have you seen Lilly

have you seen Lilly 

the woman

in the Cadillac

asks when she rolls

down her window.

she's referring to her

old black cat

that wanders

the neighborhood,

going under parked

cars and down into

the sewers.

lying in the sun on

a porch when tired.

i pour her a small

bowl of buttermilk

from time to time when

she visits me.

nope, i tell the woman.

haven't seen her

this week.

we'll if she shows up

tell her i'm looking for her,

and to come home. okay?

okay, i'll do that.

i object

the humor

goes first in a soured

relationship.

the sweet words of endearment

are kaput.

no more, sweet potato

or sugar dumpling

or

would you be a dear

and do this

my sweetness.

it takes a formal turn.

first and middle

names.

or mister this or miss

are said clearly.

each one holding a gavel

and a grudge

to object

at what's said next.

the daily fleece

we once worried about

pick pockets,

the thief

lifting our wallets

with a stealthy hand

as they bump

against us in a crowded

room, or bar,

or street.

those fun days over.

now it's the man on the phone,

in your e mail,

online,

who is more sophisticated

with his daily

fleece.

the rake is ready

it's a bright yellow

leaf

falling in handfuls.

a parakeet

gold,

one that resembles the skin

of a plum,

another

stretched

with red

veins, crimson,

once green

now old.

the rake is ready.

when dogs run free

you see the dog

off the chain

running free and happy,

swiftly down

the street.

at last released.

no plan, no strategy,

never going

back.

who hasn't felt that

joy at sometime

in their life?

the snow drifts of poetry

i take out the big bottle

of extra strength Tylenol.

a tall glass of cold water.

i have to sort through nine thousand

half baked poems

to find five or six to send to

The Sun Magazine.

they pay by the line and in

copies.

maybe with a few legitimate

publications

i can face the day better.

i'll show them.

i got your modern contemporary

confessional poetry

right here New Yorker.

i swallow two pills, gulp

down some water and dig in.

i hate everything i write

within an hour of writing it.

but somehow, by luck

or magic, divine intervention,

a few pop up worthy

of attempting

to publish.

those are usually the ones

that surprise me, and make

me say wow,

who wrote that? me?

no way.

getting the green light Houston

when she's tipsy

she's

frisky.

she's a little bit out of control.

regret will

follow in the morning,

but for now

she's giving me the green

light,

with all systems go.

i want to just plug it in

i remember the days

when you bought something new

like a tv

or a refrigerator,

or a stove,

or printer

or telephone

and you just plugged it in,

hit a button

and off you go.

you adjusted the antennae

on top

of the old black and white

and sat back and enjoyed

the show.

no more.

no more, God help us.

getting to the moon and back

is easier

these days.

my printer wakes me up

at night,

fresh out of the box,

asking me questions that

i don't have the answers to.

my account manager

my bank guy,

Kamil,

who works at the drive thru

rolls his

eyes at me

as he deposits

a check into my account.

he hits the button

to speak to me

through the garbled

intercom.

you are not gaining interest

he says, placing

my receipt into the box

with a red lollipop.

with inflation, you are

going backwards.

i blow air out of my

mouth in exasperation.

have you ever thought

of muni bonds?

he says. adjusting his turban

and long white

robe,

or a money market 

account.

i can barely hear him though

through the open

sliding drawer,

he's taken his hand off

the button

which allows outside

communication.

what?

i say. i can't hear you.

he pushes the button.

stroking his long white beard,

muni bonds, he says.

let me go get my manager.

hold on.

don't leave.

he has some forms for

you to fill out.

i unwrap the cherry lollipop

and suck on it.

the rattle beneath the car

it's a rattle

beneath the car.

fuck.

what's that.

i keep driving, turning

up the volume,

purposely

hitting bumps and

pot holes

in the road hoping

to make

the rattle go away,

magically tighten

whatever's loose.

i don't even

want to look

but i know i'll have

to take it in

at some point.

explain to some mechanic

what the noise sounds

like.

where it's coming from,

and tell him,

no, i don't know

how or why it happened.

i'm exhausted

before i even take it

to the garage.

after a few miles,

i roll the window

down and listen.

it's still there.

fuck.

when mindy myers drove the car into the library

in high school

when it was Mindy 

Myers turn

to drive

the big four door Buick,

the whale of a car that

we used for drivers education

she hopped

the curb

and hit the pole that

held up

the library.

tilting books,

and throwing magazine

racks to the floor.

i remember looking

out the window

at her crying,

feeling sorry for her.

she went from

safely existing under the wire,

being a nobody,

but not anymore.

the dawn of civilization

they refer to the phrase

the dawn of civilization,

as if suddenly

the apes

were walking around

and talking,

making coffee and mowing

the lawn.

writing blogs

and smoking cigarettes.

just like that.

but there's no mention

of the noon of civilization,

or the dusk.

or the late night end

of it all.

now let's go inside

the fire

at last out,

i sweep the ashes

up

into a small pile,

circling

the broom, 

from side to side

and around,

then

carefully brush

it all into the dustpan,

casting it all

into an open bin.

that easy.

that easy.

it's done, now let's

go inside.

candy in a bowl

she kept the same

bowl

of candy

in reach on the table

at the end

of the sunken couch.

the cushions

that never saw the sun

still orange,

the others a faded

brown.

the bowl was made

of crystal.

a gift from someone

long ago.

it added a sort

of genteel

flavor to the room,

lacking

light.

candy, she'd say,

pointing 

towards the bowl

as she asked you

to sit down,

to which you'd always

say no. maybe later,

but not now.

out the window

on occasion

you see them on the street

in slippers

and pajamas,

a band around their wrist,

maybe a long grey overcoat

worn like a cape.

they've climbed out

a window

of their own personal

asylum.

they look scared,

they're moving like

squirrels in the street

with dark eyes

frenetic feet.

they know their time is short

on the outside,

but they no

longer know which

direction to go,

what to do with their lives.

the net upon

them, came way too soon.

no longer knowing

a truth from a lie.

the audience

not everyone

can dance,

or sing, or play an instrument.

not everyone

can lead the band,

the orchestra.

not everyone can act

or play a role,

juggle

or stand up to recite

their poetry,

or tell a joke.

someone has to be

in the audience. 

someone has to fill

the room.

nude in the window

the woman

in the window is nude.

not a towel

around her.

people slow as they pass

by

some to admire

some to cast shame

she knows what she's doing

she doesn't care

youth is fleeting

and one day

she'll feel the need

to draw the shades.

someone like you

someone like

you is coming up the street

someone like me

is with her

but it isn't you

and it isn't me

but still

it's startling to see

so i cross over

wanting no part of it.

counting coins

it's just money.

paper

or coin.

it comes and goes.

but when

you're low on

money.

when the rainy day

fund

is spent.

the world

seems hard,

feels old.

the one hour printer

with the printer

on the fritz

i buy a new one.

it's heavy, large.

i cut it out of the box,

the Styrofoam,

the plastic wrapping,

find the directions

in six languages,

and some rattling

unbagged parts.

wireless, it says on

the box.

two hours later,

it still doesn't work.

the one eight hundred

line is dead.

the web site gone.

it won't print or copy,

or scan, or do any

of the things it promised

me in the four star

review i found.

i pack it all up

and take it back.

who needs a printer,

anyway.

SASE

the business

of anything creative

is grueling.

you just want to splash

paint down,

throw words onto the page.

edit.

and move on.

you don't want to put

the new

poem into an envelope

and wait five

months for a student

editor to accept

or reject your piece.

SASE, they insist,

return postage.

a cover letter, tell us

who are,

describe in detail what

this is.

we pay in copies, or two

cents per line.

be patient, we get two

thousand

poems a month, and we

don't read

between may and august.

good luck.

let others decide

a forgotten

box,  an old marked

box,

cornered

and wet with mildew,

taped tight.

the mold

of being forgotten

pushed deep

into an attic corner

where no sun

will bring light.

cards and letters,

photographs?

touch stones and tells.

what prize

is there inside,

what

clue

to the past that

reveals where we

are now.

some, a lot, or none.

we'll let it rest there.

let others decide.

unfilling the void

i see no difference

i can't tell one from the other.

between the spiritual,

or lost,

the wise,

or unwise.

those that pray

or meditate before a flickering

candle.

i see them in traffic,

at work,

at play.

i listen to what they say,

peer into their eyes.

they appear to be

no different than you

or I

still bothered, still uncertain,

still searching

for something that will

fill the void

inside.

it's no different

when you are in love,

it's no

different than

being insane,

you are too busy with it

to tend

to the real world,

the small

things

around us,

the mundane.

you don't hear what

others are saying,

you don't

feel or know

what truth is.

you are skipping down

some rose petaled 

path,

oblivious to any 

painful end.

house for sale

we need to move,

the wife

said,

looking out the window

at

the new neighbors

unloading

their car

of kids

and bags, boxes.

clothes from j.c. penny's.

their skin

a much darker shade

of tan

than theirs

earned from the beach

at the Hamptons.

the gossip

the priests

are prone to gossip

with the last confession

heard

they can hardly

contain themselves

rushing back

to the back vestibule

to spread the word.

you won't believe this one,

they say,

to a gathering gaggle

of nuns

and others,

stirring coffee

to calm their nerves.

the toils of the first world

we have

small tasks to do.

the unseen,

the undocumented

toils

of our first world

woes.

there's the lint trap

on the washer.

for one.

so quickly filled.

just like us

as children,

when the neighbors argued

we'd cup

our ears to glasses

pressed against the wall.

we wanted 

to hear

what their lives were like,

these other husbands

and wives.

how different

they were

than ours.

not very, we surmised,

our ears

flush with harsh words,

curses,

and lies.

is there another way

without

much thought,

i awaken.

and move into the day,

though

it feels as

if the wheel is just spinning,

that i'm not going anywhere.

i'm still

despite movement.

not falling

backwards, or forward,

just propped

up,

waiting for something

or someone

to show me another

way.

she was never here

truthfully,

i never knew who she was,

her favorite color,

or drink.

or book, or song.

what film, or piece of art

stirred her.

i never knew

what food she preferred,

what day of the week

she felt

more happy in.

i was clueless as to

what month, or season,

was her favorite.

i never knew much about

who she really was

despite lying next to me

for over a year.

it's almost as if

she was never here.

judgement

can we look

at another without judgement,

or hear someone

speak,

or listen to a song,

or watch

a film,

or stare at art

with little or no opinion?

can we just observe

in a neutral state

and not cast aspersions,

or be overly

generous

with kind words.

it seems impossible to

disengage

from this world,

as we look upon it,

and it looks upon

us.

placing value on what

we feel

is worth,

or absurd.

removing her funny bone

she had her funny

bone

removed early

in life. 

at maybe ten or eleven

her father

took out

a knife

and carved it away.

there was no blood

or pain

at the time.

that would come later

as she tried to figure

it all out,

looking

over her shoulder

at the little girl

left behind.

the not so grand canyon

the bar,

the eatery,

the shore,

the mountain line.

each

less

interesting

over time.

have you had your

fill

of this world?

or is there more

to see and do.

it seems for now

at least,

that these shoes

will remain

shiny and new.

the art of washing clothes

we were different.

she

separated her clothes.

used bleach

and sensitive detergents.

the darks and whites

were washed

separately.

when the beep said

the dryer was done,

she folded them while

warm,

placing them neatly

into a basket

then took them to their

designated bureau

drawer homes.

as for me.

a week might go by

before

i went back down to find

something to wear,

tossing them

all into a basket.

sorting until the right

shirt was found.

surprised by pockets

with money still there.

the sailor

like his marriages,

three being

the charm,

his first boat sank

while tied

to the pier, the second boat

caught fire

in the dead of winter.

the third boat,

was stolen,

someone sailed it away

one night

when the coast was clear.

and now he talks about

his next boat,

perhaps a rowboat

this time,

but this sailor

is running out of years.

plum out of sorry

i reach into my

bag

for another sorry,

but there is none.

i'm plum out of sorry's.

the bag

is empty.

i gave them all to you

on the first go around.

it's a shame, 

but for now

a shrug

will have to do.

not wanting sleep

not wanting

sleep

sleep finds me, takes

me by my

hand

and lays me down,

down.

the lights off.

the din

of the world

slowed

to a gentle spin.

nothing moves

out the window,

but flickering

pricks

of white stars

through a black cloth.

a half moon, but

not a sound.

in seeking the afterlife

there is a need to push

the spires

upward,

to build high and hard

the steeples,

making

room

for darkness in the rafters,

but light too

through

mottled panes of glass,

stained in

greens, and reds,

ambers.

redemptive blue.

ring the bells too,

let God know we're here,

that we believe in you.

we covet the smoke and mirrors

of the church,

the fear of it.

beating our fists 

to our chests, kneeling blindly

in faith.

the fire and brimstone

message.

the holy rags of gold,

the enormous crucifix.

we want salvation,

we want heaven 

and the sweet afterlife, but

without the pain,

the price of

submission, of fasting,

of denial

of all the sinful

pleasures that come with

this thorn filled life,

despite so many roses.

the stone wheel

it's a rabbit hole,

no doubt,

once diving into 

the psychology

of another's

mental issues.

father,

mother?

environment.

biology?

what makes a person tick?

makes them

jump

from the bridge.

what makes a person

stay put

and grind out a life

at the stone wheel

set before them?

the white curtain

they separate

the sick

with a pulled curtain

in the shared room,

side by side

two beds.

no need in piling on

someone

else's

illness or grief.

it's a mind your own

business

white sheet that the nurse

draws

around you.

the rollers hardly making

a sound,

just a quiet squeak.

each grain of sand

we bring

in the sand on our shoes,

our feet.

the soft

infinitely small pebbles

of ocean

and earth.

browned and whitened,

made small,

by time,

the pounding

of waves.

it's everywhere,

where we walk,

where we eat

where we sleep.

it's inescapable.

each grain somehow a

part

of a bigger picture.

strange

knowledge

that feels out of reach.

read me one more page

the words

come fast, then slow.

a perfect read.

you lie back and listen,

the speaker turned up

on your little

phone.

you listen and imagine

these people, hardly

disguised

in the Bell Jar.

it's a beautiful book,

a painful book.

you know the end

before the end,

but it doesn't matter

doesn't ruin things.

you want it to go on,

for her life

to go on.

you want to read what

she would have written

if she hadn't

taken her own life.

but you are glad

for what she did leave,

glad that she was born.

no requests taken

was my mother a good cook?

who knows.

but we ate everything she put on 

our plates.

from pork chops,

to spaghetti,

to scrambled eggs.

she was more of an army cook

in the middle of a war,

a raging battle

with troops to feed,

making due

with whatever she could find.

salt and pepper,

butter and oils.

a small tower of wonder

bread centered.

before shopping,

she was

always at the table with a pair

of sewing shears

cutting coupons

from the newspaper.

searching for

whatever meat was on sale,

apples and bananas,

spam,

there were no requests taken.

flowers in her hair

seeing her walk away

like that,

in a huff,

like a clock

swaying

back and forth,

in her heels, reminded me

of a girl

i knew in San Francisco,

back in

the Haight Ashberry years.

bell bottom jeans,

beads,

flowers in her hair,

her eyes a Pacific green.

she was something else,

and now that i'm

free again,

i might find her number

somewhere.

a thousand small cuts

it's just a trickle of blood

at first,

easing

out of the small

crease

in my leg.

an inadvertent cut

at work.

i look at it.

it's a thirsty wound.

i've seen worse, seen

less.

it'll stop on its own at some

point.

then when i get

home i'll wash it out,

find an old bottle of iodine

and splash it on.

the scars are adding up

like scratches in a wall

measuring time.

raised rents and girls

at twenty-one

i moved from my first apartment

because they

raised the rent fifteen dollars.

how dare they.

plus, there was a wild eyed

catholic girl

i was seeing at the time

she lived in another state,

a long drive.

in looking back

i realize that

i've made a lot of dumb decisions

in my life,

based on raised rents,

and girls

i wanted to date.

who's in charge here

my father

was not a good arguer,

he had no skills

in the art of debate,

there wasn't a hint

of diplomacy

in his slurred words.

no contrition,

no remorse or regret.

fists seem to work better

than talk, or reason.

knuckles were more decisive,

they informed us clearly

who was in charge here.

kodak kisses

i don't trust

these pictures of happy times.

of smiling faces,

laughter,

balloons and barking dogs.

i don't believe

in the gloss of this paper,

the shine

of the sun

behind the crowd,

arms entwined, snapped

photos of kisses

made between

vows and promises.

i don't believe one bit

of it,

because i was there too.

counting backwards

they say

our days are numbered,

that we're running

out of time.

choosing the clock

or calendar

to count down

the minutes or

hours

of our existence.

we keep track of ages,

years

being touchstones

of youth

and beyond, then at

the end we

sum it all up

with a tombstone

etched with numbers,

shadowing our grave.

just a dollop, dear

just a dollop

i tell

her,

as she holds the can

of whipped

cream above

my bowl

of strawberries.

but she doesn't listen.

she shakes the can

then squirts

until

the fruit is covered

with the white

froth of cream,

which

makes her

laugh, the can now

empty.

then

together we eat,

with her on my lap.

mid century x rays

the surgeon

shows

me the x-ray, see, he says,

see,

usually that's white,

not dark.

he drags his finger

along the blotted screen,

talking

in a language i don't know

quite yet,

but am learning.

i think of Salvadore Dali,

Jackson Pollock,

Ferlinghetti,

all the beat poets,

and abstract

painters i have

read or seen.

all of them

make more sense

than this,

no one at home

was anyone

home?

i rang the bell,

rapping

cautiously

on the front door,

i cupped

my hand to the window,

to the darkened rooms.

they appeared empty,

cold.

no chairs, no pictures

on the walls.

between the familiar hedges

i pushed

around the still house,

to the gate,

to the back yard.

again,

not a sound.

i turned the knob

on the door, tightly

locked.

i looked under the mat

for a key.

nothing.

so it was true, after all.

i didn't live here

anymore.

maybe tomorrow

there are days

when you don't want to fix things.

let the gate

lean,

and swing

let the fence lie where it

is.

there's a shingle

on the roof

letting rain in.

and us, always us.

perhaps tomorrow

i'll attend 

to these things.

this needs protection too

it's a small metal box,

fireproof,

polished

blue,

three dials with numbers

so that it

locks.

it holds a few things

of importance,

papers,

certificates,

birth records,

insurance and codes.

but there's other things

too, less

worldly.

a picture, a letter,

a postcard,

a strand of hair,

one earring,

an empty bottle of perfume.

a poem that i wrote when

i was in love you.

all of this 

needs

protection too.

it sounds like home

it's a familiar

creak

in the floorboard

going up

the stairs.

under

the weight of one

foot

after the other.

it's been there forever,

since

the last brick

was laid down,

the last nail

hammered

sixty years ago.

the predictable groan

of pipes

in winter,

the wheeze

of air through the crease

of a window.

the woman who lived

here before me

heard it all,

and the one before

her,

she heard it too,

as i do.

in time it sounds

like home.

plodding along

we don't

know what life is truly

like

for bugs,

for small flying creatures,

those on the ground,

meandering

in any direction,

those beneath

a rock

that one there,

dancing 

on your arm.

we don't know what

they're thinking,

what their

goals are, whether

they believe

in God,

do they have a plan,

or are they like us,

just plodding

along.

check please!

read this book,

she said,

the five languages of love.

tell me which

one are you,

let's see if we're compatible,

able to may

a go of it.

no thanks, i tell her,

throwing my

hand up to alert a waiter

to bring the check.

my ex wife had me read

venus and mars,

then she 

took me for every penny

i had.

it'll never work

if you believe in crap

like that.

i'm sort of done

with such

baloney, for lack

of a better word.

the summer wind

we push aside

the news,

the bills, the annoying sound

of the leaf

blower,

turn the tv off,

unplug,

unwire.

lay the newspaper

at the bottom

of the bird

cage where it

belongs,

then drift off into

a summer nap,

listening to the birds

in the trees,

Sinatra singing a

song.

a girl and her money

i used to ask her,

where all her money went.

she made

more than i did.

a lot more,

but she was always dirt

poor.

borrowing from me.

what do you do with all

your money,

i asked her.

she sighed and said,

you don't know what it's

like to be a girl.

there's the beauty parlor.

nails,

clothes,

perfumes and make up.

the gym.

shoes.

the tanning booth,

the aesthetician.

the horse i rent on weekends.

yogurt.

wine. lots of red wine.

greeting cards.

laxatives

and therapy.

i put it all on my credit

cards,

and then there's interest

and the late fees.

billy bob

a girl bought

me a leather vest once.

and a pair

of pointy boots.

a belt with

a big silver buckle,

engraved

with longhorns.

she wanted me to

grow a mustache

and 

wear cowboy shirts,

with bolo ties too.

she was attempting

to make

me all over again,

just like the guy 

in the picture

her old boyfriend

billy bob,

down in kalamazoo.

strong enough

they say

that what doesn't kill

you

makes you stronger.

maybe,

maybe not.

i still think it's a good

idea to avoid

anyone,

or anything that's

trying to kill you.

i'm strong enough

as it is.

from the red tee

it may

take a great flood again

to fix things,

an atomic bomb or two, or three.

some

apocalyptic

catastrophe to befall

us all.

we could start over,

give God a mulligan,

and let Him take another 

swing at things,

but this time off the red tee.

a few likes

despite not having one,

i like dogs.

cats too.

i like men who aren't

angry

all the time, 

women not carrying

suitcases,

intent on moving in

with you.

i like

children

that are well behaved.

i like

the smell of stew

on the stove.

christmas carols

and pie.

i like snow.

deep snow 

especially when i'm

stuck

inside with you.

some sweeping to be done

i have been

a prisoner before.

under guard.

no walls, or chains,

or towers

with dogs,

but still.

it was the same.

false love,

keeping me

under lock and key,

insane.

i had to dig early,

dig deep, crawl

out,

a spoonful of dirt

at a time. so

pardon the debris,

there's still some sweeping

to be done.

embrace winter

beauty will fade,

it will.

you only need to look

out you window

at the wild flowers

in the field,

and you know what's

coming.

they too embrace

winter,

but without a shiver,

as we do.

you expect the sun to rise

you expect the sun

to rise,

the moon

to appear at night,

everything to be

in the same place

as it was the day

before.

you imagine nothing

will ever change,

or alter,

it's the fairytale

we're taught when young.

this should be interesting

the stumble,

the trip and fall,

the dry skin, the blurred

eyes,

the strange ache

of bone

and limb, how

you turn up

the volume

on everything.

softer foods,

and softer chairs,

early to bed,

early to rise.

if we get there,

the eighties should be

interesting.

who you gonna call?

lawyers,

necessary evils,

as are

doctors

and dentists,

tax 

advisors,

plumbers.

and yet when

the pipe

breaks,

or love goes south,

or the tooth cracks,

who you gonna

call?

happier than me?

the old man,

with the rusted car,

the tattered clothes,

the worn shoes.

the thin walled

house,

with old furniture,

the limping dog,

a stopped clock

on the wall.

an aging wife

beside him, holding

his hand.

how is it possible

that he's happier

than me, 

me, with everything

new again

and again and again.

different climates

her weather was different

than mine.

two distinct climates.

one warm,

with white sand,

and blue seas,

the other cold,

the landscape covered

in ice, snow

up to our knees.

i needed a shovel,

some salt and an ice pick

to get close to her.

but with me

all she had to do

was open a window,

throw back her arms,

and breathe.

the early morning fire

there was an early

morning fire

up the street where we used to

live,

a baby died.

smoke inhalation.

i remember my mother

walking up there

to watch the firemen

put the fire out.

we followed her,

close behind, ducks

in a row,

and watched as they

carried the baby

down the stairs.

i remember holding my

mother's hand

as she trembled and cried.

when there was nothing more

to look at,

she gathered us all

together to go home.

where she carefully

combed each head of

hair, and hugged us,

before we went

off to school.

a yard full of chickens

it's hard not to laugh

when you

see a bunch of live chickens

running around

in someone's yard

in the middle of the city.

fat white chickens,

clucking and pecking

at the ground for bugs.

you ask the guy what's

up with the chickens,

he carefully walks

his way over,

trying not to step

on the chickens and what

they leave behind,

and says, it's all about

the fresh eggs. you haven't

lived until you have

a fresh egg.

you nod, and say,

i get it, i get it, but

is this something you

would take on,

probably not.

Safeway has eggs.

synthetic oil

it's a small room,

where no

one talks or acknowledges

the other's

presence.

there's the dirty floor,

the grease

around the knob

to the bathroom door.

there's a magazine

called People on the table,

yellowed,

asking if

Elizabeth Taylor can

keep her weight off this year.

there's a 1962

popular mechanics

magazine with an article on

how to hang a shelf in

a bomb shelter.

ten stiff chairs are aligned

in a semi-circle.

like therapy,

but without the doctor.

everyone stares into their

phones,

trying not to make

eye contact

or breathe too much.

at the front is a plexiglass

window

where a man shows

you how dirty your filter is.

57 dollars now,

covid he says to explain

the price hike, the war too,

but,

he says, if i was you,

i'd change it.

they come in threes

sometimes it comes in threes.

bad things.

trouble.

a small storm of annoying

problems

to deal with.

one by one you put

each fire out.

some with a hose, 

some with a boot,

some

you just let them

burn

themselves out.

three seems to be 

the magic number.

i don't know why.

the shiny badge

the policeman

shows me

his badge.

flashes it in his hand.

suddenly i want to confess

everything.

even to things i've

never done.

i feel this way around

priests too,

or new lovers,

anyone

i think is good,

that i've found.

the fading green

i see the first

curl

of yellow in the leaves.

the first

splash of red,

the drying

of brown.

still a way to go

before summer ends.

still

away to go for

us,

as we continue

to pretend..

into the light

we are

the moth

flying into the light.

into

what we perceive

is good

and right.

we flutter our wings

and fly

giddily into

our own desired

dream.

and we do it over 

and over

again, almost

until we die.

ala johnny depp

i've never had any

bling

worth mentioning.

a few watches

of the timex and swatch variety,

but no

rings, ala johnny depp,

with the exception

of wedding

bands

that are now in the river.

but i've never had

a chain around

my neck,  gold or silver,

leather,

or home made

twine,

no crosses dangling,

no Italian horn,

no bracelets

around my wrist.

no dog tags either.

dodged that fashion

trend too.

the basura can?

for Milagro,

i find online

the translation for

please leave the keys in the house

when you leave,

and lock the door.

i print off five copies

and carefully

cut them into small strips

that i tape on the door,

on the check,

on the refrigerator,

on the basura can,

but after five years,

my hopes are

low

on this happening.

the brown side of the apple

they like to show

you melting glaciers,

the last turtle in

the bay,

puppies

with big eyes, their ribs

showing

as they shiver

in a cage in new jersey.

they like to play

violin music,

soft and melancholy

as they show

you refugees,

a soft voice narrating

the tragedy

per day.

people wading in flood

water,

the lines of homeless

and hungry,

wanting relief.

the scabbed,

the sick,

the dying,

the lost and impoverished.

how many times a day

can your heart break,

your stomach

take, a world gone

brown and soft

like a rotten

apple.

parched peas in a pod

clearly we

don't see eye to eye.

nose to nose,

cheek to cheek,

disagreeing

on just

about everything

under the sun.

but we're stuck with each

other.

two parched peas in a pod,

tethered together

by the bonds

of marriage

and fate,

destiny?

the entangled vines

of lifes weeds,

choking us.

there's eternity and then there's now

the minister

is worried about

my father's after life,

his salvation,

where he'll spend eternity

when he dies.

Has he given his life

to Christ?

meanwhile

i'm trying

to get him to the doctor

for medicine,

to the dentist,

then to the barber

for a haircut. but first

i have get his shoes on,

tie his laces.

help him into the car

then drive him

to the store to buy him

something

he might like.

something that he can

chew

and swallow.

skim milk,  he says.

pointing at the array

of jugs behind the cold

glass doors.

we get home, then

i get a ladder out,

to change the light bulb,

gone dark in his

hallway.

he needs the light.

we all do.

it all makes sense

i look at my thirty

seven

pairs of shoes,

cheap shoes,

expensive shoes.

grey, brown, black.

athletic

shoes.

dress shoes,

sandals,

slip ons, boots,

all lined up

in neat rows at the bottom

of my closet,

then i think about

when i was a young child,

how i used to cut

cardboard circles

from a box

and stuff them into

the bottom of my

shoes

when i wore holes

into them

eventually there were holes

in my socks,

blisters and callouses

on my feet.

it all makes sense.

too much useless information

tired of the war,

of politics,

of viruses,

of guns and violence,

of inflation,

tired of gas prices,

and celebrities,

the stock market,

you hunker down

and let the useless

information

breathe out of you.

you have no room

for more.

treading water

some days

you're just treading water,

going nowhere,

moving

but staying still,

unsure of which direction

to swim,

which shore,

which bank of sand

to set your feet

into, but you're tired,

your arms and legs

weary from staying

afloat,

you're running out of time

and energy, air,

it's time to go

somewhere.

a note on my pillow

don't leave me

notes

on my table, or pillow,

or taped to the refrigerator

door,

or in the mail

slot

lying on the floor.

don't tell me your grievances,

your disappointments,

don't point out my

faults,

my weaknesses.

my failures and inabilities.

don't.

please, just don't.

that complaint line is long

and old.

just pack your bags

and don't look back,

just leave.

as you are often

told.

in the garden of eden

at times i have

the discipline of an infant,

unable

to touch, or want,

or put something desirable

into my mouth.

but if i was in the garden

of eden

and the only rule was to not

take a bite of an apple,

i think i could handle

that.

i could say no, i'm good.

who needs an apple when

we have heaven right

here on earth.

pfffft, apples, who needs em?

the financial advisor

she arrives

in a small car, old,

a Chevrolet?

maybe,

blue smoke belching out

the back pipe.

the windows are rolled

down on this july day. 

ninety in the shade.

she waves

with a pencil

in her small round

hand and gets out.

she has folders under

her arm.

black notebooks full of

laminated sheets

of future earnings.

actuary tables.

stock

predictions, algorithms.

she's sweating.

her clothes too tight.

she's acquired my name

from a friend of a friend,

of a friend.

she wants to be

my new financial advisor,

she wants to

show me the light.

wet cement

with the new cement 

poured

between the boards

for the sidewalk,

and the workers gone home,

i see from the window

two young boys, both

with sticks in hand

scrawling

their initials into

the wet concrete, 

yet to harden.

marking their life,

letting the world know

that they were here.

that they exist,

a desire that never

seems to end.

when you're down that low

to me it was a job

to get

to another job.

maybe a summer,

maybe a year.

but for others, they were

grown men.

some just out of prison.

grey faced,

and weary,

hunched over mops,

or brooms,

trash bins,

living on the small paycheck

they got

twice a month.

there was a clock we

punched into.

stiff uniforms

that never quite fit,

our names

on peel off stickers

over our chests.

there was a green tiled 

room where we ate,

sitting side by side

on hard benches,

many of the men and women

black or hispanic,

and me white, but it

made no

difference,

we were all in the boat,

color meant

nothing

when you're down that low.

is this a long story?

the elderly ask

you to be quiet so that they

can tell

you a story.

come over here and sit

by me.

let me tell you what happened

back in my day.

was it sixty-one,

or two,

maybe sixty-three?

but the young are

impatient, they want

the punch line now,

the end before

the beginning.

they don't want to waste

time on the middle.

they need to get away,

and out,

their own stories 

itching to start.

betty and veronica

she named

her cars

betty and veronica.

the first one being an

angelic pale blue,

the second one

red.

cherry red.

fiery and wild.

she drove a different

one each

day, depending

on her mood.

i'd look out the window

when she stopped

by for a visit.

hoping for veronica,

bursting red,

not blue.

have you found everything you were looking for

the clerk, a young woman

with red hair

and a blush

of freckles on her lineless

face begins

to move my

groceries along the belt.

she seems neither happy

or sad,

but elsewhere.

she asks me

if i've found everything i was

looking for.

i think for a minute,

then tell her

that's such an existential question.

do you mean

here, in this store, or

are you talking

about life? life in general?

she doesn't respond,

but continues to ring up

my milk and bread,

shaving cream,

her fingers rapidly

clicking

onto numbers.

i've worried her.

monkey business

i suddenly

have a craving for bananas.

there's a sore

on my leg.

i'm climbing trees.

making

strange O shaped

noises.

i'm very jumpy

and excited about everything.

i scratch

the raised bump

on my leg.

i'm picking fleas 

off my sleeve.

i'm wondering.

monkey pox?

nothing's wrong, nothing

one minute 

in the kitchen

icing cupcakes,

and the next minute

she's on

the ledge about to jump

out the window.

gently i take her arm

and help her

down.

i ask her what's wrong.

nothing she says.

nothing.

i take a bite of a cupcake,

and look at her.

smiling.

these are good, i tell her.

real good.

what we remember

we drink,

clinking glasses together.

laughing like boys

at the bar.

most of us

white haired, grey,

stretching knees,

and arms.

the wind of time in our

faces.

but we were young once.

and that's

what we remember

and savor

as we press on towards

our own good night.

i won't be there

it's possible that

i won't hear him

when he falls, when he yells

out

for help.

i won't be there

to hold his hand

as he

takes his final breath,

his heart

reaching for air

and more

beats.

i won't be around.

but he knows,

and it doesn't

matter.

love

is beyond all that.

a handful of feathers

it's a small bird

on the sill.

a sparrow

resting,

carved

brown and gold.

hardly a handful

of feathers.

she looks in, i

look out.

our paths may never

cross again,

i think, as she

flies away

and i return to

my own life.

hoping for the moon

i see the entitled child

up in the clouds.

his small hand gripping

a dozen

red balloons.

his parents stand below

and wave goodbye.

they did the best they could

giving him

everything he ever wanted,

indulged his

every desire,

and at last he's gone.

now away

he goes.

further and further

into the sky,

overconfident

and hoping for the moon.

no need to say anything

i like how you say

everything

by saying nothing.

it's the look, the sly smile,

the wink,

the nod,

the finger urging me

to come closer.

it's how you stretch

out on the long

black couch

and purr like

a cat up to no good.

the factory worker

all day

the man stands 

at his machine

in his thick boots

and hooded shield

amongst

the sparks of fire

and steel shards,

grinding metal.

polishing.

creating what the factory

needs.

he wonders

what took him down this

road into these

long years.

he wonders

what could have been,

if only, so many ifs

to ponder,

but then he pushes aside

those thoughts,

and thinks about the love

of his life, at home.

her kiss.

no easy way to get there

few roads are straight.

you have to go

around,

negotiate the detours,

bridges

being out.

fires and floods,

delays.

there is no easy way

to get from

point B to point A.

but once you get there,

you remember

how you came.

rainy days at the 5 and 10

it's a vacant lot now.

gravel,

dirt,

a chain link fence

around nothing.

but i remember

the building,

the 5 and dime.

the counter where we

read

comic books,

drank cokes

and ate grilled cheese

sandwiches

until they made us

go home.

somewhere between

childhood

we wiled away

the rained filled summer

hours

in the cool store

with just pennies to our name.

the round wooden table

it was a good

piece of wood. it took

stain well,

bringing out the grain.

hard

and clean,

unblemished,

the bark

sanded away, no knots.

a nice table, a nice

round table

polished and centered

for the room, but i wonder

if it missed being

part of a tree,

with its friends in

the forest.

you should go sometime

she comes

back

with pictures of the Grand Canyon.

an old mule

or two

struggling up the path

with people on

their backs.

a snake

in the sand,

curled and lazy in the hot

sun.

she gets every angle

of the deep crevices,

down

up

sideways.

shadows and sunlight.

the river below.

she says she might go

back next

year too.

ninety-seven pictures

not being enough.

he was frugal, you might say

he was on the cheap

side,

washing his car only when it

rained,

buying a christmas

tree

the day after christmas.

used cars,

used clothes.

a second hand mattress.

even his wife

was passed down,

third time's the charm.

charging his

new step children room

and board.

he stuck with generic

ketchup

or mustard.

the day old bread, the meat

about to expire

was just fine.

he saved it all for his

rainy day.

and now that day

has arrived. alone

in his house,

with no one stopping by.

out of the tub

is there a happier

thing

than a dog

getting out of the tub

or pool

soaking

wet

and shaking, running

through the house

barking,

dragging the towel

in his mouth,

i can't think of anything

at the moment,

so much like me,

glad to be free,

happy to be clean.

chicken wire

the chicken

wire

keeps the chickens in.

the fox

out.

or so the theory

goes.

but nature finds a way

to get around

these things.

take the wedding

ring

for example.

the ant farm

you can only stare

at a goldfish

for so long.

swimming in circles

looking up

when a hand

comes near,

not unlike an office worker,

in the elevator

going up, or down.

sitting at his desk for

thirty years,

or an ant

pushing

through the paths

of his ant farm, going

nowhere,

it's a reminder

of the struggle that life is,

and the boredom that

we all share.

busy dying

people are busy.

right up until they keel over

and die

with phones in hand.

too busy.

to meet, or greet,

or to say hello

when passing by.

and when the dirt is thrown

upon them,

that ringing noise

continues,

but now there's no one

left to talk to,

though no longer busy

on the other side.

when the in laws would come for dinner

she would take out the good

china

when her parents came over,

her sister too.

the silverware

would be lifted

from the velvet box.

the crystal glasses, showered

and free of dust.

the delicate cups and saucers

for after dinner

tea.

suddenly a bouquet of flowers

was on the table.

a fine linen cloth spread

white across the wood.

the house was clean,

it smelled of lavender and jasmine.

a gourmet meal would be

prepared, not

unlike Babette's Feast.

the best wine uncorked.

sparkling water

in green bottles poured.

there were

deserts and sweets.

music would be playing low.

candles lit.

there'd be no arguing.

just peace.

oh what a day and night

it would be.

i miss her parents and her,

but only for

those reasons.

knowing God's will

being God fearing,

and God

loving

is hard.

you have questions,

you want answers.

you're impatient.

and you know, yes you

know,

all things in God's good

time.

it's not His will.

etc.

but why the utter silence,

the mystery,

the thick fog?

where's my money?

when you don't get paid

after a month

of finishing the job,

and they

don't answer the phone, or

return your emails,

your texts,

your invoices in the mail.

you sigh

and drive over to their

house, with tony soprano

and Joey Balducci,

to remove

the paint and wallpaper

from their walls.

you close your eyes to rest

tired

you lie down.

put your feet up.

you stretch out

and close your eyes.

you exhale.

suddenly

the dog appears with

his head between

your arm.

the cat jumps onto

your belly,

curling into a warm ball.

the phone rings.

someone's at the door.

the world

continues, though

you're tired.

give me a moment

there are spaces

between our words,

our thoughts.

a visual hesitation

of sorts.

we look to the left

then right, then down

until

the right answer or

response appears.

not lying,

but adjusting to what

the other person

may want to hear.

graduation day

i put my

fat little rolly polly

dachshund, Moe,

into dog school one

year.

he was out of control.

barking,

not understanding what a

walk was,

getting into the trash,

eating dead

animals

when he found them.

chewing anything

he could get his mouth around.

but he passed

his six classes with

flying colors.

obedient and quiet.

he heeled, on command,

rolled over,

and begged for treats.

he was a changed dog.

polite and respectful

to those around him.

walking in a straight line

when on his leash.

then i got him home

and all hell broke loose.

he tore off his graduation

gown, threw his hat

out the window

and ate his diploma,

then started barking at

Mister Ed on tv.

game over.

what time is it

after buying

a giant pretzel on

the corner

of Broadway,  i buy

a Rolex watch in times square.

of course it's not real,

how could a sixty thousand dollar watch

only cost

a hundred dollars.

but it keeps good time,

if i shake it enough

and when the sun hits it

just right,

it has a blinding shine.

book world

i had a neighbor once

that would

steal

my newspaper

every morning, so i ordered

him the times,

the post

and the wall street journal.

he never thanked me,

because he never

knew.

i only took the times

off his mat on sundays,

though.

loving the Book World.

he was a good shark

he was a good shark.

did well in school.

obeyed his parents.

went to church on Sunday.

he never meant to hurt anyone.

he was just hungry,

never resting,

always in motion.

all that swimming,

fighting the currents

those bossy whales.

and annoying dolphins.

what's one to do with all

those teeth

and a fresh pair of legs

in front of you.

bon appetite.

more stupid ideas

do we really need

to 

explore space,

go to the moon or mars.

do we really need

to waste all that money

on places

that have no air, no food,

no coffee.

why not work on the mess

we have here first.

really, driverless cars?

who the hell is making

these decisions,

who's really in charge?

the suggestion box

i put a note into my

suggestion

box.

take more time off.

take a vacation.

sleep in.

eat well.

have a drink or two.

take naps.

go to the beach.

back to nyc.

get over it.

move on.

read more.

watch more movies.

more art.

more museums.

more ice cream.

more you.

it's going downhill

the neighborhood

is going downhill,

my neighbor says to me over

the back fence.

she whispers,

it's like Ellis Island here.

Julie moved.

Sam and his wife split up.

they're in

Washington now.

they cut the big tree down

the other day.

all the curbs

are painted yellow.

there's no place to park.

without a sticker

the board will have you

towed away.

my new neighbors

are noisy.

three kids and two dogs.

they play Moroccan music

all day long,

and the pool,

the chairs are dirty

and lifeguards won't let

you bring alcohol

onto the premises.

they shot a rabid coyote

in the woods

the other day,

near the hydrant,

where we put the trash out.

it won't be long before

i'm gone.

the part time job

rarely do i see the same

clerk

the next day

in any store.

never knowing their name.

their face.

they come and go.

the clock punched

one last time,

the uniform

turned in.

there's no gold

watch

at the end

of an eight hour shift.

no retirement

plan

fulfilled,

but you wonder where

they go.

the next time out

everyone

is guilty of something.

though

few are caught at it,

and those they do get

caught,

say they never did it.

claiming

innocence

as they sit behind

the bars.

staring at the walls

for now,

promising themselves

to be more

careful the next time

they get out.

in long hot afternoon

as the men

fish

and the women sit

in the shade

beneath the great oaks

beside

the lake.

the children play.

the men

telling them to be quiet,

you're going

to scare the fish

away.

the hot afternoon

folds into

night.

just a few fish are

caught,

and saved, the others,

too small

for eating, are

thrown

back

for another day.

on holy ground

in thought,

i see him down by the water,

off the path

through the untrailed

thick woods.

he's thinking,

maybe grieving.

he's throwing stones

into the iridescent

blue stream.

one after the other.

he's crying.

wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

i leave him alone,

he's on holy ground.

i've been there

more than once,

though not recently.

time for another great flood

as you listen

to the president, the vice

president,

the other side,

each politician venting,

or proclaiming

something.

giving a speech telling

us they're on 

our side,

we're patriots, they say,

and the unbalanced media

telling us

who's wrong

and who's right.

you cringe at the word

salad from all of them

and look up

into the sky for the hard

rains to begin

to fall.

paper gold stars

what's clear

is that everything is unclear.

the fog of war,

the smoke

of fires burning.

the screams

of babies dying.

children

running through the streets

chased by madmen.

a world

of fantasy,

and unknowing.

what will save the world?

not me,

not you.

not separating the tin cans

from the glass bottles.

not eating

organic chickens,

or saving a whale,

or driving electric cars.

all of it,

fool's gold.

mere drops of do gooding

going nowhere.

making us believe

it's all working,

our lapels

pinned with paper gold stars.

unconditional love

there is no such thing

as unconditional love.

it doesn't exist.

betray me,

deceive me, lie to me,

and we're finished.

once that line is crossed,

forgiveness

will never come.

the center will

no longer hold.

whatever we were together,

has come undone.

where we land

is he happy and content.

is he

satisfied

with where he's landed.

i'm not so sure.

i see him,

in the morning.  he waves,

coffee in hand.

his pretty wife

on the porch

blowing kisses.

the kids at the bus stop.

the dog in the window

barking.

his lawn cut,

his hedges trimmed.

i see him drive off.

but his face, once the smile

disappears,

in the soft light

of morning,

seems bland.

no longer compromising

it takes years

and years, decades maybe.

but in time.

you have everything that you need

and have put it into

places

where they need to be.

the colors on the walls

are picked by you.

the art work

hung where you desire.

there is no compromise

with that vase on the mantle,

whether the windows

get opened,

or you light a fire.

the flowers.

the way the chair

is positioned against

the wall.

dishes in place.

your favorites cups

in reach.

the locks on the door

and heart,

keeping anyone from coming

in and moving

things an inch.

ten minutes at most

like kids,

and dogs, and cats.

and friends with unending

issues.

you've had enough

of all of them.

you've lost your

once famous tolerance

for the likes

of them.

they're okay

for a short while.

a visit,

but now only for a short

stay,

a brief while.

leaving the emerald city

when the dog

pulls

back the curtain on the wizard

of oz

and the truth is revealed

as to who the wizard

really is,

a sham,

we all know

that feeling.

your suspicions were

right all along.

nothing is what we think

it is,

as we ride away,

never to be fooled again

in the balloon filled

with hot

air, and gas.

steering back to what's

right,

not wrong.

beware of whistlers

when i hear a woman

whistling,

not alone, but with

me in the room

or car,

the hair on back of my neck

stands up.

they don't just chirp out

a few bars,

no,

they whistle an entire

score to 

the west side story,

or phantom of the opera,

or oklahoma.

it's scary.

dentists like to whistle.

grave diggers.

people in solitary confinement

doing life,

like to whistle.

i pull out my DSM, and sure

enough,

it's a sign of a giant

cup of crazy.

the hundred year road repair

road closures,

are not unusual around

these parts.

detours.

twelve men in green glow

vests,

some with shovels

in hand, others

waving you to the left or

right,

with flares and flags,

pointing

where you're to go,

beyond

the orange striped barrels

the steel plates

now standing upright.

they're digging

up the street again.

something about

drainage,

or power outages,

or mining for gold.

who's to know,

so you go left,

and left again, you take

the scenic route home.

let's take another look

when the doctor found

a shadow

on an x-ray

of my mother's chest.

she thought the worst.

she called

everyone in Philadelphia

to give them

the bad news

that she was dying.

but the second x-ray,

showed nothing.

an aberration, a flash

of light, something,

but it was nothing after all.

so when i visited her,

i asked her why

she was still crying,

why so blue.

and she said, 

what if

the first x-ray had

been true.

why are they singing?

i don't like

going to a musical.

a movie or play,

with

singing and dancing.

all that

prancing around,

with hats and canes.

why are they doing this?

it was going along

just fine, until someone

started singing.

first the happy song,

then the sad song

with the blue lights

shining down, 

trying to get you to 

feel that way.

i'm not into it,

i stare at the red exit

sign in corner,

and eat my buttered

popcorn, nervously. 

they've got it better than us

the animal world has it so

much better than we do.

they don't have to meet the in-laws,

or worry

about birthdays, or holidays.

they don't 

wish for anything, or than

another animal to eat

or a stream to drink from.

they've got it made.

no birthday cakes, blowing

out candles,

no wife asking if she looks

fat in these feathers.

there's no keeping up with

the joneses,

telling them how you flew

all the way to new jersey once.

no grumpy kids, wanting more

of everything,

no therapy after

a snake crawls up the tree

and eats all their new eggs.

they shrug it off

and keep going

to another tree, another branch

with another mouthful

of twigs.

there's no small talk,

about work, or the weather.

biblical heat

i can't get enough

cold water

down

me to douse this heat.

this Biblical

event.

Is God punishing us

for something?

the sun has mysteriously

moved closer

to the earth.

my bones

are on fire, my tongue

parched.

my lips dry.

i don't know if i can

make it to

the thermostat

or the beer cooler

in time.

French Bikini

we were watching jeopardy

one night.

well,

nearly every night,

nibbling on

sea weed potato chips,

when a question

came up

in the France category.

i yelled out,

French Bikini,

or rather what is a French

Bikini,

when the answer came

up as a sliver of black

fabric worn by

a woman on the beach

hardly covering her body parts.

she looked

at me, my ex, stood up and stomped

out of the room.

what? i said, as she turned

around to scowl at me.

what's wrong?

you know too much about

women's clothing,

she said, then turned to

go up the stairs.

French bikini, Alex said,

with a smile on his face.

i was right, but would pay

for this answer

with a few weeks of silence.

just a regular night at home.

we need to have more fun

we should travel more

she tells me.

when was the last time we went

anywhere.

i pull the paper down,

and look at her.

what are you talking about.

we went to starbucks,

target and bed bath and beyond

last weekend.

then we took that bike

ride to the lake,

remember?

i want to go to France, 

she tells me.

and Italy,

maybe Ireland and Portugal.

my friend Lulabelle

just got back from

overseas

with her new hubby.

her new hubby?

yes, she met him on 

senior last chance match

dot com.

hmmm.

interesting.

did he pay for the trip?

no, no.

he's in a little financial trouble

because of his divorce,

so she paid for the whole excursion.

i see.

how about ocean city?

play a little pin ball, maybe

take a ride on the tilt a whirl?

maybe go to 

Captain George's for an all you

can eat buffet.

can i get an amen?

there's someone out there

with a bad

liver,

i hear the prosperity preacher

screaming from

his televised pulpit.

he's wearing a white suit,

with a red bow tie.

there's someone out there with

a deep pain in

his liver

from drinking too much

alcohol.

if you pledge

and give a thousand dollars

right now,

i'll take that martini out

of your hand and heal

you.

i'll heal your aching liver.

call now on this 1 800 number,

and donate to the cause.

put your hand on

the phone and dial right now,

put your other hand

on the tv screen and a foot

on the door,

don't let anyone stop you.

from praising the Lord.

for one thousand dollars we'll

give you the cure

i go into the kitchen to freshen

up my martini,

two olives this time.

i feel where i think my liver is.

it feels fine,

my stomach is a little upset

but, i think it's from the flounder

i had the other night.

too good to be true

too good to be true,

the deal,

the girl,

the boy.

the job, the house.

the market.

the car,

the investment.

the hotel,

the plane,

the train.

the vacation.

too good to be true.

always,

and yet

you sign on the dotted

line,

your belief in humanity,

despite

all,

in tact.

i love the way they cook chicken here

you rarely hear anyone

say

i'm madly in love, right now.

they might

say,

i love that dress you're wearing,

or i love

ice cream,

or i just love the way

they cook

chicken here,

but rarely do you hear someone

say, i've

met someone

and i'm in love.

true love.

it's a wonderful thing.

my financial advisor Rosa Lee

i call up my old friend

the gyspy. Rosa Lee.

she's working out of her car

now,

reading palms

over the phone,

and zoom calls on her laptop.

she's high tech

with her tarot cards,

and crystal ball.

what's up, she asks,

as she adjusts the volume

and the screen size.

and puts on a purple turban.

just checking in, i tell her.

trouble? she asks.

i told you not to mess

with that last woman,

the psychopath, but

you didn't listen did you?

so what now?

i just wondering if you can

look into your crystal

ball regarding the stock

market.

i'm trying to figure out what

to do with a little

saved cash.

should i go into the market

where my retirement is,

or delve into municipal

bonds, how about annuities?

cd's?

she starts laughing.

no, no, no.

do you have a thick mattress?

yes.

queen sized.

well good, put your money

under that.

use your paypal account

to pay me for this session, ok?

the world in black and white

at an early age

your soft mind was filled

with television.

all of it in black and white.

dennis the menace,

leave it to beaver,

sky king,

and lucille ball.

mayberry.

you never quite got over

it, thinking

that this is how the world

really is.

my three sons.

my favorite martian,

mr. ed,

donna reed and marlo

thomas.

it took Alfred Hitchcock

and the twilight

zone to set

the world right.

to show you what was

really going on.

the long walk at night

the dog,

knowing the route

of our walk

is way ahead

of me.

he's off the leash.

he looks back

to see where i am.

slow in the shadows.

i trust him,

he trusts me.

we're good like

that.

finding such love

is not easy.

down to nine percent

i'm down

to nine percent on my phone.

with no

charger

around.

who gets the last call

of the night.

the last text,

the last picture sent.

down to seven now,

time is running out.

now four,

maybe some

music before it dies,

something to put us both

to sleep.

the quick fire

i stir the wood,

the twigs, the leaves,

the paper,

and toss a match into

the pit.

it's a nice flame,

that i warm my hands

around,

a quick rise

of fire.

but it too will burn

out.

not unlike desire.

hand in the fire

the slow learner

that i am

i have the cuts and scars

to prove it.

i have to put my hand

in the fire

a dozen times

before i understand

not to do it.

then suddenly a light goes

on. and at last

i say to myself,

oh, i see now.

that's what caused

the pain,

let me write that down,

make a note

of it.

it wasn't always that way

she was caught

somewhere between

afraid of dying

and afraid of living.

but it wasn't always that way.

i have a picture

of her at the beach

in a pink bathing suit,

sitting under an umbrella

holding a drink

with a long striped

straw.

she's smiling for the camera,

her sunglasses on.

behind her is the ocean,

the sand.

the blue sky stretching

beyond

and beyond.

porcelain and plastic

is it collecting

or

hoarding?  one blends into

the other.

things.

sentimental

things.

porcelain or plastic.

makes no difference.

bought, or found,

gifts.

they line the shelves

now.

the staircase,

beneath the beds,

closets stuffed

with old clothes.

a perpetual storm

of lost and found.

nothing can be thrown

away,

for then what?

enjoying nature from a distance

so much of nature

is better appreciated

from a distance.

take the snow peaked

mountain.

why go there, why climb,

when you can sit back

and stare at it,

while having a glass of wine.

deep sea diving too.

who doesn't like

fish.

but why put on a scuba

tank and try to be one,

going to the deepest

depth of the ocean.

better to find a raft

and float while whistling

a song.

that goes for the jungle too.

i like the lions

and tigers, i like all those

animals that they keep

in a zoo,

i just don't want to become

their dinner

when out on a safari,

ready to eat food.

the vacancy sign

you see in their

eyes

the vacancy light on

blinking

red.

open.

wanting another

occupant.

another love

to pull

their life in

and come inside.

call this guy

each to his own

rolodex

of numbers, his or her

list

of go to

friends,

electricians,

plumbers.

someone who specializes

in listening,

or fixing

things gone awry.

dried flowers

just as flowers

do,

beauty fades.

the dry

petals will fall,

the bouquet

once a sight to see

will die.

when it's your time.

let go.

it's natural, it's

how the world is.

we are all

cut at the stem,

cut from the vine.

summer plums

i bite into the fat

purple plum

as if it was a lover's mouth.

the gush

of it down

my chin,

the sweetness of it,

holding summer

under

its skin.

don't end summer.

let's go back to June

and bite more

plums again.

the click of heels coming up the stairs

i know that sound.

the turn of the lock,

after the car,

is parked,

the engine off.

the keys

thrown

to the table.

the purse to the floor.

the refrigerator door

opened

then closed.

the soft sound of

a cork

unscrewed.

the clink of glass,

the pouring of wine,

then the click

of heels coming

up the stairs.

i know all those sounds.

each one

full of anxiety

and fear.

room with a new view

it's a new view,

but nothing changes.

a new address,

a new

street and stream

to walk

beside.

a new set of trees.

a new hill, or mountain,

a rainbow

waterfall,

to jump inside.

it's all new.

but it isn't.

that will take time.

how she breathes

you can feel

the love between people.

the way

he looks at her.

the quiet smile,

and whisper.

the way her hand folds

into his.

how she touches

his shoulder,

his knee.

how he laughs,

how she breathes.

so much

in the world gone wrong.

but this,

this is what we need.

while reading charles simic

as the man

replaces the light

on the front porch,

on this blistering July

afternoon,

i sit in the cool dark

of my

living room

and read Charles Simic.

i feel guilty,

so i bring the man cold

water.

a better ladder.

i ask him

if he's hungry.

he hesitates, then says

no.

i make him a ham

sandwich

and bring it out to him.

then at last,

my guilt assuaged,

i leave him alone.

i return to the book

once more, and read

Coney Island,

again, before turning

the page.

there'll be days like this

there will be days like this,

your mother said,

not your father, he had little

to say,

he was quiet about the storms

in life,

he just sat there

in his easy chair,

with his whiskey

and cigarettes

and stared

at the tv.

but your mother,

pushing back your hair,

holding your hand,

calmed you,

told you not to worry,

said things like this too

will pass.

you'll see. in the morning

things will look better.

and then

before you closed your eyes,

you'd see your father's

face in the door.

saying goodnight.

sweet dreams.

at times it almost seemed

like he did care.

love and horseshoes

almost

we say, as we throw

the horseshow

towards

the spike in the ground,

clanging

as it hits

then bounces away.

almost.

almost.

let me try again.

and again.

i'll get it right

eventually.

good bones

she says,

standing back, with hands on hips,

the sun on her

aging face,

this house

has good bones.

it was built

in the 50's.

hardwood floors,

brick.

the tiled roof.

they don't make them

like this anymore.

surrounded by trees,

a stream in the woods.

places to park.

walking distance

to anywhere you need to be.

it's a place

to raise children in.

good schools.

a place to stay for the rest

of your life.

then she carries out

another box

to the truck that's helping

her move.

what goes on here?

neither kind or unkind,

the moon

plays its part

in our lives.

a romantic pendant

in the night sky,

or a wafer

to swallow whole,

in hope

of forgiveness.

a mask of what,

sadness,

grief?

or strange joy?

since childhood we've

stared at it

and make of it what we

make of it.

trying our best

to understand

what goes on here,

on earth.

the summer of 63

there's a break

in the rain.

a short spell of almost

sunlight.

the steam rises off the street,

we wipe

our brows,

our necks.

we shake our heads and

collectively say,

it's hot out.

but it's not like it was

in 63

says grandma,

and nobody confronts

her on her memory,

it's not worth

it to disagree.

home for sale

the walls,

yellowed, not from paint,

but

cigarettes

and breathing.

the stove.

age and time, taking

it's normal toll.

the sign in the yard,

for sale.

i should get rid of the clutter

she says,

pointing around the room,

to broken

chairs,

old magazines,

and

her husband on the couch

snoring.

it's time to get out of here.

he doesn't know

yet.

but he will.

have i shown

you the attic yet,

lots of room for storage.