one more for the road

he was a regular

at the bar.

red faced.

business suit. a salesman

of some sort.

he had a card.

always with the card.

the bartender kept them coming.

he tipped well.

heavy in his stool,

his tie

around his thick neck loose.

pretzels and dips,

a joke

or two.

and when he fell over 

backwards

hitting the floor, we thought

he was done,

the legend gone.

but he jumped back up,

dusted himself

off and said.

one more for the road.

the stick shift

it's a disturbing

turn of events.

no more manual operated cars.

no stick shift,

no three, or five, or six

on the floor.

no clutch, no gears to go to.

no feathery balance

of pedals on a hill.

there's little or no control.

now its buttons.

hands off the wheel.

we can sit back and let the machine

takes us where

we need to go.

the end of civilization is here.

not really better

we think they were

better days,

we put the shine of time

upon them.

we were younger then,

happier,

healthier,

stronger and more resilient

to what the world

threw at us.

the golden patina

of nostalgia

is upon them.

but were they better days?

not really.

the cold front moving in

i am a weatherman

now.

when a cold

front approaches i reach

for the kleenex

to blow my nose.

the barometric pressure

dropping

with the chance of rain.

i'm all over it

with sprays and pills.

when the temperature falls

below freezing

my knees tell me so.

when it's snow,

my hands get numb

and stiff,

and when it's pollen

season,

you'll find me in

the shower, not hot

water,

just cold giving my head

a spritz.

i'm awake now

don't say that,

don't think that, don't read

or watch

or get involved

with that.

how dare you

write about that.

you haven't evolved much

have you?

these are

the people

i no longer talk to.

they woke me up 

as to who they are.

the vibration of a soul

touching

the loose wire with

wet hands

reminds you that there

are unseen

forces

at work in the world.

much more

than meets the eye.

you can feel

it, the vibration of a soul,

the lightness

or darkness,

an unearthly aura,

a vibe

that's telling you,

to let go.

the disney movie marathon

we were watching

finding

Nemo

one night.

a Saturday night,

after Charlotte's Web

ended.

date night.

a night i used to be out

drinking

and dancing,

having fun,

having a life.

it was the third time around

for this animated

masterpiece.

she loved

that movie.

all Disney

movies.

she wanted to be the princess

mermaid,

or Cinderella.

gin didn't help as i suffered

through

the cartoon,

wondering how in the hell

i got myself

involved

with this person.

how do i escape this loon.

open wide

open wide

the dentist says.

your mouth and your wallet.

this will hurt 

a little, she says,

coming closer with a drill

and needle.

her hand

in your pocket, shuffling

through cards

and cash.

a picture of her new

boat

on the wall. a sports car,

and a

cashmere sweater.

just dropping him off

it started out

as a cough, a light cough,

then larger,

then blood was involved

and fatigue.

i could see the drops

and drips

of red on his collar,

the front of his shirt,

his sleeve.

so i took him to the ER.

he was

nearly penniless

and homeless.

they asked me who i was.

pushing

pen and papers in front of me.

just a friend,

i said.

staring at him

on the gurney.

i'm just dropping him off.

when the ship comes in

there's a whiff

of money in the air.

someone has hit paydirt.

his ship has come in.

and the phone

rings.

strangers, relatives,

neighbors.

they want a taste, a nibble,

a princely sum.

something to tide

them over,

a short term loan.

it's time to change your name,

move,

and get on the run.

ten years after

after enough

years

under your belt you see the possibility

of going

off the grid,

becoming a recluse.

with no need to venture out

anymore

but for the sun

and food,

drink

and exercise.

electricity,

indoor plumbing,

online banking,

and amazon does the rest.

i'd like to change the world,

but i don't

know what to do.

the golden duck

it's a sixty six dollar

duck

now.

peking

duck.

the wraps are smaller,

the plum

sauce

not so sweet as it used to be.

there's no

soy sauce on the table

no duck

sauce,

no wasabi.

the gold standard

of chinese restaurants

is a rusted tin can

now.

one meal,

two drinks, a lettuce

wrap

and a hundred and seventy

seven dollars

later, with tip, and

we're pulling

into a fast food drive

through

for some chow.

i've never really been married

actually, i've never been married.

the first one

was annulled by

the catholic church

after a six month

live in situation

where she walked home from

our little apartment

carrying her brand new

wedding dress

and a new black and decker

toaster oven.

the pope

gave me a mulligan on that one.

the second one

took place in a foreign

country.

off shore.

we weren't even

citizens there.

so i'm certain it wasn't legal.

so i throw that one

out too.

and the third one,

well that was a complete

fraud.

saying vows under false

pretenses

with a strange celebrant

who showed

up from an online site

in his dad jeans and tennis shoes.

so there it is.

i've never been married.

ground control to major tom

as i sit in

her snug little mini cooper

hurtling

towards the beach, i realize

that i could

never be an astronaut.

her lead foot

doesn't help

matters either.

and the fact that it's windy,

the car blowing

all over the road.

the moon roof is open,

so i lean back

the G force

of the ride putting a grimace

on my face.

i stare up at the sky.

the stars.

i want to call houston

and tell them we

have a problem.

ground control to major tom.

dropping names

it's the kind of party

where

everyone drops names

as we stand around in

coats and ties

and black shoes, shooting

the breeze.

but i have no names

to drop.

i don't know anyone famous,

near famous,

no politicians, or actors,

no one in the music

industry

or a big shot on wall street.

not a single soul

on tv do i know.

so i blurt out, hey did you

hear about my

friend 
Carmine?

who's 

Carmine they all say at once.

oh,

he's my butcher over at

the Springfield Butcher Shoppe,

he went up to new york

and brough back 

a large shipment of pastrami 

from

Katz's deli.

no one cares.

is this a good time?

am i catching

you at a bad time, the insurance

salesman

says to me,

on the phone at six in the morning.

startled awake, i'm

thinking who's died?

yes.

i tell him, you are.

there are very few

things

in the world

that make this hour

a good time.

up in smoke

the soot

from the fire, from the candles

has darkened

the walls.

the ceiling.

the whiteness of it all

has turned

grey.

the romance

didn't pan out either.

went up

in smoke, as one might

say.

may december

he's eighty.

she's a spry forty, or maybe fifty.

hard to tell

with the work done.

sweating on

the stair master

with her yoga pants snug, 

untorn.

everything is new.

the house.

the paint.

the cars in the driveway.

the lights,

the rugs.

the pool.

he leans on his cane

and thinks

about wife one,

not two.

it's the last hurrah for him,

but she's

just getting started.

a shade of pink

she's leaning

towards

a shade of pink.

touching the round bloom

of baby

beneath

her dress.

it's a girl, she says.

i think.

it's just a guess. but

let's go

with that shade of pink.

with blue

an option, but 

don't buy it quite yet.

keep things rolling

i'm not disappointed

in the tire,

lacking air

on the bike.

it's been a long winter.

and with the cap

off the stem,

it's leaked

to a point of being low,

not flat,

but low.

i pump it up.

it's the world, its me.

we need more

air

sometimes to keep

things

rolling.

the game has changed

i used to love sports.

played them

all,

no matter the shape

of the field,

or ball. a

weekend warrior i was,

and tied

to the tube

when

the games came on.

but no more.

i dabble at it now.

the game

has changed, and so

have i, one

for the better and one

i can do without.

when her mother comes

after cleaning the house

with a fine

tooth comb,

she takes out

the good china. lays out

the good

table cloth.

out comes the silver.

real silver,

cutlery

and serving dishes.

the cookbooks

are on the counter,

the best cuts from

the butcher.

it's that time of year

again.

her mother's coming.

the way we were

i look at the old

straight jacket hanging

in the closet

and laugh,

whew, i say, those were the days.

what a crazy ride

that was.

my books on exorcism

on the shelf.

the holy water.

the electro 

shock therapy

equipment gathering

dust in the cellar.

the heavy DSM tome

keeping

the door open as it sits

on the floor.

self help books,

and discarded salmon packs.

memories of the way

we were.

my dog Moe

i possessed an intrapsychic 

conflict

with my dog,

moe.

there was amusement

and annoyance

at all times.

love and hate.

resentment and joy.

he pulled

one way on the leash

and i insisted on

another way.

it was like walking

a fish on land.

he had no respect

for such words as

heel, beg, stay, roll over,

or any other command.

but i'm virtually

the same,

i hope you understand.

it's the little things

is it the little things

that

end things,

the burnt toast,

the

glance,

the rolling of eyes,

the sneer, 

the mumbled

response.

the white lie,

growing darker,

a seat left up,

or bed unmade,

the snore,

or do they all add up 

to something more,

misdemeanors

becoming felonies

by lifes end.

it's there or it's not there

so much confusion

in these

troubled times.

them and they,

her and him.

in the old days 

we just looked

down our pants

and the decision

was made.

there was no such

thing

as shim.

muscled up for summer

do we need all

this muscle,

all of this brute strength

brought

on by lifting weights in

some dank

but well lit

gym.

who's farming these days,

who's

branding cattle,

or down in

a coal mine with a pick

and shovel?

look at the shine

and bulge of

those pecs,

those lats,

those thighs and calves.

unread, perhaps,

but a sight 

on the beach to look at.

a token of the heart

it's a small

thing.

a gentle tug at your

heart.

this gift.

this unwrapped box

upon

your porch.

no card,

no way of knowing

who it

might be from.

why ask,

why

open it, why not

accept it for what it is,

a token

from the heart,

unknown,

a gift

from someone.

the blue shirt

you look good in blue,

she says.

it brings out the color in your

eyes.

really, i say.

do you think so?

should i buy it?

yes.

she says. it's you.

it's really you.

you look very handsome

in that shirt.

i sigh.

i know the end is near

as she turns

her back

to check her phone.

i'm not buying

any of it.

canned meat

the canned meats

and fish

are no longer on the shelves

at the supermarket.

wiped out

by the news.

fear of nuclear annihilation

is upon us.

i can see the few 

tattered

survivors in the corner

of a damp

basement,

struggling to open that

last can

of tuna,

or spam, or anchovies.

the last

of what there is to eat,

grinding the lids

with their teeth.

no where to sit down

the room

was full of elephants, there

was no where

to sit down

and discuss things.

so we stood,

and avoided eye contact.

she mentioned

the weather,

taking an umbrella

with her.

i looked out at the yard,

and said,

maybe i'll work on those

weeds today

if it doesn't rain.

then she said, i may be

late, so

don't wait for me.

eat,

whenever. i said okay.

he's off his trolley

whatever it takes,

whatever

brings you peace and calm,

contentment,

whatever keeps you from

going off

your trolley,

go for it.

anything short of hurting

another,

or oneself.

whether religion,

or crystals,

or yoga stretches,

chants

and whistles, music,

or art.

tossing down a few

gin and tonics

at the end of a day.

whatever keeps your

inner animal at bay,

go for it.

no need to invade another

country today.

defrosting the ice box

when my mother

would

stand

on the kitchen stool

with a bucket below,

and towels

draped along the floor

she'd

go at the ice box,

a square of frozen tundra

with a butter knife.

chipping away

at months, maybe years

of ice.

her arms

from wrist to elbow would

go red,

she'd sweat.

it was more than defrosting,

there was something

else going here,

something in her heart, 

her mind,

unsaid

her prince

it's admirable,

at this advanced

age,

her optimism, her strong desire

to at

last find

the man of her dreams.

the prince

on a horse,

a king,

a court jester, perhaps.

someone

who fits the bill, or

pretends at least,

to play the role

in her final

act.

there is no going back

it's one

silver

earring, left behind

to shine

alone

in a puddle 

of sunlight

arrowed down

from the opening slat

of a bedroom

blind,

a stone resembling

a diamond

attached.

a reminder

of what's real, what

isn't real.

when you know 

that truth,

there is

no going back.

bitter fruit

out of season,

these berries are sour,

bitter

to the tongue.

despite the glow

of color,

and plumpness.

how easily

fooled we are by our

eyes.

our desire,

for things to come.

do you want a bench?

we ask

the owners of the cemetery

where my

mother is buried.

no marker.

the woman looks at the map,

dragging her

finger along

the grid,

and shakes her

head.

hmmm.

she says.

she's about fifty

yards

away from the road,

ten feet from

the oak

tree.

somewhere in there,

we think.

do you want the bench?

spring sale is on.

it's marble.

we can set it close

to where

we think she is.

a twenty minute drive

my father

cursed like a sailor.

which was exactly what he was

for 30 odd years.

drinking,

smoking,

carousing,

having a good old time

as he circled 

the world

on ships.

now he lives at the beach.

a mere twenty

drive.

but he never goes,

the pool next to his

apartment

works just fine.

you're one of those, aren't you?

she tells me that she only

has five

or six

tattoos.

her neck, her thigh,

her ankle,

her arm, her neck,

her bum.

flowers,

and hearts, that sort

of thing.

a hummingbird

in flight

adorns her shoulder.

i tell her i have none.

there's silence

on the line.

oh,

she says, oh my.

you're one of those,

aren't you?

finding the nearest bridge

she sends me

her poetry.

i get a toothache after reading

the first one.

the sweetness

is overpowering.

my hands shake

with the overdose of sugar.

it's happy poetry.

positive and joyful.

i think about

throwing myself off the nearest

bridge after

i read the last one about

love

and soul mates.

buds blooming

on twigs.

when they find you out

when they find you

out,

that you aren't who you pretend to be,

when

the mask falls

and you're no

longer a good person,

when there's no smile

to see,

will

you change then,

when caught.

doubtful.

cats do not suddenly become

dogs.

was she in love then?

the rake,

bent, and warped,

the long handle smooth

with

use,

the weather of the shed.

the bristled

spokes

now crusted

red.

how many times did she

drag

it across this yard

in quiet contemplation,

gathering leaves

fallen.

the weeds cut, piling

them

to be carried to the woods

outside

the fence.

was she in love then?

another diamond ring?

papers

collect like piles of snow,

never

melting, but into

a box

each leaf

goes.

bills for the electricity.

gas,

and food.

insurance to save the day

when

the whole thing

blows.

what's the date on this

invoice?

1975.

another diamond ring?

how quickly the time

does

go.

the vase on the mantle

to her,

the vase was everything.

the story

of its purchase,

the odyssey

overseas,

the lover she went with.

it sat

on the mantle

for ages,

ages, she says with a wave

of her slender

arm.

it was everything.

and

now

upon the floor, in

pieces.

it feels like everything

is gone.

be careful

your kiss,

a small trickle, a drip

if you will

of your

loving soul

is filling the bucket

of me

i'm about to overflow,

be careful.

on the same page

we're on the same page,

in the same

book,

on the same

shelf in the same

room.

i'll place my marker

here,

carefully close

the book,

and get back to

you real soon.

balloon animals

i understand knitting now,

whittling

wood,

collecting stamps,

small hobbies, or things

to do

that

take your mind

of this crazy world. i used

to laugh at

such things,

but now i get it.

i understand completely

as i sit here

making animals out

of air filled

balloons.

expect it

the unexpected

can be expected. count on it.

chaos

follows calm.

surprise

waits around each

corner of

the block.

what you think is real,

is not.

the dying vine

notice of the dead

comes late these days,

news arrives after

the dirt has been shoveled

and the crying done.

the quiet whisper

from a friend.

calls you on the phone.

did you hear, she says?

he's gone,

or there's something

in the paper.

a square of words, a picture

in the obituaries.

a week ago, in his sleep, 

says one.

it appears 

that the grapevine

is no longer reliable.

so many grapes

have been picked

or fallen to the ground,

news and gossip

comes late these days,

so much for the dying vine.

all the way to Baltimore for this

by the time

i got to Baltimore, 

an hour late, lost

going

over the bridge

as i took the wrong

exit into

the wrong part of town,

the slab

of salmon she cooked

for me

was now a dry curled

piece of bark.

the salad limp,

the small potatoes even

smaller now.

i cut the fish with a knife,

and doused it with 

ketchup

trying to bring it back

to life.

delightful i told her,

chewing

with a smile.

you shouldn't have.

but i could see in her eyes,

that i would

not be spending the night.

rewriting the will

i change my will

again.

this time no one gets anything.

except

the shelter

for cats.

i've scratched out dogs,

or children,

the poor, the needy,

annoying

siblings.

i've decided on cats

to receive

the bounty of my life's

work.

maybe a nice yellow

tabby

with a red

collar that jingles

when

she approaches will

be made

happy.

oh well

i remember

the letter i wrote.

revenge served cold.

the words

carved meanly

into paper,

licking the warm square

of stamp,

the stripe of glue

on the envelope.

addressing it

and dropping it in

the blue

box

at the corner.

regret

coming before the door

slammed shut.

only sleep will make it right

there is a saintly

feel

when tired, when surrendered

to the soft

bed,

unable to lift

another finger towards

work.

there is the yellow

glow

of light.

the book left unattended,

the news

of the day

now unimportant.

only sleep,

will

make it right.

improvement

we want others to

change, to improve themselves.

and we

too,

look in the mirror,

slightly

askew

and wonder,

can we be better folk,

better

friends,

or lovers.

can we rise above

the shallow

shelf

of where we've landed.

a three mai tai night

if there was a fire

in the place

no less than three hundred people

would die

in a matter

of minutes.

one could hardly walk

through

the tightly arranged tables.

it was packed

every night.

reservations needed.

red tassels hung

from the overhead lights

thick velvet drapes

were on walls that had

no windows.

a hundred ducks

a night

met their death there.

a dump truck pulled

up out back

to deliver more shrimp,

more rice, 

it was crowded, noisy, chaotic,

but the food

was four star.

three mai tais would

suffice.

hypnosis

the trance

of life goes almost unnoticed.

the hypnosis

of work

and routine.

we know the drill.

we know

the way towards

our days

and back again.

no one needs to point,

or say a word.

we go.

as we have been taught,

from cradle

to grave.

in the bye and bye

as the taxi waits

along

the curb

in the push of wind

and rain

idling

with its blue cough,

we say

goodbye

in a hurtful

embrace.

we'll see each other again,

i offer,

you'll see.

soon, i promise,

in the bye and bye

the family bomb shelter

as i lie in

the sun reading war

and peace,

i see my neighbor

next door

digging

a hole in his back yard.

his son is helping him.

they're building a bomb shelter

for when the big

one blows.

it's a family

project.

his wife comes out and

tells them

they aren't digging fast enough.

she yells

at where they put the dirt,

bruising her

freshly planted

flowers.

she shakes her head,

then goes back in to bottle

more water.

it's not over yet

i see your

trickle of tears,

the line

of wet running down

your rounded

flush cheek.

i see

the pain,

the regret.

here, let me wipe

them away.

come closer.

it's not over yet.

violence

i watch

the war for a while, then

switch

over to a movie

on netflix,

still bored,

i try basketball

to check the score.

then to the cooking channel.

then back to the war.

nothing has changed,

a few hundred

more bombs dropped,

more dead.

more death and destruction.

i'll try

the awards show.

but it's the same there too,

more violence

and hatred,

but with a close up

view.

hollywood

they give

out awards for pretending to be

someone

they aren't.

while

the grocery clerk

goes unnoticed.

the mechanic,

the baker.

the janitor.

the woman at the wheel

of a bus.

the mother

raising a child,

the father

in the coal mine.

they are exactly who

they are,

no fake personae there,

no need to say

look at me,

no need to shine.

whose room is this?

it's underwater,

this room

full of shadows.

whose house is,

whose room have i fallen

asleep in.

how did i get here?

it was just

yesterday

i was in bed, at home.

my mother

in the other room,

the dog

curled at my feet.

a lifetime

waiting 

before me.

the cold secret

despite the new green

in the trees,

the chill

of wind, that seeps up

my sleeve

and curls

around my wrist tells

me something.

a cold

secret,

it's not over,

not yet.

the whole dish

sometimes you

just need a bite full 

of something sweet

to satisfy

your yearning.

just a taste

of sugar.

a spoonful,

a thumb to lick

with icing,

but it's not that way

with you.

i need the whole

dish.

five days in mexico

it rained for five

days

in Mexico.

we stayed in the room.

we ate.

we drank.

we made love.

we walked across

the street 

in the driving wind,

the pelting

rain

and went dancing.

we drank

tequila.

too much.

we put sombreros on

our heads.

we sang badly.

they made us leave.

we never saw sun

again,

until the plane took off.

everything left behind

when you can only

take

what you can carry, what

is it

that's most important.

what's left

behind

that can't be replaced?
you pick up

your child and take

the hand

of a loved one,

you go forward,

and that's enough,

for now.

business contracts for emotions

i try to talk my friend J J

out of

getting married.

i hear silence on the other end of

the line.

it sounds like

there's a gun

to his head.

but i love her, he says.

her mother and family want it.

they say

i'm getting the milk

free from the cow.

oh my, i let out.

we've been together for five

years now.

she says that next year

she'll get a job.

she promises

no more tattoos.

her 18 year old meth head

daughter

lives with us.

i feel responsible for them.

why sign a business contract

for an emotion?

i ask him.

trust me.

things change.

i hear him, grind his teeth,

as his

fiancé tells him to hang up.

hang up right

now, she says.

don't listen to him.

her new dance pole

she has a dance pole

installed

in her basement.

strobe lights and big speakers

in the corner.

what's up?

i ask her.

this place looks like

a night club?

there's a small platform

that she

steps onto.

the lights go on.

the music plays.

she's down

to her heels and bvd's

she starts to dance

to the B-52s Love Shack.

i sit back

and say, okay.

friends like this

the spring purge begins.

she goes,

he goes.

they go,

all of them out to the bin.

dust

and sweep.

all of them in the way.

cobwebs

in the corner.

crumbs,

and spills.

headaches each and every

one.

with friends like

this

who needs enemies

as they

say.

the dodge dart

another car

gets stolen in the lot.

a 2013 kia.

really?

why?

is that the car that's hot.

i buy

a club

to strap over my steering wheel.

a triple lock.

as God is my

witness

they're not

going to take

my 1970 

army green dodge dart.

adam and eve supplements

there are supplements

out there

by the truckload.

every

known

concoction

of herbs and blends,

medicines

from trees and plants

you've never heard of.

take these

to ease your aching bones,

your shot

knees.

to clear up your vision

your hearing,

to strengthen 

your sex life.

do what comes naturally,

take these.

be like adam and eve.

by december

don't kiss me

if you don't mean it.

don't

grab my hand,

don't hold me in the cold

night

if it's just a game

to keep

me here.

don't whisper in my ear,

don't feign

your allegiance

your loyalty

if you've already

decided

to leave

by the end of the year.

the other side

the sand

is cold this time of year.

the sun

barely warm,

still

low in the grey sky.

but we walk.

hand in hand.

the water

a reminder of the other

side.

check or cash

do you take

pay pal

she asks me, when the work

is done.

crypto?

Venmo?

check or cash, i tell her.

check?

she asks, wide eyed.

what's that.

can i just 

transfer money into

your account?

check or cash

i tell her again. 

can you go to your bank

and withdraw

some money?

hold on, she says,

mumbling the word

bank. she calls

her mother.

can you wait,

my mother will help

me with this.

she knows what a bank is.

slightly off the grid

i cancel my subscription

to the daily paper.

to weekly

magazines,

to sam's club, AAA.

i burn my

library card,

i'm done with Facebook,

Instagram,

Mylife and Linkedin.

i'm off of

match dot com,

and the bottom of the barrel

senior dating sites.

straddling the grave dot com,

and leftovers.com.

i cancel some of my

cable channels,

not all though,

i'm keeping a pinky toe

still on the grid.

i hate april first

she tells me

on april

first that she's preggo.

we're going to have a baby,

she says,

so start

buying

diapers,

a crib,

a stroller, get ready

for six a.m. soccer games again.

burping

and schoolwork.

doctor's visits

and

crying.

projectile vomit

and 

whooping cough.

it's coming, she says.

i think it's twins.

we're not sure yet, but

i thought i'd let you know.

after i faint,

and wake up with a lump

on my head.

she laughs.

and says april fools.

dinner at five, be on time

i decide to cook meatloaf

at six in the morning.

i want to have

something

to eat when i get home

at five.

i stand at the kitchen

sink,

looking out the window.

i mix up

the eggs and breadcrumbs,

the onions

and peppers,

ground beef,

my hands cold in the steel

bowl.

i think of my mother.

how many meat loafs

she made

waiting for everyone

to get home.

seven kids and a husband

who probably

wouldn't show.

what's in a name

it's rare these days

that you meet a Midge, or Marge,

a Phyliss,

or

Penelope.

Jane seems to be rare too.

Elinore?

Francine?

the new names 

you can't pronounce.

just made up

names, to be different

and unique. but

forever they have

to spell

them out,

repeat and repeat,

then write them down.

.

the cashier at garfinkle's

the lady

at the bus stop,

leaning on her cane,

tells me she

used

to work at Garfinkle's

back in

the day.

i was the head cashier

she says,

floor three

in women's lingerie.

i step back and look at her.

yes.

i say.

i remember you.

you helped me pick out

that little sheer

black outfit

in 85 for  valentine's

day.

i thought you looked

familiar,

she says.

so how did it go?

under our skin

sometimes

the mean comes out of us.

we

just can't take it anymore

and get

snippily

with people.

we mumble

beneath our breath, roll

our eyes,

shake

our heads.

the world gets under

our skin

and we can't wait to

get back home again,

to a loved one

and a tumbler

of gin. 

another lost someone

as the detectives

drag

the lake,

they smoke

and fiddle with their guns.

they talk

about the game,

the wife

and kids,

or husband,

daughters and sons.

at some point the

scuba divers

go into

the cold broth of

a man made

run off.

hoping to find no one.

it's just another day,

searching for

another lost

someone.

shake rattle and roll

it's not a cult exactly,

but it feels that way sometimes.

the men

wearing gowns

and pointed hats.

the candles

and incense,

the shake rattle and roll

of it

all.

latin,

and gold chalices.

stained glass.

the basket that comes

around

for money.

the rote prayers.

the dark box for confession.

the pounding

of the chest.

the so called abstention

from sex.

the kneeling, the standing,

the up

and down of it all.

like puppets on a string.

mysterious rites.

guilt is a big part of it.

hard to shake

even at this age, as i ride

by the enormous temple,

which is open

all day, some nights.

the dense fog

it's not a light fog,

a weak

blur

of hot air

rising, but a dense fog.

so says

the weatherman.

he points to the map

to show you

wear the fog is,

then describes

how fog

is created.

he tells you to put

on your headlights.

be careful

out there.

it's as thick as soup.

but he never says what

kind of soup.

chowder, or chicken

noodle with

dumplings?

maybe minestrone. 

the Kingsize bed

the beauty of the Kingsize

bed

is that it's

very large.

big.

you can stretch your arms

and legs

out as far

as you can

like a pinwheel,

and still not touch the other

side.

there are different

time

zones in it.

we can lie

oceans apart.

if you're still mad at me,

i won't even know

because

you're so far.

here, let me give

you my zip code,

don't be a stranger,

drop me a postcard.

let's go to the zoo

i'm losing interest

very quickly lately.

in books,

in the news. a new

show

on netflix.

in long conversations

that go

nowhere.

sorry,

i just yawned. i'm

not bored, but just

mystified as to why

i'm wasting time

on such

a thing.

so many other things

to do.

like lying in

the sun, or

going to the zoo.

it's a sunrise for God's sake

some sunrises

are better than others.

but i don't call anyone up

to tell them,

i don't text,

or email,

or take a picture of the sun

coming up

pink inside

the blue

sky. i don't get all

teary eyed,

and mushy inside.

i don't post it on Facebook,

or Instagram,

or whatever

the hell else is out there.

i just look at it, take in

and go

on about the day.

it's  a sunrise, for God's sake.

get used to it.

less than nine lives

when your ship

goes down

and you live,

when your hot air balloon

hits the power

lines,

but you survive,

when

the bungee cord breaks

but you land

on a mattress,

or the marriage

fails due

to crazy time,

you count your lucky stars,

you don't do it again.

my kind of girl

she used to tell me,

the Irish girl

from 

Darby,

that the first thing she

did when

she got home

from work

was to unsnap her bra

and throw it

across the room.

the second thing

was to pour

herself a tumbler

of scotch.

with a hand

full of rocks.

my kind of girl.

the underdogs

it's an easy

one,

when someone asks you

which side

you're on

with this latest war.

i like the underdog

in this fight.

history

will tell you

who comes out

on top

in the long run.

never bet against a man

when it comes

down to his land,

his life.

the afternoon nap

we celebrate the day

with champagne

in the back of a limo.

a long

white stretch limo

taking

us into town,

to paint the town red.

she's wearing her fabulous

red dress.

i'm in a black tux.

and then i wake up

and find

the cheese

and crackers,

some salted peanuts.

i make

myself a snack

before 

the game comes on.

the sharp knife

i'm aware

of the sharp knife in the drawer

my hand

goes slow and easy

to pull it out.

there's chopping to do.

shredding.

dicing.

etc.

it's a good knife.

i've cut myself on it

before.

the blood

puddling

on the counter,

dripping to the floor,

but not lately, i'm older

now,

a little wiser,

i'm careful when i open

up that drawer.

a blonde standing on her head

i tell my father

the joke about the dog

who

claps at the movie,

but who

hated the book.

he laughs. he laughs.

i laugh too.

it's probably the third

or fourth time

around for this joke,

but it's all i got.

it's his turn now.

so he tells

me the one

about the blonde

standing on her head

with no clothes on.

it's almost 

as old as mine.

again we laugh.

who are these men in the truck?

the neighborhood

watch

has their eyes on the two men

in the truck

drinking wine

and scratching off lotto

tickets.

they're eating sandwiches

with the radio on.

who are these men,

the watcher writes, does

anyone know

who they are?

two men in the white

truck.

should we call the police.

i heard screaming last night

down the street and

what sounded like gun shots.

do you think

they had something to do

with it?

emily writes back.

that's my father and his friend,

Elmer.

they're having lunch

before going back to work.

nothing left to give

i'm horrible with gifts.

i pick

the wrong size.

the wrong color.

a book already read.

i debate

and wring my hands 

at the thought of gift cards,

or cash instead.

it's hard when

someone has everything

under the sun, and

there's nothing left to give.

the girl loves horses

the girl likes horses.

no.

let me correct that.

the girl

loves horses.

there's not a day that goes

by

when she doesn't think

of riding.

of oats. of carrots.

of the barn.

the wide field where

her horse

can gallop.

she no longer has me

on her mind.

almost forgiveness

as he lay

dying.

older than dirt,

a flickering candle in

the wind

of time.

she takes his hand

and whispers

something kind.

he whispers back.

it almost feels like

forgiveness.

so much doesn't matter

as you

lie on the doorstep

of death.

organizational skills

i collect all

of my little post it notes

together.

numbers, names,

addresses,

times

and days. they are

variety of colors.

yellow,

pink, blue.

periwinkle and strawberry.

all over the house.

stuck

to the refrigerator,

the desk.

a few are in the loo.

i'm very organized

despite

what you see here.

time for cake

it smells good

this cake she's baking

in the kitchen.

of course it's the kitchen.

it's the only

room with an oven.

why, i ask her.

what's up with the cake?

no reason, she says.

no celebration,

no birthday

to think of, i just think

we need a cake

around here

for a change.

hand me the knife.

i smell what you're cooking

i buy a bouquet

of flowers at the trader joe

store.

they have

such nice flowers.

the clerk,

all of eighteen, winks

at me.

he sees the wine,

the candles.

the coconut oil

and oysters.

he can't control his smile.

uh huh.

he says.

i smell what you're cooking

tonight.

salisbury steak

the neighbor,

his

enormous truck, 

now still,

is low

on gas

today.

someone has siphoned out

his fuel

while he slept

soundly.

imagine

if prices keep rising

for food.

get your hands off

my

Salisbury steak,

you

fool.

wackadoodle

in the heat of an argument,

which was

all about her being caught

in another

lie, she finally admitted

that she was totally

fucked up

in the head.

i let out a big sigh.

yes, you are, i told her.

i'm so glad that you admitted

it, at last.

you are very fucked up

in the head.

to which she said, how

could you say something

so mean to me?

give me a reason

she blamed

her anger on low estrogen.

the other

blamed it on 

her parents.

siblings,

workmates.

blood sugar for someone

else.

menopause.

insulin sensitivity.

the pressure

of life.

there's always a reason

to be crazy.

i need one

too.

a reason would be nice.

despite itself

the sign.

the sunoco sign

an unearthly

yellow,

bright,

the blue grey station

below it,

a bunker of sorts.

cars

coming and going.

the light stays

on

all day,

all nght.

before i go to sleep

i take another look.

comforted

somehow

that the world goes on

despite

itself.

from the cool shadow

i move my chair

from the cool

bath of shadow and into

sunlight.

there we go.

better, what a difference

a few small

adjustments

make in life.

postcard from Barcelona

she texts me from Barcelona.

she's depressed

and sad.

her lover

in Wisconsin

has been cheating on her.

sleeping with

other women.

i laugh.

it's the internet, i tell her.

did you think

he was going to be faithful

with you ten thousand

miles away?

she's crying, i thought he'd wait,

although i've been

seeing other men too.

i met this matador at

the bullfights last week.

and a man who exports olive

oil, tomorrow we're

going to the zoo.

so i guess i'm guilty of

not being faithful too.

so why are you crying then,

i ask her. what's all this angst

about.

i don't know, she says.

beats me.

what are you up to?

the cyclones

the busy person,

the late

person.

the forgetful ones,

drama filled and

never on time,

these

cyclone souls,

swirling

in the wind

of their own

tumultuous lives,

fall by the wayside.

tossed

at some point,

for a different kind.

the warmth of lap

self-reliant

not unlike the cat.

not cold

or aloof, but just mysteriously

detached.

it won't last.

we all need to know

at some

point what the other

is thinking.

we need

the pet, the kindness,

the warmth of lap.

have fun and run

after the first

divorce

i installed a revolving door

in my house.

with valet parking outside.

people didn't stay

long.

it was binge dating

for a few years.

catch and release.

they used to call it sowing

your oats,

but it was more of a scorched

earth policy.

be gone by nine a.m.,

have fun

and run.

doctor week

at a certain age

the week revolves around

doctors visits.

the eye doctor

wants to examine a

growing cataract,

the dermatologist

needs to look at a bump or rash,

the ear nose and throat guy

needs to check

your sinuses.

the dentist with her x-rays

and blue

light. expressing

concern over an old cap.

and then there's the proctologist.

whew.

save him for last.

no more saints

are we done with saints.

can anyone

qualify

these days, what with the internet

and tik tok.

are there any

miracles out there.

any truly good people

who could make the grade

and be Annointed

a saint?

any Bernadettes out there,

Francis of Assisi?

not lately.

so we all go

you wonder 

what people are up to.

old friends,

old pals,

old siblings,

school chums,

lovers and enemies,

but you rarely reach out.

not good with small talk,

or chit chat

just to touch base.

if your paths cross,

good, if not, well, 

so it goes.

so we all go.

the new family car

i see my car

parked

in front of the store

where it was stolen

a week ago.

i wait for the new owner

to come

out of the store.

it's an old car.

grey and rusted, dented with

ripped seats.

but it had a great stereo

system.

and held a lot of memories

driving to the eastern shore

with Betty or

was it Lulu?

finally the man

comes out.

he has three kids with

him, all licking ice cream cones.

and his wife.

a rotund woman with a floppy

hat on.

they all seem happy.

he's struggling to carry his bags

of groceries

so i go to help him,

using my key to open

the door.

i pop the trunk and put

the groceries in the back,

moving my basketball out of the way.

i then fasten the seat belts

on the kids in the back.

his wife

gets in, she's smiling.

licking a green scoop of

ice cream on a sugar cone

which i take to be pistachio.

it's a happy family.

the man

gives me a dollar for helping

him.

i tell him thank you.

but no.

i wave as they drive off.

they all wave to me

as i walk home.

what's for breakfast?

the fox

are fat this year, this spring

as they

scream

and get busy in the woods.

the garbage

bags set out

on the curbs twice a week

has been good

to them.

they are tubby in their

red jackets,

napping

on the grass

in a puddle of sunlight.

dreaming

about what breakfast

is going to be,

all depending on what

we had.

history repeats itself again

he seems to be a cookie

in milk

standing at the podium

crumbling

as he attempts to

read the teleprompter.

a modern day Neville

Chamberlain.

his giggling sidekick

the vp,

sitting behind him, laughing

about something

only she seems to get.

both sides of the aisle

have lost their marbles.

we're stuck in a bad time

to be alive

without leadership or hope.

as an entire country is

slaughtered and we do

little but shrug

and look the other way.

not a Churchill around,

no Roosevelt,

or Truman. not even a Kennedy

to rise and sound

the alarm.

it's the end of the world

i call out for a pizza,

but they

tell me i have to come and get it now.

there's no one

who wants to work.

no one who will drive 

to my house

and give me a hot steaming

deep dish

pie of mozzarella

and italian sausage.

it truly is

the end of the world as

we know it.

the stupid woke movement

i get corrected on calling

my cleaning

lady

the cleaning lady.

i can't use the word maid

anymore either.

i'm told that she is now

referred to as

a housekeeper.

i just call her Milagro.

or sugarplum,

and be done with it.

so tired

of the woke movement,

infantile with words.

my next favorite planet

i used to like earth.

it was

my favorite of all the planets

because

of air, water

and coffee.

i don't give a hoot

about mars.

overrated,

bunch of red sand

blowing around.

venus, pfftt. way too hot

and close

to the sun.

now i'm partial

to saturn.

i doubt anyone could live there.

but it looks friendly

with all those

colorful stripes,

and bands.

all those pretty moons waiting

for someone,

like us,

to land.

run towards the light

my friend in st. louis

is storing bottled water.

canned meat,

frozen pot pies,

and toilet paper.

energy bars for those zombie

like nights

when the H bomb

slaps us

across the face.

the earth will be on fire.

but she'll have her water,

her food source,

her hole in the ground

for waste.

she's buying crossword

puzzles to keep

her occupied 

while she waits for

the radiation to die down.

by the time i get to Sacramento

i tell the soon to be ex-wife

that i'm

going out for milk.

she says, okay.

don't be long, my mother's

coming over

for lunch

and then i want you to

go with me

to the mall.

are you going to weed

the yard

before she gets here?

she's very picky

with our lawn.

sure, i say.

carrying my suitcase

out the door.

i figure i can be in

Sacramento in three days,

if the weather holds.

the second hand

i put my hand

on the big clock and tell it

to stop.

i hold

the second hand

still.

the hour

hand.

i tell it to please.

slow down.

we're going too fast here.

the yesterdays

are piling up,

tomorrow is too near.

the great divide

you get the feeling sometimes

that the country

is without a leader.

someone smart

and bright,

someone who isn't political,

but wants to

make things right.

where are all the good men,

the good women?

it's just a feeling that

the we're adrift now

in a sea of mediocrity,

mismanagement

and lies,

that the dream has died.

that things are going down

the drain with this

great divide. 

what's next

i press my

face to look in,

others, inside,

are pressing

theirs

to look out.

we're each

on the other side

of the glass

wondering

what's next.

fresh eggs

his chicken,

white and fat

in his back yard,

a city yard

with a clothes line

a dog

house

and a chain link fence

is laying

eggs.

he shows me the eggs.

he offers me

the eggs.

i tell him just a few.

he puts them

in a box with tissue paper,

this makes

him happy.

the rooster too.

out of words

i go to write you a note,

a kind

greeting

of the benign kind,

an offering 

of peace,

the olive branch,

the pipe,

but the pen

is dry.

i shake it,

tap it against the table,

no ink

inside.

bone dry.

like me.

out of words

at last.

the slender thread

it's a slender

thread that holds the world

together.

a stitch,

a patch.

how easily things get

torn,

get bent

and scratched.

nothing stays new

forever.

the old

wins out the day,

things

just don't last.

that's all you got?

i climb

the mountain

to ask

the guru

who meditates all day,

who lives

on top of the snowy

peak,

beside his cave

the meaning of life.

he smiles,

and nods.

moderation in all things

he says.

and be attached

to nothing,

or no one.

take these

words to the grave

and find happiness.

that's it, i tell him,

that's all you got?

do you realize how

impractical

and crazy those ideas

are?

aren't you cold

and lonely

up here?

no coffee, no phone,

no babes?

the growl of young men

young men

like to flex their muscles.

preen

in the mirror.

say look at me,

growl

and rev their engines.

but in

time that all ends,

the brain

finally

grows up,

becoming less annoying

and wiser,

hopefully.

fix bayonets

my friend jimmy

who just turned 63

shows up

in a camouflage uniform

and a bike helmet.

come on, he says.

let's go,

we're heading over to fight

in the war.

i'm on my first cup

of coffee.

in my old bathrobe,

actually my

ex's bathrobe,

it's a peach color and 

a little tight.

he's holding a rifle

with a fixed bayonet.

let's go he says.

damn commies

are at it again.

aren't we a little old

for war,

i tell him. my feet getting

cold on

the stoop.

no way, he says.

once you get into battle,

and the adrenaline kicks in,

you're 21 again.

okay, i tell him, maybe.

coffee?

sure he says.

do you have any cream,

two sweet and lows?

maybe those little debbie

cupcakes?

the new addiction

she shows

me

the wordle game

on her phone.

i can't stop playing now.

damn

this thing.

five letter words.

over and over

again.

i can do this.

i've got this.

just one more time.

it's only

five letters, but

there's only one

more

line.

finding the perfect man

i like an active man,

she told

me.

maybe he plays

a little golf,

or pickle ball.

someone that can fix things

around the house.

bring home

the bacon.

someone who let's me

decorate

the way i want to

and doesn't mind if i keep

in touch

with all my ex

boyfriends.

not a lap dog, but 

a quiet man

who doesn't want to have

sex all the time.

once a month is fine

with me.

he can have his man cave

in the basement. someone

not too fat,

or tall,

but just right. you know?

looks good

in a suit.

if he has a trust fund,

and a full head of his own

hair,

that too would

be nice.

walking versus hiking

everyone

likes to call walking

taking a hike now,

especially if more than

six trees

are involved.

up a hill.

a dell

down to the valley.

upstream,

downstream.

around and around

the lake

we go.

it's walking.

not hiking.

hiking involves

a long

stick

and fighting

off bears

and rattlesnakes,

a grappling hook

to scale

cliffs,

forging a river

with a bridge

made out

of bamboo

and vines.

eating salmon with

our bare

hands

over a campfire.

it's walking if you

can hold

a cup of coffee and

blab the whole

time around the trail.

tomorrow i'm going to

take a hike around

the mall

to buy another pair

of walking shoes.

why work anymore?

i used to worry about

having

work.

a job.

about not having money

to pay my

bills.

but now people worry about

having to

go to work.

work is demeaning.

work is for

the dumb, 

for the fearful.

why work, when someone

else is already

getting things

done.

one sweet, one sour

it's a beautiful

deep

blue, almost purple basket

of berries.

i buy two.

because it's two for 

five dollars.

just a handful of fruit

in each one.

a serving

when needing the sweet

before the day

is done.

and yet.

one is sour,

then another, although a

few are good.

how can this be,

all from the same vine,

on sister nice,

on sister sour.

his small town

i like when people

tell me about the small town

they grew up in.

how no one locked their doors.

everyone knew

just about everyone,

growing up

in the same

schools and churches.

all shopping at

the corner store.

the mailman was my sister's

husband.

the garage mechanic,

my cousin.

the local doctor delivering

babies, and grandbabies.

the weddings

in the town square.

the lake, the trees, the rolling

hills.

and then i ask,

why on earth did you pack

up and leave?

for this?

riders on the storm

i used to crush

her

with words.

venom strewn ink on the page.

giving her

what for

on a daily basis.

and then i finally stopped.

the dead horse

is dead,

why beat it again and again

in some sort

of sick revenge.

there is no thing as

revenge.

or getting even.

or in keeping score.

once healed

there's no need to write

about the past

anymore.

it was just my turn

and my

way of getting out

of the storm,

of closing

and locking forever

the door.

there are no bombs falling

we get up

for work, wishing

it was saturday,

it's cold

and raining,

we're tired,

but there are no bombs falling.

the traffic

is miserable,

the coffee cold.

and we're hungry,

but there are no bombs

falling.

the price of milk

and meat

has risen,

gasoline and bread,

the wi fi connection

is weak,

but there are no bombs

falling.

we disagree

on so many things, our

life together

has ended.

there's no love left

between us,

but there are no bombs

falling.

who's there?

things fall

in the night, but no one

is here.

the creak

of stairs,

the groan

of pipe,

the wind seeping

in to

move

the air.

you sit up in bed

and wonder

with a hint of fear,

who's

there.

sunlight then and now

sunlight,

not soft and yellow

as it

should be

but harsh and white

against

the wall

where i've scratched

time out

with a spoon.

i lift myself from

the hard floor

and look out,

hands

on the bars.

that was then, but

this

is now. running

through the green field,

not a second

too soon.

my back pages

between

my pages. my words,

the long

sentences that go

nowhere,

the endless rambling.

the memories.

the overflow

of thoughtless

self-indulgence,

occasionally there's

something there.

something

beyond understanding.

something rare.

small gems

in the rough, but oh my,

so much

rough to plow through,

so much in the way

to get there.

what really matters

he tells me,

as we talk on the stoop,

as old

people often

do,

that he worked at the factory

for 41 years.

in the same shop.

most are dead he says,

referring

to friends,

and neighbors that he

worked with.

he shows me his

hands.

pointing at the scars,

the black

oil

still in the crevices.

i miss it he says.

my job was everything.

everything.

then his wife

comes

out the door, with drinks

and sandwiches.

she smiles.

and says. he's lying, he

won't tell you

that his life

was all about me.

and he laughs, knowing

that it's true.

there is no plot to this

what's hard

about one's life is that there

is no plot.

it's all improv

at some point, once

the strings

are cut

and your wings have

spread

to fly.

there's drama to be sure,

and love.

there's magic,

and sadness.

dead ends and surprise,

but there

is no straight line

from here

to there.

and at the end 

of one's life, 

it's hard

to say what

it was all about, but 

hopefully it was  hell

of a ride.

will we be here tomorrow?

will the world be here

tomorrow?  

will there

be us, and them,

will

the trees survive.

the buildings.

the art,

the books, our friends.

or will

everything die

in the harsh

hot wind?

will we be here tomorrow?

will we

have to start

the world

all over again?

the joy of steroids

i find an old bottle

of prednisone

in the bottom of the vanity

drawer

where

i keep things

i never use and have forgotten

about.

turmeric

and garlic, 

an assortment of

vitamins.

a thru z. soap on a rope.

but ahhh, the steroids.

there might be

a hundred or so

still rattling around in

the brown bottle.

happy days are here again.

taste and smell

are not too far away,

i can breathe

once more.

aches and pain begone.

you're leaving the house like that?

we are a judgmental lot.

religion

or intellect

has little to do with it.

we don't

like things

that people say or do.

our eyebrows raise,

and we say oh my.
sometimes

what they're wearing

is enough

to bother you.

really, you're going to

wear that

today?

ways to skin a cat

various ways

are given to skin a cat.

not literally of

course,

for who would want to

really do

a thing like that.

but the message,

metaphorically is clear.

when plan a

or b

doesn't work.

there's c.

there's always

another path

to take.

no worry, no fear.

observation sunday

the church is crowded

because

it's Easter.

it's punching the clock

for Catholics.

the lot is nearly full.

cops with

flares

direct the traffic in, then

out.

i put on my yellow

shirt

and black shoes,

and go too.

the tips of my fingers are dyed

from the eggs

at home,

red and green,

my thumb a beautiful

baby blue.

i find a pew in the back,

dead center

and get my praying

done early.

which gives me time

to observe and take notes.

it's a perfect view.

nary a text

there are many

things

that tell you when it's over.

but two come to mind.

you don't

talk anymore

and the intimacy has died.

that's pretty much

the death knell

of the relationship.

you pass each other

in the hall,

you give

each other room.

no more does the phone

ring. there's nary

a text.

no need anymore

to call.

it feels like tuesday

there are some days

that i don't

know what day it is.

there is nothing to remind

me.

no paper on the porch.

no calendar

on the desk.

no one

waking up beside me

to assure

me of where we are in

the week.

each day feels like tuesday.

another

day, just like the rest.

limping in pearls

i remember

her left foot, how it bent

inward.

clubbed

one might say.

how she limped

in her pearls.

her hips

in an awkward sway

as we went

to a show.

she could out walk me.

miles

from the garage lot

she could go

without sweat or worry,

never needing

to stop

and rest.

she'd look back at me

and laugh,

come on, she'd say.

you're always last.

you'll miss the opening

act.

no visitors

when you see

someone asleep on the sidewalk,

crumpled

in blankets,

his head

on a carboard box.

you imagine

that you're him.

wounded and dark.

you've always been him.

lost

and alone without

anything,

just clothes. 

no money to spare.

no way

to get from here to there,

but by

walking. no one

to call.

no visitors per say

who call on you

neither giving or

aware of

stares.

one night in the city

how the room

stood still until someone

arrived.

lonely

and lost somehow

though with

the bed made.

the bath clean.

water in the short box

kept cold.

the magazines stacked

to one

side

on the shiny glass

table top.

the curtains parted

just so

to let in the city light.

the room

felt like a cake about

to be sliced.

but just for

one night.

one slice.

which makes her happy

almost everything i throw

away

setting

it out on the curb,

pictures, lamps,

rugs,

i see my neighbor lifting

them

and bringing

them home.

when i visit her for tea.

i see my old familiar things.

hanging on the wall.

the vase on the mantle.

a light by the tv.

new to her.

but old to me.

i sip my tea and compliment

her on her

sense of style

her decorating skills.

which makes her happy.

the day off

i see a day off

soon.

i've circled it on my calendar.

in ink this time,

not pencil.

i promise

myself

that no work

will occur

on that day.

there will be nothing to do

but be

with you.

and you smile

knowingly.

new thoughts

a forest of thoughts

are on you.

fallen oaks,

old trees,

scrub brush,

vines

and weeds,

the darkened moss

of north, but

there, in the clearing,

spindles of new ideas

struggle

through the ground

reaching

for sunlight

thirsty, ready to take

over.

insanity

it's the leaders

that kill.

not the people.

they sit safely

in their bunkers and give

orders.

push buttons from a thousand

miles away.

killing

by the thousands.

as if

flies in their way.

mere

bugs needing to be

stamped

out for the glory of

the common

good.

there will be hell

to pay.

the most beautiful girl in the world

her lips

purple from the nehi

grape soda,

her freckles

confetti like

in summer sunlight.

her boney

knees,

a band aid on one,

sitting next to me.

the red

pigtails,

the gap between

her teeth.

was there ever a more

beautiful girl

in the whole world.

no sir.

not for me.

why not us?

the fox

screaming in the woods

is frightening.

mating?

serenading, perhaps.

it's spring

after all.

i see a new nest

in the far tree.

it's dating season.

birds do it.

why not us?

laundry

is there an end

to laundry,

the whites, the reds,

the blues.

the bleach,

the tide,

the little paper scented

things

to make everything

smell

chemically fresh

and bright.

so much folding to do.

ironing even.

yes. two shirts.

the rest is wrinkle

free.

not unlike my

life.

colossal shrimp

i'm worried about these

enormous shrimp.

how did they get so big?

colossal shrimp.

the size of a baby's fist.

pink as a sunset.

plump and juicy.

all of them from new jersey.

i can barely fit one

into my mouth.

when i hear the word shrimp

i think little,

these aren't.

they taste like shrimp,

but i'm not so sure.

you go first.

in the midnight hour

i can still fit into my

cheerleading

uniform, she tells me, while

doing a cartwheel

across the kitchen floor.

careful, i tell her.

i just waxed the tile.

her hair is pulled back

into a pony tail,

and she's painted little

dixie flags on her cheeks.

we were called the rebels

she said. our cheer

was the rebel yell.

well, you might have

to change that, i tell her.

the south ain't gonna rise

no more.

beautiful burning bridges

leaving

is not hard. packing

your bags.

settling up.

wrapping

up the past in a bow,

a box.

leaving is a good thing.

change.

the burning of bridges.

the drowning

of sorrow.

leaving is a good

thing.

and yet

here you still are.

you've yet to let go.

beating around the bush

my therapist

calls me and asks how i've

been.

she beats around

the bush

for a while, but i know

what this call is about.

she's short on cash.

what's up, she says,

i haven't seen you

since the dark ages.

need a tune up?

everything okay, honky dory?

whatever that means.

peaches and cream

i tell her.

peaches and cream.

i referred you to a friend

though.

she just got married again.

the anniversary

i cut a small piece

of cake,

pour

a flute of champagne.

i'll toast

the new day forward.

it's an

anniversary of sorts,

that i'll

celebrate

alone,

giddy in thought.

the soup can

it's called art.

the soup can.

the slap of paint on

a canvas

on the floor

of a garage.

a red circle.

a squared minitour.

a thousand dots

making a face.

is it art? expression?

graffiti

on a subway car.

the spills, the splatter.

the arrangement

of words

without thought.

this year, she says

she tells me

that this year is the year she

will retire.

she's done.

enough.

kids and parents,

books

and lessons.

principals.

she's worn down.

tired of wearing the same

dress.

teaching

the same

class. whitman, frost,

pound

and plath.

she sleeps with words

in her mouth.

the ink

running down

her cheek,

and tears.

missing liz taylor

i miss seeing

elizabeth taylor

on the front

cover

of people magazine.

vogue or vanity fair.

the world

worrying

who she would marry next,

and could she

keep the weight off.

how hard it must

have been for

her.

always in the paper.

unable to find love

without Eddie Fisher.

unable

to eat

anything she wanted,

once a violet eyed

feather.

glue is useless

forget about glue.

leave it

on the shelf.

it doesn't work.

the fat tube

that you have to poke

a hole into.

it won't hold for long.

wood

metal,

whatever is cracked

or broken.

forget about it.

glue.

it's useless, a sham.

and don't smell it

you fool.

waiting for the story to end

i've had long nights.

bitter

cold

unable to sleep.

dark chapters in a book

i wish

i never wrote.

tossed

in the turmoil

of a worried sea.

long nights,

impossible

to find a dream.

they were interesting

nights though.

watching

me,

what i was going

through.

wanting to know how

the story would

end.

how at last

i'd be free.

to find my keys

i fancy

her, she fancies me.

what does it mean?

who knows

where anything goes.

but for

now, i'd like

to find my

keys.

scared while living

we make rules

for engagement, wars.

they can kill

indiscriminately as long

as they don't

use fission

or germs.

women, children,

babies,

boys and girls,

men.

husbands and wives.

the elderly

and handicapped too.

all are perfectly okay to die.

knives and bullets are fine.

bombs.

cluster or otherwise.

flame throwers, okay.

missiles, no issues.

we allow that.

we're very strict with

our rules of war

and won't get too involved

unless they cross

a line. yes, it's genocide but

we don't want

to make the bully more mad

than he already is.

we're scared

of dying.

which means we're scared

of living too.

the tremble will begin

we need a steady hand

when young.

the surgeon,

the doctor as she decides,

the scientist,

the mother with a child.

the father

as he works

the line.

we need

the steadiness

within.

straight forward

unwavering,

strong.

for in time, if not sooner,

the tremble

will begin.

without wants

without wants,

how happy we would be.

that's all

i really want to say,

but i suspect

that thought

is a zen

thing and will bring

out the yoga

mats,

and candles.

please, don't go there.

don't show

me how to exhale,

how to breathe,

don't twist your self

into a praying

mantis, and

say namaste.

stripping wallpaper

one never knows until

the first

blade

goes under 

the raised seam,

and rips

and tears

at the ancient wallpaper.

it could

be fish scales

we're removing here,

or planks of wood,

needing

to be chopped, or soaked,

muscled

into submission.

fragile as the dead

sea scrolls,

or stone

like slabs

in the hands of Moses.

without words involved

i know less about

you

than i did the day before.

and that's fine.

i don't want

the puzzle solved,

i don't need to know

what i don't

know.

let's take a walk,

and decide,

without

secrets revealed,

without words involved.

ceremony

we need ceremony.

the shovel

of dirt

upon the grave,

our heads bowed.

words said.

trumpets or guns

set ablaze.

we need

decorum

and horses.

we need flags

and flowers

to recognize the end

of a beginning,

the beginning

of an end.

we mark our calendars

to remember,

but still,

no matter how bronze

the plaque,

how strong

the stone, in time

we all

fade away.

the widow Barrett

a cup of tea

calmed her. let her relax

as she

talked

about the past.

husbands,

childhood, work.

her children

somewhere between

buttering

her toast.

with each sip a new

thought

arose.

i could only listen,

having little

to add.

my years

at that point being

short.

finding closure

it's the age

of mistrust, men and women.

countries.

what, or who

isn't out to get us,

what's coming

in the black sky.

what's on the way to

give us

closure of a permanent

kind?

cold water

the glass

of sanity is short

and nearly

gone dry,

maybe one small

drink

remains

to quench a thirst.

not much to go on.

such water,

cold

and clear,

is rare these days.

not enough

one rose

is better than a dozen.

one kind

word

is worth more than

a three page

letter,

or speech in praise,

or vow to love,

but one kiss,

my dear,

is not enough.

where are they now?

where is the pope

in all this,

the church,

the leaders, where's

that clown

joel osteen?

where's the prosperity

preachers,

the local

minister, the righteous

ones who

preach all year taking

money

from the poor.

the bishops,

the priests,

the religious leaders?

their silence is

deafening. 

biscuit in a bunker

they beat us

without mercy with the news.

stale

reels

of footage,

the same dead horse

on the road,

the same

bomb going off.

the same

crossing of the bridge,

of someone

eating

a biscuit in a bunker.

so much filler while

the war

plows on.

i've seen the same person

die

a hundred times now.

all these peacocks

at the desk

in suits,

putting on the show.

this years model

we want fresh,

don't we?

fresh air, fresh fish.

fresh

that or this.

we want new and improved.

advanced.

we want the latest,

the best,

the most up to date.

last weeks model,

or last years

product, 

or lover

will not do,

she has no chance.

cold coffee

we are surprised

at

the coffee going cold,

having sat too

long.

the last

sip

a chilled

memory of what came

before,

and yet we shouldn't be.

doesn't everything

in life

teach you

this.

nothing is done

nothing

is finished, not us,

not you.

not the canvas,

left

where you stopped

in mid stroke

of blue.

your fingers

on the keys,

the unfinished song,

the half

constructed

story,

the two-line poem

that drifts

off.

nothing

is done. like this

one....

both being right

to allow oneself

to

be touched,

whether hand

or knee

beneath a table.

to open

up

possibility, is 

electric

in one way or

another,

the glow

of light, the strike

of needled

pain.

it could go either

way. 

both being

right.

what's the count now

we are counters

for some reason. the news

is good at it.

keeping track of the dead.

the homeless.

the jobless.

we count our money.

we count our

blessings.

we count our degrees.

we take our temperature,

measure our

blood pressure.

we need numbers.

figures.

a toll of

how many refugees?

we count our marriages,

our losses.

our gains.

our children.

we keep score, as if it's

all a game.

a game that never ends,

where everyone loses

and no one really wins.

never moving forward

she said she was fifty-four,

but in the dull dimmed lights

of the bar,

it was hard to know.

i remember she had a round

bed

that went around and around

with the push of a button.

i nearly broke

my leg on it one night.

hit the stop button, i yelled

as my foot got tangled in the

pink sheets, and pillows.

my head striking the table

where she kept her wigs.

the needle was stuck on

night fever by the bee gees.

the record skipping on

the turn table, never

moving forward.

stay curious

stay curious

or die

on the vine, 

fall to the wayside

and rot

on the ground.

the core of

you

eaten by the ravages

of teeth

and time.

apathy, 

having its way,

leaving nothing

behind.

sentiment and sediment

we're full

of sediment

and sentiment. 

our history

making

us bottom

heavy.

hard to rise

to the new day.

bogged down.

slow to the gate.

we strike a deal with

ourselves.

just get us through

another day.

the broken lace

i don't know

why the broken lace

surprises me.

how many times have i tied

these strings,

tightening

then around my boot.

a hundred

or more.

i go to the kitchen

drawer

where another pair waits.

there's always more

of everything.

another you,

another lace.

it's over there

there's a war

going on,

but you wouldn't know it,

would you,

as we watch tv.

eat a sandwich,

look at our phones.

there's a war on.

people are dying.

bombs are falling.

cities are on fire.

but you wouldn't know it,

would you,

as we walk the dog

a final time,

before we retire.

tell me about you

i feel like

a cornered rat when

forced

into small talk,

party chit chat.

i look for the exit.

a door,

a window,

anything i can leap

out of.

i'll take my chances

on the fall.

please

don't ask me about

me.

excuse me as i hide

for a few hours

in the bathroom

stall.

recipe for pancakes

i write down

her new recipe for pancakes.

some of the ingredients

i don't know

how to spell.

chemicals.

man made fibers.

factory oats.

cowless milk.

i look them up online.

nature has nothing to do

with these

flap jacks.

hopefully a slab of butter

and a spill of syrup

will save the day.

i got this

don't grammar police me,

don't correct

my posture

and tell me to sit up straight.

don't lecture me on

the environment,

paper and plastic.

don't tell me how to pray

or which church

to go to,

where to donate my money.

don't tell me what

to read, what to believe,

or watch, or

what i should drink or eat.

please.

keep it to yourself.

i got this.

i'm perfectly capable of

doing me.