the blur of days

i limp home from a day.

a day,

alright.

no harder than

the one before,

no different, but

one that will be erased

by the next

one, and then

the next.

a wash of white 

a streak of blue across

the canvas

of life.

i drop my hands into

the warm

water,

a bar of soap.

i stand at the kitchen sink,

looking out

the window.

some won't come off,

and i'll sleep

with it

this night.

the abstract marriage

my friend will have

been married

three years

to the date, tomorrow.

i wish him

well, although he's 

disappeared into

the life

of domestication, whereas

i'm still running free,

off the chain.

over the fence

and through

the wild woods.

i'm glad he's found what

he's looking for.

that elusive

norman rockwell painting.

although i suspect

it's more

abstract than that.

Dali or Pollock,

perhaps.

going forward

we all need a purpose

in life.

a reason

to get up each morning.

something.

some sort of structure,

work,

a goal,

a friend,

a dog a cat,

a bird.

maybe even a wife.

we need something to put

icing on the day.

we need to keep

moving.

keep going forward,

or waste away.

never too early for champagne

it's a little early

for champagne, but why not.

why not

celebrate

the new day

with a flute of cold

french

champagne?

why not toast life,

to joy

and happiness.

pop the cork of that

old bottle.

today is as good as day

as any

to drink up

and be thankful.

we need no reason.

life is to be enjoyed,

not endured.

salut.

it's nice to be loved

so many friends

are reaching out to me for

my birthday.

DSW,

the Virginia Auto and Tire

Center.

Macy's.

Kohl's.

Nordstrom Rack.

Maggiano's

and Saks Fifth Avenue.

they all seem to know

that my birthday

is coming up.

the cards

and coupons keep pouring

in. my mailbox

is stuffed.

it's so nice to loved.

asleep in Seattle

she was a flight

attendant, so her schedule was

hectic.

to Ireland she went.

to Rome,

to Paris, to Bonn.

and then back again

to Seattle,

or Chicago.

to sleep she took a pill.

Ambien

or something stronger.

i'd look at her

in the middle of the night,

dead to the world, lying

there.

her shallow breathing,

holding a mirror

up to her lips.

still alive. but just barely

it seemed

at times.

still, and dreamless, lying

there in a dead sleep. 

wondering

where tomorrow 

she would fly.

going soft

it's rare that i actually see

a sunrise.

but here it is.

a cotton candy mix of pale

blues

and pinks,

layered beyond the bare

branches of

mid-winter trees.

lovely.

but i won't write a poem

about it.

people will think i've

gone soft.

you should have seen me back then

she tells me she used to

be a model.

i yawn.

you should have seen me back then.

i was slender,

my hair was brown

and luxurious.

i used to run

and teach aerobics.

i was a cheerleader.

married men

and even women

would twist their neck

to look at me.

i loved the beach and had a suntan

year round. i owned

a dozen bikinis, in

every color

and wore short dresses all

the time.

that's nice, i tell her,

leaning over

to take a crueler from her bag

of donuts.

yeah, i tell her, we were all

beautiful

back then, but that was then

and this is now.

C'est la vie, i say,

pointing at her cheek.

you have some chocolate

icing there.

move the sun closer

as i scrape

my windshield. hands frozen.

eyes watering,

nose red

and teeth chattering, i wonder

about global

warming.

when will it start up

again.

i feel for the polar bears,

and little penguins,

and the melting

ice bergs.

but this ice

on my windshield is an

inch thick, summer

can't come soon enough.

do the math

one someone says they

are  hundred

and ten per cent sure of something.

you know

they failed math.

they don't understand

what they're saying,

so you almost

reject everything that comes

after that.

of course it's hyperbole.

but still,

do the math.

it's like saying there are

more than one universe.

you either have

a universe, or you don't.

what's beyond

everything? more

everything, that's what.

wedding rings on e-bay

i see the diamond

ring

i gave her on e-bay.

one big fat diamond

on a silver setting.

worn rarely, it says.

hardly used.

often removed and hidden

when possible.

the box and the papers

are available.

must see to believe.

size small, wedding ring

too, if you need one.

no cost for that.

no engraving.

it has no meaning to me.

pick ups on thursday

there is clutter and then

there's clutter.

junk.

things that no longer

are useful.

people that get under

your skin.

drama kings

and queens.

court jesters.

rusted, bent, worn,

frayed wires, and noisy

when you

plug them in.

let go of them.

set them out by the curb.

let someone

else

have a go at it, what's

left of them.

featherless chickens

i count up how

many

chickens i've eaten

this week.

eggs,

hard boiled, fried.

over easy.

egg salad sandwiches.

chicken wings,

chicken thighs.

chicken legs.

chicken breasts.

chicken soup.

chicken sandwiches.

chicken tenders.

fried chicken.

baked chicken.

air fryer chicken.

all those chickens

and never

once did i have to

worry about

feathers.

hit the road jack

i write some of my best stuff

after a break up.

usually

twelve months

to sixteen months later,

after

the wound has closed

and the bleeding

has stopped.

you sit back and reflect

on what a moron you were

being taken

in by someone 

from the bottom of the

barrel when it comes

to ethics and morality.

like a moth to the flame

you were suckered in.

but it takes time to realize

that.

at first it's a lot of moaning

and wringing of hands,,

then, with distance

and time. you get your

mojo back.

gooey and awful

when i read a poem

about nature,

about trees and flowers,

all of that,

when the poet starts naming

all of these exotic

plants,

i want to throw the book

across the room.

despite the fact that i've

written many

poems about such things.

most of them pretty

gooey and awful, but

as a writer you have to

throw a bird into the mix

once in a while.

a whale, or fish, or 

a sandy beach, a lagoon.

it's expected.

global warming

i met this amazon

woman

once from florida.

she was six foot two

without heels.

in heels,

she was in a different

ozone layer.

her hair added another

six inches,

straight up,

but somehow we hit it

off

and made love

on the banquet room floor,

that was set up

for the next days conference

on global warming.

the room was dark,

the lights off, but each

table was set up

with a white table cloth.

silverware,

glasses for wine and water,

coffee, and mixed

drinks.

there were placards

on each table, with names like

smith, and jones, Abercrombie.

which was where

we ended up.

the vibrating bed

most of the money

we work

our tails off for,

through

work and investments,

savings,

etc.

are usually left for the ones

not dead.

all that work

and they win the lottery.

so maybe instead

i'll spend it all down to

zero, to the last dime,

timing

it just right for the end,

sliding that last

coin into the machine

that vibrates the bed.

something german maybe

i decide to buy myself a car

for my

birthday.

my mom used to send me a five

dollar bill,

abe lincoln,

in a small card with a bird

on the front.

don't spend it all in one

place, she'd write.

love mom.

she'd call the same day

she sent it,

asking, did you get your

card yet?

but i decide to step it up

this year.

why not?

something german,

something powerful,

black, with tan interior.

all the gizmos.

smooth and fast.

something that says, ah yeah,

ah baby.

you've made it,

at last.

i'll try to keep the coffee

spills and crumbs

down to a minimum this

time.

who are these people?

sometimes

you go through a string of love

interests.

all of them in

your phone, talking, texting,

sending pictures

back and forth

of cakes

and snow.

legs and arms.

something funny,

or an animal on the side

of the road.

and then,

a month goes by, maybe two.

and you look

at your phone

and think, who are these

people

that i used to talk to?

should i buy a chainsaw?

i see a chain saw

in the big store that sells

lumber

and tools,

paints

hammers and nails.

but this chain saw catches my

eye.

it's gleaming

in the overhead

fluorescent lights.

ten per cent off for seniors.

do i need a chain saw.

absolutely not.

but why not?

who knows one day

i might need it.

what if there's a big tree

in the yard.

old and rotted out

that needs to come down

before it topples

onto my house?

just saying.

i could start it up now

and again,

oil it down, put gas in it.

i could give it a name, like,

betsy.

i could slap a bumper

sticker on my

car that says chain saw

on board.

keep the tailgaters further

away

then they usually are.

the heart shaped bed

i wake up in a heart

shaped bed, 

with a tattoo on my shoulder,

i rub

my arm, there's

a red heart

with the name

Sasha inscribed in

red ink.

i never should have gone

to Las Vegas

for valentine's day.

one arm

is still tied to the bed

post.

i'm sticky with melted

chocolate

and dried

whipped cream.

i have no clue what happened

here last

night.

who drank all of these

bottles

of cheap champagne?

who's

stockings are draped

across

the chandelier?

it sounds like someone

is in the shower.

i hope she has the key

to these cuffs

that are fastened

around my ankles.

three different kinds of lettuce

she leaves behind

her lettuce.

her cherry red tomatoes.

her sliced

almonds.

her cranberries in a little

packet.

her home made dressing

in a small

jar.

she leaves behind

a bowl big

enough to hold it all.

the sliced cucumbers.

radishes,

peppers, and crumbled

cheese,

black olives.

she leaves behind

tomorrows dinner.

i just need a steak now

and a dinner

roll.

the game has changed

the big game

isn't what it used to be.

you care less and less about

what grown

men are doing

playing a child's game.

overpaid, over muscled.

over hyped.

a game you played

too.

it's a carnival now.

one about money.

it's a show, a glitter bomb

of celebrities.

it's no longer the game

you played,

the game you loved

on an old

beaten school field,

in the rain

in the snow.

packing shoes

we pack our bags

for the city.

we put money in our pockets.

hats and gloves.

a scarf.

it's cold

off the Hudson.

the wind

off Battery Park

is lethal

this time of year.

we bring walking shoes,

shoes for a show.

shoes

for Met, for

Central Park

and SoHo.

shoes for dining in,

for dining out.

our bags are

full of shoes.

maybe we'll buy more

on Madison

Ave,

if our soles wear out.

tell the engineer to roll slowly

tell the engineer

to roll

slowly,

to take his time

along

the rails as we slip

through

towns,

past graveyards

of rusted

cars,

past farmland.,

churches,

over trestles,

and lakes.

tell the engineer

it's okay

if we're late.

we're in no hurry.

it's not about the

destination,

but the journey.

arrival

can wait.

done with that act

there is nothing up

my sleeve,

no loaded dice,

no marked

cards,

no magic

trick,

no levitation,

no rabbit out of a hat,

i won't guess your weight,

your age,

i won't make

you disappear,

i'm done with that 

act.

left overs

i can't do leftovers.

no matter

how good the meal was.

how well

it's wrapped and put away

into the freezer,

or down

below.

it's gone.

it's done.

it won't be reheated,

or stirred,

or eaten.

there is no joy left

in it.

it's just the way it is.

when something is over,

it's over.

so stop

calling, and leave

me alone.

the early morning whistle

we wake up

to a blue bird

outside

the window.

one bird, or maybe

two.

she's at it.

he's at it.

they're happy. 

you can hear it 

in their whistle.

me too.

a valentine message

there's a heart shaped

scratch

in the hood of

my car.

someone, has taken a key

and left me

a message.

it's the shape of a heart,

with an

arrow through

the center.

with drips of blood

bleeding

out.

you shouldn't have

my dear,

but thank

you for remembering.

the message

is clear.

the slumber

the slumber

is with you all day. 

the heaviness

of eyes,

and bones.

weary

before the first 

step

out the door.

up too late.

coffee won't work.

sleep

is needed,

more sleep.

more slumber.

the end of the day

seems

so far off.

i can hardly wait.

what namaste means

if someone ever says

the word

namaste to you.

run.

they are not to be trusted.

these people will

rip your lungs out

and eat

you for dinner.

they may have been

taking deep

breaths in a lotus

position for the last hour

on a plastic mat,

but trust me.

catch the first train out

of town.

get out of there. go.

and if they say

Ciao when they're leaving,

God help you.

get out of there fast.

today is the day

nearly every morning

when i woke

up

she'd greet with today is the day

that the sheriff

is coming to arrest you.

it was during

the end of the marriage,

the separation

pending,

waiting on vulture lawyers

for the money

to run out

and have the deal done.

it was never good morning

my love,

we spent a good twelve

years together,

we made a child.

we bought a dog,

a house.

it was never can i get you

coffee, my dear,

some toast or fruit before

you start your day

and go to work.

no.

it was today the sheriff is

coming to arrest you,

and i'd say why.

for what reason, and she'd

say,

just wait, just wait. you'll see.

making a fashion statement

are we making a fashion

statement

with our daily

garb?

or just getting up,

throwing something on

and leaving the house.

finding an

old shirt, a discarded

pair of jeans,

the first set of shoes

you can grab

beneath your bed.

that ragged old dress,

or robe.

what is the statement being

made

when you leave the house

in your pajamas,

no socks, 

no comb, unshaven,

stepping into 

a pair of orange rubber

crocs.

are we saying, we're lazy?

perhaps.

perhaps not.

the promised land

we'll go there

later.

soon.

be patient.

relax.

close your eyes

and imagine

what will be.

we still have time,

we will

eventually

get there,

trust me,

I will part the Red Sea

we will arrive

in the promised land,

i promise.

have i ever betrayed

you,

have i ever lied?

let them fail

let them fail.

don't discourage

the path they're

on,

but let them

fall.

let them know defeat.

the taste

of struggle.

let them go hungry

and shoeless.

let them find their own

way.

all your words

of praise

and guidance will

fall on deaf ears.

let them know the darkness.

the height of

mountains,

the depth of oceans.

let them know fear.

let them find the light

on their own,

and then, maybe then

they'll be truly ready

for life.

all will become clear.

a surprise snow

a surprise snow

falls

gently

on the ground, melting

fast.

the trees

don't hold it,

nor does the rooftops,

or grass.

it's a thin icing

of winter.

a last

but brief

entertaining gasp.

a day late

by the time

most people get to a marriage

counselor.

it's too late.

it's not unlike

going to the firehouse

after the 

house has burned down.

a day late,

a dollar short.

only ashes are left,

a few angry

boards,

charred mementos

now 

burnt along the ground.

to cut the strings

like a balloon full

of air

i cut the strings

and untether

myself

from the earth.

from hands

that held me, from

the stakes

that anchored me

to the ground.

i let myself rise and

float away,

away

from all the things

that held

me down.

i can't read this

i pick up

where i left off.

crime and punishment.

i read a few more pages,

shake my head,

then toss

the book across the room.

i'm done

with this book.

maybe it was readable

in 1884 but it ain't

no more.

where the oranges grow

in the aftermath

of grey slush,

setting your shovel down.

you ponder selling your

your house.

it's paid for.

you have the pink slip.

it's yours.

why not cash it in and go

to warmer shores.

south, perhaps, where

the oranges grow,

where fish are jumping

out of the sea.

a place where

you can leave your boots

behind,

your hat and scarf,

your gloves.

your bags of salt

and sand.

why stay another minute,

you're wasting time.

cold turkey

the best

way to miss something

or someone

is to go without it.

go away

for a while.

don't touch the cake,

the ice cream.

no kissing,

no hugging,

no sex.

nothing, but cold turkey.

with enough

time away,

you'll crave it again,

grab a fork

and go wild.

quenching the thirst

this thirst

unquenched by another glass

of ice

cold water.

i need more.

something different,

a little sweet

would be nice.

tea

or lemonade.

a beer perhaps.

i take off my shirt, my

shoes

and pants.

i stand in front of the ice

box,

and let the soft glow

of light

and cold

envelope me.

i'm thirsty.

i see an old bottle

of juice

in the back. i'm desperate,

i take a chance.

the girl next door

she's a volunteer at Sibley.

all smiles.

helpful.

full of hospitality.

the girl next door.

casually

sexy

and cheerful.

a former

pom pom girl,

and candy striper,

who could

ask for more.

if i was sick and lying

in bed,

she'd be the one i'd

ring the bell

for to bring me another

cup of jello.

the books of rescue

i peruse the books

in the bookcase

in the den. the one

reserved

for psychology tomes,

self help books,

the DSM,

spirituality,

philosophy, anything

needed

for a fix, or mend.

some are band aids, some

resuscitate

the heart.

some are transfusions

of thought,

others, are surgical,

diving deep

with a sharp knife

into the mind to find

out where and when

all of this

dysfunction began.

all are worn, well used.

studied.

ready and on alert

for the next time

i fall into the well of

a relationship

which isn't true.

enjoying the sun

i overhear

two women talking,

as i sit outside

the coffee shop.

one leans towards

the other and

whispers,

to tell you the truth, between

me and you,

she doesn't have a clue, or

a brain

in her head.

the light is on but nobody's

home.

she isn't the sharpest

knife in the drawer, put it 

that way.

the other one throws up

her arms and says, oh my god,

i'm glad you said it first.

i've never liked her either,

but she does

have nice parties, so i

guess i'll go too.

satisfied with how they both

feel, they settle back

into their chairs,

and look about

the breezeway

for more darts to throw,

enjoying

the warm sun on their faces.

the saragossa sea

there is that Saragossa

sea

of life

when

troubles are forgotten,

nothing

is on your mind

that bothers

you.

you are at peace

with the world.

just 

for a moment though

as you float along

the calm waters,

without paddle or

sail, just

biding time.

i want to know you

i want to know

the scent of you, the color

of your eyes,

the way you walk

into a room,

the sound

your feet make

coming across the floor.

i want to know

your lips,

your nose, the curve of

you. the softness

of your skin.

how you brush back

your hair,

how you sigh, i want

to know the whisper

of your voice

saying more, as we

lie in our quiet room,

side by side.

she's human too?

as a kid

it was strange seeing 

a teacher

outside

of school.

seeing her at the grocery store.

it startled you.

she'd smile

and say hello,

you'd nod, stunned

silent.

it didn't seem possible.

she's human too.

she's buying

bread and milk.

butter

and eggs,

just like you.

blood in your eye

you wake

up with blood in your eye.

it's

not good.

it's a sign of sorts.

fatigue.

drink.

stress.

you need a vacation.

somewhere,

warm sand.

it's doesn't matter.

east or west.

there's blood in your eye.

a day

in the wilderness

with no one

it's overdue,

a long awaited rest.

flowers she would never see

i remember one afternoon

coming home

from work.

exhausted.

beaten, tired beyond

belief.

i dreaded turning the key.

i knew what was

in front of me.

more drama,

more trouble, more craziness.

i steeled myself,

sighed

and went in.

it was quiet. too quiet.

she was either dead, or

drugged,

or asleep, or best of all

finally

she was gone, and had

the guts to leave.

but i looked out the back

window

and saw her in the yard

digging in the dirt,

planting seeds

to flowers she would 

never see.

studying for med school

she was working

her way

through med school by dancing

at

the Paper Moon.

she'd be at the bar

studying

grey's anatomy

then get up

for her turn, take her

glasses off,

and nearly everything else

and dance

to an obscure

rock song.

all the while memorizing

all the different

bones

and organs,

vessels

and chambers of the heart.

what are the odds?

what is life

if not

taking a chance, a roll

of the dice

hoping they aren't loaded.

off they

go from hand to wall,

tumbling

white ice, with black dots.

praying

against snake eyes,

what are

the odds?

the day planner

i plan out

my route for the day.

springfield,

then centerville,

then fairfax,

then arlington, alexandria,

old town,

then back

before a trip to

bethesda.

it's early, but i'm

on my way.

the world is crumbling

so much is left

unread.

who has the time anymore?

who

has an hour

to spare

to sit back

in the big chair

with the light on 

and turn a page.

yes,

the world is crumbling,

press your

ear

to the literary wall,

if you

can find one,

and

hear each precious stone

fall.

the deep freeze

is it over,

i ask. winter?

is that it? are we done with

snow and ice?

cold winds.

the deep freeze?

please tell me that

we're done

with it.

no, she says. i'm

still mad at you.

you'll have no spring this

year.

no summer either.

bundle up,

i may never get over

this.

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.