good enough to eat

she looked

good on the shelf.

in the glow

of light,

a pastry, good enough to eat.

but there was

no sugar in her,

the milk was sour,

the eggs

gone bad,

the butter spoiled.

she looked good on

the shelf.

but was more bitter,

than sweet.

a hole in my shoe

i probably have

a hundred

pair of socks, black,

brown, grey,

white

for sports.

a hundred t-shirts

and shorts,

shoes of all colors,

all types.

coats,

and gloves fill

the closets.

hats,

scarves.

blankets and sheets,

extras of

nearly everything

i don't really need.

hunger

at an early age will

do that to you.

it's the wind

there's no one

else here, it's the wind

doing what

wind does

with the windows

raised high,

blowing open the door,

throwing back

the curtains,

rattling blinds,

sending 

pictures to the floor.

papers

flying.

turning pages in

open books.

it's nice to see you

again wind.

how've you been?

change

each politician 

runs on the platform

and rallying

cry

of change.

of honesty

and transparency.

empathy.

it's laughable.

yet each new

generation of voters

believe it,

swallowing whole

the lie,

casting their votes

for change,

a new day

that never comes

and never will.

the power washer

i think my neighbor has finally

run out of things

to use his power washer on.

for weeks,

he's been out there,

cleaning the patio, the deck,

the siding on his house,

the fence.

his car.

the sidewalk,

even his dog got a taste

of his new machine.

it's saturday morning

and not a sound.

why i even heard a bird chirp

today.

we always knew these things

there are some things

that we have always known

since childhood,

since that first 

awakening

we just knew

these truths about the world,

whether it was the warmth

of the sun,

or the cool rain,

against our skin,

we knew in our hearts,

unexpressed

by words, impossible

things to explain.

it was something, external,

not someone,

that awakened you

to what the world means,

what it didn't.

it began there, at that

early age.

and will stick with you

even beyond the grave.

the blood hound in me

i believe

i can find out anything.

know what i want to know,

if i put my

mind to it.

open up my intuitive

side.

one clue, one small word

or glance,

one slip of the tongue

and i'm off

into the woods.

nothing remains hidden

when

it's time to be found.

i'm on it

like a blood hound.

take it for a test drive

the car salesman

tells me

it's hard to find a black or

white car these days.

front wheel drive

is almost obsolete. but

let me go talk to my manager.

fifteen minutes later

he comes back shaking his head.

well, bad news,

my manager says that

they're almost not making

cars anymore,

but let me show you

what we have on the lot.

what do you think

of this new avocado

color that we have? also

we've got a pink one

coming

in from Baltimore

next week.

it's a statement car,

telling the world that you

are against cancer.

very important these days,

and the chicks will love it.

save the ta ta's and all that.

put a thousand down and

i can put you on a waiting

list.

there's some used

junkers out back,

how about that grey one?

it's not the car you want,

but if you want to take it

for a test drive, you can.

let me get the mechanic

to put some tires on it.

snail troubles

the snail is in

no hurry, but you wonder

sometimes

if he worries,

does he want to be

faster,

wouldn't it be better

without

the trail behind

him.

look, here comes

Beatrice and Pierre

with a basket,

quick,

slide, slide,

let's hide.

i'm just lazy, please give me money

sometimes,

when i come to a corner

and see the same man,

or woman,

or young person,

month after month,

in rain, or the blistering sun,

standing there with a sign

saying God Bless,

veteran, or pregnant,

injured, or six kids at

home, i find a dollar or

two and hand it to them.

sometimes though i don't.

for once

i'd like to see a sign one

day that reads, i'm just lazy,

and tired of working for the man.

this is so much easier

than punching the clock.

nine to five just ain't for me.

give what you can.

a bowl of fruit on the table

if i could

i hear her mind, 

what she's thinking,

it would

go something like this.

i need a bowl

in the middle of the table,

i've seen it in old paintings,

Renoir or Rembrandt,

maybe,

perhaps Sargent.

a crystal bowl.

large.

a white linen table

cloth below it,

and then fruit,

colorful fruit, fresh and just

ripe,

in case anyone

that came near, wanted

to take one

and bite,

but they'd better not.

this is for show, still life.

it tells them who i am.

this bowl of fruit

says everything.

you can't go home again

we think of families

as buildings,

shelter from the storms,

wide structures made of brick

and steel,

hard wood.

always together,

each child a different

room.

mother and father,

roaming

the halls,

basement and roof.

the elders, tucked away,

facing the sunsets,

babies,

too, you can hear them

grow,

in quiet droves,

noisy, fat and full.

their

care and adoration

making them whole.

but so much of that isn't

true.

the wood

grows weak, the welded

joints

come unglued,

the paint peels,

the windows crack and let

in the wind.

the outside world,

and once

out, it's hard, very hard

to pretend that all is well

with everyone

and go back again.

he's married now

i don't want him

to be angry, but he is.

he's angry all the time.

he takes everything i say

the wrong way.

he's so easily riled up,

casual conversation

about anything

makes his temper flare.

he's lost his sense of

humor.

of fun.

of enjoying life.

he was never like this before.

but i get it.

he's married now.

expecting flowers in April

i should return

the shoe.

one black heel, left

behind

in August.

how did she go home

with one

shoe on?

days go by.

weeks

turn into months.

snow falls.

i still have the shoe.

i set it on the nightstand,

then

move it to the table,

then to

the kitchen counter.

i put it on

the windowsill

finally

and fill it with dirt.

i put some seeds in

there

and water it.

i'm expecting flowers

by April.

a rising bad moon

we have cross

words.

it's friday night. why not?

she's tired.

i'm tired.

the bills are on the counter.

the dog

is sick.

the roof leaks.

weeds fill the yard.

it's almost dark,

already.

we have cross

words,

then go to our

own rooms.

hers looks out over

the road,

the car waiting,

mine,

out to a rising bad

moon.

ninety-nine

the only way i knew,

Mary

had died, was that i didn't

get a Christmas card

from her that year.

i found her obituary

in the Miami paper

that week.

there was no tin of

cookies

and candy that year

from her.

no phone call, telling

me about the weather,

and reminiscing

about the last fifty years

of our friendship.

she almost made it to

a hundred,

but not quite.

i'm sure she was content

though,

with ninety-nine.

childhood

it wasn't about

following some dream.

some noble

ambition,

or profession.

it was about food

and shelter,

clothing.

heat in the winter.

shoes on my feet.

there was no grand plan

except for

survival.

whatever nest there

was, was gone.

parents had flown

the coop

a long time ago.

it was time to grow

a pair of wings,

and move on.

about to tip over

he is a human

cup,

fragile,

porcelain would describe

him.

with chips 

and a broken handle,

about to tip

over,

and spill out

all that's inside.

memory after memory.

joy 

and sorrow,

ready to puddle onto

the floor

and disappear.

the pieces of him swept

up

and buried

in earths great yard.

saving the world

they want to save the world.

the whales,

the fish,

the birds.

they want to feed the hungry,

stop

global warming.

defeat racism

and hatred.

they want to follow their

passions,

fulfill their creative

desires.

become self-aware with

breathing,

and meditation.

all good things.

but do they want to work

and make a living, 

get their hands

dirty?

nah,

not really.

beer cooler in the back?

i take a look at Jeeps.

they've

stepped up,

big and rugged,

glossy,

luggage racks, and

gun racks.

four wheel drive.

gps, and navigation.

they ride high off the ground.

i'd never get stuck

in the snow,

or mud,

or climbing 

a mountain because

it's there,

but do i want a Jeep?

i don't have

the clothes

for a jeep.

i own no cargo pants,

or plaid flannel shirts.

no timberland boots either.

i don't have

a hounds tooth cap,

or fur lined

gloves.

i don't even have a fishing

rod, or tackle box,

bowie knife,

or a cross bow

to put in the back.

no cooler for beer on ice.

i haven't skinned a fish,

since, since,

well never.

nor have i shot a deer and put

it on the hood of my

car.

maybe a Jeep isn't for me.

personal typing 101

most of the classes

we took

in high school, or even college

don't matter

anymore.

when was the last time you

had to spell a word

correctly,

did cursive writing,

or solve a quadratic equation.

geography,

history?

forget about it.

cut open any frogs lately?

i don't think so.

the only class

you really needed

to survive in this world

was typing 101.

sort of like tattoos

one cat,

is fine, two, okay.

okay.

the other one needs

a friend,

i get it,

but three or four 

is pushing it.

it's the crazy zone,

at that point.

sort of like tattoos.

in the top twenty

she used to whisper

to me,

am i the best girlfriend you

ever had,

or what?

you're okay, i tell her.

you're definitely on the list

of top fifty.

fifty, she says.

what?

you have a list of fifty

girlfriends?

well, yes, but

not counting the 80's

and 90's.

you are definitely climbing

the charts

after last night.

she mumbles something

and shakes her head

as she finds her clothes.

where are you going?

leaving, already?

no breakfast, coffee?

wait,

don't go,

you're in the top twenty,

really.

they're listening

it used to be

that you closed the door

at night

locked it

and drew the drapes

tight

you had some privacy.

no more.

it's in the keystrokes

that you type,

the phone,

you speak into,

the television,

that you watch.

it's all known

to someone on the outside

looking in.

pondering

up all night

with

ideas.

some good, some bad.

ruminations,

and memories.

it's a toss and turn

affair.

up

and down

the stairs.

three a.m.

then four, then five.

a half sleep

until six.

the long day awaits,

once i get

out the door.

first things first

when the first

frost

arrives

i think of you.

and 

beef stew.

in no particular

order.

i go back to the

basics.

meat, potatoes,

onions

and carrots.

you come later.

go back to from where you came

despite

being a mile from the border

we cringe

when we see

the other state license

tags

in front of us, or behind

us.

of course it's them.

who else would it be.

what are they doing here?

so reckless,

driving fast,

tail gating, so rude, these

people are.

why don't they go back

to where they came

from.

so different from us.

strange how they drive

their cars

and put us in danger.

blisters on my fingers

the blisters

on my hand are nothing.

the ache

and pains

in my knees and back,

mean little

to me.

the sweat

and grind of it all.

i welcome it.

after a hot

bath

and dinner,

i'll sleep,

then wake up and do it

all over again.

it's no longer about money.

it's beyond that

now.

i know what it is

is it the weather

that's put a spring in your step.

or the meal

you just had,

or the drink you finished

to the last drop.

is it money,

is it health,

is it friendship,

or a good sleep

that's put a smile on your face,

or something

else,

perhaps the lack

of drama

has straightened you

out and brought

you back

to normal.

the change jar

the change jar

on the counter, 

where i empty my pockets

at the end

of a day, 

is a blue glass

orb

full of change,

of course.

all sorts,

but other things too.

a marble,

a ring,

several screws

and backs of earrings.

paper clips,

stamps,

rubber bands,

and sticks

of gum.

a small tube of glue.

aspirins?

maybe.

the bank teller loves

me,

when i haul it all in.

everything and everybody was big there

i had no choice,

i had

to go into Wal mart

to buy

something. i forget what

it was,

batteries, maybe

or a ball point pen,

but it was a scary place.

big bags of marshmallow

peanuts,

orange and pink.

clothes and tires,

side by side.

gallon jugs

of vegetable oil.

candy by the barrel.

the obsession with gummy

bears was amazing.

potato chips in bags 

the size

of pillow cases.

i almost got crushed

between two

men fighting over

the last

four tier chocolate

cake frozen in the ice box.

after a while i realized

why every aisle

was so wide.

everything and everybody

was big there.

enormous.

but they did add a nice

touch,

by having Wilbur greet

you at the door.

the repair shop

my mother used to have

a repair

kit

in the kitchen cupboard.

needles, thread, 

bandages,

iodine.

white tape,

band aids,

ice packs and

ointments.

iron on patches.

torn shirt, no problem,

ripped

pants, easy.

bruises, abrasions,

black eyes,

she had it covered.

every kid in the neighborhood

knew where to go

when they got stung

by a bee, or

when they fell

off their skateboards

or got into a fight.

where've you been?

funny how i look

forward

to winter.

bring on the cold,

the snow

and ice,

the wind.

all of it.

string up lights,

decorate

the tree.

get the old coats

out,

the gloves,

the hats, the scarves.

put the wood

on the fire.

settle back

and make a toast

on new years eve.

a good funeral

it's a good funeral

on a clear

sunny day, there's

singing

in the church, hugging,

tears too.

a strong sermon

from the pastor,

saying all the right things.

what needs

to be said

about the brevity of life,

inevitable death.

then there's the march

to grave,

the dirt thrown onto

the casket.

final words

are said.

then its time to eat,

a marvelous catered

buffet, time for

the living to be fed.

lost in other thoughts

you can tell when

a man

does the same thing

over and over again.

how easy it looks,

good at their jobs.

the brick layer with

brick and mortar

in hand.

the carpenter with

his saw, his

nails and hammer.

they're there, but

they aren't there,

lost in other thoughts.

feathers everywhere

there are feathers

everywhere

at the foot

of the door,

below the window.

beautiful blue

and white feathers.

the dead

bird,

soft and still warm,

unblinking.

unbreathing.

the last seen thing

was itself

before striking

the glass

and falling

to the ground.

the false image

was everything.

getting lucky

after one too many

shots

of tequila

i almost call my old

girlfriend

Lulubelle

to see how she's

doing,

if she's married now,

how's the family,

the dog,

the cat,

her knitting and crocheting

class,

maybe if she's not

busy,

i can stop by

and show her some

of my etchings,

but my phone slips

from my hand

and falls into the toilet.

luckily.

the purpose of ducks

is there purpose

in life.

a reason to be?

do ducks

think that, or do they

just go about

the day

doing what ducks

do.

flying, swimming,

eating,

making more ducks.

doing what they can

to avoid

the rotisserie. 

so unlike you and

me.

we need the award,

the prize,

the pat on the back

we want

to be liked and noticed,

to be recognized.

we want the cookie and

the gold star,

we want to leave

a legacy,

have a good obituary,

an epilogue 

of sorts,

a eulogy to be proud

of.

so unlike ducks,

we are.

is the door locked?

careful

in the dark, 

at 3 a.m.,

touching the walls,

the door,

that leads

into the hall.

careful,

as i step towards

the stairs,

gingerly

going down

to see if the door

is locked.

it is.

of course.

car singing

i surprise myself

with my

singing sometimes

when in the car, or shower,

or in a stairwell

somewhere,

where no one can hear me.

i cup my hand around

my ear.

Billy Joel has nothing

on me.

Sam Cooke,

or Dylan.

I even give Janis Joplin

a run for her

money.

it's never over

nothing is ever over,

not really.

nothing

is finished with,

done,

kaput.

there is always a chance

at another try,

another day

of writing, or painting,

or strumming

a guitar.

there's new metaphors

to be found,

new words to replace

the ones

written down.

things need to honed

and sanded,

polished.

we get close, but never

quite finish.

summer rain

the summer rain

was relentless

down

the long stretch of beach

gone grey,

and cold.

it was hard to tell

where the sky began

and the water 

ended.

the wind kept

pushing the ocean towards

us. the sand and salt

in the air.

what could we do but

make love,

and make love some more.

now every time

it rains,

i think of you.

the curtains pulled back

on the wide

window.

our bodies side by side.

some fathers

childlike,

he takes your hand.

he trembles,

murmurs 

something you don't

understand.

he smiles, pretends

that all is well.

with his strength now gone,

a cane to steady him,

there is nothing

to fear anymore,

but yet

you do.

some fathers, like

this one,

never let hold of you.

old and dumb

his winter beard,

his

soft

blue eyes announcing

wisdom

that isn't there.

old now,

but still

not wise.

some never learn,

but live

their lives as fools,

until they die.

quicksand love

once out

of quicksand, you watch

your step,

careful

with stick in hand,

prodding the soft

earth before you.

sunk once,

sunk twice, but never

again.

as you observe the hats

of others

float by.

relax your grip

i'm having trouble with

my putter,

she tells me,

as she putts balls into a cup

in the living room,

tapping

them across the rug.

i look up from 

the newspaper,

and tell her to bend her

knees a little.

relax your grip,

and don't look up.

she sinks

the next ball into the waiting

cup.

thanks,

she says.

can we do my driver next?

turning rust into gold

she wants

happy poems.

puppy dogs, and sunrises.

confectionary

verses

full of hope and love.

smiles

and hugs.

she wants positive

thinking,

the bright side of

the road.

she wants all of that

and more.

she wants

the rusted tin

to be gold.

everything must go

i put a sign

in the yard, everything must go.

the dog is nervous.

tied to a pole.

no offers refused.

the wife

too is on the porch,

wringing her hands,

worried.

the kids,

on the lawn, all in a row,

bathed,

with hair combed.

everything

must go.

no offers refused.

marked down.

going out of business.

leaving town.

ancient history

that's the distant

past,

she says, let's forget about

that and move on.

ancient history,

why dwell on such things?

to her the past

is something you

dispose of,

trash for the bucket.

never to be brought up

again.

never to seen

in the light of day.

everything done

doesn't matter anymore,

all of it has become

part of yesterday.

making someone's day

the young

salesman, a trying beard,

not quite

there,

his movements quick,

i'll back in a minute

he says,

taking his offer, to which

i've agreed,

across the shiny

palace floor

of the showroom.

i'm patient, having bought

dozens of cars

before.

the music fades in,

fades out,

as someone named

Marvin

is called to the service

center.

my boy returns, smiling.

my manager said okay,

he tells me,

finding his pen,

and chair in one swift

movement.

sign here and here

and here.

i will make his day.

we'll see

we'll see,

i say, hearing my mother's voice

in mine.

we'll see.

i say again,

all in good time.

making promises

and vows,

i'll most likely

never keep.

bisphenol-A (BPA)

i would never read

a label

on the back of a can

or package 

of food

when young.

i'd throw it in the cart

and move on

to the next row

of processed goods.

but now,

i'm sherlock holmes

with a magnifying glass,

looking for

a clue

hiding in the small print.

how much sugar,

how many carbs,

if i can't pronounce

a word, i detect that

it's probably

not good for you.

a slower pace

i prefer

the scenic route,

the slow

go

around the lake,

the back

roads.

the blue highways.

we have all day.

so 

la di da.

let's go

at a slower pace.

off your trolley

is it neurological,

or moral,

is it

a misfiring of electricity

running

through the brain,

have we lost our

way,

bumped our heads,

or is it

a lack of nutrition,

or contrition,

what is it that makes

us behave this way?

towels waiting to be carried up

everything is

as it was, when you return.

which is good.

the sofa,

there, the phone, the books,

all exactly how

you left them.

no one slept in your bed

while you were gone.

no one ate

your food,

or took a bath.

clothes are hung

in the closet,

towels folded

waiting to be carried up.

everything is as it was

before you left

and locked the door

behind you.

NDE

do we need to die

to see

the truth.

to understand that there

is more to this

life than what

we see before us.

do we need to leave

for a short

while

and traverse

the depths of hell,

or float to heaven

towards some mystical light?

do we need this

miracle

of death and resurrection

to live

a better life?

it helps.

staring before you

there is no way to know

exactly,

to articulate what you see,

but in the lines

and creases

of faces

that you meet, you sense

the dreams

and failures of their lives,

the lost loves,

the found joys.

you see it around their

mouths,

their eyes.

the wrinkled brow.

life in full,

or incomplete, staring

before you.

settling in

i think the young neighbors

are getting a divorce.

i don't hear them arguing

anymore.

his car is gone all the time.

they've let the yard go.

they've taken 

the make love not war sign

out of their yard.

i saw her on the porch

the other day, drinking

and smoking.

a new tattoo on her arm,

the old one smudged out.

they used to be friendly,

they'd wave

say hello, and have a 

little chit chat,

about the weather and sports,

the latest virus or war,

no more.

or maybe, just maybe,

they've settled in like

the rest of us.

ground control to major tom

i could never

be

an astronaut.

i can barely

drive

three hours to the beach

without

going insane.

stuck

in my seat.

bumper to bumper.

i have to

pee.

i'm hungry, i'm thirsty.

Houston

get me out of here.

i've got a cramp

in my leg.

there's an itch

i can't reach.

i miss earth.

with all these switches

and dials

and tasks to do,

i have no time to read.

swipe

there's a card

for the door,

for the gate.

a card to get in,

to get out.

swipe and swipe

all day.

no people are around.

no one

smiling and saying

good to see you,

have a nice day.

a good reason

as i cut into

the thick steak,

at oceanside,

the sizzle

still on the plate,

the mushrooms

and gravy

on the potatoes,

the onions,

and salt,

the cold vodka

and tonic

refilled, 

chilled against

my parted lips,

I think out loud

to the waitress,

a little butterfly

in yellow,

this is a good

reason

to be alive.

still standing

the grey of

cheeks, and jowls,

the wobble

of legs,

the cane not

far from hand.

the glazed

eyes once sea blue,

now softened

in the light,

wet

as if beneath water.

a life spent,

but a heart still

beating,

a voice in whispers,

yet arms

still strong enough

to reach you.

what tomorrow brings

they lie

as if on shelves.

these

homeless

men

and women.

upon the beach 

benches.

beneath

ragged blankets.

salt in their

beards

their hair.

some playing checkers

alone,

some

solitaire,

everything they own

in bags,

a cup of coins beside

them.

is there a plan

to this

or just surrender.

the bucket list

my bucket list

is short.

coffee is at the top of it

right now.

then

a walk up to the store.

next on the list

is a burger

on the grill with

cheddar cheese.

maybe i'll read a little.

write a little.

take a nap.

i'm open after that.

maybe i'll invite Betty

over for

a rendezvous.

i'll put that

on the list too.

dazed and confused

the vegan

girl.

bone thin and dizzy.

with her electrolyte water.

pale

and timid.

full of

grapes and celery.

but something

is amiss.

she can hardly

hold a thought,

or remember

what she said,

or did.

it was so long ago.

five minutes

by my watch.

so how are you?

you ask how are you?

and they tell

you.

they go on and on.

you listen,

switch the phone

to the other ear,

you fold clothes,

you iron,

you do the dishes.

you get things done.

you add in a word or

two,

but for the most part

they do the talking,

an hour later,

you're saying goodbye,

take care,

without ever mentioning

a word

about you.

the tequila blues

she'll regret this drinking

in the morning.

another shot

of tequila goes down

as the loud

band, beats out an old

song.

the silver haired

men, with ponytails,

and neuropathy

keep it going.

their voices straining to

hit the notes.

the tequila helps her

to remember

and forget, her foot

tapping beneath the table

to an old old

sound.

the grey light pours in

ambivalence sets in.

it's the soft robe

after a hot bath in

the morning.

what bothered you

before

is vague now.

hardly worth mentioning,

or bringing up

in words,

or voice.

you move

about the day,

the rain filled day,

with coffee in hand.

the paper,

and books.

you go sit by the window

where the grey

light pours in.

it's a wonderful day

when ambivalence

sets in.

the cost of dry cleaning

i never enjoyed church,

despite

believing in nearly

every single

word said.

praying before meals,

before sleep,

before

many things.

every time i've done something

stupid,

i've ended up on my

knees at the side

of the bed, asking for forgiveness

or some sort solution,

which wouldn't

involve me going through

a lot of trouble.

but church was boring.

the rituals.

the up and down of it all,

the hard

pews,

the kneelers.

the smoke and mirrors.

the guilt you felt when

not going,

or not attending the pancake

breakfast.

i cringed as the second 

collection basket

came around.

why don't you sell some of

those gold candle holders

and chalices if

you need the money so bad.

what's the dry cleaning

cost on those gowns?

i wasn't wild about the music

either.

sleepy old standards

from the eighteen hundreds.

they'd put Ambien out of business

if you heard that music

every night.

geez marie.

i've been in many churches,

Baptist,

Catholic,

Lutheran,

and even attended a Pentacostal

meeting once,

which gave me

the shivers

as people rose and spoke

in tongues, jumping around

like Mexican jumping beans,

full of something,

but i couldn't believe it was God.

it felt like something

else.

the essentials

i have a lawyer

if i need one,

a therapist.

a go to mechanic.

a dermatologist,

an orthopedic guy,

a doctor,

a dentist.

a masseuse.

a butcher with rib-eyes.

i have a housekeeper.

i've got a little

girl scout next door

who gets me my thin

mints,

when it's time.

a girl like that

she made

me laugh, the way she

tried to tell

a joke.

forgetting the punch line.

starting over.

hopeless,

which was funnier

than

the joke itself.

how can you not fall

in love

with

a girl like that?

before the last light goes out

it was cold

milk

and a small white bread

sandwich

that filled you.

a stack of cookies.

you alone

at the kitchen table.

midnight.

the house asleep.

your mother on the stiff

blue couch.

the rooms full of

brothers and sisters.

even dog

is curled on the rug.

out.

but not you, you

have books to read,

to think about,

lines to write

in your spiral notebook,

before you sleep,

before you sleep.

before the last light

goes out.

filling the change jar

it's a shiny

penny on the ground,

on the black

tarred pavement.

it's been there all day,

probably.

who wants a penny

these days?

old abe looking up

at me in the bright sun.

i save him.

take him home

and drop him into the

change jar,

with wilson and jefferson,

kennedy

and someone from

mexico

i picked up in Cancun.

good deed done.

tea on the veranda

my friend Irma

has been talking with a fake

British accent

ever since

the Queen died.

we're having tea and crumpets

on her veranda.

lovely day, isn't it, she says?

the roses are quite

stunning

for this late in the year,

don't you agree?

her little finger is straight

out as she sips

from her porcelain cup.

she's wearing a frilly

dress that i've never seen before

and a tiara.

she's from the Bronx.

i nod to what she's saying,

rolling my eyes.

i think about getting her

some help,

but i figure this will pass

once the month long

funeral procession is over.

off on fridays

i send a picture

to the doctor, she's off on fridays,

though.

la dee da.

who doesn't want

to be off on 

fridays?

i describe to her the bump

on my leg.

can she cut

it off

as soon as possible,

i might be going

to the beach soon

and it might interfere with

my sun bathing

along the shore.

a distant siren

as you walk

around

in the night, the blue

white

moon

beside you,

up hills and through

the lighted

path

around the houses,

with lights dimmed,

ready

for sleep,

you listen to the quieting

of life,

a distant siren

warns you,

but for now

this is fine.

this walk

in the night.

the Queen Bee of England

it was a good life,

the 
Queen of England had,

long and full

of laughs and tears,

i would imagine.

she drove a jeep in world

war two.

rode horses.

and a bunch of other stuff

that i don't

have a clue about.

i think i've seen pictures

of her

with a sepulture.

very cool. 

did she ever wack someone

in the head with it?

i've known

some queen bees

in my life,

but nothing like her.

they were all wanna be

bees.

i wonder if the Queen of

England had a queen-sized bed.

did she know how

to fold a queen size

fitted sheet, or did she

bundled it all up into

a ball, like i do?

did she ever watch

the show,

Queen for a Day?

what did she think

of dairy Queen? did she

ever have a blizzard?

between commercials

the weight

of the worlds troubles

are upon us.

between commercials

we see the floods,

the fires.

the murders.

we see the earthquakes

and famines,

the droughts.

we see the sick children,

the animals,

the birds

that no longer fly south.

what are we to do

about all of this?

who knows, but it makes

an interesting

show.

small talk

it's small talk

around the small table

with small drinks

and appetizers.

it's casual conversation.

the shovel

not digging too deep

into the soil.

it's neither fun

or boring, it's just okay.

small talk

around the small table.

keeping it light

before we go

our separate ways.

smells bad

tired of looking

at the pack

of chicken wings

on the top shelf

of the refrigerator,

i push them

in the back, 

with the butter tubs,

and jellies, 

a container of

yellowed hummus 

that someone

left behind.

a banana cut in half.

a coconut

from the paleolithic age.

there's so much

in there

that i 

should throw away

as i'm leaving

the store.

cherry wine

cheap

wine will leave you

in the morning

with a headache,

cradling

the porcelain throne,

kneeling

in prayer

on the cold

tile floor.

cheap wine.

will make you spin,

make your

head pound,

make you want

to confess and renounce

your sins.

the slow crawl

it's a small turtle.

a black and gold

fellow

with a thatched helmet 

protecting

his fragile

life beneath,

his shyness

is endearing.

he peeks out

at me as i walk by.

i have nothing

to give him, but love

and affection,

stopping to pick

him up from

the busy road

and placing him back

inside the woods

on the other side.

the publishers clearing house prize

i've won the publishers

clearing house

prize

two times this week,

so far,

it's only Monday.

five million,

two million and a white

Mercedes.

i don't know what to do

with all this

good fortune.

i offer to share it with

the Indian fellow

on the phone,

Alex Wilson,

but he says no. he just

needs a three hundred

dollar vanilla gift card

from Walmart to seal the

deal.

he's coming at noon,

i better get on the road

and get the cards.

i told him i'd make sandwiches

for everyone, or

a tuna casserole

if they preferred that.

i can hardly wait for them

to arrive.

click click click

i go on 

to unlink myself from

as many

social

media outlets as possible.

i'm erasing

my footprints

from the cyber world.

taking

my face off of facebook,

unlinking

linkedin.

sweeping

the place clean of any

hint

of me.

i'm going out the way

i came in.

click click click.

and yet, now

i can't save

any of these cracked plates.

or chipped

cups,

or bent spoons.

all of them 

once new,

and yet, now,

letting go 

of the broken

is not an easy

thing to do.

a cold front moving in

in the beginning

she had those come

hither eyes.

you know

what i mean.

the wink,

the sultry gaze,

lips parted in thirst.

in hunger.

and then it changed.

suddenly

it got cold inside.

the eyes

said get away from

me.

she was now a last

place,

not a first place

prize.

turning the next page, then the next

we gather

in what light there is

for our books.

sunsets

and rises.

the moon.

a bare light in an 

empty room.

we sweep up

the crumbs,

brush back the cobwebs.

we listen

to the floor creak,

to the wind

whistle

as it slides through

the cracked pane.

we're hungry.

we're lost.

we're alone.

but we do the best we

can.

we get up

each morning and do it

once more.

we turn to the next page,

wondering

what will be

the end.

pillow talk and cuddling

i could never have sex

with

a woman of the night,

a hooker,

an escort,

a prostitute.

no matter how beautiful

she might be.

how young and vibrant,

or enthusiastic.

what would

the pillow talk be

about?

would we forage

the fridge together?

not to mention

that i need some cuddling

before i fall

asleep.

the silent old

the old man

wants to talk, but no one

asks him

anything.

he's full of wisdom.

filled to 

the brim.

he knows

what makes the world

tick.

what will make

it stop.

but no one asks him.

so he keeps

it all inside.

too bad for them.

for when he's gone,

they're out of luck.

two reluctant wet leaves

even in the rain,

the gaggle of orange

clad men

run their leaf blowers,

their mowers,

their machines

to grind up fallen limbs.

there's one or two

leaves

that are stuck

to the  ground

because they're

wet.

three of the men

gather

together

as one, and try to blow

them towards

the waiting truck.

it's useless, but they

try and try and try,

until i go outside

and pick them up.

i won't even try

the vase,

an heirloom,

slides off the wet sill

rain leaking in.

pieces

scatter,

shatter,

a small cloud of Italian

dust rises.

i inhale

two hundred years

of 

old clay hardened,

now vaporized.

it can't be 

repaired, i won't

even try.

the broom, the dustpan,

will suffice.

dana's bedroom

we drank cheap

wine

in those days, spinning records,

in dana's

bedroom.

the Doors,

the Who,

Joplin

and Leon Russell.

Dylan

and Hendrix.

the White Album

over and over

again,

side one,

side two.

the group of us,

from grade

school

and now off into the real

world,

without a clue.

drinking,

passing a blunt around,

our minds

lazy with ideas

and magical thinking.

who would stay?

who would leave,

and run,

feet on the ground.

so few.

so few.

the withered vine

the discard

is hard, hard to take,

to swallow.

friendships wither

on the vine.

brittle

and old,

spoiled in the sun

too long.

unwatered,

thorny and poisoned

wrapped

around

the chain link fence

of their

own mind.

i cut at the root.

it's time for it to die.

time for the next great flood

are we beyond saving?

has culture

ended.

real books.

real art.

real music.

are we in the end of times.

is the world

run by children

with

unsettled minds.

confident

and dumb.

uneducated despite

the years

in school.

look at me

look at me

look at me.

the lemmings,

the entitled fools.

smart days

some days

we feel smart. 

we can add and subtract,

spell.

tie our shoes without

a knot.

we have all

the basics down.

nothing gets lost.

all the lights are green

as we

go about

our day.

and then, there's other

days,

wandering in and out

of lanes.

carnivore diet

i see a bare hot dog,

bun less,

rolling

around in the man's plate.

his desk is next to the car

salesman's desk

who's trying

to sell me a car.

i look over,

and can't help myself,

i point at it,

and say yo, i see what

you're up to,

low carb, keto, right.

carnivore diet?

right?

he looks at me

and says, what are you

talking about?

no bun,

i say to him, pointing

at the hot dog

rolling around

at the end of his fork.

no carbs.

oh,  yeah.

my wife forgot to

buy buns when she went

to the store

the other day.

he puts some mustard

on his dog,

squeezing it out of a little

plastic packet,

then pulls out a bag

of potato

chips from his desk.

i say, oh,

as he rubs his belly

and

pops open a can

of coke.

what's keto, he says?

the tomato garden war

as a boy,

a young boy.

it was all about soldiers,

tanks and guns.

imagined battles.

trench warfare in the back

yard,

using your mother's

tomato garden

as a battlefield.

the dog running off

with a tank

in his mouth.

indians

and germans.

jungle warfare in bushes.

making noises

of explosions

and bullets flying.

it was war.

not over until your

mother called you

in for dinner.

yelling from the screen

door,

telling you to wash up.

you can't please everyone

at first she loved

my sense of humor, my sarcasm,

my stinging

wit,

and observations.

but in the end it's what she

pointed out as

being the worst thing about me,

what killed her

love, as i uncovered

who she was.

oh well,

you can't please everyone.

morning trip to the post office

i know she means

business

when she puts on her yellow raincoat.

an unfashionable

slick affair,

with black metal clasps.

old school rain gear.

then on goes the hat

her hair, unbrushed,

balled up inside.

no make up.

boots.

she grabs her purse and dashes

out the door

i'll be right back,

she says.

i'm out of stamps.

waiting until tomorrow

let it rain.

who doesn't love

the rain day.

the washed out plan,

who doesn't enjoy

sleeping in,

listening to the clouds

pour and pour

their hearts out.

the gentle percussion

of it, the symphony

of wind, the rush

of new water in the stream

beyond the clearing.

let it rain.

today can wait until

tomorrow.

let it rain.

defeating global warming

as a child

we had global warming

in our own

brick duplex

near the bowling alley.

no a.c.

in the house,

but we had large fans,

black

clunkers that would

swing back and forth with

the sound

of a jet engine.

sometimes my mother

would position

a bowl of ice

in front of it, to increase

the cooling effect.

how's that, she'd say

as we wiped our

brows

and nodded yes,

drinking her cold

lemonade.

you have to be kidding me

you read

where elon musk suggests

exploding

nuclear weapons

at the poles

of Mars

to make it livable,

releasing

whatever water there

is for us

to consume

when we arrive.

it's heartbreaking

what

the rich will do

for ego

in the guise of

mankind.

the dog walker

i see the man

walking

his dog at the same time

every morning.

clockwork.

i know it's seven a.m. 

the coffee is on.

the day has begun.

he stops,

and walks.

he's gentle with the leash,

letting the dog

find

what he wants to find

before moving on.

one day

they'll both be gone,

but not yet.

there's still time for

all of us.

the bakery beside Strosnider's hardware

it's a real bakery.

not a store with detergents

and meat,

papers and pens,

lettuce

and peas.

it's just bakery goods,

made from

scratch

in the back room by

an old man and woman.

wearing

white smocks

and hats.

cakes and pastries,

napoleons

and eclairs,

maple laced donuts,

and bear claws.

there's bread too,

raisin

and cinnamon.

French and Italian.

there's a line out the door

that has a bell

that rings when you enter.

you can taste

the flour and dough,

the sugar

and cream

before taking the first

bite,

all of it lined in shiny

rows

under the clear

warmed glass.

it's Sunday.

we knew

we would lie

on the picnic table

in the back yard

and stare up into the sky,

the stars,

the falling stars.

making wishes that

would never come true.

sometimes our hands

would touch,

our legs against

one another

in the warm summer air.

we were still children,

the world still

a mystery,

but as far as knowing

what love was,

we knew.

eating poetry

so many friends

have died.

lovers too.

gone.

although i still talk

with them.

still care for them.

so many of my favorite

poets

and writers

have gone on as well,

but i still read their

books,

eat their poetry,

devour

the truths they gave

me.

you're beginning to understand

you wonder,

as you drive out

away

from the city,

on a band of road

less traveled

and you see a house.

a small house

out beyond the rail

fences,

towards the woods

across acres

of flat land,

beside a lake.

you see the smoke

from the chimney,

a well,

a small garden,

and you say out loud

how could anyone 

live there,

so far away,

although in truth,

you're beginning

to understand.

any job

i took any job

as a kid.

i was grateful.

i showed up on time.

i listened

to the boss.

i did more than my

share of the work

no matter how hard.

i wanted money to not

be poor

like we were.

i wanted shoes,

and shirts.

pants.

a car. i wanted to

go to a movie.

a restaurant.

i wanted a haircut.

i wanted my

own place.

my own bed.

my own tv.

i wanted to buy

my girlfriend flowers.

i wanted all of these

things.

so i took any job i

could find

and saved.

i saved

so many nickels,

so many pennies.

so many dimes.

underwhelming

it's underwhelming,

this car.

this plush german auto

from across

the pond.

loaded with technology.

touch screens

and audio

instructions.

a space vehicle

with wheels.

pffft.

i say, as i glide along

the road in the quiet

leather sanctuary.

i don't love it,

i don't hate it.

if it had an espresso

machine

inside, well, maybe,

but i won't buy it.

next.

the black snake

the black snake

half up the tree paused

in mid slither

to look over at me.

friend or foe?

he said,

neither i answered

go on about your life

as i will mine.

so he did,

up and up he went

to the nest of eggs,

warm and white

in the early morning

sun.

home sweet home

you have to have a home.

a place

to rest,

a place

to hang your hat.

you need your own bed,

your own

cups

and plates.

a closet for your clothes.

you need a cool

room

to read in,

to nap in,

to watch a show.

you need a fortress of

solitude,

you need crowded

bookshelves,

and music.

maybe with windows that

face the woods,

or water.

you need a place

that makes you sigh

when arrive after a hard

days work,

a place that makes you

say,

ahhh, home sweet home.

praying for fried chicken

we were driving home

from

Cape May

one winter night, when

i looked over

and she was praying.

her eyes closed,

her hands pressed together

around a set of white

rosary beads.

what are you doing?

i asked.

i'm praying, she said.

okay.

for what.

for two things.

two things?

i'm praying that we'll find

a fried chicken

stand,

and that they will have

a bathroom, i really have

to pee.

a mile later we were

sitting in a chicken joint

called the Red Rooster,

eating

legs and wings.

something decadent and sweet

craving for something

decadent and sweet.

i give

Betty a call.

she's up for it too,

i can rely on her

when the urge comes on.

let me throw something

on and i'll be

right over she says.

when she arrives, she throws

her arms

around me

and we tumble up the stairs,

into bed.

can we go

to dinner now, she sighs

afterwards.

and i'd like cake

for dessert.

chocolate.

back home

life is never the same

when back

from war,

from combat.

from hearing the cries

of the others,

the bombs

dropping, bullets striking

or flying by.

how can life ever

be the same

with death at every turn.

you can see it in their

eyes

as they wander back 

into life

wearing a thin disguise.

elephants

there was an elephant 

in the room,

in fact there were two or three.

there was

hardly any room

to sit down.

but we managed.

staying quiet, not talking

about

future,

or present plans.

the church bake sale

as i stir

a cake batter, about

to make a dozen

cupcakes

for the church bake sale,

my wife

whispers to me,

if something ever happens

to me,

they'll know who

did it.

huh, i say. licking the spatula,

as i squeegee out 

the bowl.

what are you talking about?

you know what

i'm talking about.

i reach up

into the cupboard where

her happy pills are

and hand her

the bottle.

did you take yours today,

i ask her?

doesn't seem like it.

cat cow red

she's slow

to make a word

when playing scrabble,

and then

it's a word

like cat

or cow,

or red.

there's no strategy

whatsoever.

she has three degrees

from college,

a masters, 

and a PhD

and yet, there's very 

little

going on in her

head.

she wants me to keep

score too.

why bother?

when your light goes on

when the light

finally goes on

in your head,

don't turn it off,

look around

and see what's really

going on.

get out, this is the life

you will lead

until the end.

run.

a violent world

don't let the green pasture

fool you,

the blue sky,

the calm sea.

don't let the poerty,

the music,

the art

lull you to sleep.

it's a violent world.

observe the hawk

as he swoops low

from the high clouds,

with blood

in his eyes,

and sharpened

beak.

thank you for not being here

asleep

on the couch. a deep sleep,

under the cool

sheet of

a fall breeze through

the open window.

it's full of 

fat dreams,

generous and satisfying.

technicolor.

clear voiced

and focused.

it's a sweet sleep.

restful.

unlike any i've had

in a long

long time.

the absence of you

has made it possible,

thank you

for not being here.

no one listens

i send off an inquiry

on a new car.

telling them i'm in no rush.

but i'm specific

in style, in color, in

model.

i'm exact in fact as to

what i want.

the bells and whistles.

the size of the engine.

etc.

the jackals call.

they text,

they email.

we don't have the one

you're looking for,

but when can you

come in

and do a test drive?

no one listens.

the musician's girlfriend

she tells me that her last

five boyfriends

were musicians.

they sang and played

the guitar

or drums, or some,

just the tambourine.

some of them were

almost famous, i can't tell

you their names.

she looks off into the distance.

and smiles.

remembering,

i was their muse, 

their lovers,

i was in the game.

we had a grand old time.

i help her to her car,

as she limps,

leaning on her cane.

the wedding photo

i remember

him

in a rented suit,

grey and

baggy,

the loose fabric

hanging on his slender

shoulders.

bearded.

not smiling, but standing

next to his wife

in duty.

she was plump with child.

not quite done

with the hippy

hair,

and beads,

the garland of flowers

as a crown.

it's an old photo.

1973.

and when he died

last year, 

i took it out

to look at it again.

we were all children

back then.

i'll never do that again

i'll never ride a horse

again,

she tells me as they mend

her broken leg,

her hip,

and shoulder.

but in a year she's back

on top

of another horse,

galloping

across the field, an

unseen pit

up ahead.

i laugh, having said

the same thing about

marriage once.

inside the ant farm

you choose early

in life

the hammer over the pen,

the saw

over the keyboard,

the ladder

to climb,

not the corporate kind.

the one that leans

onto a roof.

there's blue skies

above.

muscles used,

air into your lungs.

it all goes by so fast,

but it's the right choice

as you look

into the buildings,

ants inside

the ant farm doing tasks

my last online therapy session

my online therapist,

Lucy,

ten dollars a session,

says to me, you're one of those

kind of people,

aren't you?

what do you mean?

we're on zoom.

very awkward.

well, she says, you think

perpetual

lying and cheating

is a deal breaker.

right?

you're against adultery?

yes. i tell her, of course,

and you don't?

well,

sometimes it can strengthen

a relationship

or a marriage, she says,

adjusting her large

red framed glasses

and unwrapping another piece

of gum.

to add to the ones she's

already chewing.

cheating can be a healthy

message to the other person,

that they aren't getting

it done at home,

or bringing in the bacon

and they need to

step up to the plate.

how old are you, i ask Lucy.

none of your beeswax, she

says, laughing.

the cheat day

i see my friend Bertha

standing in line

at the Olive Garden, it's all

you can eat pasta

and meat balls day.

the house red wine 

and mozzarella bread sticks

are unlimited.

she's wearing a bib and carrying

her own set of silverware.

hey. i say to her,

as i walk by.

what are you doing here.

i thought you 

were doing the Keto diet.

i am, i am, she says.

this is my cheat day.

i ain't no damn farmer

i'm glad

i don't own a farm.

the weather would drive me crazy.

a short drive,

i know, but still.

i'd be

worried about the crops.

are they getting enough rain,

too much rain.

is it too hot,

too cold. i'd be

looking out the window

in the morning

to see how the corn did.

the alfalfa

the soybeans.

i'd look down 

the field

to see if any cows got loose

and are running up

the road.

i wouldn't like watching

my step all the time,

what with

all the chickens running

around the yard,

the goats, the pigs.

the dogs.

and that damn fence on

the lower forty,

always in need of repair.

always falling down.

asleep before ten

i tell myself,

you can stay up late tonight.

go ahead,

watch the late show,

or an old movie.

you don't have to get up

early.

you don't have to be anywhere

until elven a.m.

relax.

have a cup of tea,

put on your pajamas,

catch up on your reading.

do a cross word puzzle

but no.

as usual you're asleep

before ten.

the Scrambler

it wasn't unusual

for a kid

to throw up on the Scrambler,

a ride that spun

you around on long

stiff tentacles

made of creaking steel.

faster and faster

it would go

until your face pulled

back like an astronaut

at lift off on the way

to the moon.

it was hard to keep

a hot dog

and cotton candy,

a bag of caramel

corn, and a large coke down.

there was one

worker on duty

for such occasions,

busy with a mop

and bucket.

filled with water and Lysol

to squeegee everything

down. sadly,

by night's end the girl

you were after

was with someone else,

as you went home to

change your Banlon

shirt again.

the peppermint twist

i see my wife of twenty-five

years doing the twist

in the kitchen

to a Beatles song,

i take my reading glasses off

and put paper down,

then join in,

swiveling my hips,

my legs, shuffling my feet

in my bedroom slippers.

we put chubby checker

on. we're knocking over

pots and pans.

the bottle of wine turns

over and spills onto

the floor.

the dog is barking.

the kids come in,

laughing. shaking their heads.

what's wrong you people,

they ask?

they aren't lost

there are no lost

dogs

or cats.

can a bird be lost

flown from the cage.

an alligator,

or snake?

they just get up and go

their own way.

no leash,

no collar,

out they go through

the opened door,

the window,

the gate.

no need to measure anymore

we reach

a point in life, in cooking,

in baking,

in love

where we no longer need

to measure.

we know how

it's made.

what to add, what to

not add,

heavy or light on the pour

or shake

of salt,

or spoon of sugar.

we know the taste we want.

the thickness

of affection,

the sweetness of confection.

we know the smell of it.

the taste upon our

tongue

when it's done.

the corner pub

i want a bar

to be dark, to be without

a tv

screen.

a long wooden bar,

scarred

and storied,

mythical,

with tables scattered about.

a small dance floor.

good music

with songs you know.

a mirrored wall behind

the bartender.

i want it old school.

a place

where they learn

your name,

your troubles, your drink.

where the glass is ready,

cold and iced

when you come through

the front door.

you want it to be a second

home,

where the day is forgotten,

before you go home

again.

the great wall

i understand

the great wall of China.

i get it.

all those rocks

and bricks,

all those years of building

along the border.

i understand

the posted guards,

the concrete

steps,

the soldiers in position

in case of attack.

i under

protection.

the need to preserve one's

heart.

love will do

that do you

when love falls apart.

end of life insurance

my favorite caller

from

Deli, Sector 10.

Alex Wilson,

calls me again today.

we've spoken

many times before.

he's selling end of life

insurance.

he wants to know if i smoke.

how old am i.

am i in a wheel chair,

or in a senior facility

wiping oatmeal off my chin.

i can hear children in the background

speaking Hindi,

goats and chickens,

a rooster crows.

he asks me 

do i own a home.

a car.

do i have a bank account.

he wants my

Medicare number

my social security number,

my mother's maiden

name.

the name of my beneficiary

if i should pass

into the great beyond,

or hell below.

i've given him a different

name,

every time he calls.

Jack Hoffman

Seymore Butts

Elanore Roosevelt

Johnny Strepp,

but he doesn't get it.

he's the worst and yet the most

persistent salesman

i've ever talked to.

doing time

do you forgive

the felony

as easy as the misdemeanor?

does the mortal

sin

and the menial

sin

get equal treatment?

what's the level of maliciousness,

what's the reason

behind

the crime?
only those feeling guilt,

remorse

and regret, are the ones

that truly

do the time.

six boxes of rice

i remember

after a long argument,

a precursor

of days ahead,

when i would be punished

with no sex,

and silence.

i remember trying to get

out of the wedding.

she stared

at me, as i drove the car,

the blue chevy

choking blue fumes behind

us,

my hands white

knuckled on the wheel.

what?

she said.

cancel our wedding, are

you mad?

the invitations are in

the mail.

the cake is on order.

the band is scheduled.

i bought the dress,

the shoes.

we're registered at

Montgomery Wards

and Murphy's.

the make up artist,

the florist

have been paid.

we've rented the knights

of columbus hall.

the minister has

written our vows.

my friends have six boxes

of Uncle Ben's white rice

ready

to be thrown at us

as we leave the church.

i sighed, and said okay.

okay.

i guess if they bought the rice,

we have to

go along with it.

lying in the long grass

on him,

they find, as he lies

in the long grass,

bleeding,

a watch around his wrist,

still keeping

time.

there are coins in his

pocket.

a list of what's needed

at the grocery

store.

there's a pen,

his keys to all his locks,

and a picture

of her,

his one true love,

yellowed

and wrinkled in his

emptied wallet.

anything with a face

i give up on plant

food,

the dirt of it,

the greens,

the leafy pages of lettuce,

the beans.

done with corn,

done with asparagus,

done with beets

and potatoes.

chickpeas and

leeks.

it's meat from here on out.

going full

carnivore,

anything with a face,

except for maybe

a snake,

or a mouse.

you can smell trouble

you can smell trouble,

feel it

tingling up your spine,

the narrowing of eyes,

the beads

of sweat,

the nervous tick,

the kicking of the foot

against the chair.

trouble.

your primitive instincts

are intact.

trying to save you

from the likes of her,

the jezebel,

the trap.

on the move again

a life

in boxes, marked

kitchen,

or bedroom,

books,

or shoes.

from one bus stop

to the other.

a life of bubble wrap

and tape.

so many

moves.

some involving love,

some

money.

some just random

indecisions,

made by

staring out the window,

and wanting

a different view.

stir fried rice

the Chinese

family next door does a lot

of cooking.

and bowing.

and gardening.

they're very neat and clean,

orderly.

polite to a fault.

they smile

wryly

at you,

as you refuse to weed,

or cut

the grass.

burning burgers

on the grill.

it feels like you're being

judged,

but you don't really

care.

you wonder what's the best

place

to buy a new wok,

but don't ask.

so we have this now

religion

is no longer keeping

the hordes

in bounds.

you look out the window

as a masked

man

jimmies the door

of your car.

there's

a fellow with a gun,

at the five

and ten.

another with a knife,

hunting

for what he doesn't have.

no longer do the children

go to mass

and listen.

knees bruised

in prayer.

believing that there

is a God

up there.

there is no fear,

so we have this, now.

the blonde antique

she spoke 

receding sound,

her words

drifting off

as if gentle fingers

typing,

leaving a trail

of ellipses.

clarity into whispers.

fading,

fading, as she was,

becoming 

a blonde antique,

in the dim

light she preferred.

optimism

i don't know exactly why

my

mother put a layer of pond's

cold cream

on her face

every night.

brushing and brushing

her curly black

hair,

but she did.

even with seven kids

in the house,

an absent husband

of unknown whereabouts,

cats and dogs,

in every bed,

the bills stacked up,

she was optimistic

about her chances

in the outside world,

as to what might

lie ahead.

one flutter of an eye

one word,

one glance, one sigh,

one

stutter,

one flutter of an

eye

can change everything

in a blink.

the hesitation 

will inform others

of what you

truly think.

waiting for the baby

i'm glad

we, men, can't have babies.

i can barely

handle a paper cut.

or an upset stomach

from calamari.

the idea of having something

growing in you

for nine months,

more or less, is a giant

cup of crazy.

i don't mind being there

at the beginning,

but glad i'm not

there at the end, except

for maybe

relaxing in the waiting

room,

playing wordle on my

phone, or thumbing through

a readers digest.

she's new again

she goes in for a new hip,

a new knee,

a new tooth implanted

into the jawbone

of her mouth,

she buys a new car,

red of course.

divorces the old husband,

abandons

the adopted kid.

she goes for

hair implants. on her thinning

head.

blonde dye.

a landing strip below.

she's a beach comber now.

she gets a a face lift,

a french bikini.

a tummy tuck.

she quits therapy,

and takes lithium,

ambien

and trader joe wine.

she's back in action on

e harmony.

buyers beware.

keep your eyes open

wide.

maybe Brad Pitt can play me?

you should really write

a book,

she tells me, after i tell her

my story.

it's an amazing tale,

a lifetime movie.

a horror show of twists

and turns.

of psychological drama.

intrigue, betrayal

and international crime.

a slew of

therapists and a litany

of disorders.

gaslighting.

triangulation.

narcissism.

suicide.

that would be fun, i

tell her.

i can see it all up on

the big screen.

it makes the Amber Heard

and Johnny Depps

story look like a fairy tale.

maybe brad Pitt can

play me?

umm. maybe, she says.

maybe.

we'll see.

can we really change?

i see a vampire

at the blood bank.

he's making a withdrawal,

but the old fashion way.

he's filled out a form

and has a prescription

from his doctor back home

in Transylvania.

he's trying to change.

he's trying not to sneak up

on unsuspecting necks

and biting down,

draining them of precious

fluid.

he's in a twelve-step program.

i see him when i go

for my cake addiction.

we wave and nod, he smiles,

showing me his

sharp fangs, but then

shyly puts his hand

to his mouth to cover

them up. he's trying really

hard, as i am as i walk

by the vending machine,

seeing two Little Debbie

cupcakes behind the glass.

less round

we discuss food.

one says all meat,

no bread,

no sugar,

no sweets.

fasting.

keto.

paleo.

Mediterranean.

Neanderthal.

the other says green.

just plants,

and fish,

what grows in

the ground.

whatever works,

whatever makes

you more healthy,

less round.

time to let go

i remember the waiting.

the long

days and nights.

the visits

to her body curled in a fetal

position.

her eyes darting

from side to side

with worry,

or wonder.

who's to know.

we were ready though

to let her pass onto

the next life,

whispering in her ear

before parting.

it's okay, we'll be okay.

you did your best,

now it's time to let go.

why bring that up again?

with some people,

your mind

is full of good memories.

all good memories.

you can't think of one bad time,

or of cross words

that you shared with

one another.

it's a wonderful thing,

and then with others,

a rare few,

well.

why bring that up again?

salty and sweet

we are all tempted,

we

want what isn't ours or

what's 

bad for us.

we desire,

we have a need, a lust,

a longing.

whether

milk

or meat,

love,

or sex. we want the void

to be filled,

the emptiness satisfied

with something.

something.

preferably salty,

or sweet.

make a left at the moon

let's go where 

there is no air, no food,

no water.

no coffee, or plants,

or animals.

nothing to speak of.

too cold.

too hot.

let's go there.

it's only a few million miles

away,

we can be there by next year.

it won't cost much.

just

a billion or two.

taxes will pay for it.

me and you.

let's get out of this place,

and start a new life,

far from the maddening crowd.

up up and away,

make a left

at the smirking moon.

crazy Gene

there was a kid,

Gene Aubrey,

in the neighborhood

who put his own initials

into his arm with a straight needle,

and black ink.

we were twelve,

sitting around the dark

room,

his mother downstairs

making pot roast,

his father in the yard cursing

the weeds

and life in general.

he held the needle

to a lit match

to sterilize the tip,

then he dipped it into

the well of ink,

to tattoo G A

into his skinny forearm.

it took months before the infection

died down

and the scab wore off.

i still remember that.

the family cat, Roosevelt

the orange shag rug,

scalloped with age and sun,

a path made

through the years,

of children

once small,

then grown.

up the stairs it goes

then into other rooms

like a coral reef or algae

in a dying sea.

it's the first thing you

notice when

you come through the door,

the first thing

that has to go, the jar lamps

next.

the hotel art with

big eyed dogs,

and landscapes of snow,

and water.

geese that never land.

a portrait that resembles

George Washington

hangs over the fireplace,

charred wood

resting upon the brick hearth.

in the corner

is a television, the rabbit ears

in place,

a horizontal button

ready to be turned.

beside the magazine

rack on the floor are

bookshelves with

encyclopedias,

road maps. a worn copy of

I'm Okay, You're Okay.

besides a family portrait,

and a picture on the shelf

of the family

cat. Roosevelt.

water off a tin roof

at a certain age

you stop giving advice.

the deaf ears surround you.

some young

some old.

some have already

been advised

on love and money,

how to save their soul.

wisdom

is best learned the hard

way.

with hand in the fire,

a barefoot walk

through the snake

filled woods, 

.

the easy way is truly water

uncaught

off an angled tin roof.

bring it on

i would cringe

at summers end, the last dog

days

of august.

looking north

to where

it would begin.

the wind.

the snow and ice.

the shedding of leaves.

the heavy

coats hung deep into

the wells

of closets, 

now retrieved.

but now i welcome it.

i understand

the necessity

of death and rebirth,

the rising

from the earth of new

love,

new seed.

bring it on.

maybe, maybe not

is Hugh Hefner in hell?

maybe,

maybe not,

but if he is, maybe we're all

going to hell.

what grown man,

or ungrown

has not oogled a girl,

turned our head their way

when they run

by in yoga pants,

or short dress.

or burlap sack

loosely buttoned

up the back.

it doesn't matter

the difference in age.

why is it so shocking that

men like

the curve of a woman,

the pretty face,

the long

or short leg?

the gentle sway of hips.

the world would not

go on

if this desire did

not continue,

if sexual attraction

did not exist.

what's your password?

i was surprised

at the pearly gates when

St. Peter

asked me if i had identification,

and if i remembered

my password.

the line was long

and restless.

people had been waiting

on line for weeks.

all the paperwork,

the notebooks,

the laminated cards with

all the passwords

were at home

in the safe.

try this one, i said.

Betty123#.

He rolled his eyes and said,

okay, then shook

his head.

did you use an uppercase B?

you did?

okay, okay, what about,

Stephanieyum111.

he typed that in.

nope.

one more shot and then i have

to move on to the next

person.

i closed my eyes and concentrated.

okay.

try this one.

i think this is it.

5starFrancesca69.

Zippo dude.

nope. now off you go,

you had you're chance.

sorry, back of the line.

goldfish therapy

i stare

into the fish bowl

and say, yes, i know.

i get it.

i'm sorry little fellow,

but i can't let

you go.

this is your life

from here on out.

i see you in there swimming

around,

but going nowhere.

it breaks my heart,

but i completely understand

and empathize with

your plight.

tomorrow

tomorrow

i'll start the diet.

tomorrow i'll read more books.

tomorrow

i'll get more exercise.

tomorrow

i'll start saving money.

tomorrow i'll hold my

tongue

and not say what i really mean.

tomorrow i'll be

a better person.

i'll pray and not ask for anything

in return.

tomorrow

i'll call an old friend

and make amends.

tomorrow

i'll clean the house.

tomorrow

i'll go to the dentist,

the doctor,

the lawyer and see

what they

recommend

tomorrow

i'll stop thinking about

love

and how it all 

some point

comes to an end.

perfectly imperfect

the imperfections

are more interesting than

the perfections.

the glitch,

the mistake, the small bump

in the road.

they let us know

who or what

we're dealing with.

with no shine or shame,

no glow.

show me your worst side.

the one

without the smile,

the one

with old clothes.

show me your scars,

your secrets.

let's see then where this

might go.

false advertising

i see her number

scrawled

in the stall of

a bus depot bathroom.

call for a good time

it reads.

you won't be disappointed.

two numbers.

a cell and landline.

and a smiling face

beside it.

i check my phone.

sure enough, it's her.

so much false advertising

these days.

is there a difference?

i feel for the worm

scrunched tight along the curve

of the sharp hook.

now bait for fish.

still wiggling despite

being cut into thirds.

what and why

he must have felt

and thought

from either end,

head or tail,

(is there a difference?)

as he was pulled

from the soft

cold ground, burrowing,

and now this.

boxed and carried

to the lake,

what's a worm to do?

or any of us,

me or you?

daydream

i dip into another book

too soon,

not done with the four others

that wait

in various rooms.

each gathering

dust.

earmarked where

i left off.

i'm bored easily these

days, it seems.

it's why i haven't been

around to see you.

so much of life

feeling like

a daydream

you don't forget poor

you don't forget poor.

or hunger,

or thirst.

you don't forget 

the ragged

clothes.

the shoes with holes.

you don't forget

the hot rooms

without air conditioning,

the radiators

clanging all night

with wet

heat.

you don't forget

the bugs, the mice.

the one bathroom

down the hall, a line,

six deep.

the leaks,

the drips from the roof.

the barking dog,

the broken screens

and windows,

the flies.

you don't forget

any of it, it sticks to you,

from cradle

to the grave,

beyond.

training day

it's the waiter's first day

on the job.

he doesn't know the menu.

he doesn't know

what Tanqueray is.

he doesn't know if there

are any oysters

in the kitchen.

they haven't given him

his apron yet.

his hands are shaking.

his eyes are big and full

of fright.

he spills the drinks,

drops the food.

sneezes in our direction.

help is hard to find,

but still you leave him

a healthy tip.

day one of anything is hard.

where you gonna find another cat?

there's always another train,

another bus,

or cab

to get you out of town,

away from this.

there's always

another cat too,

roaming the streets or

at the pet store in a cage.

keep your chin up,

your head down,

your eyes focused forward

on the now,

you can count on this,

things change.

we need the wood

i ask her gently

to come down off the cross.

her lovers cross.

we need the wood.

enough

with this.

here, let me get you a ladder.

we can build

a fire.

martyrdom

doesn't suit you. Okay?

i see a pattern here

the sky grows dark

with ominous clouds.

it begins to rain.

it pours, there's high winds.

then stops,

the sun comes out.

birds are chirping

in the brilliant blue sky.

the air is sweet and cool.

i see a pattern here.