting involved with the stock market

while it's still

bullish.

annuities, bonds.

you know, that sort of thing.

interested?

nah, nah, i'm good. my Morgan

Stanely broker

has me covered.

pfffft, she says. amateurs. 

long term care

i visit an old friend

now

residing at St. Elizabeth's

asylum.

he seems happy,

content.

no longer worried about

work,

the wife or kids.

the weeds in his yard.

he's past all that now.

he shakes my

hand as we sit to have lunch

outdoors

on the expansive land,

woods,

a bench.

how's it going, i ask him.

when are you getting out?

he whispers,

what are you crazy?

i love it here. the food,

the lake view,

books to read, the exercise

room.

you have to check my new

nurse out.

whew. such a tease.

by the way,

before you leave, i have

to scream and yell at you for

awhile. hope you

don't mind, but i have to

show them

that i'm not ready to be

released.

what's so funny?

i've been

with women who

didn't like that i was having fun.

a smile

on my face, a smirk,

a sarcastic

remark was tamped down

as a disgrace.

i never know when you're

kidding,

or joking around, they'd

say.

i wasted some of my best

material on them.

show me your scar

we like to show each

other our scars.

we attach the story to them

as we raise

a pant leg,

a sleeve or hem.

we tell what happened.

the fear, the pain.

the healing.

we press our finger against

the ribbed

hard flesh, the wound

healed, at last.

but we will

never ever forget.

art in general

to some

the abstract

by Picasso or Matisse

is meaningless,

worthless

while to others it's a

masterpiece.

gold. whether

Pollock

or Hopper,

each to his own beauty,

to what touches

his soul.

imaginary people

i like imaginary

people

much better than the real ones.

the real

ones

almost always disappoint.

it's not unlike

reading a good book

and falling

in love

with the characters

and then they make a movie

out of it

and it stinks

like a pear, no longer

ripe.

does tom hanks have to

be in every movie?

you need to embellish

we all

have a book inside of us.

some story

to tell

from birth

until now.

some are exciting yarns

yet told,

some are

boring,

some not worth

telling at all. with

those you have to embellish

throw in

some scary

scenarios.

cliff hangers,

pearls of pauline

type tales,

steamy sex scenes

help as well.

no key exists

she puts

her ear up to my chest.

she listens to

the clicking.

turning the dial

with soft kisses and 

hands that caress.

she's

trying to figure

out what makes

me tick.

no use, i tell her.

you can stop, 

i'm fort Knoxx now.

no entry.

no key exists.

a dog and his bone

i am a bulldog

with a bone when it comes

to certain

people.

i shake and chew

the bone,

i gnaw it to death,

never taking it into

the yard

to bury it.

i sleep with it.

i know exactly where

it is when

i get home.

i love that bone.

it reminds me

of the past

and that being alone

is what's best.

the publishers clearing house prize

i play along.

it's what i do. i play

along.

i'm happy

that i've won the publishers

clearing house

grand prize

of eight million.

that's three times this

month.

i express my happiness

with yelps and

hollers.

i scream and dance

around.

i agree to pay the fee

of one hundred and

ninety nine dollars.

of course.

why not?

check, cash, credit

card?

tell me what you want.

don't let a foot in

be careful at the door.

wary

of the knock as the 

clock strikes

midnight.

don't let

the foot in.

don't answer, or yell

out,

peer through

the peep hole

after darkening

the room.

nothing good will

come from this

strange visit

at this late hour.

her silly side

it's her silly side

that appeals to me,

and the kissing of course.

the way

she balls herself

onto the couch

like a cat.

her purring, her smile,

her nibbling

at my neck.

she's funny without

trying.

real and straight

forward. a cool glass

of water

on a summers day.

i hope my past doesn't

get in

the way.

the symphony

the drum

of rain.

the strings of wind.

the bass drum

of thunder

and cymbal

of lightning.

it's a symphony

out there.

i open

the window

to applaud.

i stand up and clap

to the frosted air. 

good job.

bravo.

thank you for being

there.

florence nightingale

i've always

been partial to nurses.

they seem

so kind and attentive.

the white hats

the white dress and shoes.

the bedside

manner

as they smile and hold

up a needle,

pulling up your gown

to jab you.

something angelic

about a nurse.

at least the ones in

the old movies,

in the old days 

when there were

real hospitals,

not clinics at the mall

with drive-throughs.

the party

i make note

of the red exit sign in the corner.

i see

the kitchen

down the long

corridor.

the back door.

i see an easy get away

off the porch,

i could slip

out that way,

or down the steps

to the cellar

and climb out a window.

i'm ready

to go.

just one more drink

and round

of small talk

and then i'm

out of here, on

the road.

she's in Arizona

it's a yawn day.

i pull the blinds open,

and stretch.

it's raining, again.

the workers

are nowhere to be found.

so it's a pile

of dirt

for a sidewalk

for the whole weekend.

oh well.

the back door will have

to do.

coffee? i yell up the stairs.

but there's

no one there.

she's in Arizona

playing golf with friends.

the optimist

how could you possibly

be married

that many times,

and have

so many relationships

that ended badly?

she asks, shaking her head.

i'm an optimist,

i tell her.

i see the silver lining

in those dark clouds above.

she laughs.

spitting out her coffee.

i laugh.

we make plans to meet again,

forever the optimist.

the gourmet work lunch

it's been awhile

since

i've shopped at a 7-11.

although

the word shop is

stretching it.

usually it was for a nasty

hot dog

spinning in the greasy

grill.

with starvation upon me.

a drink,

a newspaper.

a small bag of chips.

and then back

to the truck

for a gourmet lunch.

mustard

on the steering wheel,

relish

splattered on my pants.

anxious for nothing

be anxious for

nothing

Paul says.

easy to say, harder to do.

be hungry

for nothing.

be thirsty for nothing.

lust for nothing.

let go of the world,

and be a sparrow

with no worry

of food.

okay.

i'll give it a shot,

again.

a belly of cold rain

i go down

to the swollen stream,

its belly

full of cold rain.

grey sky

and melted snow.

it gives

me little hope

as i kneel to the water

and dip a hand

inside.

there's something here,

i don't see yet.

it's coming.

perhaps in time,

i'll know.

catch and release

i have a callous

on my

thumb, used mostly

for thumbing through

pages in

books, and deleting

people from

my phone.

pictures too.

in fact i carry a sharp

pair of scissors

with me

wherever i go.

you never know what

you might find

that needs to be cut

up and tossed.

don't you even care?

i remember

the day

i gave up drinking

not that i drank that much

to begin with,

and then i was out and about

with my

friend betty and in order

to tolerate

her stories

i had to have a gin

and tonic.

two, actually,

with a slice of lime.

they relaxed me and made

my eyes wander

around the room.

it wasn't long before she

was kicking me

beneath table, and saying

are you even listening

to me.

my cat's sick and was

coughing up fur balls

the other day, don't you

even care?

desperate women

i watch the new

netflix

show

the tinder swindler.

it's amazing.

a man posing

as a rich guy

and stealing money

from women

who strangely fall in

love with him.

one might say

they're dumb as rocks,

stupid gold diggers,

desperate women

looking for the big

diamond 

on their finger.

you almost feel

sorry for them. but

who hasn't been fooled

and taken

by a complete fake

at some point in your life?

he doesn't get

caught until

the very end.

but it's a short stay

in the slammer and

he's back out

doing it again.

ahhh, the joys of online

dating.

buyer beware.

when she does a head stand

i ask her to not do

a particular

yoga

exercise in the office

while

i'm busy

at my desk writing.

can you please do that

in another part

of house,

i tell her

it's distracting.

she's up against

the wall,

legs in the air,

she's wearing

her white yoga pants

and nearly skintight

top.

her hair is in a ponytail,

swaying back

and forth.

can you please

do your head stand

in the other room,

i ask her.

this is the tenth time

i've had to rewrite

this poem.

namaste.

worry all you want

when people tell you not

to worry.

tell them

to shut up.

i'll worry as long as i have

to.

as long as i want.

worry is not necessarily

a bad thing.

it helps you

make a plan of escape,

keeps you

from dark alleys,

warns you

about familiar women

coming towards you

in the rain.

a world of circus people

what makes people

die their hair

blue, or purple,

green.

put stick pins through

their eyebrows,

or rings

into their nose.

what possesses them

to ink

their bodies

from head to toe.

abuse themselves.

is it a cry for help,

or art?

it's a different world

now,

who's to know.

if all goes well

we say things

like 

if all goes well,

or if

God's willing.

we don't want to jinx

our plans.

we knock on wood,

we avoid

the cracks

and ladders. we

pull out a rabbit's

foot

and rub it.

we're getting a grip

on things.

padding

our luck.

stretching a dollar

my mother

could bake the hell out

of a dough

ball of bread.

better than any store

or bakery

could make.

it's hot, come get it,

she'd yell from

the kitchen

pulling the rounded

crusted loaf

from the oven.

butter on the table.

she knew what filled

us up

how to stretch a dollar,

worrying

if that would be enough.

night work

the construction

goes on

into the night, the men

in green

with flashlights, standing

out in the cold

digging the hard earth,

tamping

the road.

the plows move

more dirt

as the cement gets

poured.

it's 10 30 at night

as i lie in bed and listen

to the roar.

that baby thing

there's this other world.

let's call

it girl world.

make up,

and clothes.

the little hook on the black

dress,

that you couldn't

put a needle through.

heels.

who can possibly

walk across a room

in those.

bracelets and rings.

hair.

always with the hair.

the style,

the brush, the color.

it's endless,

and i haven't even mentioned

that baby thing.

they don't make things the way they used to

things

have a tendency to die.

too early

at times.

i'll give you the short

list.

cars,

and water heaters,

anything with engines.

toasters,

the furnace.

it's the way of the world.

okay.

yes. i'll include 

relationships on that

list as well.

and we stand back

and say

they don't make things

the way they used.

that goes for us too,

i imagine.

ancient wallpaper

in the chaos

of day, stripping wallpaper.

shearing it like

the dead

skin of fish,

scraping it

off old walls

in tiny shreds, no longer

than an inch

at a time,

the water rolls down my sleeves,

my pants soaked

my shoes

sliding

in the soft paste

removed.

my arms reach above me,

below.

behind the ice box,

the electric stove.

i change another blade,

and go up

the ladder.

eight hours go by like

minutes.

i hardly noticed

that the sun

has receded outside

the window.

picking lemons

you'd expect

the lemon to be sweet,

how could it not be,

but it isn't.

despite the beauty

of the tree,

the bright yellow

of the fruit,

so pretty, but

it's anything but 

sweet.

let that be a lesson,

you must learn.

and keep.

the earth worm

we feel no

sorrow for the earth worm

despite

the dirt he's in.

we know

little of his life,

his children,

his wife.

does he have one?

is there

a plan here. burrowing

down

and out.

avoiding the beaks

of birds

that fly about.

what kind

of life is that.

does he look up and

think the same

of us?

trying to spit it out

it's a grudge.

sure enough. a sticky

slice

of old anger

and resentment

stuck in

my craw.

sometimes i can spit

it out,

but not all the way.

i'm almost used

to it now.

this grudge

that's eating me

away.

dope

even at sixty,

she liked to get high.

she thought

it was cool.

fun.

made her feel sexy.

it relaxed her.

she'd put some music on.

light candles

all over the house.

come one,

she'd say, rolling another

joint, take a puff

or two.

join me.

inhale some of this

burning toxic leaf

laced with god knows

what

into your lungs

and hold it for as

long as you can.

let's pretend we're at

woodstock, man.

i made us some brownies

for later.

nothing new under the sun

what is there

to say

that hasn't been said

already?

little,

and yet we press on

with our

words.

our voice.

looking for another

way

to say the same thing

over and over

again

in a different way.

it's what the world

does

from cradle to

grave.

dancing in the kitchen

in the beginning,

it was all romance.

we used to dance

in the kitchen.

slowly around the room,

the music

pouring out of the small

radio

on the counter.

the lights down low

as the oven

warmed our backs.

we didn't have a song

like couples

often do.

we never got around to

that.

although, if i had to pick

one now, it would be

that old standard by

Ray Charles,

hit the road jack.

tell me now

i was chewing

the fat

with Bill the other day.

trying to avoid politics

and the Vietnam war.

he's of that age.

will you come visit

my grave

after i die, he asks me.

i tell him no.

i don't do graves.

it's the here

and now that piques

my interest.

best say what you need

to say now.

i can't have a conversation

with you

when you're underground.

i want a new country, please

i'd like a new country please.

a peaceful one

with

a slower pace in a smaller

town.

not too cold, or too warm.

a place

where i'd feel safe

to walk about

at night.

where I wouldn't have

to lock

the doors or draw

the shades.

a place where politics

is hardly mentioned.

where no one goes to war.

a place where you have

to wait for sheep

to cross the road.

where people go outside

to watch the sun

go down.

i could learn the language

if it isn't mine.

i'll exchange

my money into theirs,

i'll meet new people,

i'll even

tell them about me,

i'll change, i'll share, i'll

become one of them

given time.

they got nothing for us

the trouble with Nordstrom

Rack

is that it's ninety-nine per cent

women's clothes.

a few pants

and shirts are there for us.

a few mismatched shoes,

size 13 lying around,

but not much else.

socks and underwear,

Italian jackets that a gigolo

in Rome might wear.

the men's section is tucked

away in the far corner.

the Siberian part of the store.

you see the men, wandering,

weary, picking up

things they won't buy,

looking at their watches,

then out into the wide

open spaces of the women's

section, for their

girlfriends or wives.

always one in the crowd

how did Jesus handle

the hecklers

at the Sermon on the Mount?

there's always

one in the crowd, especially

when there's free wine

and fish tacos and it's happy

hour.

did he smite them with

a bolt of lightning,

or send Peter over to rough

them up

toss them down the hill.

hey, tell the one about the eye

of the needle again.

you know, the rich man and

the camel.

how's that go?

i heard this sermon back

in Jerusalem. 

you need new material.

boring.

nibble at her neck

never critique

a woman's clothing.

especially lingerie.

just say, oh my.

or something like that.

no need to

tell her that the celery

green stockings

aren't working or that

the robe with bunny

rabbits

on it, is meh.

don't ever ask how

the snaps and straps

all disconnect.

best to smile, best to

plow forward,

perhaps dim the lights

and just begin to

nibble at her neck.

none of this is true

i tell her that it's all fiction.

every word,

every sentence or

thought. everything

you read here is a fabrication.

there's not

one real person

in any of these poems.

it's just my imagination.

it's all made up.

trust me.

please read the opening

caveat.

everything is untrue, except

for the poems about

my deceased hot dog.

leather would be nice

you reach a point in

life where

you can buy anything you

really want.

just about any car

off the lot

short of crazy.

but you no longer want

the v 8.

the bright red,

the fins, the baby moons

with silver

rims.

you no longer care

about metallic coating,

or zoom.

you just want something

reliable,

something that gets

you from point A to point B,

with leg room.

leather seats would

be nice though.

the mouse trap

i see the aged mouse

in her

box.

the straw, the grass,

the sand

laden

path.

a puddle of water

beside her.

this is where it ends.

cramped

against her will. 

funds running

out.

parents dying, no

friends.

just her, alone,

gnawing at the bone

of past,

wishing like a child

to start

all over again.

trying to get every vote

who isn't sensitive,

insecure,

a bit

shy beneath the bravado.

who isn't

on a stage,

pretending somewhat,

following

orders,

learning what's best

to say, or

not say.

very few stand out,

originals

unique and fearless.

completely free to

be who

they really are, 

while the rest of us,

are running for office

trying to get

every vote, 

both near and far.

the pie maker

she tells me

she likes to bake pies.

cherry, apple,

peach,

pumpkin.

she's a pie

maker. using real

butter and sugar,

all made

from scratch.

that's good, i tell her,

grabbing

a fork.

i like to eat

pies.

i think we're a match.

checks she couldn't cash

when she wrote

the third, or was it the fourth

final letter

telling me

that she was leaving,

that our relationship

was over.

i laughed,

folded it over and put

it with the others

in a drawer marked,

miscellaneous,

future trash.

a drama queen until

the end.

she was always writing

checks

she couldn't cash.

the insistent sea

the sea

is insistent on coming

forward

swallowing

the land, taking

with it trees

and stones,

old homes. everything

nailed down.

it isn't what we planned.

to be underwater

so soon.

underground

yes,

that we understand,

but not water,

we have to swim now,

take my hand.

we're done here

we think we're done.

it feels right.

we're finished.

we've crossed our t's

and dotted

our i's.

let's go home

while there's still light.

let's call it a day,

a hard days work

and be done with it.

tomorrow

there'll be more.

there's always more,

the pond is full of

fish, and more will bite.

don't take it with you

no ticket is needed,

no permission

slip.

there is no check at the gate.

all may

enter.

it doesn't matter

if you're

early or late.

anger is permitted here

in the land

of grievances

unattended to.

a place where apologies

are never heard,

where wrongs are

never righted.

be angry here. it's okay.

stomp and scream

and yell.

shed tears.

it's fine.

but leave it

all behind

when you go back out 

the door.

noise makers

we like noise

when we're young.

the carnival.

the dance hall.

loud music,

loud cars, we yell

to one another.

we drum

on everything.

we make a racket

with guitars,

we sing.

we turn up the radio,

we bang

sticks on

the dashboard.

we stamp our feet.

we toss rocks onto

the ice.

shoot bottles with a

gun.

we light fireworks.

we clap our hands,

we burst balloons.

we are all about noise

when we are young,

and then it

turns, we suddenly

love the quiet.

the silence.

the sleep of night.

at last we're done.

summer sand

i shake

the sand from my shoe.

brought back

from our summer visit 

to the shore.

it's a small

pile, a pyramid

of sorts

that i spill

onto the floor.

i doubt

the ocean misses it,

unlike me,

when i think about

you.

no better place to be

there's a spot

in the back, along fence

above the steep grade

of woods

going

down to the stream

where i rest

my arms

and lean into

what breeze the season

brings.

it's a safe place.

a place of worship,

one might say.

i've been there many times.

in sadness

in sorrow

in grief.

and now at last

in contentment,

i can linger here for

hours.

there's no better place

to be.

the back door key

at last

i find the missing key

to the back

door.

it's brown, sticky.

unused for years.

but there it is

in the kitchen drawer.

i try it

and say please,

it answers with a soft

turn

to the right

and the bolt moves.

now,

to see that gorgeous

moon

between the trees,

i'm in out that door

each night.

i'm glad you're home

it feels strange to have

someone

that cares for you.

who worries about you.

who shares the cooking,

or helps you around the house.

someone who

throws clothes

into washer

then helps to fold 

when things

have dried out.

someone that calls or texts

in the middle of the day 

for no reason, other

than to just say

hey.

it's odd, it feels funny

to have anyone

around that misses you,

or calls you

honey.

who welcomes you at

the door

with arms spread wide

and says, 

welcome back,

i'm glad you're home.

now is a good time too

turn off the light dear,

the music's over.

come,

let's go to bed.

take off your shoes,

slip out

of that dress.

come closer.

let's sleep. let's dream.

let's make

love in the morning.

we're both

tired. but the way

i hear you purring,

perhaps now

is a good time

too.

he feared nothing

he feared nothing,

not men,

or women, or weather.

just one thing,

losing his

job.

not being able to work

and stand

at the drill press

for nine hours.

throwing metal to the side,

making

things.

this, this drudgery,

this slavedom for a paltry

sum,

was what he lived for.

this work

he feared in losing.

it kept him alive.

blue jasmine

it was not unlike a streetcar

named desire,

how it all went

down.

holding her up to the light

as she

lost her mind,

and the men

in white

coming to take her away.

a few bags packed for

the trip in the hallway.

the remains

of her meager life.

i was her Mitch for a while,

and then

Stanley at the end.

she did not go gently

into that good night.

melba toast

there comes

a point, when you reach an age

where

you look at the world

and think,

what the hell's

going on here.

everything has changed.

i'm sure every generation

has thought

the same,

with each new invention,

each new

way of cloths,

of styles. of slang,

of music.

i'm still mourning the loss

of the milkman,

black and white

tv,

and melba toast.

feeling crabby

i can't eat crabs all

day like

some do.

sitting at the picnic

table

draped in newspaper.

the crabs piled high

just out

of the boiling pot.

a bowl of

vinegar, pliers, wrenches,

dental tools.

a hammer for me,

and one 

for you.

a tub of butter to slosh

the paltry

meat mined from

a claw

or back behind.

it's work.

it's bloody work.

it's the only food you can

eat

and lose weight while

doing it.

the wild blue sky

it's a gradual thing.

the loss

of hearing,

the dimming light

in each

eye,

the slow gait

to the mailbox.

who would have thought

that this day

would arrive,

wasn't it just yesterday

when you were running

and jumping

towards the wild

blue sky.

south of the border

during pillow talk

she says,

do you mind if i ask

you a few questions

about

how that thing works

down there?

what's up

with that?

it's so small and then

it's not.

how do you walk around

all day.

does it go right,

or left.

does it

ever just suddenly

pop up.

how come it hurts

so much when it gets hit.

men and even boys

are always grabbing

at it.

does it itch?

does it really have a brain

of it's own,

or is that just

an excuse when you want

to cuddle

and kiss?

meet the Beatles

i remember

charlene

like it was yesterday.

she had a scar on her face

from where a horse

kicked her,

but was very pretty just

the same.

i remember that she had

tickets to go

see the 
Beatles playing at

the D.C. armory on their

first tour of

the USA.

she told everyone.

waved them around

in our faces.

she said things like i'm

going and you're

not. ha ha. loser.

Paul's my favorite, she'd

say.

i'm going to marry him.

we thought she was crazy,

but she was still very

pretty just the same.

the year end box

state tax

city, county,

federal.

you got your fica,

your Medicare,

your Medicaid.

health insurance,

life insurance.

home insurance.

condo fees.

your itemized gizmos

that keep

you breathing.

receipts for pills,

for the dentist,

the dermatologist,

the massage

therapist.

alimony, child support.

you have your pay stubs,

your

year end investment

report.

your interest statements.

bank statements.

mortgage interest.

your w-2s.

your 1040s.

it's going to be a hell

of a bon fire

in the end.

the sunday matinee

i've had my

fill of church. been going

most of

my life.

i've attended out

of faith,

out of fear,

the choking pressure

of the world,

or an insistent wife.

kneel, sit, stand, rote prayer.

the basket

coming around not 

once, but twice.

and in it all

there's 

hardly a mention,

barely a word about

the love and saving grace

of Christ.

in the wind

we fall out favor

with

friends, with relatives.

we haven't

played the game

well enough to keep

them.

we haven't changed,

we're still the same,

but now

we're happily

in the wind.

the fifth floor of Bellevue, apt. 506

the corridor

smelled of cabbage

getting

off the elevator, or fish.

there was always a baby

crying.

a new born baby.

dogs were barking.

you could hear through

the thin partitions,

people arguing.

a man hitting

his wife.

a dish shattering against

the shared

wall.

the ac was weak in

the summer,

the heat a stale warm

breath

in the winter.

there was always an old

man in the lobby

with one leg.

from the balcony

you could see another building

and beyond that

the highway.

televisions were on all day,

all night.

upstairs you could hear

the crescendo of bed springs

as others made

love.

there was music playing

on cheap radios,

loud music.

Beethoven

and Tupac jousting

for ears.

i was out of there in

six months,

although i had signed

a lease

for three years.

let it bleed

the secret of writing,

is to cut a vein

and let

it bleed.

bleed until the ink

runs dry.

it's not drinking, or drugs,

or love.

it's none of that,

you'll get little help there.

it's mostly garbage

if you're head isn't on

straight.

you're just kidding yourself

if you 

write that way.

just bleed, let it flow,

and make

mistakes.

there's always tomorrow

to edit

and move on to 

another page.

save your breath

save your breath,

don't waste

another second on me 

with

sage advice,

i'm up to here

with wisdom, with

platitudes,

with verses from ancient

scribes.

i know the meaning

of life.

i've known it

since i was a child.

since the moment i

realized

that i was alive

and somebody else

wasn't.

waiting, not listening

i have 

no patience, with people,

i do not

suffer fools gladly

anymore,

i want them to get

to the end

of the story, so that

i can tell mine.

my eyes say, really,

you had to add

those details?

take that crazy detour.

come one.

you can do it, 

let's get there.

that has to go too

i replace

the chair again.

that vase

on the mantle

has to go.

why not, the picture too.

i'm

always changing things

around the house.

drapes

and rugs, lamps. 

as does 

almost anything to

do with

you.

reel me in

gingerly

i step on the ice, holding

the rail,

it's like

walking

on eggshells,

but with a hard wind

blowing,

filling

my coat, like a 

wintry sail.

i'm almost there,

throw me a

rope,

reel me in.

lift me onto your

warm

fire lit boat.

come on over

it's too cold out

to go

out.

i've made my decision.

i've taken

a vote

with me myself and i

and have

settled onto the couch

with

a burger

the size of the plate,

and fries.

you're welcome

to stop by if you're

in the hood.

the door is open.

bring lips, bring hips,

bring

your cut carrots if

you'd like, but

we won't

be reading

books.

the next generation of cats

it's the next generation

of cats

crawling about,

on the counters, the desks,

the laptops

at the tax return office

in Manassas.

a clapboard

cape cod off centerville

road.

the place

smells like

home. like cats, like

there's something

on the stove.

betty, the owner,

greets me with her

usual,

i hope we don't to jail

this year,

then adjusts her wig

and laughs.

she's gold.

please don't tell me you

got married

again, she says.

and i i report loudly,

hell no.

just flush and play taps

i think about buying

a horse,

but then i come to my senses.

i know nothing

about a horse,

except from what i learned

on tv watching

cowboy shows as a kid.

the only four legged

animal

i've ever been on was a donkey

going up

the splattered cobblestone

path to Santorini.

so maybe a dog again.

or a cat.

but then you have the shedding.

the vet bills.

the scratching.

heart worm fever and all

of that. not to mention.

the poop

in plastic bags.

what about a goldfish.

a nice shiny goldfish,

i'll call her shelly,

or max.

a bowl, some water.

sprinkle some crumbs

at feeding time

and that's that.

no burial when they die.

no ashes,

no grave,

no crying. 

just flush and play taps.

it's too cheerful

i go down to the framing

store to

frame a new print

i ordered online.

andrew wythe,

an old house, bordered

by hills and a rugged

fence.

it's gloomy, greens and greys.

it's winter.

the trees are white bones

against the sky.

it feels hopeless,

the feeling one

gets once betrayed.

where are you going to

hang this, the kind

woman behind the counter

asks.

in the kitchen i tell

her.

right now i have a bright

colorful picture

of fruits and vegetables,

flowers. it's too cheerful.

i can't take anymore.

my empty vase

why do men

bring women flowers?

guilt

an apology

for something done,

or about to be done.

are we

trying to win them

over with

a bouquet of daises,

get on their good side. 

why

don't we ever get roses.

a single

orchid, or a bunch

of petunias.

we're not the only ones

who make mistakes.

i'm waiting.

i'm waiting here

with my empty

vase.

stop the madness

read this,

she tells me.

read this and find out

which language of love

you speak.

shut up,

i tell her. i'm sick

of your self help books,

your divine wisdom,

your therapist

and yoga.

kiss my namaste.

i'm done

with your witchcraft

and tarot cards,

your astrology charts

and new age ways.

just be a good 

person.

that's all i ask. stop

lying.

stop cheating

and being a pain in

the ass.

stop with all the nonsense,

for one single day,

can you do that?

cold as a penguin's butt

the new weather man

is a hoot,

as the old folk like to say.

he's down to earth

and homey.

he says things like

it's cold as a penguin's butt

out there.

be careful and bundle up.

if you left your grandmother

out on the porch

last night,

she's dead.

frozen solid.  

she's what we call

at the weather station

a granny popsicle.

best get yourself a bottle

of hootch,

stay off the roads,

and love the one you're with.

the five day

forecast is coming up

right after this brief

message about

frost bite,

so hold your

horses and don't touch

that dial.

i am not set in my ways

in an effort to disprove

Betty's claim

that i'm not flexible

and that i'm set in my ways.

i rearrange

the furniture, not much

though.

an inch here,

a skosh there.

sliding

things one way

or the other

to achieve a new look.

to freshen up

the joint a little.

i move the orange pillow

from the big

chair that no one ever sits in

to the couch.

it's not working.

desperate times

annoyed

at the snow and ice.

i put on my boots

and heavy

coat.

strap a hat down,

slip into my

gloves

and head out.

i can't live without

coffee

and a cinnamon roll.

i understand now

what it must

have been

like for

the pioneers

crossing the country.

in search of a cover girl

i start interviewing

women

to put on the cover of my next

poetry collection.

the other books

aren't selling

worth beans.

the gloomy dark covers

aren't doing the trick.

i need some hot

babe on the front.

some sexy vixen with

glasses

on the tip of her nose,

and stretched out

on a chair reading 

robert frost or shakespeare.

preferably

in her underwear,

or silky gown.

long legs

and pouty lips.

bonde brunette or redhead,

makes no difference.

i get it now. sex sells.

not poetry.

no one reads poetry

anymore but the people

that write it

or people on their death

bed.

yelp for dating

the new yelp

app

for dating is finally out.

you can rate your internet dates now

as soon as it's done.

you give them

the appropriate amount of stars

as you see fit

and then make a comment 

at the bottom.

informing the next patron

how things went.

clean and polished

three stars.

dental hygiene

three stars.

too talkative

one star

bad conversationalist

one star

texting on their phone

one star

overate and over drank

one star

on time

barely, two stars.

ran to the bathroom when

the check came

one star.

too short

one star

lied about their weight

one star

lied about their age

one star

good kisser

four stars.

still married or involved

with someone else

reported.

yellow brick road

i pull the old vinyl

record out of its sleeve

and set it

on the turn table.

i watch it spin

slowly around as the music

comes out.

Elton John,

Goodbye YellowBrick Road.

how many times

have i listened to this album

in my life?

hundreds.

i wait for the skip

and there it is.

i lift the needle forward

and go back

to the couch

and reminisce.

Led Zepplin next.

we got to get out of this place

i hear people say

all the time,

if so and so is elected,

i'm out of here.

i remember

when Nixon was in

office.

same thing.

it doesn't matter who

it is.

people are ready to pack

up and leave.

but do they go,

rarely.

the question is where.

Canada, France,

Iceland.

doubtful.

how?

money.

the kids the dog,

the wife or husband.

all the American

bullshit

we're tied to and feel

like we can't live without.

few leave,

and more and more

no longer care.

it's what i do

i'm not sure why

i keep working.

why i wake up early

in the morning,

shower

and shave, make a cup

of coffee

and go out into the wild

once more

to make a buck.

i lack for nothing, so

it's not about the money

anymore.

it's something else.

something i can't quite

put my finger on.

talk to the hand

you finally reach a certain

age

where people leave you

alone.

they stop trying

to make you see things

their way.

whether it's politics,

or religion,

sports or food.

they take one long look

into your eyes

and see the weather on

your face,

and they don't even

go there, 

they don't even try.

done with trouble

is it just one more

thing

to make your day,

or is this

just the way of the world,

with everything falling

apart. i push the cart

down the aisle of the

grocery store.

the bent wheel pulling

hard right,

the clanging

of metal,

the noise of it all, 

rattling.

and before i put the first

apple into

the basket.

i leave. 

i'm done with trouble.

small or large.

don't take that call

tell me how wonderful

your life is.

lie to me.

leave out

the bad parts.

death and divorce

those untidy things.

spare me the details

of circumstances

beyond your control.

be nice and smile.

pretend to be normal,

at least for a short while.

tell me your children

are stars,

bright shining lights

out in the world.

tell me how much

you love your job,

your dog.

no need to look at your phone.

make it all up, if you have

to. i'll bite,

i'll swallow the hook

whole.

let's not ruin this moment

with truth.

don't take that call.

the frayed hem

it's the type of conversation

where you

fix a strong drink.

you prepare yourself.

you turn on the table lamp.

you settle into

a chair across from her.

her legs are closed.

her arms folded. she's 

looking down at her dress,

the frayed hem?

it doesn't matter.

so tell me, you begin,

tell me how it ends.

up before noon

she put her hand out

to shake

mine. the deal done.

it was a limp soft hand,

not unlike

that of a cat's paw,

almost boneless, but

warm and soft

just the same.

i shook it gently so

as not hurt her, though

she was a grown woman

with lots of lipstick

and jeans she seemed

to have painted on.

we'll work together

again soon, she said.

my husband will be out

of town next month.

so many other rooms

to paint or paper.

you can start early

if you want, i'm usually

up before noon.

basket in the corner

i crumple the paper

full

of bad poems

and send

it flying

through the air towards

the basket

in the corner.

it rims out.

a portent of the day

ahead,

or just

that i'm getting old

and my aim

is bad?

the mystery of an apple

i prefer

these days to keep the mystery

going.

the unopened letter,

or card.

the unanswered phone.

the email

from someone

unknown.

i don't care what the balance

is,

or check

the market to see if it's up

or down.

i'm picking up apples

at the store

and only

staring at one side.

the risk is all mine.

as always.

how life ends

i forget my password

to linked in.

i try my list. none of

them work.

combinations of my dog's

name

and birthday,

addresses

and favorite poets.

how will i communicate

with all

these people.

they're leaving me

messages, they're

looking at my profile.

i'll lose work. i'll lose

friends.

my life is over if i

can't get on there.

i feel dizzy faint, this

could be the end.

winter team work

we both agree

that it's cold as hell outside,

ignoring

the theory of hell

as being extremely hot

with fire and brimstones.

we can't get inside

fast enough

to throw a log on the fire

and rub our hands together.

i put a pie on the table

with two forks 

while she gets a pot

of coffee going.

closing the window

it occurs to me

that of all the women

i've made love with,

only three

am i no longer

friends with or talk to.

and those three

i married.

coincidence, perhaps,

but it seems unusual

and gives me

pause as i close window

to stop the draft.

standing outside the bakery

as i stand outside the bakery,

peering in,

a cake stares

me down.

a two tiered chocolate

cake

with icing.

i begin to shake,

my mouth waters,

i see the baker in there,

his tall white hat,

white apron,

an old friend.

the pusher man,

he's winking, he's waving

his hand,

he's whispering

we've been waiting,

come on in.

come on in.

without gin, even

i surprise myself

with a pleasant mood,

without

gin, even.

what gives, what's

brought this calmness,

this cat like

grin upon my tired face.

yes,

it might be you.

take the credit. you

earned it.

let's make it more,

not few.

her rowing across the lake

it's a place

that's safe, the safest

place in the house,

it's a place

where

i put anything of great

value,

or anything i have no

use for,

and yet can't throw away.

i need a stool

to reach it, or a ladder,

or chair.

it's the cabinet above

the fridge

unreachable.

awkwardly there.

a crock pot is 

on the shelf,

fondue skewers.

an enormous wooden

salad fork

and spoon.

gifts from a distant

past.

and finally,

a picture of you rowing

across the lake.

it's a smile i'll treasure,

a golden

ray that will never fade,

but last.

don't sweat the small stuff

if you see a well worn

copy of the book don't

sweat the small

stuff

on someone's bedside

dresser.

get out of there.

get your pants on, your shoes

grab your keys

and bolt.

she's a Karen.

this is not someone you

want a long term

relationship with,

or a short term.

it's best if it's one and done.

your life

is about to become a living

hell if you stick

around.

the small stuff is her

holy grail.

Blink

we intellectualize

our decisions, when

as the book says,

it just takes a Blink,

to know

the right decision.

but we rarely do.

rarely do we follow

our gut instinct.

she can't be that crazy,

she's pretty, right?

we hem back and forth,

make a balance sheet,

the pros and cons.

we shuffle our feet

before making a

calculated move,

all of it wrong. you

knew from the jump

what to do. run,

but you stayed put.

lesson learned, again.

what was i thinking?

what was i thinking?

i say this

a lot lately,

this book i'm reading.

it's mud.

this drink i ordered,

this food

before me.

that shirt i bought.

really,

plaid, do i think i'll

ever wear that in public?

taking the freeway

at rush hour?

and you.

what the hell was

that about?

at twenty one

i knew i was whipped,

standing there

at the dressing room door

holding her purse

and an arm full of dresses

she wanted

to try on next.

how did this happen.

on a perfectly fine saturday

afternoon

that i was walking around

the mall,

eating a pretzel, and

browsing make up

and body lotion stores.

she had me, she knew that

once we had sex,

it was game over, the deal

was done.

point, set, match.