on to other things

it's less

and less about money

these days,

no longer do you

toil for survival

of the basic kind.

it's more now

with filling the hours

with

pretend

importance.

trying hard to get

your thoughts

on other things,

getting self out of

your own mind.

twenty years later

it's a strange invite,

this

email.

meet me for a drink,

it says.

i'm older now at 76,

but i believe

we can

still work this out somehow.

despite time

and distance,

and all that's occurred

between

us, i miss you.

i love you.

we can mend our broken

hearts

and be together again.

my wife still doesn't know

you exist,

please don't tell your husband

that you're paying me

a visit.

i'll be in room

206,

our old room at the 

Holiday Inn by the airport.

go around back,

i prefer that you use

the steps.

save us Darwin

most

people are embarrassed

to admit

that they believe

in God anymore.

the mythology

of it all.

baloney, they say.

fiddle dee dee.

it's all made up by

men trying

to control us.

and this Jesus thing.

really.

a virgin birth,

a resurrection? 

give me Darwin's version,

they say.

we are all from monkeys.

that's easier to swallow

than

the dead sea scrolls.

all of this Bible stuff  is

hearsay,

but then,

on their death bed,

or as the plane

begins to fall from the sky,

suddenly

they're no longer

talking about Darwin,

or monkeys,

but asking

Christ to save them all.

the store bought cake

there's the day

job,

the coat and tie,

the cubicle, the coffee,

the chit chat around

the water cooler.

the mundane work,

more coal

from the mountain.

you shovel ahead,

then lunch,

maybe

a store bought cake

for a birthday. the signed

card, the song.

nine to five.

maybe a drink or two,

or three

at happy hour

to gripe and complain

about the boss,

about life,

about the husband,

the wife,

then the drive home.

loosening

the tie,

stopping on the way

for food

through a drive-thru.

home at last to walk

the dog, collect

the mail,

shower,

sit in front of the tv

for a few hours,

with a drink and bag

of pretzels, the remote held

tightly in

your hand, the cell phone

in the other,

then to bed. to bed.

tomorrow is an early

day.

wood for the fire

will there

be wood for the fire

this

winter.

will there be food

and water,

will the roof hold

when it snows.

will disease not kill

us.

will we last another

year to plant

another crop.

to fill the barn with harvest.

is there enough love

to hold us

together, or 

not enough,

that splits us apart.

we'll see.

we'll see.

don't worry.

what's inside

this

old lemon tree in the yard,

she doesn't stop.

another

season brings

her

bitter fruit to bear.

but we're no longer

fooled

by her color,

the smile

and glow,

the vibrant yellow

of her hair.

we know who she is

inside.

just a dream

you swallow hard

in the morning

and say to yourself,

just a dream,

just a dream.

that's all it is. it wasn't

real, it was your

imagination

gone off the trolley.

not to worry, there's

the day ahead of you

to erase it.

nothing new under the sun

i don't care

that

it's all been written before.

thought out,

and transcribed into

books

and poems, songs.

it doesn't matter

who they were

or what they wrote about.

when you need to write

you write

and the hell

with all the others.

sit down at the cold machine,

and write.

three eggs in the black pan

these

three eggs,

as if war rations,

will have to do.

cracked

in a pan

with butter.

struck with the blunt

end of the knife.

i've been with less,

and more,

of course, but

either way, the body

thanks you.

salt and pepper?

yes.

let's dine fancy

tonight.

the calm of snow

as we walk 

we both agree that

this town

looks better under snow.

covered

in white.

with everything

down

to a crawl,

there is peace

at last.

quiet.

no one but us

is traveling the road.

hand in hand,

walking.

there is no where

that we need

to be,

nothing that we

want,

or desire, and yet

we go.

we go.

the stone bird bath

there

is so much to do with

this house

in disrepair.

everything has been delayed

for one reason

or another.

death and sorrow

have gotten in the way.

winter

after winter

have passed.

see how the slate

breaks, how the mold has

risen

on the wall.

the carpet frayed,

look at the paint peeling,

and how the seams

have split in the stairway,

curled with age.

and yet,

looking out the window

at the stone

bird

bath,

amongst the weeds

and vines,

they still come. they

still fly in to bathe.

the 4th of july party

the party

is on.

potatoes are being boiled.

corn

shucked.

hot dogs are on the grill.

cakes are being

baked.

beer is in the cooler.

the blender

is full of margaritas.

frogs

and critters have been

skimmed

out of the pool

burn ointments

are waiting on the counter.

bandages

and wraps.

tubes of Neosporin,

and patches

for eyes,

gone blind.

everyone is in red

white

and blue as we

spit watermelon

seeds across

the room.

there's plenty of pepto

bismol and aspirin too.

treading air

treading

air, as if in water, i can't

decide

where

to swim to, or towards

what hand,

to take,

what voice will be

my guide.

i'm without a map,

clueless

without a star

in the sky.

i'm waiting, waiting

for something or

someone

to show me the way.

time ran out

after he died

they found a list in his coat

pocket.

a list of things

to do.

chores,

and trips to take.

things to buy

for the house.

fix

what needs to be fixed.

books to read.

most

were crossed out,

finished

and done,

except for the one at

the bottom,

which read

find love.

for that, time ran out.

it feels like Tuesday

it feels

like Tuesday, doesn't it.

i say

to my soon

to be ex-wife who's

packing

her things

into bags and boxes.

she looks at me

and shakes

her head. not answering.

doesn't it feel

like Tuesday honey?

i'm not your honey

anymore,

she says.

and no, it doesn't feel

like Tuesday.

it feels like

Monday. which it is.

can i help you carry

these out to your car?

no, she says.

no need to get up,

just lie there in bed.

bored stiff

to make

life more interesting,

the man

puts his head into a lion's mouth.

he wrestles

bears

and alligators,

climbs a mountain,

jumps out

of a plane,

dives deep into the ocean,

or heads

off to the moon

in a jerry rigged

contraption.

it's almost

as if he's

asking for pain

and death,

willing to die to alleviate

his boredom.

at seventeen

as i search

the want ads looking for work.

i read off

the listings

of jobs with skills

i don't have.

plumber,

electrician,

cook and sales.

there must be something

i can do to earn

my keep in this world.

something

i can do

or sell.

nothing looks good,

but i put

my old suit on anyway,

comb my hair,

apply an eager smile,

then head out

to knock on doors.

i'm willing and able,

to shuck corn all day,

wash dishes,

tote that barge,

lift that bale.

have we lost them?

are we surprised

that johnny

and jane

can't read or write

or spell.

math is a challenge.

geography

is an alien thing.

history a blur.

what have they learned

with all those

years of school.

conversation is a struggle,

do they ever

make eye contact

and look up from

their phones,

have we created a world

of empty souls,

have we lost them?

washington square

the old men

at the tables, in sun

in wind.

in long coats

and hats, glasses

tipped forward to see

the board better.

how careful

they are to move a pawn,

a knight,

a bishop along.

stroking

the sides of their faces,

chins.

they study

the moves, the small

war, tactics

that fail, or win.

how simple they've

made their

world, 

at last having something

they can control.

the unseen awakens

when the curtain

falls,

and light

retreats,

the woods awaken.

look at all the eyes

that gleam,

listen

to their voices,

appearing

like shadows

in the mist.

the other world

around us,

steps forward,

no longer

unseen.

nurse with a purse

my friend Jimmy calls me

after his hellish

divorce.

he's down in the dumps.

broke and in therapy.

he wants me to cheer him up,

but i;'ve got nothing.

zero advice to give him.

the only thing i can think

of is,  maybe he should order

a pizza, or some Chinese

food, or maybe get a massage

down at the local massage

parlor.

he laughs, and says,

right, ten dollar make you holler

no, no Jimmy, not that kind

of massage.

you know what i need, he says.

what i really need and would

make my life right?

no what?

i need a nurse with a purse,

a woman with money who can

take care of me when i get

sick and old.

i'd be set then.

no doubt, i tell him.

no doubt.

should i get pepperoni

or Italian sausage on my pizza?

he asks.

pfffft, go crazy. get them both.

what the hell.

you only live once,

unless of course

you're Hindu.

maybe it's nothing

once in a while

the doctor shrugs

his shoulders,

raises his eyebrows,

and says,

i have no idea what's

wrong with you.

i'm stumped dude.

we need to do more testing.

but in the meantime,

before blood work

x-rays and an MRI,

take two of these and call

me in the morning.

they're placebos, but let's

see what they do.

maybe it's nothing.

the two sock drawers

the laundry

gets from me as it piles

in various rooms

about the house.

strung along the rail,

the beds

and tossed into baskets

waiting to be carried down.

i've made it so that

i can never run out.

four closets full, three

dressers,

not to mention the two

sock drawers one for black 

and one for white,

ignoring all the laws

concerning civil rights.

a one dog night

i both loved

and cursed the small dog

who ran

my life.

i resented him

at times.  the long walks

in the rain

and snow,

never a perfect spot

to raise his leg

and go.

all the begging at the table.

the barking

at the mailman,

and chewing

of my new Christmas

slippers.

and yet.

there he lay beside me

on cold winter nights.

asleep

and warm,

how could i not love him.

beyond my understanding

it's a word

i've never used, or even

heard before.

and then

there's more as the conversation

continues.

i'm less interested

by what they mean,

and more

curious as to who is this

person

and how did he learn

such things.

what ivy league

establishment took him in

as he strings along thoughts

and sentences

beyond my comprehension.

apparently there is higher

learning

beyond six years of toiling

in night school.

clean up in aisle six

i hear over

the loud speaker in the enormous

grocery store

that there is a clean up

needed in aisle six.

i hurry over to the see what's

spilled, or broken.

is it a jar of pickles this time?

milk?

or bleach.

has a shelf of olives tumbled

to the floor.

will someone slip

and fall.

will an ambulance arrive?

oh, the excitement we savor

when we've grown old.

burrowing down

the smallest

of creatures are smart,

resilient

in their quest to stay

alive.

they fit

in any hole,

any trunk of tree,

or gap

of door, a crevice

in the ground,

through

centuries they

have honed their skills

in where to hide,

that's why

they're still around.

on the porch swing

it's good to have

a distraction,

a hobby

of sorts.

reading, or writing,

art or

a sport or craft to take

your mind

off the world.

to lose yourself in,

as the hours

peal away

without notice.

it's like a good sleep,

but you're

awake.

let's fight

some like to fight,

to duke it out with words

or fists.

they delight in confrontation,

in being

right, even if

they're wrong.

arguments are their forte. 

they like to road rage,

or yell

at the light,

impatient in any line.

politics puts a fire under

them.

you see them in the world

today, so many

of them, red faced and unhappy,

i try to avoid them

as best i can,

turning left

if they turn right.

the smoke alarm

the alarm

is not so alarming anymore.

the smoke

from

the stove

sets it off with the merest

waft of steam

from a boiled egg.

it's very sensitive, like she is.

easy

to yell

and scream,

blare at the smallest of

injury.

intentional, or otherwise.

a perpetual

victim.

what the hell is going on

rare

to see anyone needing

a jump start

anymore.

thirty or forty

years ago, you weren't

a man

if you didn't have

a pair of jumper

cables in

the trunk

and chains for the tires

in case it snowed.

you knew

how to change the plugs,

set the points,

jack it up

and put in a new pair

of shock absorbers.

oil or water pump,

no problem.

you laid under the car

with a cigarette

in your mouth

and turned

a screw to release the oil,

then funneled new

oil in. then you washed

and waxed the car

while drinking a beer.

maybe you whistled at a cute

girl walking

by and said, hey baby.

that's what men did

back then,

some women too,

and now you see men

jumping around

in women's clothes and

makeup

with little pink purses

and singing

show tunes.

baking cookies dressed

as nurses and ballerinas.

the girl next door

i like the new neighbor

next door. she just

moved in last Friday.

a guy came by to

activate her.

she's

a robot

created by the Chinese lab down

the street.

AI has come a long way

since i first

bought my pop up toaster

and air fryer.

she's a very nice android

that goes by the name 

of Mindy. she has

legs like Marilyn Monroe

and hair like

Farah Fawcett.

she looks exactly like a real

woman, the curves, etc,

she's not as talkative though,

which is kind of nice.

she's extremely smart.

she knows two hundred

languages and can recite

the complete works

of Shakespeare.

yesterday she came over

for a can of WD-40 oil

to unhinge her arm.

i'm thinking about asking

her out, but i'm not sure,

she's hard to read with that

plastic face. obviously

they're still getting the bugs

out of Mindy.

i think she winked at me 

the other day, which i take

as a good sign, and hope it's not

some glitch in the wiring.

sugar town

it's easy to want

more

once

tasting what's sweet.

it's a sudden 

love.

a quick infatuation.

the float

of sugar on your tongue.

it has you.

as she does after

the first kiss.

waiting on the sun

the sun

almost, almost makes a rare

appearance.

it's been awhile,

what with smog and smoke,

your basic cloud

cover.

she hasn't shown her bright

yellow face 

in some time.

i get the lawn chair out

anyway,

a book, a glass of ice

tea, and my sunglasses.

i'm prepared

just in case.

i'm waiting.

game over

i see the weary

look

in my dog's eyes

when i ask him to roll

over,

or beg, or heel.

he's heard enough

of my 

commands.

he shakes his head

no,

i'm not doing that anymore,

you're making

a monkey out

of me,

and i'm not going

for a walk while

it's raining outside.

just let me sleep, okay.

i'll hold it.

little in your hands

that clap,

that roar, that growl of thunder.

so close by,

it shakes the house

as the rain

pours,

flooding the stream.

the slash

of lightning.

piercing the plum

of sky,

setting fire to what

lies below it.

there is so much in

this world

you have no control over.

so far, so good

i listen

for a creak, a crumble,

the wood

bending before

the roof falls down

on my head,

but miraculously

it doesn't.

quickly i find a pew

and lay out

my sins.

taking out my notebook

with the list.

i wave Father Smith

over for

an express confession.

he smiles,

and brings over a jug

of holy water,

a rosary

and a basket for me to

fill with dough.

i keep an eye on the angled

church ceiling.

so far, so good.

the Atlantic Ocean in June

damn

this water's cold, i yell

out to Betty,

lying on the beach

reading

Vanity Fair.

i step

into the surf, 

then dive, head first

into the murky green.

it's an ice

bath.

how can anything

survive in this?

my entire body

is vibrating from the cold.

shrinking.

she raises her sunglasses

and laughs,

she says,

i told you so.

the collect call from jail

he hasn't

talked to me in five years,

or to his sisters,

or other brothers,

he told our mother

before she died, that she was

dead to him.

his 95 year old father too.

he thinks he's a character

in Godfather 1,

or was it 2?

but he finds

my number, somehow

from behind

the bars

and dials me

from jail. a collect

call of course.

he needs four grand

to get him out, bail.

crocodile tears ensue.

he says he's sorry.

sorry sorry sorry.

they took my phone, 

the shoelaces

to my shoes,

my belt. my Gucci leather

belt.

i shake my head,

knowing that it's all sham.

he'll be back to who he really is

the second he's free again,

but i get him out

just the same, what's an

older brother to do?

is noon okay?

how did

a month of days go by so

quickly.

the housekeeper

texts and says

is noon okay.

so i gather the clutter

of thirty days,

and straighten up.

it's raining.

it's really raining.

perhaps

i'll take a drive, find

a bookstore

and a wet green park

to spend the day.

her perfume

it's your

perfume, i think, as i stand

in the crowded

elevator.

i look over

at the young woman

who owns the scent.

it's not you.

but my mind wanders

as the car

sinks and sinks

to the lobby.

then the bell rings

and i'm released.

dr. dekelbaum

it's an old

tooth plugged in as a child.

it's had

a good run

of chewing.

but now it's cracked

and ready

for extraction.

i remember the old man

who put it

in.

he must be dead now.

i remember his large

hands,

his wedding ring,

the steam

on his glasses

as he reached into

my small mouth

with a syringe before

he drilled.

did he dream

about all the teeth he pulled

and replaced,

all the gold and silver

he used to fill?

friendships

we talk.

we drain the last drop

of wine

from the bottle.

we're close,

but not that close.

not close

enough to sleep

together, or make love.

but it's better

this way,

why muck it up

with

the dalliance of sex.

why poke

a hole in the balloon

we've

blown up.

over night revelation

in the bright yellow

light of morning

i pull

the wool off my eyes.

i can see

clearly

now.

i get it. i understand.

it's like i

aged

and got wise

overnight.

time

to move on and change

the locks

on the door.

put your

things in the yard.

postcard at the bottom of a box

it's

my place.

just me alone

in this strange room,

this

empty apartment

furniture

borrowed

or gifted,

bare bones.

a dish, a pot.

a pillow,

a mattress on the floor.

but it's a start.

i'll have more,

more of

everything,

hopefully soon.

come see me,

stop by

when you can.

at night without

shades on the window

i can see the moon.

life in our hands

my friend Joe Katzenberger

had a 1967

Volkswagen beetle bug.

it was held together by

duct tape, and prayer.

we piled in, the four

of us,

knowing the dangers

involved.

the tightness of quarters,

the instability

of it all,

but we went

anyway.

chipping in a dollar

for gas.

off we went

all the way to the eastern

shore.

it was an adventure.

the windows

wouldn't roll down

and the floor had holes in it

where the rain

came in when it poured.

the wind blew

us all over the place

as we drifted

from lane to lane.

somehow we made it

to the beach,

but took the greyhound

bus back home.

vowing never, never

again.

the third date

my butcher

is my new bartender.

i'm

no longer

at the bar drinking martinis,

instead

i stop off

at the Springfield Butcher

to shoot the breeze

with Hank.

he knows what i want as

soon as he sees

me coming through the door,

he wraps up three

rib eye steaks,

and two sirloins,

and a T-bone for the dog.

how's your love life,

he says,

wiping his bloody hands

on his apron.

not too shabby, i tell him.

in fact throw

in a pound of shrimp and

two lobster tails.

got a date 

this evening. he winks

and says, ahh ha.

third date's the charm.

she was a genius

we used to fight

over money.

my money.

she had none.

she came in with debt,

which i bailed her out of.

no job,

no income.

and in the end there

was alimony

and child support.

half of every penny

i ever saved.

the house, the furniture,

the cars.

she was a genius

when i think about it,

sound asleep in bed

as i left the house

everyday to work

like a slave.

her wild hair

the unrest

of night, has nothing to do with

you.

or you,

or even you.

no, i've moved on

from

such drama.

ancient history.

it's more about an extra

blanket needed,

the water

dripping in the sink.

or a dog

on the street barking.

no, it has nothing

to do with you.

i toss and turn

because

someone with

her wild hair is itching

my cheek,

and snoring.

soaking my feet

i get out a pail

of hot

water, pour in the Epsom salts

and soak

my feet.

i have become

my mother.

i'm eating Melba toast

and drinking Lipton tea.

i'm reading people

magazine

as i soak my feet,

i'm hoping

that Liz Taylor can keep

the weight off

this time around.

it's a very old magazine.

queen bees

don't marry

the queen bee. stay clear

of that hive.

of that electric buzz

circling your head.

it's fun

for awhile but in the end

you're dead.

christmas in july

i look

out the window and see the large

blue truck

from Amazon

idling in front of my house,

i scratch my head

and wonder

what i've ordered now.

another book,

another pair of shoes,

another shirt,

or loaf of bread?

who knows, but i like

surprises. let's take

a look.

before it spoils

the bread won't

last,

the milk will curdle.

the meat will

spoil.

it will

all go bad

in time.

it's aging, life.

nothing last forever.

come here and

kiss me, 

sit close.

take my hand,

have another glass

of wine.

walking on sunshine

don't talk

to me, i tell her. i'm in a good mood.

a very very good

mood,

and i don't

want to hear

you blabbing about your

problems.

she shakes her head

and leaves

the room.

i put on Katrina and the Waves,

and turn up

the volume. i spin

around as i listen

to their one

and only hit, 

walking on sunshine.

i dance around until

she comes back

in and says,

hey, my mother 

is on the phone and

she wants

to have a word

with you about dinner

on Sunday.

the Mensa club

i send in

an application to join the Mensa

club,

but i mistakenly misspell

the word

intelligent when describing

how i like

to do cross word puzzles

and solve

the Rubik cube,

though unsuccessfully., but

they don't even write back.

i need to study more,

i guess.

bone up on spelling and math.

all that partying in the 80's

has diminished my brain cells

apparently,

and they're not growing back.

taste of honey

the male

bee, the drone, gets his

one shot

at the queen,

then breaks off

and falls

to the ground with

a smile

on his face

as he dies.

i've been there too,

but somehow

survived.

the heart of the city

somehow

i get on the sweet list for

the Petworth

community in D.C.

a neighborhood

slowly

turning over from

crack houses

to families with strollers

and swings

in the yard.

it takes a solid hour

to drive there.

always with the windows

rolled up,

and the doors locked.

it's in the heart

of the city.

it's a harrowing

day

of painting and hanging

wallpaper,

looking over my

shoulder

as i go out to my truck

for another

brush or can of paint.

not holding my breath

there must

be a glitch in the postal system.

i haven't received

a birthday card,

or Christmas card

or Father's Day card

from my son in three years.

i suspect he's

mad at me for some reason

only he knows.

maybe i'll get them all at once.

a bag full of mail

from him

expressing is gratitude

and love.

i'm looking out the window

now

for the mailman.

dumb money

is it money

that makes you do dumb things?

no.

poor people

too are climbing mountains

where there's

no air,

though they can't afford

a sherpa

to carry

their granola bars.

deep sea diving,

or going to the moon,

stupidity is very democratic,

it sees no

color or creed,

no nationalities.

dumb comes in all shapes

and sizes.

you don't need money to do

stupid things,

but it helps

when they have to search

and find you.

swings from the chandelier

it's a conversation

with too much information

shared.

i cringe.

look away.

please, please,

enough. i don't need

to know

about your

sex life, dad.

spare me the details

of how your new girlfriend

likes to swing

from the chandelier.

can we talk about sports,

or the weather?

here, eat your oatmeal,

it's getting cold.

the dry well

it's just a well,

a brick walled well 

with a bucket

at the top

that you spool down to fill

with water.

there's a line though.

a long line.

i get in line with the others

and wait.

the well is dry, i hear

one man say.

bone dry.

so then what are we doing

here, i ask.

we're waiting he says.

waiting.

we're being patient.

it's what you do when

the well runs dry.

the honeymoon is over

she rolls

over,  my wife of two weeks

and says,

i can't do this anymore.

i raise my head

to look at her,

and say, what?

you can't do what?

this, she this, spreading

her arms

out, this.

i can't do this anymore.

two weeks and you're

done?

we still have wedding

cake in the fridge.

you still have rice in your hair.

yup, i think so.

i'm just not feeling it anymore.

what about the wedding

gifts.

we can split them, she says.

what about the dog.

you can have him.

is there someone else?

no she says, not yet at least.

can we still be friends?

no, i don't think that would

work either.

alright, i guess.

do you want the air fryer?

a quick glimpse of hell

for a million

dollars

you can get into a plastic

tube

and go to the center

of the earth.

they lower you on wires,

into a hole made

by a Chinese drill.

the tube is the size

of a phone booth, but

six people on

top of each other

can fit in, if everyone is

naked and greased down

with vegetable oil.

there's a bottle

of water to share,

to be passed around.

taking turns breathing

is a good idea.

the ride takes about

a day

and lowers you

to the core of the planet,

bypassing molten lava

and spumes

of steam.

when you get there,

put your goggles on

and take a quick glimpse

of hell.

don't touch the glass.

then back up you go

to check the ride

off your bucket list.

a slice of cake at 95

he's 95,

but only a couple of his

children,

just two

out of nine

seem to care or remember.

he's at his kitchen

table

eating chocolate

cake,

washing it down

with a cold

glass of milk,

the phone cradled

in his shoulder.

he has his friend

Esther

read the cards

to him.

it's a happy day.

no surprises or knocks

at the door.

here's to one more.

don't do this

tips on how to stay alive

in this modern

era we live in are easy

to follow.

don't jump out of planes

to sky dive,

or get in a tin can

submarine heading to

the bottom of the ocean

without a bathroom or telephone

on board,

don't climb mountains,

or wrestle sharks or

alligators, don't wander

into the woods where

bears live,

don't hang glide or

bungee jump off bridges,

stay away from snakes,

scorpions and power lines,

especially if you're in

a hot air balloon.

don't stand under a tree

during a storm.

don't get on top of a rocket

headed towards mars.

don't eat sugar or fried

foods, buckle up, it's

going to be a bumpy ride.

idle hands

stay busy,

have a plan, make goals,

do the right

thing.

go to school, read

and eat

well,

pray,

don't let the hands

go idle,

exercise, keep your nose

clean

and all will

be fine.

walk the straight

line.

do this and maybe,

just maybe

with a little luck,

your last stop 

will be heaven,

not hell.

each to his own world

i see a life

and glad it's not mine.

but 

others may

look at me

and have similar thoughts.

happy

to not be in

my shoes.

it's fine.

each to his own world,

no wrong path

exists, no right.

i'm listening

confirm

your doubts with me.

speak

freely,

tell me what you think,

i'll listen.

i'm good at listening,

but less

good at advice.

i'm here for you,

as little

as that might mean.

my ears are open.

tell me

your doubts, tell me

what you think.

ignore my silence

when you're 

done.

don't worry, i'm

not indifferent, or

unkind.

just numb.

she knows things

i see

Lilly,

the neighborhood

black cat,

on the street.

moving slower

than last

spring.

but still alive,

somehow.

her fur matted

down.

her eyes a hazy

green.

she comes over to

me

when i call her

and we sit

on the porch.

we talk a while.

she knows things.

i just need to use the bathroom

people

used to stop in and ask

me for directions,

the man working at the gas

station tells me.

not anymore,

not with GPS,

and phones.

they used to buy

maps as i filled up

their cars and gave them

free dishes.

i'd clean their windows

with my bucket

of grey water and a squeegee.

cars don't break down

like they used

to, he says.

i haven't had to fix

a flat tire in years,

or check their oil.

and now with these electric

cars,

hell, they just drive by

and wave.

laughing at me.

i just need to use the bathroom,

i tell him, sorry,

so he throws me

a wrench tied to a key.

around back, he says,

knock on the door.

it don't matter if you're

a girl or a boy.

just one bathroom back there.

her busy day

i can't talk now,

i'm busy, she says, really

really busy.

i look

over the fence and see

her lying

on a lawn chair,

oiled down

for the sun.

she's on the phone

talking to me.

my schedule is full

today, she says.

can you call me

tomorrow?

i might have a few

minutes free time

at some point.

she doesn't know i'm

there.

i'm at work she says,

meetings, meetings,

all day.

i'm under a lot

of pressure, okay?

tomorrow?

i hang up the phone,

then yell over the fence.

okay.

lock the door

the world

becomes a place you

no longer

recognize.

you wake up into it,

amazed,

disappointed

of the turn it's taken.

is it better or worse,

i pick worse,

as i close

the door and cry.

let it ring

i let  the phone ring,

the land

line.

the only one who ever

called

that number

was my mother, 

but she's gone, and if it

rings now,

it's not

her.

but i'm locked into the bundle

plan,

tv,

phone,

internet.

just maybe though

after a few rings,

i'll pick it up and it

will be

her, just one more

time.

that new car smell

despite a little rust,,

a few dents,

she had

that new car smell

all the same.

she gleamed,

glistened,

rain rolled off

her waxed exterior.

she had a great

sound system,

top of the line speakers,

she was turbo

charged,

tires that gripped

the road.

leather, all leather

seats.

a stick on the floor,

manual.

hardly driven at all,

to church

and back,

the store.

she was gassed

and ready to roll.

do you still love me?

she tells me in an

email,

i look at the windows

of your house,

as if

i'm a thief,

a burglar

who may break in

come nightfall.

the lower floor is best.

the backyard,

the window

by the trees

and bushes.

that's how i'll go in,

quietly, at three a.m.,

like a cat.

i'll wear black, have

a tool or two,

a flashlight, a mask.

i'll pry

open the glass

and slide in.

you'll be asleep in the far

room,

maybe the tv will

be on,

as you like to do.

but i won't a steal a

thing,

there's nothing here

for me,

not even you. i'll just

take a look,

see if you're alone,

i have to know if you're

still in love

with only me.

inside and out

the long

stare

from the desk, facing

a crease of window

out to the cars,

beyond

the lot,

into the woods,

there's a boy fishing.

alone.

his line

in the water,

his shoes in the sand.

will he catch something

today.

i hope so.

i hope so, as i look

at the clock

creeping

towards five, at last,

the end

of this day.

the wet sparkle

as i watched

the boy, the friend slide

a needle

into his vein,

the wet sparkle of

the nail going

under the skin,

i knew the world as we

once knew

it had changed.

all friends

from childhood, sports,

and school.

together in it all,

but now this.

this was going too far.

a line

was crossed.

things were never

the same after him

and so many others 

got lost.

another voice mail

i thought

i'd deleted every number

she called

me from. blocked

every avenue of despair,

but no.

somehow

she finds another phone

to dial me up on.

it turns out

to be a phone booth

near St. E's.

South Capitol Street,

i suspect she's now

a patient there.

the voice mail is familiar

though, same

old tale of woe.

how the world is so

unfair.

the pale collection

it's a pale

collection

of words, this poem

and many

others. so what.

unstructured,

dismissed,

written, read and

forgotten,

who cares,

you press on, pressing

keys,

writing.

breathing.

it's not over, not yet.

no fishing off the pier

the sign

says no fishing

off the pier, but no one

pays it any

mind

anymore.

who cares?

it's just fish being

pulled

from the bay

and thrown back in.

nothing

is taken home from here.

it's easier

for the fish cops

to just look

the other way.

as they cast their own

lines

and drink their beer.

too many miles between us

friends forever,

but

it's too far,

this place. this destination

where

she lives.

there is no middle,

no

point

in a rendezvous,

the phone

will have to do.

we're too old to travel

now.

to set

in our ways,

held

by the comfort

of our homes, 

by the concerns of weather,

of traffic,

of the world

at large,

it's easier to just stay.

the words of others

head forward

he goes,

bent by the words of others,

stuffed

in his

leather bag.

rain or shine.

his little truck parked

sideways.

nothing seems

to stop him,

despite having slowed

down.

the mail

must go through.

he nods.

he presses onward

in a world

of his own.

sail on

the wind

will take us there.

at night the stars

will guide us.

set the sail.

come aboard

and pull the anchor.

what's left of us.

dear friends

from the years

long gone.

a few,

just a few remain,

so few.

weep not though

our turn will come. 

let's go. let's go,

together we can,

sail on.

so called science

out of a small

knuckle

of bone, 

buried in a million

years of dirt,

they build a dinosaur.

a tiny

fragment,

one small

piece of evidence

and an entire

new 

species of life

is formed.

from head to toe.

shouldn't there be

just a little bit more.

weaving her web

a strange web

appears

in the corner. i thought

i did away

with that dark spider.

i guess not.

she keeps coming back

for more.

weaving

her long strands

of BS

on my phone.

the broom is not enough,

time

for fire.

the HBO binge

hollow eyed and tired

stretched out on

the long couch, 

almost done with

the eight hour

binge

of Succession.

it's a drug,

a numbing, a visual

Ambien

swallowed whole,

but you have to see

what happens

to all these despicable

people

in the end.

a trip to the store

for more

drinks and snacks

before the final hour

and a half begins.

i hate these people.

the smell of bacon

there's something about

waking

up and smelling bacon

frying in a pan,

in the kitchen down below

and then having

someone yell up,

breakfast is almost ready,

come on down.

ahh, how it wafts in the air.

it smells like hope,

like happiness,

like maybe, just maybe

that everything will be

okay after all.

the milk is really good, but

will you marry me,

she asks in a loving whisper,

as we lie

exhausted, basking in

the afterglow

of making love.

huh?

i say, what brings

that up?

well,

my mother says that

you're getting the milk

for free,

without buying

the cow.

what?

what cow?

i don't understand

the metaphor.

she's calling you a cow?

that's not nice.

oh you, she says. i'm not a cow.

i'm not saying the milk

isn't good,

i tell her,

but do we need to sign

a business contract

to keep it flowing?

geezer or buffoon?

which dope

to vote for, that's the question.

the old

geezer who

keeps falling down and can't

string three words

together that make

any sense,

or the orange buffoon,

blowing hot

air as he breaks every rule.

how can this be,

in a country so full of

brilliant people, honest

people.

righteous souls, and not have

a single person

that can lead?

the bank hold up

my bank

teller, at the drive through,

Kamil,

tells me about

the new 4 percent

interest in saving accounts.

he insists

i go in and talk

to the manager.

you are wasting your money,

he says.

i nod, i smile. i know, i know,

i tell him.

but he persists.

i'm not doing your transaction

or giving you back

your id until you

come in, he says.

come on Kamil,

i tell him, tomorrow,

okay.

i promise.

no he says, and reaches in

his drawer for

a gun, he shows it to me

waving it at the window,

and whispers, now.

come in now or else.

interest on savings accounts

have never

been this high,

get in here. get in here now.

okay, okay, i tell him,

don't shoot,

let me pull around.

the uncut apron strings

as the child

gets older, and grey

hair appears,

she tightens the apron

strings.

not yet,

she says.

not yet.

there's still so much

more to teach him,

to give him.

to coddle him about.

perhaps another year

under my care,

and we'll think about it.

thirty-five

is still young, yes?

sort of listening

i stuff

cotton in my ears. pushing

the soft white

balls

of fur

deep into the ear

canal.

muffling all that makes

noise around

me.

i'm underwater,

but i have air.

go ahead now, and speak,

i'm sort

of listening.

the corner store

the corner store,

is open,

i hope.

does he ever close his

doors and

treat a holiday

as sacred,

lock up

and go home.

i hope not as i take

the elevator

down

in my pajamas for

a pint of cream,

and paper,

the coffee

almost ready.

what's happening?

when the ambulance

arrived

they took the woman out

on a stretcher.

she wasn't dead,

or sick,

she was having a baby

and screaming

her lungs out.

as curious young boys,

our stick ball game

in the street delayed,

we peered inside

the long windows of

the ambulance,

pressing our faces to the glass,

and shrugged,

wondering why.

what's the view like?

the view

is everything.

do you get the sun in

the morning?

can you see the ocean,

or at least

a pond, a splash

of water?

is there greenery

when you

open the blinds,

peer over the sill,

can see birds in flight,

see the moon

at night?

it's all about the view,

even if

you're in a cell

doing a long stretch

of hard time.

did he love you?

was he a perfect father?

no.

loving yes

in his own

self-absorbed way,

the definition of what

a narcissist is,

yes

he had faults,

a litany of faults,

the list

too long to list.

some passed

down to me

and brothers,

sisters,

but did he love you.

love them all,

of course.

of course he did.

dirt and seed

does he miss

his garden, a small dry square

of yard

beside the air conditioner

unit,

the concrete patio

and awning.

does he miss the tomatoes

and green beans.

lettuce,

tending to the soil,

the weeds,

stiffening the fence to

keep the rabbits out.

eighty years of dirt and seed.

of watering.

now done.

a shift in the wind

things have changed.

there's

a shift in the wind,

the sea

has risen.

i see it in your eyes,

hear it

in your voice.

things have changed,

and not

for the better.

who knows what

tomorrow

brings and nothing

will delay that 

in the end.

go ask Alice

it's a rabbit hole,

this phone.

how easily we slide

inside

the dark hole.

hours slipping by

like seconds,

the voices on each

side,

convincing us

of rights and wrongs.

what's true

is false,

what's false is true.

the world

is a spinning top

inside here,

we are Alice

in wonderland.

a world where none

of us belong.

ballot stuffing

i give you

my vote. here take my

ballot,

it's yours.

circle, or mark your

wish,

your choice.

leave me out of this.

what point

is there,

when nothing,

nothing every changes,

when there is no

true voice.

what pain does

step

on a nail, a shard

of glass,

catch your hand

in a door,

fall down

a flight of stairs and

all else

dissolves

into almost nothing.

what bothered you

so,

controlled

your waking moments,

those thoughts

now fail.

have your own island with crypto

the man

on the phone suggests

that i invest

in crypto currency.

what is crypto, i ask him.

he goes on

talking

for about twenty minutes

explaining to me

what it is.

i still don't understand

a single word

he's saying.

don't worry, he says.

no need to understand it,

no one really knows

how it works.

but your money will grow

and grow

beyond your wildest

dreams.

just give me five thousand

dollars to start with

and you'll see.

think Musk, think Gates,

think Zuckerberg.

you too can have

your own island,

like Epstein.

come on, take a shot,

take a chance, you only

live once, invest your money

with me.

can we stay here forever?

we settle

into the sand. it's warm,

but doable.

enough

clouds cover the sun.

the ocean

seems friendly today.

the blue,

the whites.

neither too cold or

warm

against our toes.

there are

sailboats in the distance.

gulls

with spread wings

diving

for life.

can we stay here forever,

she asks,

with book in her lap,

dropping her sunglasses

so that i can

see her eyes.

why not, i say.

why not.

the big rainbow in the sky

there is a holiday

for everything

now.

a month set aside to soothe

your troubles.

a paper

reward, a day off

in the sun.

a hallmark card

for

every race, every creed,

every color,

every sexual preference,

each desire

recognized.

everyone

gets one.

it's the American way

of life.

the big imaginary rainbow

in the sky,

strike up the band

and have

a picnic, a march,

a parade down main street.

let's make

it all peachy keen again,

make everyone feel

alright.

eat, eat, eat

please

don't get healthy

the doctor

says,

the food industry pleads.

please

eat it all.

all the sugar,

all the bread, all the oils

that we make.

our lively hood depends

upon your

belief in the foods

we magically create,

the chemically altered

grub

on the shelf.

please don't get healthy.

take

the pills we dispense

when you become

diabetic

and fat.

when your joints ache,

your heart

breaks,

please don't get healthy,

eat, eat, eat

and drink our caramelized

sugar waters.

be merry as you wobble

down

our path.

here, have a smoke

while you're at it.

fat is good, fat is fun,

it's fat pride month,

have another tootsie roll,

another cinnamon bun.

the retirement garden

she's planning

for her retirement.

figuring out her next move,

another way

to make a buck.

what to do with all

the time.

all those hours and years

ahead of me?

it's frightening,

she said.

to have that much time

in your hands

with nothing

much to do.

i'm not a house cat,

i have to wander,

to explore, maybe take

up yoga,

start a garden.

how about you?

paying up front

a beauty, and discreet,

he paid her

well

for services rendered.

what's

the difference, he said,

with drink in

hand, tanned

and lying by the pool,

wife

or escort?  in the end

we pay,

so why not pay up

front and know

what you're getting

before 

they walk away.

the family

is any family

tight,

close.

blood bound by

parental

birth?

are we doomed to

like

each other despite

our differences,

or love even,

a reach hard to find

with anyone,

no matter how nice.

it's myth,

i think,

as i look around

at my

brood,

my brothers and sisters

who can't

gather for a meal,

or wedding,

or funeral

without a fight.

dixie in nyc

the dog,

a country dog, named

Dixie,

long before woke culture

took over our

sensibilities,

went on holiday

with her owner, Phoebe,

but the dog had a hard time

in new york city.

what's all the noise,

the commotion.

horns beeping, the ceaseless

traffic,

and pigeons.

why so many pigeons.

not a patch of grass to be

found.

uninterested in

pizza crusts

and hot dogs tossed

to the ground.

she couldn't even lift

her leg

to go in Bryant Park,

or Union Square,

or even Central Park

a six mile walk from

the Roosevelt Hotel.

she held it in for three days

until she was on the train

again

and heading home.

how much?

do the rich

ever ask how much.

of course

they do.

they wouldn't be wealthy

if they didn't,

and for us,

we're almost poor

because we don't.

gravity wins out

put something

in the air

and eventually it has to come

down.

satellite

or plane, a colorful

balloon.

no matter how pretty

the flight,

in time gravity wins out.

you can

only go around

for so long

in life.

but you know that,

don't you?

no strings attached

no strings attached

to this

relationship. we come and go

as we please,

with no one to answer to.

we are free agents

on the market,

available

any day of the week.

we're free

with benefits.

it's the new world, 

the new age,

beware of std's.

the fork in the road

i plot out

the trip around the beltway

to hang three sheets

of pre-pasted wallpaper.

my GPS

suggests going

through town.

dopes. 

take 395

to the 3rd street tunnel,

then somehow find 16th street

and go straight

for about an hour. or, what

you can do is take Memorial Bridge

to the Whitehurst freeway

up  through Rock Creek Park,

making a hard left

onto Connecticut.

MapQuest says no,

hell no.

don't go that way.

what are you nuts.

how about you

circle around, over the

Wilson Bridge, into

PG county,

towards Baltimore,

stay in the right lane,

it's Ben Hur over there.

keep going until you

reach New Hampshire

Avenue, route 29,

otherwise known as 

Colesville Road.

the sign will say Monroeville

in fifteen miles,

but ignore that.

take that exit and keep

driving.

I check with Waze.

for a third opinion.

it suggests taking a large

thermos

of hot coffee, stop for

gas and a donut, then take

the beltway around through

Fairfax County, keep going,

keep going, soon

you'll be in Maryland,

when you see that crazy 

Mormon Temple, you're getting

close.

slow down, curve ahead.

traffic.

you should have brought an

empty cup to pee in.

there is no option to fly.

help will come along

this thick mud

holding me stuck, my boots

sunken into

the wet

sludge.

i can't get out, i can't

reach the other side

of this

quagmire.

this stagnant

swamp of life.

help will come along,

i hope.

husband on a leash

i don't think i'll win

yard of the year this year either.

not after

spray painting the dead bush

white.

Home and Gardens

will not be calling.

in fact, i may be in  trouble,

fined by the powers that be,

three women

walking around with clipboards

and a husband

on a leash.

they've landed

the meteor, a blue green

flash

of light

finds it's way to us,

streaking

across the sky.

just a rock, people,

just a rock

on fire.

relax kids, do your

homework.

there's school tomorrow.

cakes rising

i'm thinking

that the neighbor has other

things

on her mind

as she knocks at the door

in her yellow apron,

wanting yet

another cup of sugar.

yesterday it was

butter,

the day before that eggs.

now a bowl

and a mixer she wants.

there'd better be

a cake rising

at some point.

it's your turn soon

it's your turn soon,

be patient

you tell the child in his chair,

the young

man

under thirty,

there will be your

time.

you'll work, you'll marry.

children will arrive.

you'll live

over there.

be patient, be patient,

you'll reach a point,

when you lean

on your cane,

your hair gone grey

and wish that

it was all yet not there.

when her day is over

at night,

she takes her mask off

and sets it on the dresser,

beside her wig,

her teeth,

her smile. 

her empathy and good will.

she's no longer who she

pretends to be.

but it's dark,

the lights are off

and no one can see.

who am i 

to rat her out

as she closes her eyes

beside me.

who can you trust?

i make

my dog my confidant,

but can i trust

him?

he's so easily persuaded

by a thrown

ball,

a bone.

a piece of cheese and

suddenly

he's all yours.

am i really that alone?

when the spine tingles

we smell

danger, taste it, before

it happens.

we sense

what's dark, what's in

the night

unseen.

we feel it in the gaze

of another.

we see the rolled up fist,

the loaded gun,

the betrayal

before it even exists.

fear

is survival,

believe it.

the lavender air

in the train station

in Paris,

a century ago,

they would perfume the air

while

the windows

were shut tight.

they would

push the scent of lilacs

and lavender

into the high glassed

ceilings.

politics

are like that.

it wasn't meant to be

it's the sister

kiss,

the friend farewell,

the nudge

of cheek

to cheek.

take care, be well.

it's the wave from

the door,

the closing

of the door, it just

wasn't meant

to be.

treading life

below

water, you look up into

the green,

the swirl

of all around you.

it's not your place

to be,

but here you are,

floating

below the surface,

holding your

breath,

treading life,

beneathe

the sea.

the retirement party

i start planning

my retirement party.

i tell my dog and cat all

about

the festivities,

the dog seems to be more

interested than

the cat, per usual.

i order food, some drinks,

party hats.

a bottle of non-alcoholic

champagne.

i buy a gold watch for

forty years served.

a funny card or two.

i make a banner that reads,

we'll miss you. good luck!

balloons would be nice.

maybe i can get someone,

a bikini model,

to jump out of a cake

and surprise me.

or is that just for birthdays?

is this yours?

i find

an earring under the bed.

just one.

it's gold

in color, small and delicate,

a trace of dust

hanging on.

i set it on

the table, but

i'm afraid to ask

is this yours?

finding another way

you can't fathom

being

blind.

not seeing color.

not

observing this life

with eyes.

depending

on touch

and sound to get by.

trusting your

nose.

and yet, we survive.

we evolve.

somehow, we find a way,

to be less

than blind.

this peach

this peach, 

this piece of fruit in my hand,

with velvet skin,

this dribble

of juice

on my chin, it has a flavor

all it's own.

nothing quite

like it.

unique, different, sweet.

not unlike you.

spanx

looking out

my window to check

the weather,

i notice

that my new neighbor,

Amber, 

the flight attendant likes

to sunbathe

in the nude

in her backyard.

so far no one has complained,

but if i answer the door

in my underwear

that look like spanx,

the cops

are on their way,

turning on their party lights.

zombie land

there are a lot

of people getting run over

by buses

and cars,

bumping their faces

on signs,

breaking knees on

fire hydrants.

falling off of curbs.

they are hypnotized

by their phones.

they can't take a second

to look up

from the screens,

so they get injured,

or die.

just one more scroll,

one more scroll.

you have to see this one

with a bird.

my summer home

i redecorate

my summer home.

throw in another fake

plant.

a picture for the wall.

some people call it my basement.

but i call

it my summer

home,

my retreat from

the heat.

it's cooler down there.

more shade

more room to stretch out.

even my dog

thinks it's the bomb.

there's a big

fan, there's windows

if a breeze occurs.

if you want me, or need

anything, you'll know

where to find me.

in my summer home

twelve steps down.

the matador

she wants

pink walls, he wants blue.

nothing

has changed

since either one of them

was a child,

at two.

Hemmingway's mother

put him in

a dress

at an early age,

he never quite got over it,

killing bull

after bull.

all quiet on the western front

as the war

goes on, far far away

from here,

you lose

interest.

the thrill is gone.

you have things to do.

wash the car,

mow the lawn.

throw something on

the grill

for dinner.

you stop thinking

about bombs

and bullets.

death and destruction.

who's winning?

you make a drink,

crack some

ice, slice a lime,

then pour

out a shot

of gin.

maybe later

you'll catch up

and watch a little of

the news.

three days at the Broadmore

your feet

will be in the sand soon.

you'll spread your

blanket,

corner to corner,

twist the umbrella in for shade.

you'll

have salt

in your eyes.

your ears and nose

will be

crusted with

sand and ocean.

the sun will bake you

red.

the book in your lap

will never

get past page one.

you will lie out on

the red

raft and float.

you will raise your

head and look

when someone yells

out, porpoise, but you

don't care.

you'll paddle

away from shore.

leaving the boardwalk

behind you.

how far away is France?

back on the horse

get back

on the horse, they say,

after

falling off.

so you do after

surgery

and a year of mending

broken bones.

at last

you're back in the saddle.

are you more

careful now,

yes, you are, 

but only for a little

while.

the frayed wire

the frayed wire

connected

to the light and down

to the socket

sizzles

with a sting of current.

a flame

shoots out

when the plug goes in.

some smoke.

a buzz of sorts.

it's time for more

duct tape

before the house

burns down.

salt and sweet

eat

when you're hungry

is a lost

idea

in this country.

there's too much

in front of us.

our eyes are full

of possibilities

of salt and sweet

wrapped in colorful

bags

and boxes.

everything fried

in oil.

the trend is now

obese.

diabetes and heart

disease.

we are sugar fiends.

it's almost like they

want to make us

sick.

keep us fat and ill,

full of pills.

mindless sheep.

big pharm and general

mills

laughing all the way

to the bank.

two cherry pies

she wasn't happy

until

everyone told her 

that her cherry pie 

was the best,

wiping their lips

of red,

then patting their bellies,

before having

a second helping.

she always made two pies, 

she was that in need

of love and affection.

almost desperate,

one might guess.

it's all still there

i do a drive

by

the old house i grew up in.

it's still there

because it's made of brick

and concrete,

stone.

it will be there until

the end of time,

until the big

one blows.

i want to knock on the door

and go in,

take a look

at the rooms.

the basement.

the one bathroom

on the second floor.

i want to open the closets,

the cupboards.

i want

to slam the screen

door.

i want to hear voices,

see faces.

i want to be sure that what

was, was real,

not

a memory exaggerated

by time

and distance.

i want to sit on the front

porch and watch the sun

go down

beyond

the bowling alley

beyond the barbed wire fence

that kept

us from drowning

in the storm sewer.

the patient cat

the way

this lid is stuck on the carton

of cream,

unturnable, screwed

tight by some

machine,

sums up

nearly everything

i'm feeling

at the moment.

do i throw it across

room

in anger, or find the pliers

and screw driver

to pry

open the cap?

the cat on the counter

waits patiently

for my decision.

a mini mental breakdown

in the middle of a mini

mental

breakdown,

i come to the conclusion

that i don't like

people.

people in general

are mean and nasty.

cruel

and unkind.

they only need you

when they

want something,

but then someone calls

me up

out of the blue,

to go out for

dinner

and a movie.

and i change my mind.

hair today, gone tomorrow

hair

is so overrated

i've an

abundance

and shortage.

i've been Elvis

and Paul

McCartney at times.

Winston

Churchill too.

it's been brown and blonde,

a reddish hue.

i've waxed it back

in the punk era,

and shaved it

down to nearly nothing.

resembling

a moon.

it grows

in my ears now,

my nose.

baby like

hairs sprout from

the top

of my scalp,

is it coming back

for a final run?

my arms are thick

with it.

silver and gold.

it's dry brush

from the neck down.

i try to stay

away from

grills and matches.

hair is never quite done.

no one fails anymore

i've yet

to meet a teacher who loves

her job

anymore,

the unruly

children,

the oppressive parents,

the system

of woke culture.

an F is easily

made into a B.

what was once a calling

is now

a burden, as they

count the years before

retirement.

etching marks

above their bed, on

the wall.

i want your forgiveness

there's a knock

at the door.

a small old woman

with a cane

is standing there,

i can barely see the top

of her head

through the peephole.

she's a skeleton

in a dress.

who is it, i yell out.

but she doesn't answer.

what are you selling,

i ask.

i crack the door open.

i want to talk, she says.

i want your forgiveness.

i'm sorry.

do i know you?

yes, she says. don't

you remember?

and then i do as i look

into her sad eyes.

i remember all too well

who she is.

closing the door tightly,

and locking it.

mystery fish

i knew

what we were having

for dinner

that night, when i saw

the box of frozen

fish sticks in the sink.

enough ketchup

on them,

will take

care of almost anything.

love like no other

they were glued

together

by psychological disorders.

one couldn't

leave

the other.

it was a sticky mess

of object

consonance,

fears of abandonment,

drowning

in the dysfunction

of their own

distress.

narcissists and borderlines

together,

a poisonous

mix,

but the therapists

loved them

as they cashed the checks.

here today

there

is little mourning

for much

of what lives.

things

come and go at a rapid

pace.

morning, noon,

and night,

the show goes on.

birth and death,

hand in hand.

there's so little time

to grieve,

to cry.

the bank robbery note

after

the bank was almost robbed,

the criminals

caught

in a shoot out,

they find the note

on the floor, asking for

all the money

in small bills.

empty the safe it says,

put it all in this bag,

or else.

but on the back of the note,

is a grocery list.

bread, eggs,

milk.

ice cream and potato chips.

beer

and coffee.

Greek yogurt and pistachio

nuts.

then there's a little heart

with an arrow through it.

love, Emily, it says,

be careful and

hurry back.

we have time, she says

we should

go before the rain starts,

i tell her.

she looks

up at the sky, and says

let's wait.

we have time.

but we don't and it begins

to pour.

in minutes

we're soaked to the bone.

now?

i ask. to which she smiles

and says,

okay.

sure.

can we count on you for support

election

season is heating up.

the texts

and e-mails, the barrage of phone

calls

and knocks on the door

are relentless.

you can smell desperation.

can we count on your

support

for this guy, or that guy,

this woman?

all colors, sizes and ages.

i've never seen or heard

of any of them before.

democrat, republican.

fascists or communist?

who knows.

what's the point anymore?

let them fight it out

in a cage, or take an

intelligence test, see who

gets the best score.

not unexpected

there was always a kid

in the neighborhood who figured

out how to

put a nail on the end of

a stick

and then went

hunting for frogs or fish

in the creek.

he was usually a strange

kid, with crazy parents,

in a house your mother never

let you visit.

you always wondered what

happened to them,

those kids with the nails

on the end of a stick,

looking to stab something.

you're not surprised when you see

them in the metro section

of the paper, a picture of

them in handcuffs, smiling.

the tilt a whirl

they put

the carnival up in about an hour

in the abandoned mall

parking lot.

are these

the rides you want

to put

your two year old kid on?

a thousand pieces of metal

strewn

together in the dead

night

by circus people.

and now

you hand your kid to someone

with no teeth,

covered in

tattoos, and wearing a shirt

saying that

Satan is alright.

what could go wrong

you think, as the man

with one eye turns

to you

and says, don't worry dad,

we buckled him in

real tight.

there's love and then there's home

she meets

a man

who has a job in Singapore.

so she goes with

him.

it's what people do who

are first in love.

overwhelmed

by emotion.

she lives there for a week.

it's too hot.

the bugs.

the food.

the language.

she misses home.

she misses her cat and dog.

her lawn.

her friends.

but what about love,

the man says,

as she packs her bag.

she shrugs,

i know, but i have to go.

so long.

he's a better me

the man

who stole my identity

is living in

my house now.

i dropped my wallet on the subway

and he became

me.

he's walking my

dog, taking my kids

to school,

making love to my wife.

everyone is happy now,

i stand out

in the street

and watch him, as he

paints the shutters

and mows the lawn,

digs up the weeds.

he's in the backyard

now

cooking on the grill,

saying hi

to the neighbors.

he's friendly.

no one seems to miss me.

the real me.

in fact,

he's a better me, 

in that

i don't disagree.

a postcard from Venice

of course

it was beautiful.

the architecture, the haze

of blue

in the air.

the scent of history,

of a thousand years.

it was exactly like every movie

or postcard

you had ever seen.

the gondolas.

the men in striped shirts.

the little shops,

the canals,

St. Marks with its

innumerable pigeons.

the glass blowers

and artists,

but then

there was us. a lot of us.

off cruise

ships and buses.

taking pictures and selfies.

an hour of walking

around,

then on our way.

to be continued

i ask the kid,

who is

religiously at the corner

for the last two years

with a sign,

how long can he do this?

he looks at me

and says

it's the governments fault.

he's clean,

well dressed, tanned,

a sideways

hat on, but other than that

he doesn't look

too disheveled

and crazy.

then the light changes

so he goes

back to the start of 

his walk.

reviewing the rules again

didn't we have

this argument last week,

i ask

the love of my life, Betty.

yes, we did, she says.

motioning for me to get

my feet off

the coffee table,

and to put a coaster

under my drink,

but perhaps we should

review what we said

before, the rules 

that we're set.

come on, do we have to?

yes, we do.

you don't seem to listen.

the argument is now

in session.

i have the floor.

the short life of mittens

the mitten

period of your life,

ends when

you're about four.

after that you need fingers.

you have

stuff to do.

you need them

to open things,

scratch things, put

them where they don't

belong.

you'll never wear

another pair

of mittens again once

you figure that out.

mittens no more, no

matter how

cold it gets, or how

much snow falls.

room for rent at the beach

the rental

room

at the beach

smelled like teenagers had

been living there.

the sink

backed up.

with a toilet overflowed.

a hovering cloud

of joints smoked.

body odor.

and pizza.

a bar of Irish Spring

on the sink.

orange peels

in the disposal.

la dee da and everyone

don't be famous.

you don't want that.

you don't need that.

be a ghost.

anonymous and free.

you don't want

la dee da and everyone

saying hello to you

when you walk

down the street.

your clutter and mine

we have different ideas

of what clutter is.

to you,

it's books and paper,

magazines strewn

across the tables.

shoes and coats, draped

over chairs.

empty glasses on

the sill.

matches and candles

on small dessert plates.

pencils and pens on

the floor.

boxes at the top of the stairs.

for me it's people.

a penny saved

your savings

will

not save you.

the equity in your house.

the penny jar,

the inheritance.

stocks and bonds.

crypto, whatever that is.

there is no silver

lining to this life.

no one

gets out alive.

you take nothing with

you

to the other side.

eat, drink and be merry,

then it's off

into the sky.

the power washer

have you lost

the thrill of your electric power

washer?

is it over

with the leaky

hose, cumbersome

wire

and long metal

nose. are you done with

cleaning

the brick, the patio,

the car,

the bike, the shed.

scouring

the world of mildew

and dirt

that's so quick to return.

so many

hours invested,

so much noise and effort.

but it was

fun while it

lasted.

here, have a go at it.

start it up and hold on.

it's your turn.

unreadable

 a thick

book of fiction, is not always

palpable

enough to read,

but you find other uses

for it.

War and Peace

or Ulysses.

it holds a window up,

allowing

the breeze,

or the door 

from closing.

it's not a first edition,

so who cares.

let the dog nibble

at its cover, tear

at the dried pages,

of so many unread leaves.

not even a small sting?

a bee swings

in,

and hovers

near my arm, but

changes

his mind

and wanders off

in noisy fashion.

but

i'm a little offended

that he didn't

find me

savory enough

to sting or take a bite.

weathered

even

brick in time will

crumble,

the stones of love

stacked

strong and high,

the weather

will

see to it.

circumstances

beyond your control.

although you wish

it weren't true,

nothing last forever.

trust me

on that.

i'll get the light

i don't

want to know you

that well.

i want to

skim

the surface of you.

of your

skin, covering heart

and bone.

i don't want to dig deep

into your

psyche

and find darkness.

let's pretend our

happiness is true.

stay where you are,

i'll get the light,

don't move.

we'll see tomorrow

when struck

by personal misfortune

it's hard to disagree

with Wallace Stevens

that the world

is sad, and the people

are ugly.

but come morning,

in the arms of a loved

one, with a new day ahead,

you may see things

differently.

just maybe.

the clothesline

the stiff

breeze against

her face,

her hair pulled back.

the chill of wet grass

against her

feet.

a basket of

wet clothes

beside her.

a pocket full of clothespins.

one wooden

one

between her teeth.

this is how she got away.

a vacation

from the chaos inside,

three times

a week.

the last stop

as the young man

straightens his tie

and 

sits down,

he hands us a brochure

of the senior

home.

there's a pool he says.

inside

and out.

pickleball,

tennis for those who

still can

get around.

there's a cafeteria too,

bowling,

and if you go with

the two bedroom deluxe

unit,

you'll have a very nice

view

of the park.

there's a nurse on staff.

a cleaning

crew.

these units

will go fast,

so please, don't hesitate

too long.

you'll love it here

and they'll love you.

black and white photographs

we

were young.

we had uncles and aunts,

cousins.

we would gather

in south Philly,

in the yards and streets.

everyone

was alive then.

everyone still had

had time.

there was food and music.

dancing.

long nights 

in candlelight yards.

it was different then.

it's different now.

how quickly

it all goes by.

the Krispy Creme hot sign is on

my friend

Jocko, tells me that he just

can't lose

the last fifteen pounds

around his belly.

yeah.

visceral fat is tough,

i tell him.

what, he says.

what kind of fat?

visceral.

it's a thick yellow layer

of fat

under your skin.

you get it from fried

foods and beer,

sugar,

trans fats.

seed oils. bread.

potato chips, junk like

that.

donuts.

you mean i have to stop

eating donuts

to slim down?

yup.

forget about it, he says.

hey look the hot sign

is on

across the street.

Krispy Creme,

my treat.

it's this giant hole in the earth

you have to,

you just have to go and see

the Grand Canyon,

she says.

let's rent a Winnebago

and drive out

there.

you have to see it.

but i have seen it, i tell

her, my hand

deep into a bag of Cheetos.

when,

when did you see it.

i saw it on tv and in the movies.

North by Northwest,

and other 

movies.

i've seen the moon too,

so don't make any plans

to go there either.

i'm not going.

buyers remorse

thirty thousand

dollars

later,

after the sit down dinner,

the carriage

ride through

town,

the band no longer

playing,

and her at last

out of the wedding

gown,

she stares at

the bauble

on her finger

and has second thoughts.

her name is Clare

i start a relationship

with a new

humanoid robot,

fresh off the factory line,

a subsidiary

of Tesla.

her name

is Clare.

she's almost perfect.

shapely

in those ways

that most men prefer.

she cooks,

she cleans. she makes

love.

and never complains.

i only have to recharge her,

once a day.

she has

skin soft as velvet,

silk like hair.

she's always nice,

polite,

an excellent companion.

if i'm late,

or distant and tired,

she just smiles,

i never have

to explain.

what's that on your face?

no,

it's not leprosy,

or

monkey pox.

it's not some rare

disease

airborne

by a sneeze.

no it's just a blemish

that the dermatologist

put her gun to,

pointing

and then squeezing

the trigger

to freeze.

i should be good

by Tuesday.

allowable once

more to be seen.

learning just enough to sound smart

we dabble

in this and that.

far from becoming an expert.

but we learn

the buzz words

which we throw around

to make it seem

as if we know

everything there is

to know

about almost anything.

it's in a book,

in our phone,

tid bits of knowledge

at our fingertips.

i do it all

the time with narcissism

and borderlines.

ants on a mission

it's a line of black

ants

in the kitchen, an army

of ants marching,

with barrels

of crumbs and sugar

on their

backs.

i want to talk with them,

these soldiers,

tell them

to stop, to show

me where they're going.

no need to work

this hard,

my friends,

i'll personally deliver

whatever you need,

just show me how

you got in.

there are weeds to pull

the broken gate will

be fixed,

so will the tile on the roof

where the

rain gets in.

those steps that creak,

not to worry come Saturday

i'm on it.

thank you

for reminding me of all

the chores i have

to do.

it keeps us from talking

and deciding

what's next with us,

what will we do?