hell on earth

they fed them

starch

and gelatinous meats,

sugary concoctions.

fried chicken

and potatoes,

Salisbury steaks

with gravy. large

loaves of white bread.

noodles.

jello.

my mother gained

twenty pounds

in one week

after moving in to

the senior home,

called A Home for Mom

in a sketchy

neighborhood in southern

Maryland.

at the clang of a bell,

everyone in the tv

room rose as one

and waddled to the dining

room table

where three meals

a day were served.

they were not unlike

the living dead

rising from their deep

musty sofas.

most were stroke victims,

had Alzheimer's,

or some stage of

dementia.

they were all diapered up

and unable to

remember if they ate

already, or were

even hungry.

it went down hill from

there.

when you came to visit,

your own mother didn't know

if it was Christmas,

or the Fourth of July,

rarely did she remember your name.

sometimes the local church

choir would come by 

and sing for them,

distressing everyone

by blocking the tv screen as

another episode of Barney

Miller or the Jeffersons

came on with the volume

turned up.

the stationary closet

on Wednesday

the office played volleyball

in the sand pit next to the parking

garage.

a lame attempt

at building comradery

amongst workers.

it was my only chance

for revenge

towards bosses

who spoke in another language

in front of me,

mocking my

inability

to write code for a program.

i'd leap high above

the net to spike the ball

with vengeance.

i was never promoted or

got a raise after

the first game

when i broke Hung Van's

nose with the ball

and was moved into an office

called the stationary

closet.

lost in the woods

we're lost in the woods.

every

tree looks the same,

the sun is somewhere behind

the clouds.

we keep circling,

does moss really grow on

the north side of a tree?

neither of us have survival

skills.

we have no tools, no map,

no knives, or matches.

this stream again that

we cross, is it going down,

or up stream.

it begins to rain.

she calls me an idiot,

tells me that we

should have brought the bread

crumbs to toss behind us,

and mark our path,

but no.

it's our first fight, maybe

our last.

we're circling, and it's

late, almost dark.

we're soaked and tired.

we have no food, no water,

no cell phone reception.

is this how it ends, us

lying in the carved out

trunk of a fallen tree?

two miles from home,

from grocery stores, and

Starbucks,

even gas station vending 

machines.

the apartment by the zoo

it was mistake

moving

so close to the zoo.

we had no idea how loud

the monkeys were,

as they swing

from tree to tree,

the chatter of birds,

the elephants

stomping around,

even

the seals kept us up

with their

constant

clapping for fish.

but you get used to it

after a while,

hesitating

in mid sentence, raising

your hand to pause,

to let a lion roar,

or a gorilla beat

his chest

and yell, or

to allow

some exotic bird to caw.

my left arm bicep

i don't have

time for a complete workout

at the gym,

so i buy a small

dumb bell

of twenty pounds and do

lifts and curls

with my left arm.

the arm that hangs

out the car window

and puts

items into the box at

the drive-thru bank.

all day long,

i'm at it, lifting my weight,

during meals,

showers,

even while making love,

which annoys

Betty to no end.

in no time at all i'm

entering

arm wrestling contests,

and flexing

my one big muscle

as i drive around.

in my convertible car.

i get a tattoo, of course

for that

bicep. some lettering i

found on a Chinese

menu,

which i think says Spinach.

but there are draw backs

too.

i have to have all my

shirts and coats,

and suits

altered to fit my new

enormously buff arm.

and people everywhere

are asking me to open

twist off caps,

and jars of pickles.

Bonjourno

when

she returned from Italy

she painted

her house

shades of yellow

and Tuscan brick red.

she was into

olive oil now, 

virgin and cold pressed,

home made

pasta,

and bread.

there was a bright colored

scarf

around her neck

and a flower

in her hair.

she threw around a few

words in Italian,

and started

saying

ciao

whenever she left

the room or was about

to hang

up the phone.

next year she's going

to Germany.

this should be interesting.

ay caramba

unable to breathe,

i find

the rescue inhaler and sit on

the curb,

taking in a few

puffs

of the chemically induced

air.

i try to catch

my breath

in this oppressive heat,

my head between

my legs,

feeling weak.

i take my hat off and rub

the sweat

off my brow.

someone walking by puts

a five

dollar bill in my hat.

in about an hour i've made

over a hundred

tax free dollars.

ay caramba,

i get it now.

i'll be right back

she puts

on the coffee, i go out for the paper

and a dozen

eggs.

i text her as i'm

in the store, asking

her if there's anything

else she needs.

she gives me a long list

of items.

i spend an hour shopping,

then head

home.

when i get there her car

is gone,

she's gone.

most of her clothes

and things

are gone, her dresser

and closet are empty.

finally.

it's the first promise she's

ever kept.

i go to the kitchen

and crack a few eggs

into the pan,

then pour a cup of coffee.

it's still hot.

let's see what's in the news,

i say to no one,

spreading

the paper on the table.

getting out the butter

and the jam.

seventy-nine dollar raviolis

i was in

New York once

at 

DeNiro's restaurant

down

the street from the trade center,

Tribeca,

when i ordered

raviolis.

three raviolis

arrived

on a giant plate,

there

was parsley around it too,

thus

i understood the price.

i hardly had

room for the forty-five

dollar piece of cheese cake,

thinly sliced.

foo foo

the foo foo restaurant

is expensive. prices have been

marked up

since the last time

we were here.

what's new about that?

nothing really.

it's the same across the board

in every store,

every pub,

every

pushcart on the street

selling hot dogs.

the reasons are plenty.

covid,

the war.

the economy.

everyone wants a dollar more.

be patient

so much is left

unread.

so many pages yet to turn,

books

to read

that wait patiently

in silence

on the shelf.

don't worry, i tell them,

your time will

come,

your time will come.

i tell them the same thing

that i often

tell my self.

our own personal yoko

we called

her Yoko, because she broke us

up.

the four of us.

four boys

about to be men,

doing everything together

as we painted

the town red.

but then

one of us fell

in love.

it was never the same

after that.

she ruined it for all

of us. tagging along

to every event.

although now,

she's almost a friend.

drive all night

the beauty

of

the mid week holiday is

that nearly

everyone

takes the whole week off.

traffic

is light,

it's a delightful drive

to go anywhere,

no horns

blaring, no one

in the rear view mirror

flashing his

lights.

calling you names.

it's a wonderful time

to drive.

come with me, we'll drive

all night,

in any lane.

tossing and turning

it's a rough sleep.

i go through

the list

of worries, turning the pillow

over with

each new topic

of concern.

it goes nowhere.

nothing is solved.

nothing learned.

i'm a rotisserie chicken

all night, stuck

on the spit

as i slowly

turn. i'm

exhausted when the sun

comes up.

and hungry.

very hungry.

the neighbor's party

i see her

in the grocery store

with a cart full of all beef

wieners.

twenty cobs

of corn.

a case of beer

and a large costco size

bag of buns.

there's mustard

too

and relish.

ketchup for the heathens.

then the sheet cake,

teetering

on the pile,

twelve by twelve,

decorated

with candles and candy,

all of it in

red white and blue.

she avoids

looking at me, i wasn't

invited.

the mystery call

as the phone rings at two

a.m.

i let go.

it's never good news

at this hour.

there are

five six seven rings,

then it stops.

maybe they'll leave a message,

maybe they'll

call back in the morning.

who's to know

these things.

time for another great flood?

who has time

to work anymore, we have to march

and riot, set

things on fire

and tell the world

who we are,

and what we want.

here are the pronouns i will

accept.

does anyone just get up

and go

to work and punch the clock

anymore?

put in a hard

eight hours then go home.

does anyone really

care that you're a man in women's

clothes, or a girl

with a gun

and a mustache?

it's annoying.

exhausting.

no one cares what you call yourself

or what you do

with your sex organs.

sew something on or

cut something off.

have fun with that.

what possibly could go wrong?

call me when you have a real

problem.

do we need a law, a parade,

for every circus

freak coming down the road?

you're just a person, a human,

not unlike me

or you. go ahead and

be who or what you want to be,

then get a job,

go to work,

then go home.

give us a break and

leave the rest of us alone.

click bait

everything

you see online

is a click bait, a lure

to drag you down,

send you past the gates

of hell

to see

the most disgusting things

to look at, or

to eat,

Hollywood stars

without clothes,

then and now,

what happened

to Warren 

Beatty?

Kenny Roger's nose.

how does Dolly Parton stay

upright?

the richest and the poorest

will be revealed.

the real story

behind

the drugs and guns

of the rebellious priest

and his lover

the aging nun.

click here,

click here.

go down the rabbit hole.

one more time,

one more

click, please have another

mindless view

before you leave.

home before dark

the dog

doesn't wander far,

off her

leash, she looks back

to see us,

to make sure

where we are.

we're all happy at

the same

time

as we walk.

so rare to feel that

way

about anything.

so let's keep going

further

and further, then turn

around and head

for home

before it's dark.

a marking point

that

was a good one,

she says,

pointing to the sky

at the blossom

of lights

cascading

outward

then down,

the crisp bang then

boom

above,

but below

the clouds. the showers

of

greens and white,

reds

and yellows.

blue.

we stay until the end,

standing for

the grand finale,

to clap and shout.

then we roll

up our blanket,

to head home.

with summer officially

half over.

wishful thinking

she puts

a camera up.

one in the window

another on

the door.

it's wishful thinking,

hoping

that someone

will

pass by, 

an old lover,

wanting to

see her more.

she checks it daily

morning,

then night,

never believing that

no one

cares anymore.

fool on the hill

only we

seem to think that everything.

will last

forever.

every book written, word

said,

every poem

and deed done,

whether good or

evil

will be remembered.

no other species

think like that,

just us,

the fool in me and you.

Scarborough cupboard

why

are there so many spices

in the cupboard

when i only

use salt and pepper.

where did the oregano

come from,

the all spice,

the garlic powder,

the turmeric

and bay leaves.

who snuck in the ginger

and cinnamon.

basil and thyme,

rosemary?

parsley and sage.

i feel like i'm in a

Simon and Garfunkel

song.

the marlo furniture exhibition

the picture

of the Spanish galleon

hanging

on her wall

is a frightening mish mash

of mustard

yellows.

fruit gone bad,

oranges and cherries

at the bottom

of a bag.

a sunset is wishful thinking.

maybe it's the sky

and the ocean

all on fire at once.

perhaps it's the end of the world.

i avert my

eyes when i come

through the door,

trying not to knock over

her porcelain

Dalmatian dog.

being careful not to trip

on the shag rug,

a depressing shade

of asylum mauve.

i'd knock on wood for luck,

but there is none.

who isn't strange

who isn't strange

raise your hand and if

it's raised

you are more than likely

more strange

than the others, but

acutely aware 

of the all the strange

you need to cover.

the white wedding tent

it was a white silk tent

where

the wedding party sat.

it kept

the large black flies out

that hovered

near the spit

where a monstrous

still head on

pig spun

across a charcoal pit.

the cake

looked melted.

four tiers, no

limits on expense.

was it all an omen of

sorts.

the heat of day,

the rain. thunder

and lightning.

perhaps it was.

a funeral was just a year

away

for the ecstatic groom,

finding love

at last

at this late stage.

agreeable

plans we've made

have

changed.

it may

rain.

we scratch out the day

and settle

on the next

day.

we're flexible like

that.

agreeable and kind,

without fuss

we

find a way.

good lighting

as years

pass, you still love to read,

but

you're more selective now,

as you

are with most

things.

food and love, for instance.

you appreciate

friendly

lighting, dim and nice

for love,

and daylight for a new

book,

outside in the yard

with a sun above.

heading north for elder care

i go in

the opposite direction.

i head

north

with all of my possessions.

i can't do

sunny Florida.

not a fan

of bugs and alligators.

no seasons

to speak of

not to mention hurricanes

and politics.

instead i buy a snow

shovel,

some ear muffs and head

up to New Hampshire

to a log cabin

in the forest.

but it crosses my mind

that 

this may be a mistake

as well.

the giant pile of goodbye

i pile

her things in the yard.

clothes

and laxatives.

books on self harm.

Halloween masks,

and trumpets.

a broken

hand held piano

from Yamaha,

pointed shoes,

witch capes

and hats.

a biography

of Heddy Lamar.

i throw a blue tarp

on the whole

mess

as it begins to rain.

i'll wait

until i have some gasoline

before i

start the fire.

so long, farewell

i go down to the train

station

to wave goodbye to people

as the train

slowly pulls away

heading to some far

away destination.

some wave

back, others shake their

heads

and mumble, who's this

guy.

children, mostly, wave

and smile.

they seem happy

to be waved to.

they're not as judgmental

about crazy people

as grown ups are.

too early for holding hands?

we go

to the movies

and she takes my hand.

is it too early for hand holding?

i mean we've

only fooled around

a few times.

i switch the popcorn

box to the other hand,

telling her

sorry about the butter

and salt.

she smiles

and reaches into her

purse

for napkins.

i get goosebumps.

flipping the coin

there's always

two

sides of the coin.

an obvious

and cliche observation,

of course.

but let's flip the coin

and see

which direction

this will go.

call it

in the air.

heads or tails.

Audrey and I

at last

my humanoid girlfriend

arrives

in the mail

from China. she's

stuffed into a box

with bubble wrap.

she looks

like Audrey Hepburn

back in

the day.

rail thin, without

the cigarette addiction.

all i need to do is plug

her in,

and true love

begins.

she never ages,

or is mean,

never lies or talks back.

she even sings.

it's nineteen

sixty-three

all over again.

she's Betty Crocker

and Irma La Douce

all in one

package.

i'm taking her to Tiffanys

for breakfast

tomorrow.

i think i left the iron on

halfway

to the beach, she turns

to me and says,

don't get mad, but i think

i left

the iron on in the basement.

i was ironing

a dress

and then ran up the stairs

to finish packing.

i think we have to turn around.

i let out a deep

sigh and say a very bad word,

puffs of steam

come out of my ears,

but i make a u-turn

at the light

and speed back.

i don't tell her that i forgot

to close

the back door and lock it.

let's get it on

my neighbor, Sheila,

tells me

as i sit on the front porch

that her

and her husband

are trying to have a baby

again.

i want to tell her,

i know.

i can hear you at night

going at it.

i can hear

Marvin Gaye on the stereo

for hours,

the popping of champagne

bottles,

and then the symphony

of bed springs

adjacent to our

shared townhouse wall.

i nod,

and smile,

there's a lull in the conversation

as i stare at her,

unsure what to say next,

then settle for

yeah, that's nice. kids

are great.

then,

how about this weather

we're having?

she wants more

i bring her

back

a three pound bag of salt water

taffy from

the beach.

it has all her favorite

colors.

pinks and blues,

greens and oranges.

all a pleasant

pastel shade.

each piece with a guarantee

of three hundred

or more chews

before dissolving

into your stomach.

i find a shell on

the beach too.

an empty white shell

minus

the clam guts.

it's not enough though.

she wants

more.

she always wants more.

time travel

i buy

a time travel machine on amazon.

something

new.

a fun

device that you

strap

upon your head

and disappear

into the past

or future.

you make all your wrongs

right.

then come back,

minus

the memory of each

wackadoodle

wife.

your current state of mind

there are various

forms

of laughter.

the belly laugh, the scoff,

the giggle,

the roar

with mouth open

and tears

falling, but

why don't you laugh

anymore?

it seems as if

you've taken

levity

completely out of your

repertoire.

not a funny bone is found

inside you.

glum

is your current state of

mind.

no longer

can i juggle balls

in the air, 

or do somersaults

and tricks

to put a smile on your face.

my jokes fall flat

to the floor.

what once put joy in your

life is over. 

kaput.

apparently

i've become such a bore.

or were

you faking it all that time,

all those laughs?

anything unattended to

so much time

spent

in worry, concerned

with age

with the endless task

of filling days,

rearranging

the chairs

and tables, the lamps

of your life.

setting the mood with

movies and books,

food

and love, or close

to love.

counting pennies

long into the night.

you manipulate the blinds,

the curtains,

swiping cobwebs

from the corners,

giving your world 

more reason,

more light.

you've beaten the rugs clean,

you've put your house

in order.

it's exhausting, as you at

last sit alone, still

some shade of blue,

and wonder

is there anything

unattended to, 

have i left anything for

God to do?

picking up a cake

i see the baker

in his

tall white hat

and white apron leaning

against the wall

outside the bakery,

he's smoking a cigarette

and looking

down at the ground.

he needs a shave.

he's been up since

3 am,

making cakes and pies.

bread.

there's flour

on his chin,

what looks like

cherry jam on his collar.

he nods at me,

says hello, the wedding cake

right? 

it's ready, he says.

then smashes

his cigarette under

his powdered shoe 

before going back in.

Medicare A and B

i get about fifty calls

a day

from some dude

or girl

in India asking me if i have

Medicare A and B.

they sound

young.

in their twenties, on the phone

all day

calling baby boomers

in America,

trying to steal

their information, their

identities

and all the rest.

they want to send back

braces,

knee braces,

they have a new plastic

card for you,

do you have diabetes?

cancer,

are you in a home under a

nurses care.

do you make your own

decisions.

do you have a checking account,

a savings account?

do you smoke, do you have

any diseases

that are gong to kill you soon?

what's your address,

your name, your age,

your height and weight?

what's your social security number,

your Medicare number?

i'll wait while you go find it,

they say.

in the background

i hear a hundred other voices,

chattering on the phones

in some hellish cave,

asking the same

questions over and over again,

and sometimes i'll hear a rooster

crowing, a cow mooing,

or a goat bay.

i'm sleeping in the other room tonight

her routine

was to yell and scream,

slam a door

then come

back in and say

i'm sleeping in the other

room tonight,

grabbing her pillow

off the bed.

then dramatically

exiting with a few

choice curse words.

i'd shrug my shoulders

and say,

okay. sleep tight.

don't let the bed bugs bite.

by tomorrow morning

though, everything

would be fine, 

no matter what the problem

was.

funny what you get used to

when stuck in a prison,

locked in tight.

anybody you know, mom?

my mother used

to check

the obituaries on a daily basis.

skipping

the news, etc.

and turning right

to the obits

in the metro section.

she wanted

to know what killed these

people,

what happened,

how old were they.

strangers in black and white.

some grim,

some smiling.

some holding a cat or dog.

once that was done

finding no

one she knew, she'd turn

to the comics,

dear abby,

and then the crossword

puzzle.

maybe cut out a few 

coupons in the food section

before putting

the paper

at the bottom of her

bird cage.

taking the day off

do we learn something

new

everyday.

grow in some way?

no.

the answer is no.

some days,

we

just kind of waddle through.

doing nothing,

saying nothing,

watching

drivel on tv with

our hand deep into a bag

of potato chips.

we're taking a break from

learning.

from exercise

and eating healthy.

there's only

so much self improvement

one person

can take.

santorini

they've

cleaned up the streets

for the tourist dollar.

they've

wiped the dust away.

everyone

is well dressed with  good

hair cuts.

their skin shines

with health.

even the burros that

carry us

up hill seem grateful

today.

maybe there's a rug

we'll buy,

or a ring,

a bottle of cold pressed

olive oil,

virgin, of course.

maybe

a postcard to send home.

perhaps

a scarf

or dress, a shirt.

something to remind us

of this Greek rock,

we've landed on.

the people are so beautiful,

how can we resist.

women learn early

women

learn at an early age how

to apply

the mascara.

what color hair to have,

what lipstick

shade.

what curve

to parade about.

they know how men are,

so easily

persuaded

by beauty, the scent

of perfume,

the fleeting glimpse of

a bare leg.

men,

just mindless moths

to the feminine

flame.

the most frightening call in the universe

am i ready to have another

child at this age,

i think, in a sweaty panic,

as she hints

over the phone

that she may have a biscuit

in the oven.

am i prepared

to push a stroller up

the street,

change diapers,

and take

the eventual growing

kid to soccer games?

to school plays,

then explaining painfully

the birds and the bees

as the child rolls its eyes

at me.

am i ready once more to

do it all over again,

from scratch?

quickly i pray

the prayer i used to use

in high school

and college, please help me, 

dear lord,

and make it not so,

i say

as i hit my knees.

i'll be good from here on

out, i promise. you'll see.

calling it quits

I search

far and wide for someone

with the super power

of folding

a fitted sheet.

it's baffled me since

childhood.

i look everywhere

for that kind maiden

to show me

the way

to fold them square

and neat,

but have no luck.

years have gone by.

i'm too tired now

to keep

searching.

i guess

i'll just ball them up,

and

stuff them into the closet

next to the  towels,

like i've always

done,

call it quits.

no reason to cry

almost,

the tree says in a gentle

lean

and sway.

holding tightly

onto green

as summer comes

to a close.

i'm about ready,

she says,

to have them change,

for the leaves

to lose

their green.

i'll let them go,

and die. but before

that

let's have a colorful

display.

no need for tears,

there's no reason

to cry.

she won't go away

you stop

and sit on the curb,

you take

a stick to scrape

away

the gum stuck to the bottom

of your shoe.

it's been there all day,

once pink,

now a grey rancid

goo.

she just won't go away

no mater how

far you walk,

or tell her to leave

you alone

and stop.

Face Yoga

i see one of my ex-wives online

doing face yoga, so

i sign up for one of her

beginner courses.

of course she's still bitter

about the property settlement,

and paltry alimony

i gave her,

so i don't get the discount.

however

maybe i can eradicate

some of the ensuing

wrinkles

that are causing me

to lose dates

and make small children cry

when they look at me.

it's difficult moving my

face around at first,

flexing my jaw up and down.

making my eyebrows

flicker like bird's wings.

i imitate the faces you see on

people screaming

as they fly down a hill

on a rollercoaster.

rolling my eyes is easier, 

i do it daily,

almost non stop when

watching the news,

or talking to my neighbor

Lisa, formerly known

as Jim as he informs me

about a bra sale

at Norstrom Rack,

but i digress.

i twitch my nose, make

a face like a fish and blow. 

i tie up my lips into knots.

stick my tongue out and reel

it back in.

it's a giant cup of crazy on

so many levels

as i follow my ex's instructions,

(for once),

but hey, check back with me in

twenty-four weeks or so,

when i'm young again

and my face is as smooth 

as a baby's bottom.

out live the others

live long enough,

and you can rewrite your own

history, devise

your own take

on things.

put a shine on that apple,

hiding

the brown spots,

the soured

skin,

the rot within.

those around you that

knew you well,

are gone now.

so spin, spin, spin,

at last you win.

bring a dessert

i make

a bowl of strawberry

Jello for the party,

throwing in

a can of fruit cocktail

like my mother used to do

then i top it off

with five

giant spoons of cool whip.

after slicking it all down

with a spatula

i pop in a dozen or so tiny

American flags 

attached to toothpicks.

i try not to get

sick as i'm making it,

then put it in the fridge

overnight.

i'm sure it will be a hit

on the 4th.

mickey's monkey

you read about

people

that have monkeys

or orangutangs for pets.

it's all fun

and games for a while.

they put

hats and dresses on them,

teach them how to

skateboard,

or play the piano.

show them how to

bang on

a tambourine.

they basically make fools

of them until

they've had enough,

and they start biting off fingers

and ears,

with a strange look

in their eyes, that says,

so how do you like that?

four hot house tomatoes

on our first

date

we met at Wegman's in the produce

aisle,

i treated her to a

four pack

of organic hot house

tomatoes,

which she ate as we sat

on the curb

outside.

i ran in for a shaker

of salt,

but she was gone when

i came back.

i texted her,

emailed her,

called her on the phone,

but no reply.

it just wasn't meant

to be.

the eventual hoover

they circle

back,

don't they? lost loves,

unrequited

or mere flings on

the way

to nowhere.

bored and lacking in

current supply,

they hoover you

like

the vacuum,

sucking up your time

and energy

with a love bomb

or two,

a vague apology.

they want to excuse

their behavior

in the past,

win you over again,

pretend that what

happened

never did.

it's a fun parade

down the gaslit lane.

what country is on fire?

it used to be

when you smelled smoke,

you checked

the toaster,

or the oven itself.

maybe someone's burning

leaves

outside,

or there's a dumpster

fire

at Wendy's.

but now you look outside,

and think,

what country is on

fire now?

safety in numbers

the darkened

wave of birds

that swirl against the sky,

fish too in the blue

wash of water,

give us

clues

to our

own nature, how

we follow

one another,

a crowd or group

together.

as one.

a school or flock,

not unlike

our own predilections

that we

move towards,

safety no doubt,

in numbers.

the adult five year old

i try

logic on her,

introducing rational thought

into the argument,

our

daily disagreement.

lies are not good,

i tell her,

lying is betrayal,

but she says i only

lie to you,

so that you don't get hurt

in knowing

what i'm up to.

so my lying is a good

thing, don't you see?

you should be thankful

i'm a liar.

what you don't know

can't hurt you.

apple pie, or ufo?

everyone

has a phone.

melons have phones in them.

there's a phone

in bananas,

birds,

whales.

there are cameras

everywhere,

my dog

has a camera on him.

my door bell.

every store, every human

being

on the planet has a camera

in their

hand, and yet,

every blurry photo of a light

flashing across

the sky

is pronounced to be another

ufo.

i'm tempted to throw

a pie tin

across the air

and snap a picture of it.

have you ever once seen

a blurry photo

or video on tik tok.

you tube,

or whatever?

never

it's exhausting.

the world is a giant

nut tree.

there is never ever one

smidgen

of proof of aliens,

or ufos.

why, oh why is this even

in the news?

all those burning bridges

she had a new

job 

every year.

a new relationship,

each new bridge burned

eventually.

a new place

to live,

those bridges burned too.

a perpetual

gypsy, setting fire

to everything,

and everyone she walked

across. 

searching for clues

in a pain filled

world.

never fitting in,

always on the move.

close quarters

we sour

on one another

when too close

to each

other.

twenty four seven will

do that.

what romance

and love

there was, is now cast

aside

by the flushing of toilets,

of trash day,

who walks

the dog.

who left the butter out

on the counter

overnight.

the hot water tank is empty.

maybe soon we'll fool

around,

okay?

but right now i have

a headache.

why are your muddy shoes

on the dining

room table?

not gently into the night

old

age will humble us.

most of us.

some though will refuse

to acknowledge

the wrinkles,

the weight, the thinning

hair

gone grey.

they'll refuse the cane,

the walker.

doctors are for sissies

they'll say.

still playing 

the games they've always

played.

not gently are they going

into that

good night.

a ten and two fives

i try to make

change

from the basket as it's passed

around

in church.

trying to break down

a twenty into a ten

and two fives,

getting ready for the second

round

of collections,

but the man

stops me,

and clubs me on the head

with the pole.

really? he says.

yes, really, i tell him,

then ask

if i can use PayPal,

or Venmo instead.

the pear tree

with our ladders through

the trees,

we filled

our bellies with the ripe

fruit

of pears

from the pear tree in the old

man's yard.

go on, he said.

have as many

as you like, take away

all you can carry

when your job is done

painting my house.

so we did.

and again the next day.

biting into

the pale green fruit,

our pockets bulging

when we left.

i've never

had another pear

since then.

forgive

forgiveness

is a difficult thing to come by.

but needed.

a hard

pill to swallow,

when you know they'll never

change,

or become a better

person than what

they are.

but you do feel sorry for them,

stuck in their

ways

of going about in the world.

you let them

go.

you forgive seventy times

seven.

but you never completely

forget.

and that they will always

know.

what? him too?

when i hear

that the most popular kid

in the class

had died,

i'm stunned, shocked.

he played

on all the teams,

was smart,

and loved by students

and teachers alike.

most likely to

succeed.

destined for great things.

i turn the page to his

many pictures

in the year book

from 1970.

smiling from ear

to ear.

a cheerleader on either

side.

tall and lean,

Hollywood handsome.

valedictorian.

and yet, and yet. somehow

he too,

has managed

to die.

the crumbling foundation

the house had bad bones.

the plumbing

was old and rusted,

leaks

were everywhere,

water dripped through

the ceilings,

the floors, and the wires

strung like

antique veins sparked

from the plugs,

all of them frayed.

the roof was missing

shingles,

the shutters in the wind

swayed.

even the foundation

was crumbling.

and yet we moved in

anyway.

like us, it had little

hope of surviving

another day.

hey, what are you doing?

i'm more

concerned with charging things

now.

i'm wired up

to phones

and laptops,

desktops,

cars

and a variety of implements

that keeps

me connected

to the 21st century.

i check the battery

status

on a continual basis.

do i have enough

juice, enough bars,

enough power

to get me through

the day. please, God,

don't let me

miss a call, a text,

a note

from someone

who needs to say a

complicated and important

communication, 

like

hey.

her at the piano

i remember

her long hands on the keyboard.

the blue

stream of veins.

the rings.

the bracelet

dangling.

were they gold or silver?

i can see

them now, her fingers

dancing

effortlessly

across the keys, 

striking hard or softly

depending

on the songs

needs.

her bare feet pressing

pedals.

i remember her that way.

relaxed

and outside of herself.

all troubles

gone

for a few minutes

at least,

and if it was good day,

she'd sing.

every dish in Mexico

i like Mexican

food,

i do.

but it's all the same

just rearranged

differently depending

on the name.

rice,

beans,

chicken, beef,

guacamole sauce,

wraps, hard or soft.

throw

in tomatoes, lettuce

and cheese,

and a few hot peppers

and there you

go.

you have the ingredients

of every dish

in Mexico.

we're men, we got this

men in general,

don't like

to go to therapy

to work out their problems.

parental,

or in marriage,

relationships in general.

they take things out

on chopping

wood,

or by drinking beer

with friends.

pumping iron

at the gym.

television helps.

maybe gambling,

or a risky sport like

jumping out

of planes.

no need for chit chat,

or a self help

books.

get that box of tissues

away from me.

we got this.

a place where nothing changes

imagine

a world where nothing changes.

where there is no

variety,

no change of season.

no spice of life.

the food is bland,

the land

barren

beyond the window.

just sand.

imagine no love

and affection.

imagine a year of that.

i can tell

you that story if you'd

care to listen.

the dog knows

the dog knows

what you

want to know.

is this person good,

or bad.

someone to be feared?

the hair

standing up on his

back

and the growl,

the baring of teeth

ready

to snap,

answers your question.

what the sun has done

alone

in the large waiting room.

scrolling my

phone,

waiting

to be called in

to the doctor.

it occurs to me that

i may

be old now.

despite the  bright

green t-shirt

and tennis shoes,

the ball cap

and muscled arms

from the gym,

i'm there.

i've arrived.

and now they need to 

remove

what the sun has done

through the years

from my skin.

the hard scratch

it's just

a drop of blood, a mere

wet

dot of red

on the white sheets.

it was rough night

of bad

dreams, but i had

no idea

there was bloodshed.

i search myself

to find the exit wound.

who is the itch

that needed such

a hard scratch?

i've broken a nail

she breaks

a nail

and cries out.

i've broken a nail.

i look at the red

polished daggers

at the end of

her fingers.

i don't know about these

things.

the hardships

of being a woman.

my nails

are bitten down

to quarter

moon like slivers.

i've never

broken a nail. not once.

i suggests she do

the same,

which sort of ends

our date.

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.