perennially happy hour

it's hard to let go of things.

we become sentimental

about the big chair,

with the stuffing coming

out, popped springs.

it's where you watched

so many games,

fell asleep in

and spilled drinks.

it's the chair you

tossed shoes from

at the tv,

or towards an ex-wife

giving you hell 

for leaving

the seat up again.

and then there's

bent forks

and spoons in

the kitchen drawer.

all the meals you had

with them,

slurping

canned chili and soups,

ignoring the stains.

the chipped cups you 

drank from.

all those

martinis you made in coffee

mugs.

that clock on the wall,

broken,

stuck forever

on five o'clock, perennially

happy hour.

allergic to children

the older i get

the more allergic

i am

to children.

i break out

in hives

if i see a baby

in a stroller rolling

by.

anyone under the age

of thirty,

makes me nervous.

makes

my anxiety go

sky high.

this is why they put

all the old people

in senior homes together

and

have communities

with gates and guards,

allowing only those

over fifty-five.

the party lights

when the cop turns on

his party lights

and tells you

to pull over with his megaphone,

you know

it's not good news.

he's not going to tell

you to roll down

your window

and report to you

that you won the lottery,

or that

Heidi Klum wants

you to call her,

immediately.

no, it's something else.

maybe that stop

sign you rolled through,

or doing fifty in a twenty

five.

it's never good news when

the party lights

go on.

when are coming?

my father,

at ninety-four has his girlfriend

call me

on the phone.

the final love of his

life,

perhaps.

we talk turkey

and pie.

whipped cream.

he wants to know when i

will arrive.

i remember as a child

asking him

the same thing

on a long distance

call,

and staring out the

window

hoping 

on Christmas morning

to see his car.

stop writing about me

she tells me that she doesn't

read my poetry

anymore.

i think she wants to hurt my

feelings.

why not?

i ask her.

because sometimes you make

fun of me

and you're mean.

you know perfectly well

what you're doing.

words hurt.

how do you know it's about

you?

it could be about someone

else.

no, i know it's me.

it has to be me.

the world revolves around me.

we both know that,

don't we?

she values my opinion on fashion

what about these shoes,

she asks me,

as i lower

the game on the tv.

what?

these shoes.

i can't decide on the red,

or white.

i can take

them back, i still have

the receipts.

she walks over

in front of me,

blocking the screen

and sticks

her leg out.

ummm. either one is good.

i motion with my

hand for her

to slide a little to one

side

so that i don't miss

the next play.

what about black, i tell,

pretending interest.

black?

sure.

okay, she says.

i'll get black.

another baby

when the ambulance

long

and red,

screaming its presence

pulled up

on our street, our game

stopped.

someone held

the ball while we

gathered

around the glass windows

with curtains

parted.

men in white rolled

someone

out on a gurney.

it seemed like

death was near

or that

the worst had happened

to someone.

our young eyes strained

to see

what was going on,

and then realized,

it was just another woman

having 

a baby.

one day they'll get it

each generation

believes

they've invented everything

around them.

music.

poetry.

art.

they know

what you've never known,

they believe.

wisdom

comes late in life,

like us, they'll

eventually see.

unpainted still

she painted

portraits in oil

from photographs

she took,

painting

long hours into the night.

beyond

the light

of sun.

she couldn't sleep

in her high-rise

room,

the drapes pulled

wide

before the city.

her years were

measured

in canvas.

old lovers.

parents,

a bride and groom,

friends departed,

friends still here.

and yet, not a single

portrait of me.

unworthy

then,

and according to her

i always will be.

what about me?

the desk clerk

tells my girlfriend how beautiful

she looks

today

as we come in from

a long day on the beach.

tanned

and rested.

her sunglasses on.

her hat,

still in her yellow bikini.

her long legs

glistening.

you look lovely today,

the clerk says again.

finally i can't take it anymore,

and say,

with my arms out,

hey, what about me?

thanksgiving prep

i'll roast the turkey.

you make

the gravy, and

boil the potatoes.

i'll do the stuffing and

the cranberries,

but the green beans

are in your

court as well as

candied yams, and

pumpkin pie.

one can of whipped

cream should do.

maybe put a selection

of nuts on the table,

some olives,

celery stuffed with cream

cheese

like my mother

used to do.

what are we leaving

out?

oh, yeah.

our pilgrim costumes.

don't forget to wear

your Pocahontas boots,

with a feather in your hair,

and leather

blouse.

i'll be Miles Standish,

with musket at the ready

in case,

before dinner,

you want to fool around.

detour up ahead

i used to refer

to bad relationships as

speed bumps,

mere 

bumps in the road,

survival

nuisances,

but once past them

it's clear sailing

from then on.

but sometimes.

it's not just a bump.

it's a crevice,

it's a sink hole

and you have to climb

your way out

of the crash and burn,

grappling

up the side of a crevice

that's beyond

any bump in the road.

no one warned

you with a detour.

take one every nine hours

i prepare myself

for my

new drivers license.

the last one about to expire

in a few months.

i have to go down to the DMV

and reapply.

have a new picture

taken.

hopefully it won't involve

parallel parking

this time.

i have all my documents

in order,

birth certificate,

passport,

a bag of cash in case

i need to flee.

probably a useless

precaution.

i'm worried about the vision

test though.

what about hearing,

which i'd surely fail.

all day long i've been

trying to read

the small print on

my prescription bottles.

putting one hand

over

each eye.

take one every nine

hours?

or is it take nine

each hour?

time to let it go

she shows me her high school

yearbook,

a cheerleader,

then a picture

from college, homecoming

queen,

one at the beach

when she was twenty-five.

standing on her head

in a red bikini.

i used to model,

she tells me.

i was in a magazine

i say no doubt.

but that was then and this

is now.

we were all beautiful at

that age.

time to let it go,

i tell her.

be brave. believe it

or not,

it's what's inside

that counts.

while writing a check

it's always a surprise

when a pen

runs out of ink.

my favorite pen,

the one that came in a

package of ten

from the grocery store.

i've had this pen for

seven years

and it's never let me

down

until now.

i shake it, tap it

against the desk.

not a drop of black

ink in it.

i hold it up to the light

and shake my head.

what's going on here.

nothing, nothing

ever seems to last.

there's tragedy all 

around us.

the Delray farmer's market

i make my way

to the Delray farmer's market.

with no vegetables,

or fruit in mind,

i have no list,

or bag

to carry my purchases

home.

i just want

a walnut, maple pastry.

made by a happy woman

from Annadale.

no squash for me,

no spinach,

or local lettuce.

i don't need any carrots,

or kale,

or apples from some

far away orchard.

no cider.

just one

maple laced pastry, please,

and i'll be

on my way.

eating, as i walk.

yard therapy

not just men,

but women too, 

who want to escape

in the tasks

of yard work.

to bundle

one's self up in scarves

and hats,

work gloves,

and to go out

to prune, to rake.

to groom the yard

before winter

comes.

a last push of the mower,

wrapping precious

bushes,

to protect them from

the frost,

trimming branches.

it's a long

day of reddened cheeks

and sore knees.

but it's a welcome escape,

yard

therapy.

full service

my dentist has added

Botox

injections

to her repertoire of medical

applications.

clean teeth,

then a shot

to straighten out

those lines

around your mouth,

your forehead,

that crease

between your eyes.

in the back is a tanning

booth

and a hair

salon.

the line is out the door

now.

in the waiting room,

she's serving

wine.

she understands

lonely,

i by a goldfish.

but i don't give it a name.

whether girl or boy,

i don't

want to become too

attached.

and feel the heartbreak

when it dies

when i have to flush

it down

the drain.

the first week is good.

i sprinkle food 

on the water,

as it nibbles,

coming up from the plastic

seaweed

and castle that i've

planted on the bottom

with sand.

it stares at me,

with longing eyes.

i watch as it swims,

it's gills

opening and closing.

i think it

understands.

so much of the world

we perceive to be good,

is actually a lie.

going awol from the cubscouts

it's tough to join

things.

there's always someone

a rank higher

telling you

what to do.

the army,

the navy.

the cub scouts.

i lasted a week in

the cub scouts.

went over the hill,

awol.

i could never master

the square knot

and it bored

me to rub

two sticks together

trying to start

a fire.

why are we doing this

when we have

matches?

i really didn't want to keep

track of the birds

we saw,

or remember the names

of trees.

sleeping in a tent with

twenty other boys

after eating

cans of hot dogs

and beans 

was not a night

i wanted to repeat.

you need to upgrade

my therapist,

a wise

owl like presence,

heavy

in her chair,

round glasses on,

pen

and yellow legal

pad on

her knee,

says to me.

you need to upgrade

and stop dating

dopey women,

then nods

with self-affirmation,

and at last

i finally agree.

check please.

you can't stop what's coming

it's the kind of wind

that blows

your hat off, 

making you chase

it down the street.

it stiffens flags,

frees at last,

to the ground,

the clinging

autumn leaves.

it's the kind of wind,

that sends a chill

across your skin,

turns your cheeks red,

makes your eyes wet.

it's the kind of wind

that forces you

to lean into it,

as you button up 

for what's

coming next.

on a sugar cone

we find the flavor

we like

and stick with it.

strawberry for her,

mint chip

for me.

there are so many

things

we agree upon, but

when it comes to ice

cream,

we disagree.

unfixable

they add up.

the broken printers,

the computers,

the old phones.

televisions.

so valued

when new,

now laden in dust

in the corners,

deep into drawers,

in closets, out

of view.

we replace things

now,

we don't repair,

and that's what i've

done with you.

come home again

we want to leave

the comfortable nest.

it's natural

to get out of town,

out of dodge,

go west

or to the big city,

done

with small ville.

we want to spread

our wings

and fly or sail

across the sea.

we want

pizzaz, excitement,

we want to wrap

our arms

around the world

and embrace

what's different and

new.

it's what we do when

young

and then

when old

come home again.

return to where

we're from.

the cat and mouse

bored

with the mouse, the cat

deletes

her number.

blocks the hole

in the wall.

takes the cheese away.

the game is

over.

ambivalence

has set in.

there's a bird

out the window

that is so much more

interesting.

cold steel

we trust easily,

the building, 

we say it has good bones,

we believe it

will hold us upright

on each floor,

the elevator being safe

as we rise

and rise to get to where

we need to go.

there's concrete

within,

steel bars,

glass as thick limbs.

the building

hums with power.

electricity and water.

lights will guide

the way.

we trust an inanimate

structure.

we have faith in cold steel.

but less so

in people.

live long enough

and watch how they

fail.

temptation

it comes in all

sizes,

all flavors, colors.

when

least expected.

a slight breeze will

arouse you.

a hunger

will overcome you.

a taste of

honey crosses your

wandering

mind.

some sort of sweet

pastry, someone

across the street,

a delicacy.

not unlike a fine

wine.

the Japanese book

i get a book in the mail

from Amazon,

but i can't read it.

it's written in Japanese.

i flip

through the pages.

not a word in English.

do i keep the book,

or return it?

did someone in Toyko

get my book

by mistake?

the world is getting

smaller

everyday.

chained to the man

your job

is hard, he tells me.

don't you miss the office.

your coat and tie.

happy hour

and volleyball on

Wednesdays.

i don't know how you do it.

climbing ladders,

being on your feet all day.

buckets of paint,

rollers and brushes.

spackling,

caulking, laying

wallpaper,

up and down, across

with your tools.

your knives.

your scissors clicking

endlessly

getting the patterns right.

keeping the floor

clean.

it is hard,

i tell him.

but the other life was

a prison cell.

my cubicle

next to yours watching

the slow clock

on white wall.

changed to the man.

escaping that was nothing

less than a miracle.

Swanson tv dinners

for the longest time

my grocery list

was a cariologist's

and dentist's

delight.

a six pack of cokes.

potato chips.

Oreos.

nuts to snack on

late at night.

milk.

cereal.

ice cream.

a couple of Swanson

tv dinners.

a bag of sugar,

a bag of flour.

vegetable oil.

maybe an apple or

two.

some oranges,

bananas, to ease the guilt

of all the other

stuff. but now it's

easy.

beef, butter, bacon,

and eggs.

and heavy cream for

coffee.

cash or check

when you finish a job,

you want

to be paid.

cash or check.

forget about Venmo

and Zelle,

PayPal

and a wire transfer.

no credit cards either.

it's cash,

or a check, 

simple and clean,

at least

for me.

which sends the clients

under forty

scrambling,

searching for the last

check in an old

checkbook

stuffed in a drawer

with dried up ink pens.

i admit it i

i'm still stuck

in another century.

thumbing through the old testament

we expect

the doctor to know it all.

from head to toe.

inside and out.

and yet,

sometimes he doesn't.

he's got

neuropathy down,

but not

psoriasis.

same goes

for the lawyer.

she has to look stuff up.

sure she knows

divorce

and child support,

but when it comes to

murder one

she has to google it.

even

the garage mechanic,

though an expert

on brakes,

has no clue 

with transmissions.

there's a lot faking it

going on.

but none of them tell

you that.

they learn on the job,

as we all do.

even the priest has to thumb

through the old

testament

to tell you

what to do.

red bird

it's a small

red bird on the sill.

but it's enough

to get me going.

the brilliant crimson

wings.

the straight beak.

those eyes.

the flickering of color

as he

flies off

to some unseen

tree.

there's hope in that.

you got 24 hours

what if you only had

a day

left on earth, 

twenty-four hours

before they

pulled the switch on

old smokey,

the electric chair.

how would you spend

it if they

let you leave jail.

what would you eat?

where would you go

and with who.

would Betty be involved,

perhaps

the Rockettes

if you could get a hold

of them.

would your last meal

be fried chicken,

or tofu.

desserts?

maybe a giant rib eye

steak

with mashed potatoes

and green beans.

would you go for a bike ride

around the lake,

read,

maybe take a nap

at three.

watch a little tv?

perhaps all of the above,

and as usual write a bunch

of silly poetry?

stoned again

i couldn't tell if she was

perpetually

high on weed,

or just plain

dumb. grandma

at sixty plus,

her stories were long

and boring,

they never circled back

to any

conclusion.

no punch line.

no finish.

just a lot of babbling

on and on.

she was

dazed and confused,

lost in

the smoke,

the residue.

do you want some,

she asked,

holding out a nickel

bag of home

grown.

nah. i think i'll pass, but

please don't let me

stop you.

button up, yo

we need belts,

suspenders, buttons

and snaps.

we need

to keep things up

and on,

we're no longer

in the garden of Eden.

buck naked.

a hundred per cent

cotton jumper

is breathable,

plus it keeps us

warm.

those gamma rays

we are connected

by

wires

or without,

the surge of electrical

current

from grid

to pole

to me and you.

across the air,

long distance,

short spurts

of sparks, those

gamma rays,

and there we are,

on phones

on screens, 

and yet,

despite the magic,

we're still

so far apart.

the block list

i take a look at my

ever expanding

block list.

phone,

e mails, texts.

WhatsApp,

Facebook, etc.

i dropped the old

guillotine

on a lot of them.

so done with crazy

narcissistic

people.

one fell swoop

and off they go into

oblivion.

one strike and out.

i can help you

i find her old straight jacket

in the closet

and immediately

think of you.

her pills are here as well,

the electroshock

treatments

hang on the wall

next to the snow

shovels, and rakes.

i still have

the wires, the rubber cups,

the glue.

there's the bucket

of holy water

in the cellar,

and the book on exorcism.

i tried to help her,

but nothing worked,

perhaps i can help you.

beyond skin

she's beautiful

in sunlight.

at dawn

at dusk, in the pitch black

cover

of darkness.

whether old or

young,

there's no difference

in her.

she's the same

eternal beauty

she always was.

a diamond

glistening 

in the rough.

shake it off and go

is it harder for men

or women

as they age?

the grey hair,

the wrinkles, the crepe

skin blowing

in the wind.

cosmetics help.

high heels and

clothes.

a trip to the beauty

parlor, yoga,

a small procedure

to tighten skin,

or straighten

a nose.

i guess women

do have it harder

when fighting off

the ravages

of time,

while men,

just wake up,

shake it off and go.

two scoops on a sugar cone

as a kid,

a nickel meant a lot.

a dime

was gold,

if you found a quarter

on the street

you let

the world know.

it was

ice cream time

at the High's store,

two scoops

stacked high

on a sugar cone.

a cadre of socks

the drawer

full of black socks

is full.

and yet, i stuff another

pair in.

three new pairs.

attached

to one another,

close friends.

i need a Saturday

to sort

through them.

so many have

lost their color

and gone thin.

it's time to say good

by to a few,

while others, not unlike

old friends,

i'll try to mend.

a giant cup of crazy

when she arrived home

from work

at the end of the day,

my ex found me

perusing

the book she left on the coffee

table.

tantric sex,

her name was inscribed

inside the cover of

the new and improved

illustrated version

with color photos.

what are you doing with

that book, she asked,

hands on her hips.

how dare you look at

that book,

what's wrong with you?

i was just getting some

ideas.

it's your book.

i thought you left it out

for me to see.

she stormed off

slamming doors behind her.

angry.

just another typical day

in my married life with her.

again, no sugar for me.

off the chain

the dogs

we had as a kid

rarely had a collar,

never a leash,

they ran free

in the streets,

when we went out,

they followed.

and like us

they returned home

when tired,

when at last it

was time

to eat.

making new friends

there

was a time when

salesmen

came to the door

with their wares.

encyclopedias

and vacuum cleaners,

the fuller brush

man

in a suit.

a man with cords

of wood.

magazine sellers.

the Avon lady

with a satchel

of make up.

my mother

would open the door

and let them in.

she'd 

put on a pot of coffee

and listen

politely, though not

a penny to spend.

she was always willing

to make a new

friend.

the big sleep

goodbye,

farewell, so long.

it's been fun,

nice knowing you,

shame about

what could

have been.

with best regards

and wishes,

she writes,

take care

and 

have a nice life.

i stretch and look

out the window.

ready for

a good nights sleep.

i laugh gently

to myself,

then yawn.

trying not to die

rarely

do you hear an animal

complain

about things.

deer,

or field mice,

fox.

birds of any feather.

they're

all the same.

they go on about their

day,

regardless

of the weather.

it's food and shelter that's

on their mind.

making love, and

trying

not to die.

that's it.

home coming queen

polished once,

on a bright store shelf,

the red label

turned out

for shoppers

to see.

new, it said, even

better than

the original 

recipe.

but now, there it is.

a year gone

by,

the can dented,

the paper

torn around its waist.

marked down,

half price,

on the last chance

shelf

at the end of the aisle.

the turn of a key

so many keys

in the drawer

and on the ring,

brown

and gold,

tarnished green,

silver,

fat

and thin,

so many locks

to turn,

allowing me to enter,

or leave.

some

i use daily,

while others,

i no longer have

a need.

what's the worst that can happen?

in the past

i'd see the red flags

and feel

my gut screaming

with

the words run, run, run,

and i'd ignore it all.

i'd dive in

to the deep end.

these are just the butterflies

of love,

i'd tell myself.

she's feisty

and eccentric, a little bit

on the psychotic

and victim side,

but so what?

i like her curves, 

i like the way she flutters

her eyes.

she knows how to bake

cookies,

and makes love

like a minx. so

what's the worst that

could happen?

her modus operandi

when she's not

falling

off of horses, she's falling

in love

with equally

harsh results,

broken

bones, and

broken

hearts,

is her modus operandi.

strangers in the rain

we'll never meet again,

perhaps,

two strangers

on the street.

unlikely,

at least,

i think, as we stand

in the doorway

waiting for

the relentless rain

to cease.

but i believe that

we would fall

in love.

and it would last,

if only 

she'd let down 

her umbrella

and kiss me.

shaving cream

the memory,

so attached to the past,

reminded

so easily,

the mind taken back.

something in the oven,

your mother's

stew,

or a breath

of perfume.

maybe spring cut grass.

there's

the burning of leaves

in autumn.

cinnamon in cloves,

a field of lavender,

your father's

shaving

cream.

cry babies

the baby has

to cry,

you can't reason with it.

there's

no words that

work 

at this age,

no promise of candy,

or a walk

in the stroller

to the park.

there's only food,

a bottle

of milk, or a change

of clothes, perhaps

something for

the rash,

that will do.

separated by drywall

sometimes

when it doesn't

work out

one goes to the cellar

to live.

money makes it

hard to leave.

there's the dog,

the in-laws,

kids.

a variety of store

bought things.

health insurance,

saved

by a ring.

they live separate

lives

under the same roof.

but no longer

pretending to be in love,

it's milquetoast

now. there's

no longer a reason

to not be

alone and distant, with

few words

to share.

there is no need

to explain

where one is going,

or with who.

this separate exit

and entrance

out the backyard,

will do.

trying to get into costco

we need

identification to let you go

further,

the woman with a tin

badge says.

to get past

this point

we need to know

who you are,

what you're up to.

where's your shopping

list?

i just need some jumbo

shrimp i tell her.

about a hundred of them.

the armed

guard puts his hand

out

to stop you

from going in.

are you a member,

he asks.

i need to see your

card.

your name,

your club number.

no one gets in without

being a member.

no shrimp for you.

scary times

are there ghosts,

aliens

from another world.

monsters in the woods,

in the sea.

big foot.

is there something

in the attic,

rattling chains,

under the bed,

coming up the dark stairs.

are there spirits

flying around

the room, leaving

their graves.

doubtful.

the world is scary 

enough

without them.

the sugar bowl

it's a drug,

no doubt, as sugar is.

the confection

of love.

it takes you up,

keeps you high,

but take

if off the table,

and you want

to die.

sailing on

sometimes you

need

to throw

things overboard

or lose the ship.

cast

the useless weight

aside.

the angry,

the crazies,

the nutcakes,

let them slip

into the sea,

as you sail on.

nothing left to eat

i don't know

what to eat.

free range chickens,

brown

eggs,

grass fed beef?

what about fish,

tuna and salmon

drunk on 

all that

mercury.

mad cow disease.

processed foods

and seed oils.

chemical sweeteners.

the pesticides on

fruit

and grain.

the toxins,

the tainted milk,

the acid

rain.

there's nothing left

to eat. it's down

to rain water

and bark on a tree.

the easy way out

it's lame,

it's lazy, it's the easy

way out,

thoughtless,

but i shrug

and say, okay.

why not?

i buy a half dozen

gift cards

to hand out.

Christmas, already,

again?

twisting the cap

have i lost

muscle, strength

in my arms and hands.

have i suddenly

grown

weaker, unable

to twist the top off

of this container

of cream.

where's the tool

box,

the hammer, the pliers,

the blow torch.

i'm as weak

as a kitten, apparently.

into that good night

the young

take chances. look at

them

in the air,

below the sea.

there they are on the mountain

of ice.

hand over hand

trying

to reach the peak.

they run long

and fast,

they dive deep.

we were young once

too, 

fearless with no sense

of mortality.

but now, into that

good night,

we step gingerly.

it takes a long while

to learn

to say no.

no.

but once you've

put

the word no

into your quiver,

that sharp

arrow is quite

effective

in saving you

from doing

the things

you don't want to do.

just the start of it

she had drank

too much

whiskey. so did i, but

it was late,

too late for her to drive home.

i helped her

up the stairs

into the other room,

then took off her shoes.

i left the hall light

on, and placed

a chair in front of the steps

in case she arose

in the middle of the night

and forgot where

she was.

i went to my room

and closed door.

in the morning, after

coffee,

she was gone.

but that was just 

the start of it.

the stone we kick

as Virginia Woolf

once said,

the stone that we kick 

down the road 

will be here longer

than the works of Shakespeare.

we know that it's true,

but we wish it

weren't so.

the yellow shirt

it was Easter,

i remember that clearly.

the cellophane covered baskets

on the table.

metallic greens and blues,

red.

seven in all,

the chocolates

distributed equally

among us.

the buried painted eggs.

under colored straw.

if there was a favorite

child among us,

we never knew

who it was.

i was wearing a yellow

shirt

on the way to church,

new.

my mother pressed it

for me.

it was button down

and short sleeved.

it was beautiful,

though thin and blousy,

too large. for me.

i remember the day

being cold despite the sunshine,

as we walked to mass

at St. Thomas More.

i refused to wear a coat

despite the wind,

the stark blue

skies full of silver

clouds.

and when the service was

over,

we ran all the way home.

clams casino

it's such a small

thing.

a gamble of some

sort.

the hard shell

clam.

a grey

cup slightly

ajar,

letting the salt

of an ocean

out and

your knife in.

but

what a storm it

causes

if not cooked

properly,

if raw,

you'll talk to

God soon

as you crawl upon

the bathroom

floor.

i'll be your server tonight

the waiter

is too friendly, too into

his job.

he wants

to talk,

to introduce himself.

he wants

to bring you butter,

and top

of your water

after a single sip.

you know his name.

where he

went to school.

he rattles off

the menu

that you don't have to.

he tells you the specials.

before you even order

you know

his favorite

dessert,

his favorite food.

you hope he doesn't

follow you home.

nails on a blackboard

they are the nails

dragged

across the blackboard,

the stubbed

toe

in the black of night,

the paper

cut,

a small thin slice.

the broken

nail, or lace.

they

are the red light,

the flat

tire,

the long line

at the bank,

the bugs that

bite.

these are the people

to stay clear

of.

this will never work out

i'm a night owl.

you can see me in the trees

with a full moon

between

the clouds,

while she's an

early bird,

there she is on the sill

at the crack

of dawn, whistling.

this will never

work out.

we need some order here

i need a filing system

for my memories.

something along the line

of the Dewey decimal

system.

thoughts categorized

by good or bad,

fun or 

sorrowful

new and old,

separated

on shelves, in 

ordered rows.

i don't like how they

randomly pop up

at any given moment,.

triggered by

the mere mention or

sight

of anything that

comes my way.

i prefer selective memory.

not this mishmash

of ruminating

thoughts.

i need to sign the card,

and have

it stamped

when needed.

a slice of the pie

i find

my father's image online.

he's holding

an oversized check

in his hands

as the cameras flash.

he's won

the lottery.

twice now, he's come

into money.

there is fear in his eyes.

hardly smiling.

he looks lost,

confused.

he seems to be wondering

will all nine

of his children

catch wind of this

and want their slice

of the pie.

don't know much about history

the early classes

in school revealed what

you were good at,

what you excelled in,

or failed.

math,

biology.

social sciences.

all interesting and fine,

but

in the long run

you'd leave

most of them behind.

what you were best at

was daydreaming,

staring out the window

thinking of words

strung together,

some

that even rhymed.

the boy blues, the girl pinks

they young parents

want washable walls.

a gloss

in the paint, as the children,

climb

and lean,

dragging hands

and feet about the house.

i want to tell

them. don't bother.

it's a battle

that only knows defeat.

call me in another 

dozen years.

we'll start fresh.

i'll cover the boy blues,

the girl pinks.

the cherry blossoms

we drive down

to see the cherry blossoms.

it's what young lovers do.

we stand

at the pink trees

and gaze out of over

the water.

we take pictures of

each other.

we ask someone to take

one of us

together.

capturing the moment.

fleeting.

like the blossoms

themselves,

as rain begins to fall.

every day a sunday

she asks me when

will i

quit the toil, 

the work.

the early 

rising,

the drive,

in sun, or rain,

the arms

and legs

at it again.

when will i surrender

and make

every day

a Sunday

until the end.

when?

making room for others

the black

oiled vultures, gathered

on the side

of the road,

route 4, heading south,

at the end where the water

begins,

tells us,

that the world makes

room

for who's next.

space is cleared,

the bones

are dry and white,

cleansed,

removed of flesh.

i see no end to it

purposely

i crawl under a rock,

to avoid

the world.

culture such as it is.

the onslaught

of news

that isn't news.

a world gone mad.

i make a nest

beneath the rock.

it's safe here.

it's warm and cozy.

i tilt it up with a small

stick to let some

some light in.

i'd like to say

that  i'll

wait it out,

but i see no end

to it.

picnic in new york

no one tells you

about the ants,

the bugs,

the gnats and flies.

no one mentions the wet

grass,

or the heat.

we hear the word

picnic

and our eyes grow

wide.

we sense romance.

a mutual

feeling

of early like and possible

love.

we see the good

in each other.

the word picnic

gives us hope,

as we carry

the basket full of

sandwiches

to a shady tree.

the cup will fill

the cup

will fill, be patient.

let the rain

come.

no need to watch

it.

relax.

your day is ahead

of you.

the cup

will

overflow

and your thirst

will at last

be quenched.

keep walking

that noise,

it sounds familiar,

the crunch

and crinkle of glass

and wood.

i'm afraid to lift my boot

off the floor.

there's something under it,

now broken

beyond repair.

i could stand here

for the rest of the day

and never know

what it is,

or just keep walking

and hope

for the best when i

get home.

who's your daddy?

can i call you daddy,

my

frisky friend Fiona

asks me.

no,

i tell her,

that's weird.

oh come on. i want

to call you

daddy.

no, i said.

look, we're almost

the same

age, give

or take a decade.

do you want me to call

you mommy?

okay, yes,

that might be fun,

she says.

oh my God, i say.

rolling my eyes.

i don't understand

this world

anymore.

the uniform d'jour

a young woman

stops

me on the street and says that

i remind

her of her father

who died

ten years ago.

you dress just like him.

khaki shorts,

long sleeve

pull over shirt,

sketcher sneaks

and socks.

ball cap on top.

i look around the crowded

sidewalk.

yup, i tell her,

there's a lot of us

walking about.

all the Saints are here

her religious

bracelet, with little stone

like images

of all the saints

finally falls apart in my drawer.

i wanted to return

it, but i lost her

number

and my filing system

is not that great.

like chicklets,

i look at St. Peter

and St. James.

Mary and the rest of them.

now bunched

together,

next to coins and nail

clippers,

tubes of Neosporin

and itching cream.

peanut shells.

dipping a toe in

as a kid

you pretty much

just jumped

into the pool, both literally

and figuratively

with all things

in life,

but as you got older,

and hopefully

wiser,

you mosey

on over to the side

and dip a toe

checking on warmth

or cold

before you decide.

the unquenchable world

i fed the birds for a while.

stuffing

the feeder

that swung on the pole

with seed.

they came.

they flew in on rapid

wings.

birds of every color.

some cautious

lingering on branches,

or the fence

until the large birds

would leave.

but they wore me out.

the chore of it all.

another bag,

another day.

i quit,

taking the pole down.

the hunger

of the world is unquenchable,

how hard it must

be for God to answer

so many prayers.

by ice or fire it goes

it will all go,

at some point,

either ice or fire

will

end things as they are.

me and you.

these hands

that do so much for us.

the books we

read,

the ones we don't.

so much

gets used, as more gets

wasted.

there will be no

more history

in the end.

no Aristotle, or Shakespeare,

no Einstein,

or Freud,

no Da Vinci,

no you, holding my hand.

buying stamps

it's obvious to anyone

observing

us

as we stand in line

at the post

office for stamps,

that we made

love last night.

her arm around me,

my knee

pushing against her

thigh.

her head

resting against mine.

we're quiet with our

words,

as we inch forward

in the slow

and wonderous line.

the widower

she tells me about her new

fellow.

he's tall.

he's smart and funny.

he's a widower

with three kids,

some at home, some

on their own.

but i can tell she's

hesitant.

there's something wrong,

some

undefinable thing

she can't put her finger on.

is it too early?

i tell her to

let it go where it's 

supposed to go,

and no further.

and when it ends i'll

be here

with a shoulder to cry on.

again.

they can't all be winners

sometimes

the words come out in torrents.

the ideas

flow.

there's a light and dark

freshness

to it all,

there's a moral

to the story,

it's whole with

a beginning, middle

and end,

while other times

it's a slow

drizzle of

oft repeated thoughts

typed out

without much

effort,

though dry and barren

once again.

who's avocado is this?

i find an old avocado

in the bottom

of my fridge. it's in

the onion and pepper

bin, but

it's not mine.

it was left here

by a previous tenant

who briefly made

my life a living

hell.

it's squishy in my hand.

mushy

and smells rotten.

the crazy big

seed pops out

onto the floor

when i give the fruit

a squeeze.

the nut rolls under 

the stove,

all greasy and green.

i get on my hands and knees

and try to dig

it out,

but i can't reach it.

i try the broom, but it's

too big.

finally i get a clothes

hanger

and try to hook

the ball like seed towards

me.

i shine a flashlight

into the dark

crease of crumbs and 

assorted eggshells

and what not.

it's no use.

it's going further in.

i give up, but first pick

up a few pennies

and dimes that are lying

there.

so it's a win anyways.

we think it's going to be real soon

i ask a salesman,

Biff,

at the dealership when my car

might be

coming in.

i put a thousand dollars

down to get on a list.

the phone goes silent,

but i can hear

him mumbling

to someone.

he says, oh no, what

do we tell him,

it's another one asking questions

about cars.

he clears his throat

and says

with confidence,

soon, very soon.

but we thank you for your

patience.

when? i ask.

when?

oh, by the end of the

month for sure,

or next month,

or next year.

we had that covid thing

you know.

it sort of put

a monkey wrench into

car production.

plus the war,

and oil prices,

monkey pox,

and the avian bird flu.

why are you even open

for business

i ask him if you don't even

have any cars?

it's like asking pizza hut

for a pizza

and they're out of dough.

or

the paint store not having

paint.

or

the donut shop not having

donuts.

isn't there a number you can

call to find out?

nah. 

it's been disconnected.

the early morning meet up group

i join the local

meet up group

trying to make some

new friends.

they take hikes

around the lake,

and play

checkers.

sometimes they

go to the mall

when it's cold out.

i'm learning about

bird watching.

and cross stitching,

how to play a banjo.

at the end of the day

we take a group

nap

in the school gymnasium.

i'm becoming very informed

about end of life

insurance policies.

they depress me

though,

with their canes,

and walkers.

continually talking about

world war two

and Roosevelt, how

the great depression was

a bummer.

i'm always yelling

at them

to hurry up,

come on people,

we ain't getting any

younger,

and wiping oatmeal off

the front of their

clothes.

i may have joined

a decade or two too

early.

the new driver's license

the girl at the DMV

asks me

what my hair color is.

she waits as i think about it.

well,

i start off.

it used to be blondish

brown,

like brush, you know

on a long

field with the sun shining

down on it.

think of autumn.

go on, she says, not writing

any of this down.

how many decades ago

was that sir?

i sense her impatience.

the room is full

of foot tapping people

holding

old license plates.

well, yes, i have aged,

i tell her, and now when

i decide to let it grow

out a little, it's a color

i like to call, platinum.

no, she says.

here's your choices.

black, brown, blonde

and grey.

choose one.

or none.

okay, okay. let's go with

none for now.

she stamps my form

and tells me 

to walk over there for

a photo.

my right side is my best

side, i tell her.

whatever, she says. NEXT!

dinner is served

i catch

a family of squirrels

with tiny forks and knives

eating my

Halloween pumpkin

on the porch.

they hardly move

when i approach

them.

napkins are tied

around their fuzzy

throats,

excuse me, i say,

brushing by

going into the house.

bon appetite.

i'll turn on the light.

don't be the nail

believe nothing.

not written or said.

trust no one.

not the priest

the politician

the person beside

you

lying in bed.

the butcher has his

thumb

on the scale,

the married man

a mistress.

the smiling bride

has a hammer

and you're the nail.

The Dossier

i ask my new friend what

that raised squiggly

scar is on her abdomen.

i haven't seen her in ten

years, since she moved to

Albany.

oh nothing, she says.

i used to be in a self help

empowerment group.

and we were branded with

the leader's initials.

they held us down,

butt naked,

and used a sizzling cauterizing

pen to inscribe us.

oh, i say, gently moving

my fingers across the R and K.

i was his slave for twelve

years, along with thirty 

other women.

we were all having sex with

him, sometimes

together, but it was cool.

our consciousness was raised

to the point where

we were above jealousy

and attachments.

you may have heard about us

on HBO.   NXIVM.

what's up with the roman

numerals?   i thought only

the super bowl did that.

Yeah, Keith was clever like that.

He's in prison now, though.

He's doing life in a maximum

security prison.

He was railroaded.

all the charges were not true.

that's a shame.

yeah. we all miss him.

playing volleyball with him,

and listening to

his mumbo jumbo

spiels about

the world and behavior.

i hope he's able to play volleyball

in the pokey

with his new friends.

he just loves volleyball.

did you know that,

He was named the smartest person

on the planet once.

he makes Freud and Jung look

like a couple of knuckleheads.

Einstein has nothing on him.

He was so smart.

I wish i had all my money

back though. I gave it all to him.

no offense, but

it sounds like a cult, i tell her.

that's nonsense, she says.

that's what the media and

the defectors keep reporting,

but we were one big happy

family. yes, we worshiped him,

despite him being

so chubby and a nerd,

but it's not a cult. no way jose.

i actually had my own

slaves under me.

they had to do whatever i

wanted them to do.

and if they didn't we had

naked pictures of them all

that we said we show the world.

ha. they had no choice

but to be obedient.

it was so much fun.

i felt bad though when the Mexican

police

arrested him after he fled

the country.

they found him hiding

in a closet curled up

on the floor

in a fetal position.

poor baby. our leader.

so, who do you think will

play the role

of him in the movie? i ask her.

good question...she says.

who do you think, George Clooney,

Brad Pitt?

ummmm, no. i don't think so.

maybe that

George Costanza fellow,

i think that's a more

reasonable choice.

he could put a wig on

and be his twin brother.

dead ringer.

mother nature

i have about three feet

of fallen leaves

in the backyard.

one match and the whole

place goes up.

i shovel out a path

to get to the gate,

as snakes

and mice scatter,

a few birds fly out.

i'm a nature lover

by heart and i don't

like to mess with what

she does

with the trees

this time of year.

creamed beef on toast and other delicacies

i'm not saying

i'm a good cook,

but i can handle

the basics

with a frying pan

and a stick

of butter.

a shaker of salt.

i might do well

at Denny's,

or I hop,

or in the chow line

on the front lines

for the army.

soldiers will eat 

anything.

but i have to tell you

she

was the worst

cook ever.

i chipped my tooth

on her scrambled eggs,

cut my

tongue on a hard

shell. her specialty

was creamed.

beef on toast.

i was afraid to ask.

the only thing she was

really good at,

was cutting open

an avocado,

but leaving me to get

the seed out.

if she was a donut

if she was a donut.

she'd

be glazed

with a shiny coat

of vanilla

frosting.

there'd be a creamy

filling in

the center.

very sweet.

she'd be

a baker's dozen.

good in your mouth,

good going

down,

delicious to taste,

but later

you'll be bent over

the sink,

moaning as you weep.

14 th street

there are some

jobs

i don't want to do.

they're red flags flying

all over the place.

i don't

like the people.

i don't like their dog,

their house

is too large,

or too small.

the crying baby is loud.

the drive is in the middle

of town.

impossible to get

to.

the alley parking.

five different shades

of paints.

cheap wallpaper

they want expertly

hung.

ceilings

and gables.

ladder work.

no parking.

nothing to make 

it fun.

but it's work.

so what the hell

i'll get the job done.

one less egg to fry

when i used to get the heave

ho

from

love interests

i was pursing, i felt bad.

a tinge

of sadness would

come over me,

a blue

light of light sorrow

would shine

down upon my day.

i pondered

what could have been,

if i had 

been a better person,

a nicer guy,

more caring.

if only i had listened

to them

when they talked about

their mothers,

and the tomatoes

growing

in their garden.

if only i had given them

more flowers

and boxes of chocolate

and put them

on a pedestal,

crowing them queen

for a day.

if only.

if only.

incorrigable

i get a warning notice

in the mail,

the community condo board

insists that

i change the color

of my front door,

from a bright red to a dull

burgundy red

in order to conform

to all the other houses

in my row.

it's a monetary fine

added onto the usual

condo fee.

i see the board members

outside my house,

with their clipboards,

shaking their heads,

and making tsk tsk noises.

i'm written up,

again.

last year i put the trash

out before the sun

went down.

all is well

the local

politicians,

most anonymous,

like to stand

out in the middle

of the median

at rush hour

and wave.

they're wearing suits,

with blue

or red ties.

people roll down

their windows

and curse them.

some are hit with

tomatoes

and eggplants,

but they keep on

waving,

smiling.

all is well. all is well.

give me a reason

everyone

has at least one cause

that they

base their vote on.

abortion,

immigration,

transgender rights.

gay or

lesbian.

for some it's inflation,

the cost of gas

and meat,

the climate, 

the cold and heat.

for others it's

just red on down the line,

or blue

straight through,

with little

knowledge

of who they're voting for.

but in the end,

there's hardly

a ripple of change,

for the better or worse,

from the beginning of

time,

until the end.

setting a goal for the day

i set a goal

for the day.

a nap by four p.m.

it's a lofty goal,

i know.

but i'm ambitious

more so than i've

ever been.

i'm determined

to achieve

this goal. 

i'm focused.

it's who i am.

gesundheit

i let out a loud

sneeze

on the bus,

catching it with

my sleeve,

but do i get a God Bless

You

from anyone?

no.

no one says a thing.

instead

people move towards

the front

of the bus

into empty seats.

i want to tell

them, it's nothing.

just a tickle

in my nose.

i'm not sick, i'm not

ill,

or infected.

it's just a sneeze.

i'll even settle for

a gesundheit,

please.

get out of my way

the monster truck

behind me

wants me to pull 

over to the side of the road

so that he

can pass.

but there's no room,

and my street

is approaching, if i get

out of this lane

i'll miss my turn.

he blows his horn,

flashes his lights.

i look in the mirror

at the anger on his face,

the hand gestures.

his fist pumping

in my direction.

he's inches from killing

us all.

his window is rolled

down and i hear

his curses.

there's a baby seat

beside him.

a new pink baby, half

asleep.

the future is not what

it used to be.

the grand prize winner

i win the publishers clearing

house grand prize,

again.

third week in a row.

it's a restricted number,

so i have no

clue who it could be.

Kumar, though

a pleasant gentleman

on the other end,

speaking in a robotic

voice,

wants me to send him

ten thousand dollars

to a PO box in Coral 

Springs

Florida.

it will cover taxes

and the registration fees

needed

in order for them to deliver

my prize check.

with all the balloons and

fanfare

as usual.

they have a Mercedes

Benz too, waiting to be

delivered.

my choice of

colors. i'm undecided

i tell him

as i lay out in the sun,

trying to think of my new

found money

and how it will get spent.

a girl named ivy

i called her ivy,

not because of her

green eyes

and long curled

hair.

it was the clinging

thing,

she did.

i felt her power

even

when i wasn't there.

tearing down

the brick of me.

relentless with her care.

fixing things

i set aside

a day to fix things.

the screen door

for one,

the mesh torn.

the latch loose.

there's mildew

on the cellar wall.

bleach

will do.

a washer in the spigot

should

stop the drip.

there's so many things

i can fix this day.

but i can't fix you.

running the red lights

we need

rules,

we need the stop sign,

the red light,

laws

that keep

the world in order.

we need speed

limits.

we need

structure

to keep civilization

going.

we need

morality

and clear thinking.

rational

leaders.

we have them, but

who listens

anymore or

obeys.

just sleep

you owe

me nothing, absolutely

nothing,

just sleep.

walking distance

it's walking

distance, from me to you.

a short

stroll,

through the woods,

down

the path

across the bridge

over the stream.

wait for me,

i'm coming.

a lifetime of school

it's interesting

how they swim in schools,

their whole

lives.

and yet

still dumb,

look at all the hooks

and lures

stuck

in their stiffened

gums.

caught in nets,

dangling

on filament lines.

schools aren't exactly

the best

way to learn

apparently.

nothing to do with you

i feel sad.

despondent.

depressed and blue.

i have nothing

else to buy that i want

or need.

nothing.

and you

thought my mood

had

something to do

with you.

winterizing

i'll get around to it.

trust me.

it's on the list.

your honey dew list.

i know,

i know.

i need to chop

wood for the fire.

turn off the outside water.

i have to

tighten the screws

on the windows.

weather strip

the doors.

i need to pour

anti-freeze into the cars,

put chains

on the tires.

it's getting cold out.

almost as

cold as it is

in here

with you.

does he need another day

he was here

for a long time.

beret and glasses

alone

at last in the large

chair,

sherry

in his crystal glass,

sipping

towards night.

has he done all that

he could

with his life,

said

what he wanted to

say,

has he loved enough.

or has he left

too much

on the table.

does he need one

more day?

illusions

i don't want

to live on a farm.

i have no desire to own

livestock,

or work that hard,

but i like to slow

down

when i'm driving by

a red barn

with a long wooden

fence around it.

i like to hear

the wind chimes on

the front

porch

of farmhouses.

i enjoy looking at

the yellow tractors,

and old

trucks

parked along the dirt

road.

the rust and oil in

the air.

the smell of cut wood

burning

in a chimney.

there's the illusion of

an idyllic

life going on.

fresh cold milk.

hard work, and family.

i like illusions.

everything is fine, and you?

the fake

smile, the pretend

laugh

is worse

than a cry.

the straining for

joy,

the outright lie

that everything

is fine.

you see in their eyes.

the tilting

of heart,

the quiet sigh

so much gloom,

inside.

the kitchen wall phone

i'm tired

of technology.

of chargers and wires.

texts and emails.

i'm

exhausted by

dings

and rings,

notifications of all kinds.

i miss

paper mail

in the box down

at the end of the road.

the mail

man waving

as he carried his bag

onward.

i miss

the wall phone.

the one

phone in the house

on the kitchen wall,

with a long black

cord

that stretched

to the basement

stairway,

where i could sit

on the top step

and talk in

private

and be left alone.

stop saying it is what it is

at the funeral,

the minister ends the eulogy

by saying,

well,

we loved her,

she'll be missed, but

it is what it is.

i happen to have a rotten

tomato

in my pocket

and throw it at him.

it strikes him

on the side of his face.

he takes out

a handkerchief

and wipes the tomato

juice away,

then says,

yes, i deserved that.

we should all stop

saying

that stupid, ridiculous,

lame phrase,

it is what it is

and say nothing, or find

the right words

to express what we truly

feel.

men no longer needed

at a certain age,

with libido gone,

women

seem to no longer want

or need men.

they've got the money,

the house,

the car,

the kids are grown.

they've got a cat,

maybe three cats,

and plenty of girl friends

to shoot the breeze with,

but they think

it would be nice

to have a man around

to hold hands with,

maybe change a light bulb,

that's all,

just hold hands

and walk around the mall.

the transactional rescue

the word

rescue comes out of her mouth

several times

as she adjusts the halo

on her golden

head of hair.

she rescues

dogs,

she rescues cats.

she rescues friends,

boyfriends.

she's saving the world

one mutt,

one stray animal

at a time.

i like to help others,

she says.

it's who i am.

it's what i do.

maybe, if you let me,

i can also

rescue you.

no thanks, i tell her,

staring at 

the bite marks

on her arms

and legs.

i am what i am Olive

i think about turning over

a new leaf,

again.

maybe for the hundredth time.

i want to be

a better person,

smarter,

kinder,

more compassionate

and less

self-indulgent.

i could read more,

volunteer and give back

to the world.

i think about it over

a second cup

of coffee, but then 

start laughing.

maybe i'm just stuck

with who i am.

the cruise to Greece

when we were

quarantined

on a ship sailing

the Aegean Sea,

somewhere between

Venice and Athens.

stuck in our cabin

because of a Nora Virus

outbreak,

you looked at me

and said,

i didn't bring my meds

and i stopped going

to therapy

three months ago.

remember?

you never told me

about being bi-polar,

i just took you as being

fun and perky,

or sometimes really glum.

but there you were,

holding a steak knife

in your hand

dancing madly in your

bare feet as

the ship swayed.

on a scale of one

to ten, i asked you,

how crazy are you right now,

without your meds?

eleven, you said,

then lunged

towards me.

the bunny trail

when my

older brother found religion,

he came

home from

college

and threw away my

priceless collection

of playboy

magazines

that i had chronologically

stacked in the closet.

they were heirlooms,

precious antique

renderings, air brushed

girls of the sixties.

all of them gone.

the bunnies,

the art work,

the jokes,

the car reviews

and short stories,

the advice column

that helped me 

get along.

all gone.

he still owes me.

the latest cave man

they find

a one inch bone 

under a pile of old

dirt

and construct

a new

cave man

out of it.

ah ha, they say.

this one had a giant

forehead,

and although he was

slightly cross eyed,

he was very good at

cross word puzzles.

look at how

his tiny

finger bone curves,

it definitely

indicates

a writing skill,

gripping a pen or

pencil,

or in his case a long

sharp rock

or stick

that he drew in

the sand.

from the dna we can

tell that he

drank only water

and ate meat

after discovering fire,

inventing the wheel,

and possibly

bongo music.

too busy to care about the world

you either

have to be really young,

or really

old

to protest.

to find the extra hours

to make the signs

and march

with candles

in the air.

those of us in the middle,

have no time

for climate

change, or war,

no time

to change the world,

we're too busy

with work,

with walking dogs,

and changing diapers,

figuring out

what's for dinner,

and pondering

how to kill the weeds

in our yard.

don't get her pregnant

when her father,

Italian

and leather tough,

a mafioso old school

mustache

across his

scarred face,

asked me what my

intentions

were with his daughter,

i cringed.

my heart began

to palpitate.

my tail went between

my legs

and i may have peed

a little.

well, i gulped, with

my tongue tied

mouth. and dry throat.

my intentions are to

marry her.

which we both knew

wasn't

true, at least not now

at the age of

twenty.

jobless with a silly

hair cut

and still living at home.

then he leaned over

and put his gorilla

hand on

my shoulder

squeezing fiercely as

he smiled

and said,

don't get her pregnant,

okay?

is that all you got

it's father smith

on the other side of confessional

screen.

my knees

ache already

from kneeling, and we've

only just now

got started.

it's been five decades

since my last

confession, i tell him,

then continue on with

the script

that i'm reading on my

phone

through the Catholic

channel app.

i know it's him,

he knows

it's me.

but we pretend otherwise.

after all

it's the church.

what's church without

mystery,

smoke and mirrors.

i mumble off a few

transgressions,

sins

of the menial kind.

just a few

minor infractions

part B's

of the ten commandments.

small potatoes in the scheme

of things.

no mortal sins

to speak of.

i wait for my penance

when i finish,

but there's silence.

i hear him breathing heavily.

rattling his rosary.

i feel like

he needs a cigarette

and a drink.

and then, he says,

is that all?  really?

ambivalence

i'd rather not know

anymore

what you're hiding.

what you're really

thinking.

i have no desire

to look under your bed,

or open your

medicine cabinet.

i don't want to know

who's texting you,

who you're talking

to, or what's said.

leave me out of it.

go about your life

and keep it to yourself.

there's no need any

longer to lie.

let's pretend and believe

that everything

is fine.

the sirens going off

the thinning 

silvered hair

is like a siren going off.

the tighter

pants,

the snug shirt,

the recession of gums,

told to you

by a too young

dentist.

the ache of bones

for no

reason.

the new crease in

your brow,

the blurred paper,

readable 

just yesterday.

all adding up that

you may be in

your autumn

season.

getting clean

there

is penance

in cleaning. the emptying

of closets,

the clutter

removed.

on your knees

with

rag

and bucket.

shelves swept of old

notes,

magazines,

dust.

there is forgiveness

in cleanliness,

at least

it feels that way.

the rattle of ice

just the rattle

of ice

in a near empty tumbler

takes

me back,

sends me to another

era

another place,

i hear the music,

i see

the smoke

in the air,

i see the girl

of interest

going

slowly

up the stairs.

everything remembered

is everywhere.

the aloof sea

you can

say a tree is quiet,

the wind kind,

the sky

angry,

you can project whatever

feeling

you desire,

into a thing, or person

even,

pretend

it has a way

of thinking like you

do.

but it doesn't mean

it's true.

sticking around

the birds

have flown to warmer

climates.

to Tampa

and St. Pete,

Miami.

they've taken wing

south.

to white sand

and turquoise

water.

they'll miss the change

of leaves,

they'll miss

the ice

and snow.

they'll miss a life

in full

seasons.

for me,

i cherish what

i know.

the breakfast book of poetry

i ate a book

of poetry for breakfast

hoping to capture

the nutrition

of their poems.

the inky words

dribbled

down my chin.

the metaphors,

the similes,

the cryptic lines

all stuck between my

teeth.

i ate and ate

the food of Sexton

and Plath,

Strand,

and Philip Larkin,

i washed it all

down with

the inebriation

of Bukowski

and Dylan Thomas.

i ate until my

stomach

ached.

until my head hurt,

then lay down to rest.

tomorrow,

i'll eat more.

i haven't given up,

at least,

not yet.

the boss of me

i'll do it later,

i tell myself. it can wait.

tomorrow, maybe,

or the next day.

what's the rush.

what's the hurry.

i'm the boss of me,

i'll get it done.

no need to worry.

organic Annie

i called

her organic Annie.

she was green.

all green.

she bled

tomato juice

ate bananas and

tangerines.

pink slivers of salmon.

chunks

of avocados

and chicken, lean.

i'd see her on the side

of the road

on the weekends

picking up

beer cans with a

flower in her hair.

her long string bean

arms

and legs

moving her along

at a steady pace.

she was a good person.

shame

she starved herself

to death,

never knowing the joy

of a cold

glass of milk

and slice of chocolate

cake.

i want what she has

i see her patience

in the crowded

room

at the DMV.

her calm

demeanor. she sits

and waits

in her pretty dress.

her lovely hat.

her shoes.

no fidgeting,

no concern.

her hands are folded

in her lap.

there is no hurry

about her.

the years have taught

her that.

she waits until

she waits no more.

her number

called.

i want what she has.

imagining never

as a child

crossing the Atlantic

i remember

staring

into the grey wash

of a violent

sea,

wind and salt

against my small body,

my hands gripping

the cold rail

and thinking what

if i let go, what if 

i fell into it,

or leaped.

would i be missed.

would

they save me,

or would i sink

and disappear below

the crashing of waves,

the steel

ship

lumbering over

the hole

i fell into.

never to have the life

that was

laid

before me.

the world drives you to drinking

as a kid

we used to gather

in front of the rite-aide

drug store

waiting for the school bus.

across the street

was Meade's drive thru

liquor store.

i'd watch as the men

and women,

off to work in their

coats and ties,

nice dresses, hats

and white gloves

going through the line

for their pints of booze

and wine.

i didn't quite understand

what it was all

about.

but i do now.

our shared thin walls

i hear the baby

crying

next door. the scream

and wailing

comes through the wall.

the decibels

no different than an ambulance

siren.

it seems

like just yesterday

when i heard

the young married

couple 

making love.

moments after

he carried her across

the threshold.

the symphony of

bedsprings

cascading through

our shared

thin walls,

and now this.

an infant that barely

crawls.

i miss the old piano

teacher

who lived there.

her unmusical students

banging fingers

against the out of tune

keyboard.

he's not like you at all

she finally meets her new

man.

he's in the shower

when she calls me.

he's not like you, she says.

he does all things you

wouldn't do.

you were such a selfish

lover.

i hold the phone away

from my ear,

and ask her, who is this?

i'm cooking him breakfast

right now.

eggs and bacon,

hashbrowns.

i even made a pot of

coffee.

you never stayed

for breakfast.

i just wanted you to know

how wonderful

he is, that's all.

bye for now.

why leave?

children

don't leave anymore.

it's easier to stay

at home,

where they were born.

the same

room where they colored

books

and wrote poems.

free room 

and board.

college

was just a short time

ago,

degrees don't matter

anymore.

thirty is close,

forty

is an ominous bell

ringing.

the playground

i think about

my childhood playground.

the iron

monkey bars,

the rock hard

dirt

below the chain swings

and steep slides.

no parents around.

the mayhem

of it all.

kids crying, falling,

scraping knees

and breaking

arms.

pushing each other

too fast

on the metal wheel,

fighting

and bullying.

it prepared us quite

well for 

the grown up

world.

counting crows

we could

sit

and count crows

on the line

this morning,

do nothing

but add up the birds

that fly by.

we could squander

the day,

why not?

it's so nice out,

excuses

can be made.

the vampire world

i put a tourniquet

around

my bank account

to stop

the bleeding, to stop

the buying.

the world is a vampire

sucking on

my savings,

my rainy-day money,

my penny jar.

the coins between

the cushions of my

couch, my car

are flying out the door.

i'm making a vow

to buy nothing today,

or tomorrow,

not a single unneeded

thing again. let's

see how it goes from

there.

four egg McMuffins

when the thieves

at three am

broke into my car and found

my wallet

under the front seat,

what did they buy

with all my credit cards

and IDs?

gas for their getaway car,

and four egg McMuffins

two apple pies,

and two large drinks

from Mcdonalds

down the street.

the cop suggested that

he could dust

for prints, but no, i said.

the treat's on me.

biting one's tongue

i finally curb

my appetite for saying only

bad things

about people

that i despise,

people 

that will remain nameless

what's the point?

it shows

how cruel i can be,

my dark side.

my unquenched

thirst for beating

the dead horse.

why not say nothing

and make people believe

that you're all good inside?

like a pastry 

both sweet and light.

don't meet them

when you discover

art

or music,

poetry or prose

that you enjoy,

it's best not to meet

the author,

or artist,

the creator of such

beauty,

or joy.

because 

if you don't

like them,

and see that they're

despicable people,

boorish

and cold,

it ruins everything.

move it to the left a little

i don't want

to put anything together anymore.

don't bring me

a desk

in a box, or shelves,

or a chair, please.

i no longer want to

turn nuts and bolts,

cams and screws into

wood,

or pretend wood.

i don't want to read directions,

and use a flashlight

to decipher the small

print

in six languages.

i don't want to search

for tools

to attach

the left leg, part A,

to the right board,

part B.

i want my furniture

whole,

carried in by two strong

men,

or women,

up the stairs

and positioned against

the wall

where i want it, 

or maybe

six inches to the left

where i can look out

the window 

if snow begins

to fall.

all in a day

it's a day,

just a day, a long

quiet day

in the yard

with unfinished

books.

blue skies

and falling leaves.

it reminds you so much

of childhood

days,

of good days,

of days full of imagination

and possibility.

days without clocks,

days without worry.

clean air days.

it's one

of those days.

a day to bottle and hold

dear.

it's everything

you want in a day.

old school doctors

i show my

doctor

the book i'm reading on

the carnivore

diet

and all the benefits

that go with it.

after just a few months

i tell her,

i've experienced

less arthritic pain

in my knees,

i have

clarity of thought,

loss of weight,

sleeping better,

a stronger libido,

(which seems impossible)

i'm eating

one meal a day,

satiated, not wanting to

snack anymore.

my blood pressure

is lower, as are my

triglycerides,

i have more energy.

the absence of sugar

and carbs,

and eating just

meat, eggs, bacon

and butter

has made

me more healthy

i tell her,

and she says, pfffft.

moving her glasses

to the tip of her nose,

we'll see.

we'll see.

although your pants

are falling down now.

wanting your house back

is there

any loneliness

more

lonely

than being in a house

with someone

you don't love,

and who doesn't

love you?

they are under

your skin,

breathing your air,

taking up

precious time.

here but not here.

if only

they'd disappear.

counting zebras

she tells me

about the zebras in Africa,

that they can

run swiftly,

up to thirty-five miles

per hour.

their stripes are like

fingerprints, she says,

used as camouflage

from predators,

no two patterns

are alike.

i haven't thought

about zebras

in such a long time.

maybe as a child

at the zoo,

but now

i can't fall asleep

at night

without them on my

mind.

love language

when my father

used to club my mother

with his

meaty fist,

and she'd recover enough

to toss a dish

at his head,

i listened

at the top of the stairs,

learning a new

language

of love, 

one not

in the book.

deep in the closet

it circles

around, comes back,

fashion,

give it time,

the wide collars,

the big

ties,

the boots,

the sash,

the sequined dress,

the Nehru suit

a leather

vest.

bell bottoms.

it all comes around

again,

but i hope

not.