i should have called

i should have called.

should

have dropped  by

to explain things,

i should have sent you a note

to inform

of changes

of a serious kind.

there are so many ways

to communicate

these days,

but the words

are still hard to come by.

the Matador

her Australian

lover, can't make it to Spain

this year,

where she waits

poolside

in Barcelona.

he's having

trouble

with wildfires

and his wife,

but she has wine,

she has

a sumptuous dish

of paella,

and she has the matador

stopping by

after killing

the bull.

scissors

these

dull scissors, hardly

sharp

enough to cut a piece

of paper,

a ribbon,

or bow.

barely able to slice

open a box,

to trim

your locks, we're

both getting

old.

we need to sharpen

up, or

be returned

for a new and better

model.

a few inches to the left

before i leave

i go over

to the lamp and move

it an inch or so

to the left, away

from the wall,

forward with

a slight turn. 

i stand back and take

a look. it feels right.

okay.

that should do it.

i can leave now.

all is well.

stay tuned

will there be a smile

today,

or will you wear

your heavy

shoes

and prowl the past

for answers,

ignoring

flowers that i

give you,

spring bloom.

will there be a smile

today,

perhaps, but it's

too early to tell,

you say, 

stay tuned.

look at me

the peacock

is making a fashion statement.

look at me

he says,

feathers out

in colorful display,

sashaying

along the promenade.

i'm beautiful,

and you're not.

life does imitate

what

nature brings.

all of it a strange 

beguiling art.

with a bang or a whimper

so what is it exactly

that's

making

the world fall apart?

lack of fathers

and mothers,

guidance?

is it the phone in our

hands,

technology.

lack of morals, no

spiritual

being within?

what is it

that's making the world

implode

with violence, with

anger,

with sin.

does there have to be

a reason,

or can the so called

good times,

just end.

the blue pond

it's a soft rain,

a romantic rain, it eases

out of the clouds

in gentle

drops,

persuaded kindly

to fall.

don't be shy,

don't be so reluctant

to fill

the trees with green,

the blue

pond with more.

another cat will end things

i don't want to call

her a cat

lady,

just yet, but she's up

to three

felines now.

i trip over a litter

box

when i go into

her bedroom

and fall into another

one.

an orange cat 

jumps on me

and scratches my face.

bad cat,

she says, going for

the band aid and

hydrogen peroxide.

she's never done that

before.

this relationship

might not

work out after all.

they wonder why we drink

are you licensed,

bonded,

insured, do you have

references,

are there any jobs

locally that i can

go take a look

at?

do you speak English?

are you vaccinated?

a citizen,

do you pay your taxes,

do you believe in God?

have you  ever

been arrested

or on a no fly list?

have you ever traveled

to Iraq or Iran,

or the Soviet Union?

Cuba?

are you a vegetarian

or vegan,

or have you ever associated

with such people?

is your work

guaranteed?

do you have a senior discount

policy?

coupons?

can we pay you half

when the job is done and

the rest in monthly

payments over a three year

period?

financing?

saving a life

it's just a bug,

a small

bug of unknown origin.

but he's here,

or she,

or them.

slowly it walks

across my

desk with no fear.

i have so many things

to crush

him with,

the stapler for one.

my phone,

my hand,

the flashlight,

a pair of scissors,

and a book of poems

by Sylvia Plath,

but i let him

go, hoping that this

decision will

not come back to bite

me.

a magical experience

i get a survey

from the coffee shop

i go to in the morning.

they want to know how well they

did

when selling me

a cup of black coffee.

taking the ten seconds

to pour it into a cup

and hand it to me.

how was the service?

was the barista friendly?

if you used the restroom, was it

clean?

did we put the proper amount

of cream and sweetener

in your drink?

would you recommend

our establishment to friends?

what can we do to make

you come in more often?

were you satisfied with our

bakery selections?

how was the noise level?

too loud?

more music or less?

if you could use one word

to describe your experience

with us, what would it be?

i write the word magical

at the top of the survey

and hand it jimmy

behind the counter.

it's his first day and he

says, what's this?

unholy matrimony

in the second

attempt at holy matrimony,

i cut

up all her credit cards

after

paying her overdue payments,

which came to

about seven thousand

dollars.

i encouraged her

to go cold turkey,

at least until she went

to work,

got a job.

that's one of the stupidest

things

i've ever done in the name

of like, or love,

or lust,

whatever it may have been.

when it finally ended,

she told she wished she

would have married a lawyer,

or a doctor,

or stockbroker.

i would have gotten more

alimony with them,

than i did with you, she said,

waving

my paltry check in the air.

what did you say?

i pretend not

to hear,

it's easier that way than

saying no,

or getting

into a conversation

that goes

nowhere.

i cup my hand around

my ear, and say

what?

what did you say?

eventually they give

up,

and move on

to other prey.

the lost years

there are lost years,

not doubt,

periods of time unremembered,

unremarkable,

nothing etched

in stone,

or memorialized.

perhaps a few

photographs in drawers,

but most

just a blur

of the mundane, work

eat, sleep, drink,

television,

putting food on the grill,

going to the eastern

shore,

watching your children

grow as they

kick a ball around

on frozen fields, then

the eventual loss of love,

divorce.

but it's not quite over,

is it?

there's more.

in search of new friends

after not

hearing from a bunch of friends

for a while,

all of them

busy with their

families and work,

taking vacations

and being out on their

boats all the time,

i look for some new friends.

online. i start

browsing the meet up groups.

in search of interesting

people who want to drink

coffee

and sit around and talk,

but only

part time. preferably 

between the hours of

noon and one o'clock,

p.m. .

and they have to live close

by.

i don't like to drive.

i didn't know he was married

i didn't know

he was

married at the time, she tells me

after ending

her seven year affair.

he kept his wedding

ring in his pocket.

but he brought

his lunch to work

every day

in a brown paper bag,

i tell her.

with a thermos

and a cut up apple.

who did you think was

doing that for him,

his mother?

God bless the plumbers

i have more

respect for my plumber

who

can fix a toilet,

stop it

from running, than i do

of anyone

with a Phd or a masters

degree

in philosophy

or liberal arts.

put a screw driver

or a wrench

in their hand and they're

lost.

clueless.

all they have is a bunch

of mumbo jumbo

words

that will put you to sleep,

and the toilet

keeps leaking.

men in colorful robes

you can't trust grown men

in robes

and gowns,

colorful garb that

flows

when they walk.

they can't be trusted.

whether it's

the Dali llama,

or the pope,

a priest,

or some dude on

tv asking you for

money. you just get

the feeling that

they're up to something.

keep the kids away.

the Parisian bed

how did they

get this bed into the room, i ask

her,

as we lie

in bed

staring at the ceiling,

wiping sweat

off our brows.

they had to take

the window

and part of the wall out

and use

a crane set up in the street.

the whole

block was

cordoned off by

the police

as they lifted the bed

frame

and king-sized mattress

to my apartment.

well worth the effort,

i tell her.

good job.

it's a hotel bed, she says,

like

the one

i slept on in Paris.

war stories

you get nowhere

telling

children about your life

when young.

they listen

and laugh, roll their

eyes,

shake their heads

in unison.

really? they say.

you really had no shoes

to go to school

in, you drank 

powdered milk

and went to bed

hungry. there was

no heat, no air

conditioning.

who can

blame them

for their doubt.

you hardly believe it

yourself.

a strawberry sucker

they keep

sending me letters asking

if i want

to go digital,

to go paperless

with my

transactions.

i keep sending letters back,

saying no.

i don't trust

them.

them and their mysterious

electronic

ways

of doing business.

i prefer the stamp,

the envelope,

a written check from my

bank.

chatting with Kamil

in his turban

at the drive-thru,

who know me

and gives me a strawberry

sucker

when it's my turn

to put stuff in the metal

drawer.

water finds a way

anything

to do with water is trouble.

whether

a boat, a pipe,

a toilet,

the air conditioning

in your house

or car.

water wants to find

a way out

or to drown you.

those waves are no majestical

lines of poetry

from God,

no their crashing booms,

warning you

to steer clear.

don't let

the calm lake fool you.

the real estate agent

i see the real estate agent

with a mallet

pounding down her for sale

sign in front of the abandoned

house with broken windows.

she's wearing a tight red dress

and a lot of lipstick.

that may help a little,

but the paint is peeling,

there's mice in cupboards,

holes in the roof.

and someone is living in

the cellar.

she waves, she smiles,

she hands me a card.

coming soon, she says. we

just need to tidy it up a bit.

i admire her optimism,

and her shoes. she's got style.

the future is not what it used to be

the future is not

what it used to be.

the promise of tomorrow

and its

glory is gone.

it was a fantasy

that the world would

be made

right.

that utopia would arrive.

there would

be no more pain or suffering,

no hunger,

no strife.

there would be a cure

for everything.

equality for everyone, 

for all races

creeds and colors.

the future is not 

what it used to be,

but it was a good try.

there's a leak somewhere

each to his or

her own

shelf life, whether

love

or a washing machine.

they seem

to die

when the time is right.

the world needs

to keep going

and if nothing breaks

down,

what is there left to buy?

horse power

i'm thinking

a horse

as my next mode

of transportation.

i'm done with cars.

with gas and oil,

and slippery

salesmen,

greasy mechanics.

i'm done with transmissions,

and belts,

Freon

and fluids,

finished with

mechanical things

that break.

give me the steed,

the stallion,

hell,

the mule to take me

where i need to go,

i'm no hurry anymore.

i'll provide the oats.

the lemon laws

luckily

the lemon law 

was expanded

into including

marriages

gone sour.

you only needed

three reasons

to get your life back,

lies,

betrayal

and psychosis,

but time

and lack 

of sleep

was a different thing

altogether.

a medical mystery

it's a medical mystery

how he's

survived this long.

at 95 he's alert

and out and about,

with a vigorous

sex life, despite years

of drinking and smoking

and living off

pork rinds and strawberry

ice cream.

he attributes it to supplements,

which fill his medicine

cabinet, and lying out

in the sun for six hours

a day with coconut

oil lathered all over him.

he doesn't say he's lucky,

or it's genes, or that God

has blessed him

with a long life,

he just says it's pills

and sunlight, blondes,

brunettes and redheads,

strawberry ice cream.

can you move over a little?

crowded,

i ask the man on the train

if he wouldn't

mind

moving over a little to

give me some room.

his leg

actually was touching

my leg.

reluctantly,

he does,

but then everyone has

to get up and move

over one seat.

they're very annoyed

with me, and give me

a look, let's call it

the evil eye.

the man, now a foot away,

looks at me

and says, are you happy now?

i tell him yes.

thank you.

the necktie

i struggled

with the necktie, 

argyles

and stripes, solids

and prints, 

trying to get it right,

snug

and positioned perfectly

around my neck,

not too long or

too short,

not

too tight.

i never mastered the art

of the necktie.

it became clear to me

early on that

i wasn't made

for the office life.

sleepwalking

they are sleepwalkers.

but it's daylight.

you see them on the street,

on the buses,

the trains.

there they are at their

desks,

their cubicles.

adrift in jobs, lost

in the minutiae, the

mundane, asleep

at the wheel.

lost in a dream.

unaware and unawake.

disappearing into

the subway, 

melting away

in the rain.

junkman

there really was

a junk

man

back in the day. he used

to walk

up the street with his

old horse

ringed in bells,

pulling a wooden

wagon

full of scrap metal,

and rubber tires.

at the time it seemed

like a nice job,

a good way

to make a living.

being outdoors and all.

he wore a dirty hat

and had

a mustache.

he appeared to be made

of brown leather, but

he was friendly, saying

things to us

in another language

as we stopped our game

in the street to let

him go by.

we watched him as he

walked away,

leading the horse

with a stick,

as it's hooves knocked

against the summer concrete.

unless it rains

i like her stories.

they relax me, almost make

me sleepy,

but i'm prepared as i prop

my eyelids

open with toothpicks.

i make a strong

cup of coffee and sit back

as she tells me

about her day shopping

and what she's going to do

tomorrow with all

of her friends,

telling me their names,

familiar names that i

hear from time to time,

but get them all confused

with each other.

they all have plans to meet

at some point tomorrow,

unless it rains, and if it

does rains,

the entire schedule

will be changed.

she asks me if i'm listening,

i nod, and say,

of course dear. i hear you.

i'll be waiting in the car

as men,

regular men, not the new

trans

men,

but just your run of the mill

man,

it doesn't

take long

to get up and get out

of the house

when you wake up,

in the morning,

twenty

minutes tops

unless of course

you need to make

coffee first,

then five extra minutes

might be needed.

on the tip of my tongue

whatever it was

i was

going to do, or buy

or eat, seems to have slipped

from my mind.

will it come back,

i hope so,

preferably

sooner than later.

i can't sit in the car

while it's running

forever.

one or less than one

i don't understand

the cults,

the religious groups

that allow more than one wife.

some with as many ten.

one or less than one

to me would be sufficient.

i understand that variety

is the spice of life, but

i don't need ten women

telling me to put the seat down,

to get my feet off the coffee

table, to be home at a certain

time for dinner,

and then the talking.

all that talking telling me

how their day went.

recapping what the kids did,

how the neighbors

got a new min-van that seats

twelve,

and what's on sale at

Nordstrom's Rack.

there's another life, right?

as you

observe the rotting corpse

of a dead

rat in the alley,

and listen

to the screams of a woman

down the block,

accompanied by

the echo of gunfire,

you nod.

this is earth as we

know it.

all rust and decay,

but there's a heaven waiting

for us,

right?

let's take a moment

to bow our heads,

and pray.

a stint in the jump

you would think

that you would change

after spending one hour

in jail.

from that point on you'd

do whatever it took

to never go back.

you'd turn over a new leaf.

you'd be rehabilitated

just by fear,

by the bars, the hard

bed, the hard people 

inside.

but it doesn't work that way.

you are who you are,

just more careful now

to not get caught.

political hair

i went to the same barber

for the first

sixteen years

of my life,

Al, from the Philippines,

but then the world

changed.

hair became long.

i'd see my barber on

the street

and he'd say when are

you coming back,

i'd tell him when Nixon's

out of the white house.

he'd laugh.

then i'd see him at the

beginning of the summer.

when i needed

to get a job.

tearing down the school

i drive by the old school.

it was brand

new when i first attended

class there.

fresh paint, green tiled floors,

metal lockers,

there was a sparkle about

the building.

the cafeteria, the classrooms

with black boards.

even the teachers appeared new.

but it's gone now.

a gravel pit has arrived

surrounded by barbed fences,

black birds

doing what black birds do.

there is no memory

to this wasteland.

just what you've saved inside.

formed to the way you

like it, a fantasy of youth.

the absence of bricks and

mortar, glass, the throng of

life, means little.

everything it seems,

even buildings, schools,

all of it has a shelf life.

carbon dating

like

rings on a cut

tree

you add up the years,

the decades

of life

you've lived.

they need carbon

dating

now

to add it all up.

the day of birth,

the day

your mother

delivered you,

cast you

into the wilderness

to figure

it all out.

our government at work

the side

of package says

will cause cancer,

heart disease,

emphysema, etc.

it'll rot your lungs out

Jim.

it's in ink.

warning you, telling

you boldly,

smoke this and you

will die

a horrible death.

and yet

there they are for

sale.

cigarettes, smoke em

if you got em.

and yet,

if three jalapenos

make three people

sick,

they shut down

the industry until they

get to the bottom of it.

seven a.m.

i wake up

needing a shave. needing

a cold shower.

needing toothpaste,

needing

underwear and socks.

i must have left

a window open

last night, it's colder

than a penguin's

butt in here.

i stumble around,

and find the culprit,

slamming it down.

coffee next,

and the paper, lame

and thin

as it is, off the porch

and in

the thorns.

a three minute skim,

then into

the cage

where a gerbil lives.

the girl from Cleveland

she told

me she could put her ankles

behind

her ears,

which strangely interested

me.

baking

cakes was a strength

she promoted

as well.

she couldn't get

through

the airport gate

because

of all the imbedded metal

in her skin,

but she offered to drive

from Cleveland

to meet me,

straight through,

in her Winnebago,

inherited from

an uncle

in Akron, Ohio.

tent cities

in disarray

strange lives.

tented in blue pyramids

of plastic,

a fire

in a barrel,

what happened

to the chicken in every

pot,

every man

a home.

is it mental illness,

or a sign

of the times.

the corners

are full of the lost

and weary.

whatever dream there

used to be,

reachable

by everyone,

seems to be gone.

divine intervention

we do have choices,

free will,

despite the fantasy

of 

fate and destiny,

we can

choose the path we're on,

we can

stay or get off.

we are responsible

for most

of our lives, what's right,

what's wrong.

although a little

divine intervention

once in a while

does help.

it's about time

there is something

about cleaning,

purging

in the spring that

lifts your

spirits.

ridding the shed

of old

shovels and brooms

rusted

rakes.

sweeping and hosing

down

the patio,

the chairs. knocking

down the cob

webs,

disposing of junk

accumulated throughout

the years.

cutting away

the vines,

trimming

the old tree,

making way for the new,

it's about time.

parenthood

we took

our son on the subway

in the city,

to the zoo.

he was four or five

years

old at the time.

we saw every animal

there was.

the zebras, the lions,

the elephant.

pandas and gorillas.

but all the way home

he kept saying

out loud,

monkey butt.

over and over again.

fascinated with the monkeys

and their red

behinds.

monkey butt,

he yelled out

on the yellow line.

this parent hood thing

was not working

out the way

i planned.

return to sender

i get the neighbor's mail

by accident.

it's a letter

from someone, somewhere.

thinking it's

for me

i cut it open and take

a look.

it's a love letter, a letter

of remorse

and pain.

a letter of contrition.

a letter of apology.

a letter of someone taking

the blame.

i seal it back up, and

put it in the neighbor's box.

although it said

the right things,

it wasn't for me.

our Sunday clothes

we put

on our best clothes,

our 

Sunday clothes

and ventured out

beyond

our comfort zone.

we tried to fit in.

we wanted

more than what was

given

to us.

we wandered across

the other side

of the tracks.

we wanted what

they had,

but learned that it

wasn't all

that.

we came back.

Ernie's deviled eggs

in his black

beret

and aviator sunglasses

he'd show

up

for the Easter dinner

late.

which was okay.

he was old

and a determined

atheist.

in he'd come with

his tray

of deviled eggs.

two dozen

that he'd be

working on the night

before.

he didn't say much

at the table,

he didn't believe

in God,

or the resurrection,

but we loved his

eggs.

they were really good.

the charity dollar

where

does the charity dollar go.

into

ink and paper?

stamps?

a man

at the desk with a corner

office.

the machines,

the rent?

a new gold chalice

and 

Mahagony pews.

what is the 

the price

of doing business?

of empathy and compassion.

how much

of the dollar,

if any clothes

the poor, feeds

the hungry,

provides a place to

sleep?

there's something

fishy

going on

with the business

of charity.

shall we give until

we bleed?

a different song and dance

for weeks

on end i hear nothing

 but Marvin Gaye

and Teddy Pendergrass

on the stereo

next door.

then suddenly i see

that the woman

is with child,

the music doesn't play

anymore.

it's back to the television.

the news

and what not,

a racket with

the installation of child

gates,

and playpens, slides

in the yard.

where's Peg?

nearly all

the garage doors are open

on the weekend.

you see the men

in there, most of them

retired,

fiddling with their cars.

polishing a fender,

changing a wiper blade.

the hoods are up.

they stand

at their work benches

doing something

under the fluorescent lights,

being useful in some

strange way.

gluing something together,

maybe a chair

leg.

people walk by and

stop, and wave,

say hey.

they ask, what's up Stan,

whatchu working on today?

where's Peg?

out shopping?

good news

my waitress

at the diner, as she's pouring

coffee,

blurts out.

i think i'm

pregnant.

i look at her in mid

bite

of a slice of wheat

toast and gulp..

don't worry, she says,

it's not you.

you're pancakes

will be right out.

a long day at the office

i wouldn't

want

to be God, despite

all the obvious

perks, but there are

so many decisions

to make.

so many requests

to say

yes or no to.

the paperwork

must be incredible.

the research,

the investigations

to see who deems

worthy

of a yes,

and who gets the no.

bailing us out on

bad

decisions, or leading

us into making

good ones.

the tension

and stress it must

take

on an almighty power

is beyond

comprehension.

stand by

you can't

put shine on another's

darkness.

you can only

wait,

stand by with an unlit

candle.

and hope

that at some point,

they'll come around

and want

the light.

something's burning

it

smells like something's burning

but the alarm

is quiet.

i check 

the rooms, and knock

on the door

where

she slept last night.

excuse me,

i ask, careful

not to start it up again,

but do you

smell something burning

in here.

it's me,

she says.

i'm still mad at you from

what you

said about my dress

being too tight

last night.

when i asked you if

i looked fat in it.

you insinuated, yes.

i'm fuming.

the Barista, Pat

i asked my

friend,

Lulu Belle

if the person behind

the counter, making

coffee

was a girl or boy.

it was nearly

impossible to tell.

with the mustache,

and dress,

the tattoos

and earrings.

the boots. breasts.

the name tag

saying Pat.

she said.

shhhh. you can't ask

that anymore.

she or he, or they

or them.

is who they are.

it's not for you to

decide.

just curious, i said,

that's all.

relieving tension

after

the honeymoon,

things slowed down.

me in my

bachelor 

robe, her in her

old

torn gown.

we stopped calling

each

other sugar plum,

and

sweet potato.

we mumbled other

names under

our breath.

conversation

became less,

but we had children,

we had a dog,

a house with a mortgage.

we pressed on.

i suddenly remembered

one day

what woody allen

once said.

sex relieves tension,

while marriage

causes it.

seven a.m. till ten

the waiting room

is nice.

contemporary. 

black and brown

decor with buttery

soft

leather seats.

a state of the art

coffee machine.

cold bottled water

in a glass cooler.

Vanity Fair

and Vogue magazines,

current,

on the tables.

there's music piped in.

young music.

and the big screen

tv is on, HGTV.

and yet

three hours, feels like

three days,

waiting for the car

to be done.

the pertinent numbers

ninety two percent

live

more than

fifteen

years, after the surgery,

he tells me,

holding

up a stat sheet from

the New England Journal

of Medicine.

he's underlined

in yellow

the pertinent numbers.

we used

to talk about

running backs

and guards,

cheerleaders, 

the opening of a new

movie, as we

threw the ball around

the yard.

taking notes at the end

he tells me

he can't remember things.

the time

of a meeting,

who

called.

the day of the week.

he writes everything down.

his wife has pinned

notes to his sleeve.

i see the quiet

glaze

in his still blue eyes.

the tumble

of words

trying to find one word

that fits.

so close

in age, we are,

it's a fearful thing,

as a chill runs down

my spine.

the fallen fence

it's a fallen fence

that

the man repairs in his old

boots, his hat

for shade, 

his weathered

clothes,

he takes the dog

with him,

down by

the now wide

two laned road.

what is there to keep in,

or out,

nothing,

he tells his

wife, or maybe

everything,

but still, with hammer

and nails,

new lumber,

with the day ahead of him,

down he goes.

life after life

life

after death,

there must be.

it can't end like this,

can it?

no salvation or

punishment in the end?

No God,

no

Christ.

no miracles.

just ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

i can't

believe that,

though in hard times

i'm easily

persuaded

to go along with it.

of course they're happy

of course

they're happy. who wouldn't be

happy in

a seven room house

with gables.

who has gables

anymore?

and then there's

the money,

the pool in the yard.

look how

neatly the hedges

are trimmed.

the lines of grass so

splendidly

cut on the lawn.

look, there they go.

man and wife.

boy and girl.

what else is there

to know?

even the dog seems

happy,

as he takes his walk,

still clutching

his plastic bone.

before the next night arrives

you awaken

relieved that it was only a dream.

the time

portal you

just went through

was a fabrication

of the mind.

turning back

the clock

to troubled times.

maybe it's best not

eat

something sweet

or hot

before the next night

arrives.

rise and shine

it's too early.

the paper boy has yet

to throw

my newspaper

into the bushes, the milk

man

has yet to set

a bottle of cream

on the porch.

the local thieves

haven't

even jiggled the knob

of my door,

or gotten

into my car to rummage

through my things.

it's early.

the fox

are still in the trash

by the curb.

even the moon is still

up and at em.

the dining room table

we used

the old dining table

for homework.

each child to his own chair,

his or her

own space.

the pencil sharpener

attached

to the kitchen door.

blue lined notebooks,

pencils and pens,

compasses

and protractors,

rulers and the nubs

of pink erasers.

the overhead

light

beaming down.

a dog or two beneath

the table

mistaking it all for

dinner.

the endless blue fold

these ships

come

in and leave again,

on white

sails

from

the small harbor.

flags

on wind,

sailors, groups of men.

women.

sea worthy souls

on

the water.

into the sunset,

into the salted air,

into the

endless blue fold,

their

home.

can you step back, please

like houses,

we each

have our good side,

and bad

side.

i like to turn to the left

when

being photographed.

less sun

damage,

less wrinkles,

less

crevices from

years

of weather.

less worry over there.

take a few more steps 

back please,

maybe twenty

yards,

farther, 

farther, okay

now take the picture

from there.

you eat the last piece

just a small

piece

please, no smaller,

use

a baby spoon,

the tip of

your finger,

just a dollop of that

chocolate

cake.

no more than that.

Satan get behind me.

i'm on the wagon

and tempted

to fall off,

so, then again, no,

maybe none.

go ahead you eat

the last piece.

cut from the same cloth

as time

goes on you begin to lump

them all

together.

all cut from the same cloth.

politicians

and lawyers,

actors

and preachers.

anyone in the public eye,

with a public

image to uphold.

it seems

they all lie.

they all cheat,

they all have something

to hide

beneath their secret lives.

of course they

do, each just a text message

or email away,

or caught on tape

before

going to the pokey

with soon to be forgiven

and forgotten

disgrace.

two day vacation

i'll be right out,

she used to say, hold on,

i'm coming.

i just need to fix my hair,

do this,

do that.

turn the lights off,

unplug

the iron,

lock the back door

and water

the plants.

i'd beep the horn

as i waited in the car,

already low

on gas.

the children asleep

in the back

seat.

then at last

she'd come out

with one more piece

of luggage

to tie to the roof.

there was

no more room in the trunk

for her.

what's for lunch?

i thought

by now, the snake i killed

yesterday

would be gone,

but no.

there it lies twisted

and cold,

the weapon

of it's destruction

still there,

blood stained.

i thought some animal

would have

enjoyed a meal

of sorts

by this time,

a fox, a raccoon, perhaps

a flock of black

birds

or vultures,

for an afternoon

luncheon.

what i really called for

some call

just to chat, to say hello

and shoot

the breeze,

talk trash,

while others have something

on their mind,

something

they need to say,

or get off their

chests.

maybe a favor to ask,

but you have to wait

for it

until the end,

enduring

as best you can,

being patient

for what comes last.

it's what's best

when you

go without what pleases you.

it wakes

you up to your needs

and desires.

the flesh.

keeping sweets

at a distance

and you,

saddens me, but

it's what's

best.

delaying the end

i stayed

up too late reading.

too deep

into the book, 

the plot

thickening,

wanting to go forward,

but not wanting

to finish.

the sign of good

writing, no doubt.

another

page tonight.

just a taste as i delay

the end.

the can opener

found in a drawer,

i can feel it my hand,

the weak

metal

can opener, barely clawing

it's way

around a can

of tuna fish,

or spam.

my small wrists efforting

around

and around, slowly,

as the teeth

bit into the lid.

hardly was

there reward.

the nuns at St. Thomas More

on the edge

of the concrete playground,

fenced in,

they stood guard.

black robed.

hands folded in front

of them,

below the hanging crosses.

eyes resting

on no one.

they surveyed the children.

the red ball

flying.

they were distant, aloof,

were they thinking

about love,

about God,

about their own childhood

now gone?

the copperhead

it's innocent,

sinless

one might say.

without fault or anger.

there's not a vindictive

or malicious thought

in it's reptilian brain,

and yet,

you stand back

with brick and rake

in hand 

as it raises it's head 

with wet fangs.

it stares at a spot

on your leg,

what choice do

you have?

the blue laws

there used

to be blue laws

in Maryland.

strange

state laws

stopping the selling

of wares

and goods.

the liquor stores were

closed.

the grocery stores.

hardware

and department stores.

Sunday was deemed

a holy day.

you had to stock up

on Saturdays,

or go without.

now

everything is open

24/7.

holidays mean nothing

anymore.

it's all about

cha ching.

more and more.

let yourself in

i crack

the ice out of the metal

tray,

drop three or four

cubes

into the tumbler.

a splash

of gin,

a splash of tonic

a slice

of lime.

now to find a record

to spin,

perhaps

Marvin Gaye,

i'll be on the sofa,

please, no need to knock,

no need

to ring the bell,

just let yourself.

in.

age

you can't outrun it,

or trick it

into submission, 

you can't hide from

its hand

as it takes hold of yours.

it finds you before

you know it,

stepping gently,

where once

you gaily ran.

everything still here

the bench

with a metal square

and a name

inscribed

catches the sunlight,

striking my

eye.

i read the name

out loud

and sit, as he must

of sat with

the geese in the air,

the splash

in his ear,

children

running from their

parents towards

the sand

and water.

everything that he

saw,

still here.

a different cup of tea

i try

leaves of grass

and get

nowhere.

war and peace,

the Russian novels

by Dostoevsky,

the poetry

of Dickinson.

i'm either too dumb

to get it

or too young

of mind.

boredom sets in,

before i push each

aside,

still not my cup

of tea.

the speck in your eye

i have a difficult

time

removing the speck from

my own

eye, but have no

trouble

pointing at yours

and asking

why.

back to square one

the trouble

with wisdom and experience

is that

it dies on the vine.

the young

must learn what the dead

did.

so it's back to square

one,

time after time.

the bohemian life

he took

pride in his bohemian

lifestyle.

despising

labor of any sort.

keeping

the callous from hand

or foot.

a starving

artist,

his smile said, his

words

accumulating in an

endless

unfinished book.

the half

filled canvas,

the one song,

yet unsung.

they'll see my genius

one day,

he said,

lying to himself,

and those

around.

happy time

i see a bird

smiling

as he carries a stick

in his beak,

winging his

way

towards

his new nest.

another with a worm

wiggling,

fat and round.

it's happy

time

as winter retreats.

by the balls

i quit,

the man says,

standing in the office

at the big desk.

i quit.

i can't work here any

longer

under these conditions.

i'm not paid

enough

to work here, for what

i do ten hours

a day.

i quit.

go home and think about

it the boss

says.

sleep on it and

then decide.

see what your children

and your wife

have to say

see how they feel

when there's no food

to eat,

no money

to make it through

another day.

the hunt

far into

the woods, you hear

the dog.

he's after

something, off the leash,

running.

he's

hunting.

we all are,

for something.

the inside crowd

you hear

more and more people

talk

about staying home,

staying in,

not going out into

the cold,

the wind,

the chaos

of what life has become.

they hunker down

with their loved

ones behind

locked doors,

safe and sound.

me too,

i'm joining the inside

crowd.

salted nuts

damn these peanuts.

this can,

this bottomless pit,

this tin can

of salted nuts,

i can't stop either

hand from

dipping in and eating

one more,

one more.

just one more handful

and i'm done.

really.

i'm done.

the big cigar

like a small child

in the playground

or in the yard,

or on the floor you need

toys now

to retire.

maybe a boat,

or a sports car, perhaps

a beachfront

condo.

something to distract

you,

fill your day as the slowly

sets on who

you are.

take up golf,

or pickleball, or poker

down at the knights

of Columbus hall.

bocci ball?

maybe sit on the big porch

and smoke

a big cigar.

read my mind

i'm writing

to you in invisible ink,

she says.

everything i need

and want to say is on

that sheet of paper.

but you'll never see it,

or know what it is that

i've written.

just like

in real life.

it's a game i play.

time out

you know

yourself. you know

how

much room you need,

the space

required to renew

and recharge

to get back out into

the world.

you know the distance

you must

keep

from people.

where to sit, where

to go,

where to rest.

you know yourself.

finally you settle into

an age

where you know what's

best.

the man keeping her down

i reach into the stack

of green

avocados, but before

i can

take one,

a woman, pushes my hand

away

and takes the one

i was about to pick up.

what's the meaning

of this, i ask her.

she puts my avocado

in her basket.

i've been oppressed

too long, hse says,

it's time that,

me, as a woman

got what i want.

we heard a splash

they dredge

the pool of water

searching

for someone,

a body, perhaps.

the divers

are in there, a small

boat

with a lantern held,

drifts across the blackened

water.

the moon is behind

the clouds.

these nights never end

well.

last call for love

my friend

Gretchen is on the hunt

for a new man.

she's had her

hair and nails done

and is doing Keto.

she's blonde now.

she's on a dating site called

last call, last

chance dot com.

i want one more soul

mate, before i die, she says.

not a cell mate.

i want true love this time,

romance.

i want a man who adores

me, a man

who sees me 

for who i really am.

skeletons and all.

i nod.

but then ask her,

if that's a good idea.

the day the wind carried her off

put some rocks

in your pocket i tell her

as we set

out for a walk

in the howling wind.

fifty mile an hour gusts

the excited weatherman

says on the morning

broadcast,

and he's not whistling

dixie.

we get outside and away

she goes,

her thin, gaunt vegan

body is suddenly

airborne,

flying like a paper airplane

in the sky.

she tumbles off into

the clouds,

the wind carrying her

body off into the distance,

like a kite,

disappearing with

a whispering, help me

cry. but too late,

i continue on for coffee,

oh well, back to the drawing

board

on another soul mate.

the bus to Chinatown

we took the Chinatown

to Chinatown

bus to NYC

one year.

a harrowing trip where

we had

to stand up

almost all the way there.

gripping

the straps that hung

from the ceiling.

swaying

side to side as we sped

down the Jersey

Turnpike.

it was fifty bucks each,

round trip.

which gave us money

for Kung Pao Chicken,

at Jimmy's

on Mulberry St.

April First

when we were younger,

Laurie would call

on April first and tell

me that

she was with

child.

my child.

there was

no doubt in her mind.

that it was my

biscuit baking in

her oven.

i'd begin to shake

and quiver,

sit down,

and try to calm myself,

as she

asked me what names

we would choose

if it was a girl

or boy.

it worked for a few

years,

scaring the pee out of me,

but not now.

cooking God's books

they finally catch

the woman stealing money

from the church.

quiet as

a church mouse, she was.

plain

and ordinary, a peaceful

soul.

but what to do?

she did the accounting

for decades,

nine to five,

weekends too.

there were flowers

on her desk.

but little did anyone

know

how she cooked the books.

no one questioned

her mink stoles,

her trips to Europe,

her Mercedes Benz,

the jewelry, the silver

the gold.

everyone seemed to have

their eyes closed

as they knelt in prayer.

everyone was surprised,

shocked.

how could there be

a sinner amongst us,

especially her.

i know, but why

as  children

we want

to know why.

everything

before

us is a mystery.

why

why

why

and then you get older,

wiser,

more educated,

but still

deep within there

is always

that lingering question

about

nearly everything,

why.

that was never there

the old men

will tell you, all with

the same

wide eyed

look of amazement,

that

this area here used to

be a farm,

people road

their horses, down

the dirt road.

they point

to where a dunkin

donut shop

is and

a mr. tire, and tell you.

that was never

there.

and that plot of land

over there

where the town houses

are,

and the mall,

that used to be a swamp,

we'd fish

there.

it's your ice

the ice

on the windows,

a thin glaze

of cold,

a reminder of sorts.

and as i watch

you from

the window,

angry

at me or something,

or someone,

the energy

you have, makes

it an easy

to get

it done.

the pope and taco Tuesday

you wonder

if the pope ever gets tired

of being the pope.

wearing those big pointed

hats

and white robes,

always worrying about

coffee spills,

and taco Tuesday.

does he want to slip

out a Vatican

window

in his jeans and t-shirt

and go dancing.

have a few drinks,

meet some babes

along the boulevard.

does he weary of being

sinless.

never telling a lie,

or over indulging himself

on red wine.

he must have a secret

life,

we need to dig into

this, go through his things,

his computer,

his closet.

that's where most secrets

are.

i bet there's a bikini

picture of

Bridget Bardot

somewhere under his mattress.

rumors of war

maybe we'll go

to war

with China, or Russia,

or Iraq

or Iran.

Syria seems to be jostling

in line

for a war.

our guns are pointed,

so are theirs,

but for now,

we need each other,

so let's not,

and say we did,

pretend we're friends

like we've always

done before.

give me a blue door

it's a blue door

that she desires.

she wants

it painted blue, not sky

blue,

or robin's egg

blue.

but more of a deeper

blue,

somewhere

between a royal

blue and indigo.

like her eyes,

she says, adding

that

the eyes are the windows

to the soul.

she wants a blue

door.

i do what i'm told.

woe is me

we like to fill

our average child's head

with

possibilities. we give them

trophies for losing,

for coming

in fourth place.

we tell them they can

be anything

they want to be,

if they try hard enough

and believe.

but they're average.

they're 

underachievers, a bit lazy

and spoiled

and entitled.

half don't know how

to spell or read.

straight c's and a sprinkling

of d's

they get a gold star

and an oatmeal

cookie.

the next generation,

woe is me.

i'll get there when i get there

rested, but slow

to get out the door,

you linger, sip your coffee.

peruse the book

you'll dive

into once home.

there is no rush to work

these days

those days

are done.

it's i'll get there when

i get there,

from now on.

the open window

the window

left open

in the night so that

the cat

can come and go as

she pleases

lets in the rain too.

the cold.

we need to have

a talk,

the cat and i.

we need to set

boundaries

if this relationship

is to work out.

more peace to come

the old

general is unapologetic

as

he explain

that you need

violence, you need

to kill

in order to have peace.

we need war,

he says.

he's covered

in medals.

he predicts more

killing

is to come in order

to have

more peace.

five easy pieces

i position

the new shiny black

piano

into the corner of the basement

living room.

i set a crystal

vase of roses on it

and a candelabra.

i put on my long

black coat

over a crisp white shirt

and dress pants,

new shoes,

then sit down at the keyboard.

i open

up the book.

step one of the beginners

guide to playing

the piano.

i'm ready.

the pill dispensary

my father

calls me and asks me to

send him

some Viagra.

can you get some on

your phone?

he thinks that cell phones

are magical

things, pill

dispensaries.

can you get me

a hundred or so he

says.

he tells me that he doesn't

want to start something

that he might not

be able to finish.

he's 95, but dating again.

after reading

the obituaries on a daily

basis and seeing who's out there,

who's lost a husband.

he asks me to send him

another jug

of baby oil too

and a new shower curtain.

i don't ask him

why,

i just shake my head

and tell him

no.

no and no.

i'm the father now,

he's the child.

heat or ice

is it ice first,

or heat,

or heat last,

and then

ice.

after all the bruises

i've had

in my life,

one would think

i'd have it down

by now.

the Archive-A9

another bus

comes along. they all look

the same.

inside and out.

a man at the wheel

in his uniform.

his old cap

pulled down.

in goes the coins

into the glass box

by the gears.

the green vinyl seats 

are hard, the windows

won't open.

the rumble of it,

the muffled roar,

the staggered stops

and starts,

jostling us along.

an empty cup

rolls around the floor.

somehow we get there.

delivering the post

the ink would smudge,

come off

in my hands

as i rolled the papers

into batons

worthy of tossing

to each and every porch

on my route.

the wagon squealed as

the dog tagged along,

not far behind.

he new the drill, both

of us in the twilight

of morning, racing

home.

selective memory

i can't remember

what i

had to eat

last Tuesday, but ask

me what you

said

five years ago,

and i'll tell you verbatim,

exactly

what you told me.

they are so alike

my mechanic

is just like my dentist,

who

says floss more,

he says you need new

shocks,

maybe you need

a new crown,

he says your transmission

fluid is shot,

your gums are receding

we can fix

that.

when was the last time

you changed your filters?

we have a mouth guard

to wear at

night to keep you

from grinding your teeth,

keep you

from snoring.

you need to change 

your tires, one side

is wearing out.

you need a water pic,

new wiper blades,

a battery

powered toothbrush.

we need to rotate your tires.

maybe an implant here

or there.

how about we rebuild

your carburetor?

cha ching.

her cheetah pants

she bites,

but she's harmless

in her

cheetah

pants

and sweater, very tight.

her

matching heels.

they are more

like nibbles

than they are bites.

she tells me

she's had her shots,

not to worry.

you have nothing

to fear.

and yet i do.

we turn him towards the sun

he's not

quite a potted plant yet.

though we water him

daily.

pecks on the cheek,

words

of lover and conversation.

clean

socks.

food and drink.

a new chair for the tub.

a cane.

a pillow for his back. 

batteries

for the smoke alarm,

the hearing aid,

the clock.

we turn him towards

the sun, when there

is sunlight to be had.

he's not quite

a potted plant and for that,

both him

and us, are glad.

we cut our own hair

sometimes

the elevator worked.

sometimes

we took the stairs

eighteen flights down

when the fire alarm

was pulled.

pranksters.

after a few years, we

stopped

leaving the apartment.

let it burn.

we had food delivered.

we did

online banking.

we cut our own hair,

patched our

own clothes.

we had the television,

the internet.

sun lamps.

we had windows to

look out.

we felt safe in there.

eight floors up,

the rest of the world

out of sight

and out of mind,

way way way

down there.

we need a breather

if all

the people who have guns

were

shot and wounded, not

killed, let's not

get crazy here,

just minor

wounds.

well,

maybe that would calm

things down for

a while,

as they recuperated

in the hospitals.

give us a breather

for a few

weeks when out and about.

i need one box of number two pencils, asap

i should care

more about the world, i suppose,

have a sleepless

night over

global warming,

over all the plastic in the ocean

choking

dolphins and turtles.

i should worry about

the decrease in the number

of bees.

of fish, etc.

i know i should separate

paper and plastic, cans

and bottles.

i should reduce my

carbon footprint as best i can,

and not order

pencils from amazon

that arrive the next day,

but i just can't.

i can change her mind

it's like a cold,

ice cold

glass of water thrown

into my face,

when she says to me,

my goal is to get

married again.

she doesn't know

about my blood oath

to never again

say the vows or

wear a wedding ring.

i quicky change 

the subject and pour

her another glass

of wine.

it's early in the evening.

maybe, just maybe

i can change her mind.

one cook in the kitchen

you need

one captain, one cook

in the kitchen.

one

person who picks

the colors,

picks the chandelier,

the silverware,

the linen

table cloth.

just one person needs

to steer the boat.

say charge

as we prepare to go

over the hill.

every house needs

a boss,

but not too bossy

of course.

self diagnosis

it could

be a cracked rib.

bruised

maybe.

a contusion of some

sort.

but i'm not a doctor

though 

i follow

web md.

if the breathing gets

any more

difficult, and i can

no longer bend

over to tie my shoes,

of course

i'll call you.

as always, you're

my first responder.

well spent youth

much of your youth

was spent

on chasing a ball,

throwing,

running,

finding any kind of job

to have money

in order to find a girl.

throw in a few books,

a few thousand

pages of writing

and so it goes.

little has

changed it seems,

even at this age,

in this year.

all of it well spent,

despite

the rumors you may

hear.

the tree out front

we go down

to see

the cherry blossoms

blossom.

pink white.

every year it's a big

whoop.

it's on the news.

the weather.

tourists are everywhere

with their

cameras.

it's cold and windy.

it's raining

as we walk along

the tidal basin

until frozen.

we drive home

and notice the tree

in the front yard.

that's nice too.

maybe nicer.

blasé

your increasing

lack

of interest

is interesting to say

the least.

how

strange to be blasé

about

what you once

were excited about.

how quickly

the shine

came off that apple.

the bus to Tuscany

my mother

when she came into money.

five dollars

here,

ten dollars there,

would hide it

in a book, or in a plant

pot.

sometimes she'd

bury a twenty

dollar bill

in the yard, marked

with a stone.

there was a change

jar

in her sewing room.

she was getting ready

to leave,

to escape the misery

she was in,

but she died before she

made her getaway,

Tuscany

remained a dream

he sounded so nice on the phone

i never should

have given

the man on the phone my

social security

number, my bank account

numbers

my date of birth

and my address.

not mention my

height and weight

and my mother's maiden

name.

but he was so nice

on the phone.

and he promised me

the world.

millions.

now he's living in

my house.

petting my dog. sleeping

in my bed.

yesterday i saw him

walking down

the street in my clothes,

holding my umbrella

over his head.

hello, it's me

it's me,

the voice says on the phone.

it's me.

which me,

i ask.

there's more than one

me out there.

you don't recognize

my voice?

say something, i tell

her.

yell at me.

accuse me of things

i've never done.

go on.

lie.

then i'll know who

you are for sure.

bring water

bring water.

it's a long trip from

here to there.

bring

water.

wear your good shoes.

there's no

shade

for a hundred miles.

bring water.

it may seem

like the end of the world,

but it isn't.

bring water.

be brave.

we'll get there.

we're the best

because

we can, because

we're American

we buy the big truck

with big wheels.

the big house.

we marry the woman

with the big

breasts.

enormous butts.

big lips.

we have big muscles

around

our little brains.

we have a big boat.

we order

the big steak,

we supersize our

drinks.

we're big shots.

with big egos.

we have big guns.

big ambitions.

we out do everyone.

the rest of the world

stinks.

we are a country

of whining children.

you can't say that anymore

careful

with words, we are now

no one

spouts off anymore,

loses

their cool

and says a bunch

of things

they'll have to apologize

for.

i miss those days,

when you

could rant

and rave, and not worry

about the woke

people who lie

in wait

to skewer you.

after the workout

i need more ice

bags.

three aren't quite

enough.

the knees,

the shoulder,

the head.

one more for

the back

and i'll be good.

or maybe

a tub of ice in

water.

drop myself in

and soak

until frozen.

tomorrow

the rain

keeps me home.

keeps

the coffee pot on.

keeps

me inside

to do

all the things i

put off until

tomorrow.

well,

tomorrow has come.

wild thing

she could sing.

dance,

play

the piano.

she was the life of the party,

telling jokes,

making everyone

laugh.

she was the party

in her red dress.

her hair

flying around her

shoulders.

red heels

and lipstick.

she set the mood.

she didn't need to drink

a drop of wine,

no liquor touched

her lips,

no need,

for she was always

inebriated 

on a natural sort of booze.

did you go alone?

i find an old

ticket

to the theater in my coat

pocket.

i haven't worn

the coat since the night

i went

to that show.

i guess it was cold out.

a scarf

is still around the collar,

gloves are

in the pockets.

did i go alone?

probably so.

and if she was with me,

even more so.

the hand that feeds him now

he hated

black people, Asians too.

anyone not

American born

got on his nerves,

Mexicans

were the worst

according to his beliefs

set in stone.

actually anyone not

exactly

like him.

the same color of skin

were way down

on his proverbial

food chain.

and so now,

as he lies there

in a state

of confusion, unable

to lift a fork

to his mouth, with dementia

set in,

i wonder if his

views have changed

as a brown

hand feeds

him, changes his diaper

and wipes his mouth,

counts out the pills

of his medicine.

was there love there?

they empty

the old house.

there goes the coffee table,

the books

and lamps,

the blue couch.

someone has rolled

up the rug

and set it in the yard.

pictures

are taken down. leaves

traces

of dust and faded paint

behind.

pots and pans,

dishes.

everything old,

rusted, worn, bent.

the people are gone.

wheeled out

in chairs

or gurneys, taken somewhere

where strangers

now will feed them

with small spoons

and straws.

the people are gone.

was there love there?

not that i remember.

the mail must go through

i've lowered my

expectations

with the mailman.

his leather

sack thrown

over his bent shoulder.

his grey

uniform, loose

and frayed.

he's wearing his pith

helmet in the rain,

but

there's no mail i'm

anxious to receive.

no check, no prize

money, no love

letter from overseas.

it's bills and ads.

junk that i won't even

take the time to read.

the funeral director

it's good to have

a barber,

someone that knows

your hair,

or lack thereof.

it's good to have a doctor,

a dentist,

a lawyer.

even a butcher comes

in handy

when you need a special

cut of meat.

then there's 

the plumber,

the painter,

the electrician.

but of course there

are a few

people you hope

to never want, or need.

another cup of tea

another cup

of tea seemed to solve

nearly

everything,

for Emily.

a plate of cookies,

the good China

taken out

for the visit.

what troubles?

she'd say.

cream and sugar.

how long

can you stay?

live and let live

we think

we're better

people than that,

non-judgmental,

live and let

live sorts,

but

we aren't.

we can't help but

stare

and wonder

at

the purple

hair,

the fish hook through

the nose,

the tattoo

of Satan on someone's

brow.

we cautiously move

to the other

side of the street

and wonder

if another great flood

is overdue.

the grave yards are full

i haven't heard

from my Russian friend, Dasha,

in a while.

i worry about her.

the last picture

she sent to me was of her

ice fishing.

sitting over a hole

in the ice, smoking a cigarette

with a look of

disgust on her face.

i ask her about the war,

but she says

she can't talk about it.

she only says that all the men

are gone

and that the grave yards are full.

after seven days of rain

i have fond

memories of the sun.

remember

the sun?

that giant yellowish

globe

in the sky, making

our skin warm?

it was lovely.

a wonderful thing.

us in our bathing suits,

the dog sleeping

in a puddle

of golden sunlight.

the daffodils in bloom,

robins singing.

remember the sun?

beach pancakes

some people

when they get back from

a vacation,

from a cruise,

or a week in Spain

are perky

and excited.

they're refreshed from

the week away.

if i go to the beach

for a night

i'm exhausted from

all that packing

and travel.

frazzled by the commotion

in the hotel lobby.

confused by which

pancake joint

to eat at.

The Pocahontas?

or Captain Ahab's?

going to california

we were on our way

to California.

Hunnington Beach

to be exact.

some girl named Sharon

a cousin

of the girl i was dating,

Vivian,

captain of the cheerleaders

invited us over

when she was in town.

she was going to show us

around.

give us the tour.

we made it as far west

as Winchester, Virginia,

then Jim Ac's fifty-nine

chevy broke down.

he couldn't get it started

again, and we had

no money between us

to fix whatever was wrong.

so we left it there on the

side of the road,

route sixty-six and 

hitched a ride home.

it's just the wind

it's just a soft

rattle,

a squeak, a slight

bang.

is that the door knob

twisting,

is it a ghost

perhaps?

is someone trying

to get in.

are there mice

in the attic,

is there a bat

behind shutters.

what's making this 

noise.

i pray that it's just

wind

and not her again.

why sleep on it?

before we end things,

she says,

let's sleep on it.

i know you're miserable

with me being here.

but let's get a good nights

rest

and talk about it tomorrow.

i tell her, that's the problem

i can't sleep

when you're here.

so maybe i should go,

she says.

i can pack and leave

right now if you want

me too.

sure. that's a great idea.

turn the light off

and lock the door, when

you go down.

everyone needs a hug

it's a left

wing

conversation. 

more social workers

less cops.

more money for

the poor,

more tax breaks,

more shelters

for the homeless.

more hand outs,

more free

stuff for all.

loosen the borders,

let everyone in.

let girls

be boys

and boys become girls.

and unborn

babies, pfffft,

who needs them?

let's clear the jails,

no one is guilty,

everyone just needs

a hug,

even a five time

offender,

a felonious thug.

wal-mart shopping

the oils,

the sugars,

the bread

and cakes, the pies,

the French fries

and icing.

the standard American

diet. there are

twelve teaspoons of raw

sugar in each

bottle of coke.

just look at the line.

the shadows

of each

enormous behind.

i see

a five gallon

bag

of marshmallow

peanuts, 

next to a gallon

jug of syrup.

oh my.

burning books

do children

read

what we were asked

to read.

is Mark Twain

on the list,

Salinger,

and

Cheever,

Updike

and Flannery O'Connor.

or are they

all banned

from the woke

witches

and wizards that now

run

the show?

is Phillip Ross

no where to be found,

Saul Bellow

and Fitzgerald

long gone.

Bukowski?

is their writing not woke

enough,

not

current with our times?

pain with memory

a bruise, a scrap,

a bump

a cut,

a strain, all in a few

days would

be gone

at an early age.

but now,

i roll out of bed

and grab my

knee

and limp in

the early morning

darkness,

holding onto walls

as i go find

a salve

to ease the ancient

pain.

my good friend Mr. Lincoln

it's crowded.

packed.

the bar

is overflowing,

every seat is taken, 

every table is full.

i sidle up

to the Maitre d

and ask

him if he's met my

good friend

Mr. Lincoln. with

stealthy deftness

i show him

my five dollar bill,

folded in the palm

of my hand.

this is all yours,

i tell him,

if he sets a table

free. he laughs

that Maitre d laugh.

no dice.

he points to the door

and asks us

to leave.

we'll have more tomorrow

we have nearly

uncontrollable urges.

it's human.

natural.

our appetite for sweets,

or salt,

for drink and food,

for affection.

no matter how much

we get,

it's never quite enough.

tomorrow

we crave more.

Etienne's day at the park

i'm having a Francophile

kind of day.

after penciling in

a thin black mustache,

i've put on

my black beret,

my black and white

striped jersey,

a guitar is

strapped to my back

and

i'm eating a baguette,

with escargot

and ghee.

i'm listening

to Jacques Brel

on my little red

transistor radio.

i've borrowed a small

poodle

from my friend Mitzi,

and i'm

down by the river

doing an impressionistic

rendering in oil

of people strolling by.

occasionally

i take a sip of pinot noir

from the bottle

by my side,

and say bonjour

with a smile

to lovers walking by.

sliding down an icy hill with wooden boards attached to your feet

i try to watch

the trial of the minor celebrity

actress

who crashed into

some old man

on a ski slope.

it's like watching paint

dry,

or grass grow.

it's all about who's going

to get a pay day.

who gets the dough.

if you're stupid enough to put

slippery boards

on your feet

and fly down

a hill in the ice and snow,

you're officially a dope.

and you're on

your own.

you get nothing.

be thankful you didn't hit

a tree like most

skiers do.

i thought it was Thursday

sometimes

i cringe at

the confusion of not knowing

what day it is.

Tuesday

being Wednesday,

Friday being

Thursday.

Monday

being Sunday.

it's a fascinating state

of mind.

a little touch

of insanity while

scratching my head

and wondering

if it's all over now.

call the doctor, the

priest, the lawyer

and put

me to bed.

three step verification code

my mother has

a three

step verification code

on her phone now.

whenever i call her

she wants

me to tell her

my favorite pasta dish,

the color of her 

parakeet, and the derogatory

name

she used to call

my third and final ex-wife,

if all my answers,

are correct,

lasagna, lime green and

Cruella, she'll

finally believe it's me

on the line.

it's exhausting, but after

she gave away

two thousand dollars

last year to some

Jamaican chap

pretending to be me,

she's taking no

chances.

the fortune cookie

it was easy

to eat

and eat, get drunk on

mai tais

at Hunan West.

keep

the rice coming,

the beef,

the shrimp

and peppers.

we've got all night

here

in this red and yellow

place.

more fish,

more

sauces, more duck.

more fortune cookies.

this one

i just read

doesn't appeal

to me.

do you swear to tell the truth?

i used to keep

a Bible

by the front door

and made

her place her hand

on it

when i questioned her

about

where she was

that night.

for the most part she'd

plead the fifth

which would end

the interrogation.

then the lie detector test,

which i got as a wedding gift.

of course

she'd pass that with flying

colors. no surprise there.

narcissists

and psychopaths

are the best at that.

the graph showed

not a single blip.

the artist's wife

we want

to know more about

the artist.

why

he painted what he did.

the influence

of his brush

his colors,

the lines he'd draw.

we want

to understand what

made him

tick.

why

the starkness

of olives

and greys, the lines

so thick.

spoon fed

we are spoon

fed

when babies.

the long 

stretch

of middle years are

up to us

though

with fork and knife,

and then at the end

it's back

once more

to the spoon,

a circled

life.

clearing out the attic

it's a good day to clean

up the attic.

i get the flashlight

and climb the wobbly

wooden ladder.

i grab the box of

psychology books,

a thick copy

of the DSM,

and self help manuals,

and carry them down.

next i get the old straight

jackets that i used to

use in a previous

relationship, and toss

them into the hall.

there's an exorcism

kit too.

holy water, crosses.

straps to tie the possessed

down with.

garlands of dried up

garlic.

a wooden stake and mallet.

everything is covered

in cobwebs and dust.

spiders are everywhere.

it's a good day for a

cleaning.

check is in the mail

i don't do online

banking.

i have a check book.

i send checks out in the mail.

envelope,

stamp, etc.

no automatic payments.

no Zelle,

or Venmo,

or PayPal,

no bit coin,

whatever the hell

that is.

i don't scan payments

onto my phone.

and i'm not

giving up my butter

churn either.

what should we do today?

she says to me,

one morning. hey, i have an idea.

i lower

the paper

to look at her,

and say, what?

let's go pick

blueberries up

in Pennsylvania.

what do you think?

it's so nice out.

i keep looking at her,

my eyes just barely

over the edge of

the newspaper.

Safeway has blueberries,

i tell her.

i know, i know. but

it'll be nice to get away

and fresh fruit

is always a treat this

time of year.

she puts her finger to her chin,

what about a hot air balloon

ride, she says.

Powerlines, i reply.

death by fire and falling

and then

what's left of you

the animals will eat.

take a walk up to Starbucks?

sure.

let me get my shoes

on.

used cars and women

she had

that new car smell.

that glossy finish

of heated wax,

the shine

of the chamois cloth.

the tank

full,

the windows clean.

there was a nice

sweet rumble of the engine

when revved,

but underneath

there was rust,

and corrosion,

the oil was leaking.

the short fuse

you

have moments

of being unkind.

the worst

of you

appears when abused

or dismissed,

or used.

sometimes the slightest

hint of

disrespect

lights the short fuse.

look at me now

nobody

wants to work anymore.

they're done

with labor

with nine to five.

with sweeping floors

and punching the clock.

no flipping

burgers for me.

i'm a tik tok star.

watch and like

as i lip-sync a song,

as i play my guitar,

stand on my

head and put my legs

around my neck.

i'm at the beach,

at a bar, the zoo,

making faces at the

animals.

i'm making my dog

play peek a boo.

click on me now,

more content

like this tomorrow.

i don't have a real job,

so i have all day

to fool around.

the camping meet up group

Colette asks me to go

camping with

her meet up group.

it's a fun bunch of seniors

she says.

all divorced and single,

some widows

and widowers.

we go up into the mountains

and set up camp.

what about the snakes,

i ask her.

and the black bears.

mosquitoes?

do you have an axe,

a gun,

pepper spray for vandals

that wander into

camp and hit us with sticks

while we lie

in our sleeping bags?

no, she says.

it's quite safe.

we build a fire and roast

marshmallows, sometimes

we cook

hot dogs and beans.

we tell ghost stories

around the fire as we drink

wine and beer.

what about canoodling, i ask

her, does that happen.

okay, she says, you're 

officially univited.

the price of fine dining

as i

eat some goat cheese

dip

with wafers of flat bread

broken

and stale,

i check my wallet

and see that i only

have two one hundred

dollar bills.

she's having

a salad

and a glass of wine.

i'm sticking to water,

tap water.

there's the tip to deal

with, of course,

but 

this is what it's come to

in

fine dining.

the luck of the draw

the guy

across the courtyard,

let's call him Jim.

has a great wife.

she cooks dinner

everyday for him and the children,

at six she calls

them all in

she does the wash,

and the cleaning,

takes the kids where

they need to go.

to doctors and

teachers meetings, soccer

games on Saturdays.

decorates

the tree.

plans the family

vacations.

she buys all them

their clothes. she's old

school.

paleolithic

in her motherly ways.

he's lucky to have her

my soon to be ex-wife

says. sleeping in until noon.

unsure how

to turn on the stove

or washer,

lucky

indeed, i repeat, lucky

to not be me.

the misfit among us

we may

all be touched, a  tad

crazy,

off our trolley

a bit.

but we do our

best

to fit in,

and not be the outlier,

the misfit.

where does it all go

where does it all

go?

all this trash, this garbage

we dispose of,

the daily

pick up

in the morning, and

then it's gone.

but where to?

the glass and tin,

the plastic, the paper,

the egg shells

and fish we didn't eat.

who has the room

for all our things

we no longer want

or need?

tomorrow we'll

make more,

and the next day

and the next day.

it's all very strange

how it disappears,

out of sight and mind,

but i'm pleased.

the comfort zone

it's hard

to go back, to retreat

to a life

once had.

once you taste the good

life,

the good wine,

the good food,

and sleep 

safely

on a soft bed,

it's hard to go back.

once you have the kiss

of a true

love, there is no

other path.

it's just a job for now

the man

and his helper, laying

fresh concrete

for a sidewalk

are there all day.

the man speaks, the kid,

listens, brushes

the hair out

of his eyes as he goes

to get whatever

tool

the mason needs

from the open truck.

he's giving lessons

to the boy.

giving him his trade

as best he can.

but at his age, he's

bent over,

he's slow to rise, slow

to straighten.

you can see it in the kid's

eyes,

that this life isn't

for him.