it's about money

it's not

about money, but it is

about

money.

day

one, day of death, all

the in between.

will there be enough?

enough

to pay

each bill, to clothe

and feed.

will the lights stay on?

will the bar be open,

the cake wide

and high

as we say our vows.

what is the count of our

threads?

and in the end,

will it be

gold or wood

that they'll lay us

in,

before we're gone,

before

the last prayer is said.

just pack and leave

i listen

dispassionately to the trial,

the witnesses

of the two

celebrities

suing

each other for divorce.

why

are they wasting the worlds

time?

no one

cares.

why is it even on the news.

on any

one's mind.

and yet,

it's fascinating

in a world gone mad

with narcissism

and self

importance.

just pack and leave.

please.

the next man down

it's all you can eat

at captain George's along

Laskin

Highway.

the plates are large,

there's

no end

to what sits upon

the great buffet for

you to eat.

crab legs,

linguini,

eggs or chicken.

five different kinds of cake.

mounds of

potatoes,

slabs of ham,

cinnamon bread

and biscuits

to suit your taste.

there's a nurse 

on duty,

a defibrillator

by her side, waiting

for the next man down.

a snow shower

nearly

May, the ice in the sky falls

like

broken

glass,

cold

and blustery.

wind

seared, and strange,

not far

to the left a sun

peeks

through the green

of trees.

undecided.

i've dressed too lightly

for this

day.

the claws of the world

the strange thing

about letting

go,

not this namaste

bullshit, but

really letting go.

is that you finally have

your life

in your own hands.

when the worry

is gone

about pleasing others,

gaining wealth

or power,

or love,

or some sort of fake

happiness

found briefly by what

you own.

it's then.

at last. that

peace is upon you.

the world

and its claws have

been

overcome.

serenity knitting

i used to tease

her about her knitting.

sitting

on the porch, rocking,

back and forth,

balls of colored yarn

at her feet.

the sun coming up,

going down.

still at it

as the seasons changed.

quietly

knitting, more blankets,

more mittens,

more hats

and scarves.

she'd rather knit than

say what was on

her mind.

the worst is yet to come

when the big one drops.

and the mushroom

cloud rises

in the near distance,

beautifully tragic in 

the blue sky,

don't run, don't hide.

embrace the light.

run towards it.

the worst

is yet to come, but

only if you survive.

her days in the big top

she told me in great detail

about her days

with the circus.

she got dreamy eyed with drink

as we

sank into her velvet

plush sofa,

fading from violet into

a shade of sunset pink.

oh, those were good times,

she said.

i had a crush on the lion

tamer,

but i couldn't get the trapeze

artist,

Anzio out of my bed.

my best friend was the woman

with a beard,

all fake, she says, whispering

the secret

into my ear.

i loved the animals, she went

on.

the elephants, the lions,

the horses.

i'd ride Jumbo into the big top

to the applause

of the crowd.

sitting on top of his massive

grey body.

but i couldn't stand the clowns.

she shivered and closed

her eyes.

they were miserable people.

they smoked and drank,

and never left me alone.

a thin layer of dust

the dust

of room is persistent.

the exhale

and inhale of the house

settling

on shelves

and tabletops.

books,

and fans.

a thin layer of time,

telling us

what's to come

despite

all our efforts at

staying relevant,

and alive.

the last check written

they fought over

the will, thinking there was money.

but there wasn't.

instead

there was debt,

bills unpaid,

a wreck of a house.

outstanding loans,

lovers and stray

children left holding the bag.

the torn

bag,

with a hole.

he made sure, with a smile

on his face,

that his last check written

would bounce.

giving too much

the spoiled

child

with too many balloons

is in the sky.

i see him,

going up and up and up.

towards

the sun.

we take pictures of him,

as he rises.

he waves,

everyone waves.

it's a birthday party

that won't soon be

forgotten.

his unhappy life

has just begun.

the quiet room

say nothing.

retreat

to your quiet space.

don't return

fire

with fire.

let them have their say.

some people

are never happy.

your fighting

days

are over.

drama free.

at last saved.

rolling in the hay

my father had

no skills

at being a father,

never

having one himself.

he had

zero interest in kids.

kids

were toys,

or pets,

best kept quiet

in front of the tv,

well behaved

and fed.

it seemed to surprise

him that

another was on the way.

never quite

connecting the dots

of him

and my mother

rolling in the hay.

his dark cloud

he always

pulled the short stick,

never

out of bad

luck.

rarely was he not in

a jam,

needing,

a tow, or a dollar,

or a shoulder

to lean upon

when his ship went down.

you could see

the dark cloud above

him,

as he approached

on the street.

it was going to be along

and drama

filled

conversation.

you needed a stiff drink

and a seat.

my butter churn

it wasn't a shotgun

wedding,

but it felt

that way.

her father was italian.

mustache

and muscles.

a wife beater t-shirt

showing off

his tattoos.

he knew from day one

when he

met me,

what i was up to.

he actually told his

wife,

my future mother in law,

that it was time

i started paying

for the milk,

and to buy the cow.

from then on i thought

of my bride

to be as a butter churn.

the neighborhood has changed

the neighborhood

has changed.

the cranky old people

are dying or

moving

out

to greener

and final pastures.

kids, like

flies

fill the cul de sac.

screaming,

and playing,

balls bouncing in

the air.

dogs

barking.

strollers are everywhere.

someone said

hello

to me the other day

and i almost fainted.

no herbal tea

he rarely

exercised, never ran around

the block

with a stop watch.

no sit ups,

no crunches or

push ups.

no aerobics, or

zumba.

he was never on

a bicycle,

or used a rowing machine.

never

did jumping jacks,

or watched what

he ate.

cake

and steak were his

things.

no herbal tea, or organic

anything. he chain

smoked camel

cigarettes,

and drank daily

Canadian club whiskey.

it's hard to explain him,

still ticking,

now 93.

sorry i missed your call

sorry i missed your call,

your text

your emails,

your knock at the door,

then around

back

tapping at the window.

even the wind

blew away your smoke

signals.

i've been busy

without you.

let's try again,

tomorrow.

blue eggs

the blue

eggs, perfect in color

and shape

warmed

by

the sun, by the feathers

of

a mother.

how nature goes on,

and yet,

here comes

the snake,

black

as oil, slithering

up the tree.

olive bread

in a giving mood,

i hand the fat man who sits

on the corner

in his metal folding chair

with his sign

reading, god bless,

homeless,

vet,

three kids,

a loaf of olive bread

from the

bakery.

it's crunchy and best

served toasted

in slices

with a pad of butter.

he looked at me and

said,

what's this for?

i said

it's for you to eat.

he laughed and said

does that

make you feel better

giving me

a loaf of bread?

i can get all the bread

i want

at the shelter.

what i need is money.

cash.

if you want to really

feel

good about yourself

write me a check.

just try it, i said.

the way in is the way out

the way in

is the way out,

it's obvious now,

not around,

not over,

not under.

not through 

a window

to drop down.

use the swinging

door,

and go.

step out.

get back on

we break a leg

falling off

a horse, but we heal.

we forget

the pain and get back on.

the body

and mind

moves on, thankfully,

if not,

we'd never leave

our home.

cloak and dagger days

the cloak

and dagger days, are gone.

mere

memories

in the diary

written

in blood and tears,

sweat

running

down.

what chaos they were.

what

strange

and addictive fun.

how strong

we think we are, but

how easily

we come

undone.

five miles around

the trail

under rain is empty.

everyone got

their walk in yesterday.

in the sun,

the soft breeze.

the lake is more black

than blue.

more

a bruise

than a source of good

will

and healing.

just five miles around.

i did it

twenty years

ago, 

the day she died,

and will do it again,

now.

wedding dresses for sale

i find a couple of old

wedding

dresses

in the attic.

wrapped and sealed

hermetically

in thin sheets

of plastic.

once white, but slightly

yellowed now.

maybe i could sell them,

used once.

briefly.

no stains,

no remnants 

of cake crumbs.

both with workable

snaps

and zippers.

hooks and clasps.

willing to negotiate,

or

best offer.

complimentary

rings to go with it too.

young doctors

how much

can this young doctor really

know

about me. ten years

of school, pffft.

i've been

self medicating for years,

diagnosing,

mending

cuts

and bruises,

setting bones.

i've found

garlic to be great help.

turmeric

and chicken soup.

sleep.

and drink.

a borrowed pill or two

to get

me through.

i've done the research,

listened

to my heart,

looked deep

into my mouth

my ears,

my soul.

what could this young

whippersnapper

know.

not quite there

it's a cast

of blue snow

on

the sky.

the falling of clouds.

the shredding

of ice.

the grip of winter

still

holding on.

and we

with our daffodils

up,

our daisies,

and tulips.

sandals on, our

toes

in for a surprise.

we've got to get out of this place

the sharpest

of stars

draws my attention

as i lie

on my back in the short

grass.

i raise my arm,

to point at it.

that's venus she says.

we're on a hill

overlooking the town

we're in,

the town

we've always been in

and probably

will never leave.

i love you, she says.

holding my

hand.

i love you too, i tell her.

let's go

there one day. let's get out

of here.

there's so much of the universe

we've yet to see.

okay, she says,

i'm game.

wherever you want to go,

that's where

i'll be.

the pet rabbit

the pet

rabbit,

fat and white, a black

spot

or two

scattered across it's

shaking back.

pink eyed and nibbling on

something,

a carrot, some sort of weed,

or straw?

is it friendly, i ask.

not really,

she says.

pushing the cage

to the corner of the room.

a pyramid of dark

pellets

to the side.

a bowl of water,

half spilled.

it's teeth are very big.

she says,

we can't hold it,

or walk it,

it doesn't know it's name,

but it's cute and fluffy,

don't you think.

that has to hurt

is it a cry for help?

twenty-nine

tattoos, skulls

and crossbones,

butterflies

and hearts

inked on

necks and torsos,

breasts

and other assorted

parts. what is it with

the metal dripping from

ears

and tongue,

nose,

the ear with a hole.

the pink

hair.

is it wanting to be

noticed?

a lack of early hugs?

some

deficit of self-esteem?

who knows,

but i think i'm going out

the same

as i came in.

the empty tomb and potato salad

on Easter morning

I stand

in the cold line

for my ham.

it wraps around the building.

a cop

with cones

and a lively flare

directs the parking.

there is little

small

talk as the line slowly

moves along,

no one dressed quite

warm enough.

we stare into

the window,

deciding on potato

salad,

or other sides,

with

families waiting at home.

all of it

feeling trivial

and having nothing to do

with an

empty tomb.

what the hell?

strange

how she would wash out her

underwear

in the bathroom sink,

foregoing

the whirpool

washer and dryer

in the basement.

just three pairs.

mementoes of some sort?

blue and green,

one pink. she'd

lay them

out to dry on the bed.

frayed

and pale of color.

the elastic

stretched beyond

repair.

it was odd.

but not unexpected

of her.

a small clue as to

more

unusual things i was

yet to view.

absent of malice

mischief

is alluring, as long as it's

absent

of malice.

but the prodding or tease,

the gentle

tug of

hair, the rap

upon one's knee is

endearing.

love

beginning,

like counting freckles

on your 

young face.

wondering when 

the first

kiss

will take place.

the weary and battle worn

there is no ugly

in anyone.

form

is less important

than

function.

love conquers

all

defects,

all misaligned

or wrinkled

souls

come forward,

the weary and battle

worn

are the best.

running all the way home

with our envelopes sealed

with coins.

off we went to

church

on Easter morning,

the cellophane baskets

of pink

and yellow,

full of chocolate rabbits

and jelly

beans would have to wait.

would the mass

ever end?

our knees ached.

our hands pressed together,

sweating.

then finally the priest

would parade

by, so slowly,

and we'd scurry out 

the side door,

running all the way home.

they want everything

beware of those who

say

they want nothing.

they want everything.

if they

tell you they are drama

free,

prepare yourself for the hell

you are about

to go through.

low maintenance,

please.

batten down the hatches.

this ship

will sink

in the smallest of storms.

Springfield, Virginia

it's not

Paris, or Berlin.

or even

Amsterdam.

there's no monument, no

statues

to speak of.

nothing of importance

has ever happened

here,

or ever will

i imagine.

it's just streets

and bike paths.

a clover leaf to get you

north or south.

patches of woods

where the homeless sleep,

and man made

ponds that the children

wade in.

there's an Old Navy

at the mall.

an Orange Julius,

and a

Spencers.

I go to the Jiffy Lube,

nestled between

the 7-11

and Mr. Donut,

when it's time,

when the light comes on.

i told her no lima beans

she knows i hate lima

beans.

i've told her

so many times. please,

no lima beans.

and yet.

there they are

in a bowl,

in a salad,

a side dish almost touching

my pork chop.

my intuition

is telling me that

she doesn't really care

about my

dietary concerns.

which means,

this relationship

is doomed.

the fifteen cent raise

i had a job

once, at seventeen,

where i got a fifteen cent raise.

and i was

thrilled with it.

adding up

the new pennies over

a whole year.

imagining what

new things

i could buy.

where i could travel.

how much i could

save.

dinner theater

we saw

fiddler on the roof,

and then the next week,

with the same

exact cast,

west side

story

at the dinner theater 

in the round,

serving

hot meals

and drinks to the bus

loads

of seniors from Jersey.

in the middle

of Maria

an old man jumped

up

out of his seat,

spitting his food and yelled,

i can't eat this meat,

it's stringy.

the long distance call

there was a time

when the long distance call

was

romantic.

standing in a glass booth

along the highway

in the rain.

late at night.

a pocket full of change

ready.

to hear her voice

again.

after so long, too long

away.

when did we last speak,

days,

weeks?

this morning, she says.

not long ago.

i miss you too,

she breathes, you are

so sweet.

low on fluids

i ask her why

she's being so crazy lately,

nutty

as a christmas

fruitcake.

there's a strange

look in her eyes,

her voice

deep and dark,

as i take

a cake knife from

her trembling hand.

i finally get it out of her.

estrogen,

she says, weeping

into

her third piece of pie.

my doctor says

i'm low on estrogen.

how much?

i ask her.

a quart, a pint, a vial?

where do you

buy it?

maybe we can check

jiffy lube,

i think i have a coupon.

oh quit joking around,

she says,

getting the vanilla

ice-cream from the fridge.

this is serious,

you have no idea how hard

it is being

a woman.

so i've heard, i tell her.

so i've heard.

nearly every day.

sheep to the slaughter

with peach fuzz

on my

chin and cheeks, a pocket

full of

hard earned

cash,

i walked into

the dealership

to buy my

first car.

oh,

the salesman said,

wiping

the oil

from his hair with

a rag.

you want tires with

that car?

a steering wheel too?

undercoating?

you want

the deluxe version

don't you?

cold and sweet

is it karma,

is

it some sort of universal

energy

that

swings

back and forth,

waiting

for the right time?

serving

revenge cold

and sweet.

in the end.

does good win

out?

do we live long enough

to see

them

come apart?

it doesn't matter,

does it,

if all is well with

your own life,

your own

heart.

we're they ready for this?

the little girl

two doors down is walking

now.

it seems like

yesterday

when she was

still a biscuit in the oven

of her mother,

with

the smallest

of baby

mounds.

we're they ready for this?

who knows.

who ever is.

it won't be long

before she's waving from

a window,

in a car

departing,

now on her own.

busy before night fall

when my

mother was this age,

she was

on her knees in the garden.

another

case of poison ivy,

on her arms.

a cake

in the oven.

a puzzle on the dining

room table,

three hundred

and seventy nine piece

left

before it's done.

she had a parakeet

in a cage.

she had her sewing

room,

her doll house, with

her specks of glue

putting miniscule chairs

and beds

together.

when my mother was

this age,

she was going strong,

what possibly

could go wrong?

the night owl

is there a reason

to be

a night owl. are things

on your mind,

are you

distracted by the shows,

the cliff hangers

keeping

you hanging on.

the book

you'll never finish

as you linger

past the midnight hour.

is there something

left unresolved,

unsolved,

someone from the past,

someone

down the hall.

my cousin betty lou

she tells me about her

cousins.

jimmy, sally, don and rick,

betty lou.

she goes on and on about

them.

my cousin did this, my

cousin did that.

they sound like wonderful

people, interesting

and busy with their lives.

living abroad, 

taking trips, getting married,

having babies

and all of them

getting along.

i need some cousins.

i haven't seen any since

the 1970's, maybe i should

reach out and give

them a call.

start fresh

i believe in the scorched

earth

policy

of ending relationships.

toss, burn,

napalm the landscape.

make it all

a clean slate,

from cards to mementos.

all of it goes

to the curb.

start fresh.

we all make mistakes.

what's behind there?

can it be this heavy.

this

bureau

that i've moved a hundred

times.

an inch or two,

left or right.

forward or back.

have i gotten that old

that

my muscles

have lessened, my

back no longer

strong and straight.

it's possible, but

my will

to find things dropped

behind it,

is no longer a need

that great.

i'm bored with my printer

i think about getting a new printer.

there's nothing wrong

with the one i have.

dull black with a little blue

light.

it prints if i feed it enough

paper and ink.

it makes copies, it can scan.

it can even fax

if i want it to, although i've

never faxed a single thing

to anyone.

but it's dusty.

and noisy at times.

i want to be able to talk to it,

instead of going through

the trouble of pushing buttons.

i want to boss it around,

to have it make me a cup 

of hot coffee.

i want it to do more than

just print and scan.

i'm bored with it, and i'm

in the market.

it's about to go into the closet

with the other printers

i've had.

getting busy

April

is about to leave us

and what

have we learned.

anything new?

any

wisdom absorbed

along the way

of

budding trees,

streams

now fat with rain.

the birds

and bees

do seem busy,

why don't we?

can you heat this up?

we get the war news.

it comes

instantly

on our phones,

our tubes.

we see the bombed out

buildings.

the dead lying

in the street.

the homeless, the injured.

the tears and chaos

as it goes on.

then we

go to work,

stopping for coffee

along the way.

a cinnamon

scone.

her new Mercedes

i see my

dentist pulling up to

a stop

sign.

she rolls the window

down

and waves.

hey she says.

walking?

yeah, i tell her.

my car ran out of gas

and i'm

tapped out.

but hey, 

nice ride.

Mercedes?

yes, she says, top

of the line.

i have to run now,

but thanks.

i couldn't have done it

without you.

time travel

as i lie

on the cold tiled

floor,

hugging 

the porcelain wheel,

i ponder

that if i had a chance,

just one chance to go back

into time,

to go to any year,

any era

of my choosing,

i'd go back

an hour ago and order

something different

off the menu.

Indian food just doesn't

sit well with

me.

a few more degrees of separation

before he died,

he told

me about the time,

when he

was in jail

for assault and driving

drunk,

that his ex wife had

an affair

with the drummer

in the Marshall Tucker

Band.

while he was doing time,

she sold

his Harley,

burned his clothes

and moved

without a forwarding address.

but he was still

excited about

the drummer,

coming that close to

knowing a celebrity.

mincing words

uncertain,

you mince words, shuffle

in place,

play with a button

on your sleeve, you

put your hands into

your

pockets.

you avoid eye contact.

you rub

your nose,

scratch your ear.

okay, she says, i get it.

fine.

i won't bother you anymore.

it's all

very clear.

blue hair

i see 

her sister.

blue hair and heavy.

lots of clunky

jewelry

like the broads wear

in Cleveland

park,

she's on an electric

scooter

coming down King

Street.

she's holding

a grande vanilla latte

with extra

whipped cream.

she has a white mustache

because of it.

she's all of sixty-four.

there's a new

tattoo on her neck.

it looks like a feral

cat with

claws.

they don't even look

i almost

run four or five people

over

this week.

all of them, staring into

their phones

and without looking

crossing

quickly across the street.

i have the green light,

but they've

come out of nowhere.

i slam on the breaks,

they don't even look up,

they have no

clue that they were almost

hit by a car.

life for them

goes on.

but barely.

coloring eggs for Easter

we discuss

heaven and hell while

sitting at the bar.

she says

she doesn't believe in either.

she says

this is one or the other

here on earth.

you're not one of those

religious nuts, are you?

i can't date

a crazy person who believes

in those stories

in the Bible.

Noah's Ark, dude, come on.

give me a break.

Adam and Eve

oh, please don't eat that apple.

if you do

for the next million

years

the world is going to be

fucked up.

i thought you were a smart

man.

the empty tomb?

pfffft.

get real dude.

hmmmm. have you

looked at the menu yet?

are we ordering dinner?

i'm starving.

and by the way, i'm

coloring eggs for Easter

if you want to come over

Sunday

after mass.

big pinch, he says

this will hurt, the dentist

says,

hovering over you

with a silver

syringe

that seems to salivate

with what's ahead,

aimed upwards

into your most

sensitive skin.

big pinch,

he says, then goes in.

welcome to the neighborhood

when i moved into

the house

someone brought me an

enormous

tray of food.

tuna casserole.

i'd only been there for

one night.

what possibly could

i have done to them

to deserve this fright.

what's wrong with them

you can tell

where someone's head is at,

or even heart

by how

they drive.

too fast, too slow,

inconsiderate,

or mean, bumper

to bumper,

cursing and tossing

gestures

as they go.

running lights,

ignoring signs.

their lives are in

disarray, so they try

to straighten

out their problems

on the road.

the small smile

when less

ache

arrives, unannounced.

the pain

not quite

gone, but less,

and you've survived

there is a small

smile

of joy,

not full, but enough

to get you

through

the next day,

the next night,

and morning.

forgiveness

i come up short

on cash.

so i can't take the bus.

i have

to walk

in this rain.

i can't remember the

last time

i got soaked

like this.

to the bone,

my clothes heavy

on me.

but it's a good walk.

a cleansing

of sort,

minus a bar of soap.

forgiveness

arrives

in strange ways.

the tomato dilemma

whatever happened to what's

her name

someone asks me

in passing,

while shopping, holding a 

tomato in hand.

trying to decide on

organic or pesticides.

who? i ask.

who?

you know, the crazy person

you were related to

by the institution

of marriage.

i shrug.

who cares.

what do you know about

tomatoes?

i ask in return.

hot house, or beefsteak?

where is the will?

they can't find

a will

when the man dies.

they've looked everywhere.

the bureau

drawers.

the kitchen cabinet.

his busy desk,

beneath

the mattress,

the loose floor boards

in the attic.

no one knows

where it is,

listing his grievances

in how

he gives or doesn't give.

what matters most to her

the door, left open,

someone

has left in a hurry.

no trace

of them remains behind.

the clothes are gone.

rings

and bracelets,

the shoes

she wore.

the handbags,

the books.

she's even taken her

Warhol

pop art rendition

of the lord.

wisdom

not all old people

are wise

and thoughtful,

some are as dumb and careless

as i am.

don't let

the age fool you.

wisdom

can be found

at any age,

holding onto is one

another thing.

night versus morning

i prefer night.

she prefers morning.

we disagree

on so many things.

salt

is her go to,

sugar mine.

there's no middle

ground

to our disagreements

and yet

somehow,

we get along

just fine.

drop the shades

she was

all noir. everything she

wore

was black.

from heels

to hat.

dim the light, she'd say.

drop the shades.

she was in mourning

for most

of her life.

her moods dark.

there was no getting

around that.

somewhere new

other plans

get made.

other things to do.

the sun

has something to do with it.

call it

spring

flu.

you have to get out.

get away.

go somewhere

new.

she cries herself to sleep

she cries

herself to sleep.

who hasn't at least once

in this life.

it might

be about love,

or maybe it isn't.

maybe it's something

beyond

that.

maybe it's about 

something within her 

that no one

can reach.

not yet, not yet

the skin

will sag, will become like

crepe paper.

the hair

will fall out,

going white.

the eyes will have

lines,

the mouth,

the nose,

the teeth will loosen,

the muscles will go

soft.

the libido

will

lessen,

things that seemed

important

not long ago

will no longer have

at it.

but not yet.

not yet.

it wasn't always that way

there's is nothing

i need

at the grocery store. but

i want to go

just the same.

maybe a sweet.

a piece of fruit.

something i can freeze

for next week.

i like to browse

the aisles,

knowing that anything

is now

within reach.

it wasn't always that way. 

if she were a candle

if she were a candle.

she'd be

scented.

maybe vanilla, or almond,

or cinnamon.

often lighted

with a glass wine.

when i visit

i see the puddle of her

in the saucer.

brittle and hard,

the lovers

she's left

behind.

middle brow poetry

it's middle brow

at best

the critic says. pedestrian

prose,

and poetry.

not even a hint of

complexity.

there's no puzzle to solve,

no words

or mythological

creatures

to look up.

everyone knows what

you're trying

to say.

give up. let it go.

poetry should be confusing,

not

this way.

the neighborhood watch dogs

the neighborhood

watch

is on it.

catching

the car thieves,

the package stealers.

the dog

walkers who don't pick up.

look, no sticker.

tow it.

i see the angry

mob with

their torches lit

coming up the street.

they're cleaning

up this town,

these cul de sacs,

these narrow streets

of houses

where we live.

the unremembered day

there's rhythm

to the hours,

good days, bad days.

blah

days.

one never knows

when

unfolding

out of bed, what the day

or mood

will bring.

what luck will there be?

what misfortune

will befall you.

neither is quite fine.

keep it blah, if up

to me.

.

and now spring

these clothes,

threadbare and old,

hang

loose.

the winter took its toll.

a hard

snow.

little to eat,

the ice too thick

to fish.

and now spring.

what are we to make

of this.

nothing.

plug on.

in his sleep

his curtain fell

while asleep, was he in 

the middle

of a dream,

we'll never know, was

he thinking

about past loves,

the beach,

a city he's from,

again,

who knows.

but quietly he slipped

away,

no bang, no whimper,

with just

sigh

and then taken away.

same old

you're poems

are so

dark lately, she tells me,

with

a smile.

what's going on?

nothing,

i tell her.

same old.

with receipt in hand

spoiled

milk and meat.

i've fallen behind on

eating

things.

lettuce

and leftovers.

why bother bringing

them all the way home,

why not

toss them into the can

with receipt 

in hand,

when i leave

the store?

take nine of these and call me in the morning

nothing touches

this pain,

no kind words,

or cards,

no flowers,

not codeine, or aspirin,

or ice.

no ibuprofen

reaches

the level of anguish

where i am.

nothing over the counter

or under

the counter

seems to put out

the fire

of this wound.

not even skin to skin.

but this too

shall pass,

i know it will, because

it always

has, in time all things

will end.

more rocks

is that the moon

still

out.

the white spud of space

stuck

in blue?

is that really where

we want

to go again.

for more rocks, more

nothing

that's already here

in Arizona.

more rocks for me

and you.

before sunrise

i haven't been up

this early

since i delivered newspapers

for the washington

post.

a wagon full

of news, the dog by my

side,

hustling up and down

the streets

of oxon hill,

down the back alleys,

through

the cold shadows

before sunrise.

the wall between us

near mended,

i see him in his yard,

the old neighbor,

a slight

limp

in his gait, but still strong,

strong

enough

to set each stone upon

the wall

between us.

we wave and nod, 

but rarely speak, unless

spoken to.

keeping our distance,

our friendship

where it should be.

each of us

hardly known.

the tag still on

i stare at the orange

sweater

hanging in the closet

and wonder why i bought it.

what possessed me

to make such

a purchase?

it's never been worn,

the tag still on.

what day is a good day,

to wear

an orange sweater,

so far none have 

come to mind and i foresee

none in my

immediate future.

room with a view

we plan

for the ocean.

the seaside resort

on the eastern shore.

yes,

there will be sand

and sun.

there will be music.

and cold

drinks. hot food.

we might get sunburned,

we might get

tired from the swim.

the salt will

be in our ears,

our eyes,

but we won't

mind.

at night we'll

observe the moon

from high above in our

tenth floor

room

facing north,

one with an ocean view.

got milk?

milk has become

complicated.

what used to be simply milk.

white milk

squeezed from a cow

is now half and half,

whole milk,

2 per cent,

skim

and heavy cream,

light cream,

soy

and almond are now

claiming

their rights to milk.

let's not forget

canned milk,

condensed,

or powdered milk.

which i remember well

from childhood,

pouring the flakes

into water

and stirring hopefully

with a long

spoon.

half good

no matter how

good

you think you are, there's someone

who thinks

the worst of you.

one believes

in your goodness,

the angelic nature

you possess, while

the other,

bites at your ankle

seeing

the darkness.

the human side of you.

your clipped wings

and limitations.

somewhere in the middle,

like everyone,

is where your

true self rests.

other's gold

the soda can,

empty

and half crushed on

the curb.

ant filled

now.

a do not disturb

sign

up

in small letters.

the line is

long

as they enter,

then go.

what we toss, so often

becomes other's

gold.

drama kings and queens

so many drama

kings

and queens, sitting on their

rusted thrones,

wearing

their tilted

tattered crowns and tiaras.

where did the good

life go,

the shine of youth,

the money,

the perches they once

sat upon.

where is the adoring crowd,

the bows,

the gifts

the praise and glory

that was

once their own personal

Rome?

emotional eating

emotional eating.

is what

it is,

or not eating, we let

life

get the best of us sometimes.

more cake

please,

more drink,

more sweets,

more

of everything and then,

i'll eventually

feel fine.

or it goes the other way.

just water

and bread

for me.

as i lie in my cold dark

cell

and grieve.

war wounds

i didn't want to see his scar,

but he insisted.

drink taking hold

of his senses,

telling me in graphic

detail

how his ex-wife

took the knife

and cut him.

he pulled up

his shirt

lowered his pants

below the belt

and said, look at this,

my scar,

thirty-seven stitches,

and all of this was while

we were standing

at the bar.

what we want

the poor

want to be rich.

the rich want even more.

the single

and lonely

want a partner,

while the married

ones

want the door.

her garden

i like her garden.

it's neat

and clean,

well fenced

to keep the rabbits out.

tomatoes over there,

string beans.

radishes

and lettuce.

the little popsicle

stick

in the ground

tells you what's what,

the seed package

upside

down.

what's wrong with God?

the hard

questions go unanswered.

the why

of death

and disease, the slaughter

of the innocent.

the bad

turns

and failures,

wars allowed

and plagues.

why,

if one has faith do

these things happen?

what's with wrong with

God?

or should the question

be 

what's wrong with us?

palm sunday

i like

that she goes to church without me.

she doesn't

need my hand in hers

when she kneels.

her faith is sincere.

her aim is true.

she'll bring home her palms.

she'll cross

herself and be forgiven,

as i will be

forgiven too.

small and large things to write

you learn

early that you are less

participant

and more of an observer.

a witness

of sorts

to this life.

untethered to the masses,

watching,

listening, going

your own 

careful way,

finding small and

large

things

to write.

too far astray, come home

we go too far at times,

straying 

deep into

uncertain woods. not knowing

the land.

the turn

of streams,

the rocks ahead.

we are unprepared

without

food and water,

a good plan.

we go too far at times,

away from

home.

our ears

listening to a different

drummer,

a different band.

car sick

she would

get car sick, woozy

and yellow

from

the ride.

too long staring out

the window

as

that world

passed by. she wanted

off,

she wanted

her feet on the ground.

to get out.

and breathe

fresh air.

she wanted the drive

to end.

to at last arrive

and be found.

to full bloom

she picks

at her sadness as a child

would

at

the scab

that itches, forgetting

the wound.

bringing

once more to bleed,

starting over

again,

bringing the pain

of unrequited love,

to full bloom.

what else haven't you told me

what else haven't

you told me,

you ask

the world,

with ear to the ground,

to the sea,

to the bend

of branches

in the wind.

you open your arms

to the sky

and ask for

more.

more secrets, more

truth.

no lies.

we're separated, she says

she can't get divorced.

health reasons, she says.

his.

we're on

the same policy.

finances have

tethered us together.

we share the same house

too,

what about the disappointment

of our children?

we have

the dog to tend to.

the same friends

and relatives.

holidays are shared.

we still sleep in the same

room,

in the same bed.

but we don't have sex,

she tells me, 

that's been over for years.

we rarely talk anymore.,

but we love each other 

and it would be too sad

for everyone involved

to just get divorced.

there was only one option

i purposely

destroyed a stand up

cheap

piano once.

gave it the what for.

punches

and kicks.

jumped upon its keyboard.

then a hammer

to the casing.

pliers worked well

to pull out the guts of

wires

and computer chips,

things that made it play.

i cut the cords

and pushed it

all into a heap

in the middle of the floor,

then stood back and looked

at the shards of metal 

and plastic.

it felt good. a victory of sorts.

the other option

would have put me in

the slammer.

sunday at the senior center

i listen to her story.

it's a long

winded story.

i put toothpicks in my eyelids

to hold them

open.

i hear the word,

knitting,

and start to doze off.

she shakes

my elbow, and goes on.

the story circles

back to her

sister

in Omaha,

something about prairie

dogs

and 

coyotes.

then she starts to sing

a song, asking me to keep

a beat,

and sing along.

seeing a star in person

i was in a book

store once, in new york city,

columbia

circle.

i saw a television

star

browsing

the shelves, his dog at

his side.

calm and on a leash.

smart and as sophisticated

as his owner,

i imagined.

i stared as most would

at seeing

a star in the flesh,

but then moved on, 

thinking about my own

dog,

running in the dirt yard,

barking madly at a cat,

behind the chain

linked fence.

our station of the cross

we lower our expectations.

the gift

the girl,

the husband or wife,

the job, the house,

the car.

we accept the lot we're

given.

less driven now

at this age

than we were at 24.

so this is it, we say.

this is

our station

of the cross,

our arrival in life

is settled,

it could be no other

way.

high mass

i do like the stained

glass,

the arched stone,

the mystery of it all.

the old Latin

mass,

the smoke and mirrors,

the enormous

Christ on a cross.

the sorrow and sadness

rings true.

the joy of resurrection

hardly

noticed

as i kneel painfully

in an empty

pew.

down 5th avenue

when you walk down

5th avenue

it feels like you were born here.

that you never

left.

that this is where you

should be,

not in some suburban

cul de sac,

between

the stream and trees.

it's the city that pumps

the blood

in your veins.

puts your fingers to

the keys.

it's the pavement,

the crowds, the impossible

heights of

buildings,

the bridges,

a chaotic

blur of life,

the smell of history.

when the masquerade ends

bad people

don't seem to age well.

or maybe it's just how i look

at them.

no longer

under their spell.

they look older than their

years.

consumed with the darkness

of their soul.

having made every

wrong move.

the years wear heavy on them

with youth gone.

the masquerade

of beauty over.

the only thing left

in their eyes is fear.

three out of four doctors

i want to hear from doctor

number four,

not the other three

who all agree

on this pill or the other.

what's the deal on the fourth

guy.

was there a problem,

did something go terribly

wrong.

i want him to tell me

about the side effects,

the downside of the medicine

before i swallow

it down my throat.

 

the early morning dissection

as we cut open

another frog in the lab of

ninth grade

biology

you couldn't help but wonder

what pond

the poor fellow

came from.

are his buddies looking

for him,

calling out his name,

his mother

and father,

his little sister, waiting

on a lily pad

for him to return.

we took out his heart,

his liver,

his lungs.

until there was nothing

left but

bones.

and then the bell rang,

and we

altogether, not in pieces,

went home.

the roads taken

it's childhood,

it really is, that sets

the life in

stone.

the love given, or

not given,

determines so much

of who we are,

how we behave

as we negotiate

the road.

they look happy

sometimes

when you visit the zoo,

you feel sorry them,

seeing the lions

and monkey,

all the wild animals

in their cages, locked away,

but then

you wonder if they don't

have the best 

of it.

food and water, shelter.

doctors on site.

another beast to mate.

you start to ponder

who's better off

what with all you have to do

to keep things

going, to get through

another day.

filing separately

my tax lady Betty,

says

put your hand on the counter,

no,

your left hand.

i do what she tells me to do.

good says

when she doesn't see a ring.

good boy.

this year

was a good year,

you don't have to pay a thing.

nine hours no food

the surgeon tells

me a week in advance, don't

eat anything for

nine hours

before the operation.

pffft, i respond.

how about 24 hours.

i'm a veritable Ghandi

these days.

i can do 48 hours of no

food standing

on my head.

it's okay,

the surgeon says.

don't be a nut about this,

nine hours will be fine.

someone just like you

we straddle things, 

half in,

half out.

relationships,

jobs,

places where we live.

we have lingering

doubts.

we're there, but we're looking

elsewhere too.

what would

Idaho

be like, you wonder.

what's the deal there?

other than potatoes 

i have no

useable knowledge

about

Idaho, but

i wonder if there's

someone

there, just like you.

everyman

everyman

smoked back then.

a pack of luckys rolled

in their shirt sleeve.

drank whiskey.

canadian club.

they had jumper cables

and snow chains in the trunk

of their cars.

on saturday

they washed their cars,

waxed them

and rubbed them into a shine

with a chamois cloth.

they changed oil

under the oak tree,

pouring the old black

oil down

the sewer.

then they went in and watched

a ball game

on the couch.

shoes off,

stretched out,

a Ballantine beer in

hand,

they fell asleep

before the seventh inning

stretch.

the kids stayed away,

they knew

better than to bother them.

i can still taste that cake

i apologize

for the dead horse i keep going

back to

to whip

again.

but something came to mind

the other day

when i was craving

something sweet,

a sugar

fix, 

i thought about a wedding

cake from

fifty years ago.

three tiers,

white icing,

vanilla.

the best cake i'd ever eaten.

an Italian woman her mother

knew

made it specially for us.

an enormous slice

was wrapped

and put into the freezer

of our tiny

one bedroom apartment

near the racetrack.

to be opened on our anniversary

a year later.

she took it with her.

a few months and gone.

i can still taste that cake in

mouth,

the memory of it still

on my palette.

i'll never

never ever forgive her

for that.

the first cut is the deepest

i'm always surprised

at a new

cut,

a new slice of thumb or

hand,

a knee,

a chin. or heart.

how the blood spills,

as if it

wants to get out.

so red.

crimson.

bright with life.

but

the pain is less these

days, less than one

might expect.

it's the healing

that takes time, every time.

elementary school

the school bell

kept us

mice in order, in lines,

well

behaved

children of the sixties,

early sixties,

parenting

of a different kind.

our hair

combed,

shirts buttoned and tucked

in.

our shoes with a shine.

we were

good children

for the most part, we listened,

we obeyed,

did our homework,

and behaved,

we stayed in line,

even if other things

in life

were on our minds.

who doesn't like a blue sky

who doesn't

a blue sky, a warm day

with a generous

sun.

who doesn't like spring,

the birds

and bees

about.

the girls in their summery

things.

who doesn't

like

a change of seasons,

a new look

on life,

a new start, a new

door opening

when the other wasn't

right.

matrimony

i don't understand

the rodeo.

get on a horse,

a bull,

crazy animals that you

have no

business being on,

being thrown

and stomped on,

tossed about

like a rag doll,

some clown coming

to the rescue.

trying to stay on,

to keep it going for

as long as you can.

broken

and shattered,

inevitably

left in a cloud of dirt

at the bitter end.

Grand Opening

the first marriage

which lasted

six months, at most,

was a big affair. two hundred

people.

a three tiered

cake,

a band

and hall, 

coats and ties.

a photographer

capturing it all.

no kids or pets allowed.

very fancy.

the white dress,

the tuxedo.

a sit down dinner.

the parents,

so proud.

there was the car out front,

the dodge dart

swinger,

army green,

with cans tied

to the bumper,

streamers

and what not. crazy

friends at work.

and on the side of the car

they wrote,

Grand Opening tonight.

it was the 

worst.

first world problems

it's the smoke

alarm

battery dying, the beep,

which one?

and the toilet running,

again

not filling, not

flushing,

something worn out.

it's the door lock

not turning,

the wobbly leg of

the table

or chair,

the drawer

stuck,

the water heater

not heating,

the ac not blowing air.

the world is well

when everything works,

but gone

to hell when it doesn't.

the giant box of chocolates

when i binge dated

online,

joining each and every dating service

out there,

looking for the next

love of my

life.

i was often surprised

at all the married women out there

sneaking

off for dinner

and wine.

feminists who ran to the bathroom

when the check

arrived.

the crazy meter on red.

i met doctors and lawyers,

cup cake

entrepreneurs.

flight attendants,

bankers and government

workers.

cops and dancers.

housewives who hadn't seen

the light of day

since nineteen seventy-nine.

it was a veritable box

of chocolates,

the inside unknown until

you took a bite.

so many to unwrap, so

little time.

rainy day money

i tell my broker that i have

some extra

cash lying around

in checking accounts,

with no interest

accumulating.

she asks me how much.

i tell her.

oh my, she says.

well, send it all in and we'll decide

later where to put it.

can you tell me now, i ask her.

let me think about it.

but send it in.

here's my address.

maybe i tell her,

as i stuff the cash

between the mattress

and the box spring.

unfeathered chicken

i couldn't kill chicken,

wring it's neck

like my grandmother used to do.

i mean, i guess i could,

if it meant

starving.

if it was an end of the world

scenario.

i just prefer my chicken

already in parts,

packaged and labeled.

unfeathered and cold

pink

with goosebumps

at the supermart.

the wet floor

the wet floor

changes your life,

one

false move, one slip

and down

you go,

the entire flight

of stairs.

nothing to hold onto.

little to

grasp as you tumble,

head over heels.

at the end of this fall,

when you 

come to a stop,

you realize that you

might have to stay

in tonight.

let the world rest

as the war beats on.

the bombs and bullets.

the rape and pillaging.

the deaths

of children,

men and women.

buildings destroyed.

and for what?

what reason?

it's not war,

it's murder.

show me the king who has

done this.

bring his head

to the table

and let the world rest.

the saturday garage door opening

as i walk by,

the man in his garage, says hello.

he has a radio on.

the space is

well lighted, fluorescent,

the floor

painted with a speckled

paint.

grey and green, blue dots

and red.

it's a work of art.

i see his bench, each tool aligned

on the pegboard wall,

the flat head screw

drivers,

Philips,

hammers and little jars of nails

and screws.

there's a metal poster of

betty Grable on the wall,

all legs.

the hood of his white little

car is up.

the trunk open

with golf clubs.

he's home. he waves me in.

his wife is out 

with the girls, he's all alone.

the tv in the corner is on.

a ballgame, the sound off.

beer, he says, drawing a draft 

from his mini bar.

sure, i tell him. sure, why not.

it's saturday, after all.

she picked the blue dress

the last time

we were together, i was standing outside

the women's dressing

room at Macy's,

holding her purse,

and three other dresses

she wanted to try on.

it was beautiful day in April.

the kind of day

that makes you want to do

something else

with your life.

it was a deciding moment.

she bought the blue dress.

it really was the best choice,

i was

honest about that.

but i never saw it on her.

or her again.

i was done.

more or less.

i didn't mean to say that, really

i didn't mean to say that.

i really didn't.

i'm not that kind of person,

really.

it just slipped out.

fell out of my brain,

rolled off my tongue,

an accidental group of words

that i had nothing

to do with.

if i could take them back,

i would, in an instant.

i know you're not really a

bad person,

that you're not evil,

and crazy.

or that you remind me of a

dictator from the 1940s.

i just had a bad day at the office.

terrible day,

broke a lace, lost a button,

and spilled coffee

on my shirt.

what say,

we let bygones be bygones

kiss and make up,

and go to the movies?

waiting for the pot to fill

it was a flat roof,

one spout in each front corner,

clogged always

with leaves and debris,

the hot square of metal

tarred

once in the 1950s

set over

a block building with two

doors,

two residences,

and when it rained, rained

hard,

for not hours, but for

days,

the roof would leak.

my mother would find every

pot not used

from the kitchen

and set them beneath

the endless drips,

each child in charge of

emptying

his or her chosen vessel.

i remember watching

my pot fill,

wanting to be the first

to dump it out

the broken screen of the

broken

window.

The Smith Boys

two Mormon

fellows are at the door.

i hear the click

and push

of the storm doorknob,

the knocker

rapping.

i think it's my package

from amazon

that i've been waiting on.

three books

of poetry,

and another black sweater,

the others

all worn,

but it's tom

and harry.

two handsome young

men

with cherub cheeks,

and blue eyes.

they're holding Mormon bibles

and tracks.

a fountain pen,

a satchel of God's work,

by their side.

i'm in my underwear holding

a tumbler

of gin.

my black socks on,

a t-shirt stained with

ketchup,

they're as surprised

as i am.

i want to warn them

i see them

everywhere.

young lovers in the park,

all googly eyed,

and aglow,

old codgers,

or middle-aged couples

just hitting their stride,

even the pups,

holding hands

in the school yard.

they seem to have it made.

they're in

the beginning stage

of love,

or something that resembles

love.

i want to take them aside

and talk to them.

to warn them.

to let them hear my side.

wacky weed

my friend Lula belle

tells me she's smoking weed again.

she has her lava

lamp

out and poster of janis joplin

on the wall.

just a joint

in the morning, she says,

and one at might to help

me sleep.

great, i tell her.

i'm sure your lungs and brain

are thrilled

with that.

what?

she says.

coughing into the phone.

i'm having trouble with my

cognitive reasoning

and memory

lately, she says,

picking a seed

out of her teeth.

do you think it's related to the dope?

asleep beside you

there is something

peaceful

about

someone lying beside you asleep.

curled

inside her own

dreams.

the blanket to her chin.

the soft

bend of sheets

protecting her from the world.

i want to kiss

her, but i don't.

why awaken this beauty

for my own

pleasure

my own wants.

let her sleep.

mr. and mrs. jones

we both sign the register

as mr. and mrs.

jones.

i'm albert,

she's louise.

her arm

is around my waist,

her hand

pulling at my

fruit of the looms.

we can't wait to get up to the room.

luggage?

the clerk says.

no.

we both say.

three hours later,

we're in the lobby, 

coats over our head,

scurrying

out, leaving way

too soon.

oh, i'll just have a salad

she doesn't order much.

because she's

on a diet,

a vegetarian, and

it's beach season.

she wants to fit into

her yellow bikini by july.

she gets 

a garden salad,

sparkling water.

i get the steak and garlic

mashed potatoes,

french fries

and buttered vegetables.

a basket of bread.

her fork is in

my plate the whole meal.

we need ketchup

she says,

putting a long french fry

into her mouth.

she asks me if i'm having

dessert too.

the rabbit story

what's up

with the rabbit i ask the woman

of the house.

oh, she says.

looking at the fat black and white rabbit

in it's cage

on the floor,

nibbling at what looks

like straw.

it's my husband's

daughter's from two

marriages ago.

she can't watch it anymore,

because she's

in jail for awhile,

so we have it now.

be careful,

it's fluffy and cute, but

it bites.

leave me alone

i never raised

my hand

in class, even if i knew the answer.

why was

everyone

else doing that

i wondered.

their hands

flailing in the air,

half out of their chairs.

what were they trying to do.

impress the teacher,

each other.

and when

the teacher pointed

at me

for the answer, i couldn't imagine

why.

my hand was not

up.

leave me alone.

please,

if i have to speak, i'll die.

revoking my memberships

i'm not a joiner,

not a member of anything,

no clubs,

no groups, no meet ups,

no classes

no gatherings in

churches,

parks,

or marches.

but have fun with that,

go with the masses

if that's your cup of tea.

i prefer the solitude

of a good

book.

a large rock to sit

on 

in some distant woods.

you can come along,

if you want to,

but don't

talk too much.

that kind of day

it's a wet rag kind of day.

a grey

old

cloth beneath the sink

kind of

morning.

cold and indistinct.

the kind

of grey that makes you

wonder

if there ever was a sun,

if we ever

did have

fuin.

the broken key

with his meaty

hands

he breaks a key off

in the lock.

he leaves a note, i'm

sorry.

it wouldn't turn, he says,

and then

it snapped off.

so your door is unlocked.

but my work is

done.

thanks a lot.

not too many today

as the new york city cab

driver hurled us down

broadway

at seventy miles per hour,

one hand on the wheel,

talking

to someone in Pakistan

on his phone,

weaving between cars

and pedestrians

vendors,

i asked him how many people

did he kill

a day.

a rough estimate.

he stopped eating his

kabob

and looked in the mirror

at me, and laughed.

ha.

he said.

not too many today.

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?