the fine print on medicare

the rules

and regulations of social

security

and Medicare

are mind numbing.

the five-inch-thick

ever changing manual

of small

print.

the restrictions

and penalties,

the sign-up options

and deadlines.

divorced or not divorced,

married

for how long?

who gets what and when.

at what age

do you begin to draw.

how much are you allowed

to make,

how much does the IRS

take?

which plan is best for you?

do i ever get

an inflationary raise?

A and B,

C and D.

it'a all a convoluted stew.

fruit loops and pop tarts

what was

morning if not a bowl of

sweetened

oats,

cereal laced in food dyes.

chock full

of sugar.

buttered toast

and a tall glass of strawberry

milk.

maybe a pop tart

for the road.

nothing

has changed, you think,

as you look

around

at the obesity

on the playground.

children the size of grown

men

and children, cheeks full,

and

perfectly round.

one fell swoop

is it better

to use one bomb

in a one fell swoop

to end things,

or to choose

a thousand small ones.

killing

in lesser doses

over a longer period

of time.

there are the questions

that

face

the end of times.

which way to go

you can

see which way the wind is blowing

by the movement

of the flag

on the post,

the sway of trees,

how people

are leaning into the wind

holding onto hats

as they press

forward.

if only

the rest of life was that

easy

to figure out.

jambalaya

there is no

right or wrong, 

each to his own

scratch

or scar,

misfortune.

the length or weight of

us is oddly

given.

the cells that allow

us to

do math, or write, or read.

our eyes,

blue or green.

some that see, while

others blind.

such a mishmash

of humanity.

spicy and bland.

each to his own

color

and shape,

a variety of sizes.

all of us bouncing along,

making our

way in life as best

we can.

falling asleep

at night to dream.

it starts off with a slice of pie

there's something

wholesome

about a woman

who knows

how to bake

an apple pie.

how she tells you to sit

down.

take your shoes off.

let me cut you a slice.

she pours the milk

and puts out a fork

and knife.

would you like a scoop

of vanilla ice cream

on that.

yes dear, i tell her,

that would be nice.

she's throws in a kiss

to the cheek.

and smiles, saying

no charge for that.

we're in love, and 

i promise you, we'll

never fight

if you make me your wife.

unfriended

my friends

are fading fast. i should have

liked that

photo

of the cake,

the cat

climbing the tree.

given a thumbs, and a

happy birthday

shout out

to that guy

who i haven't

seen since high school.

i should have shared the picture

of the scrambled

eggs i made

this morning.

told everyone

that i was going to the zoo

on the train.

i should have

shown the mosquito bite

red and swollen

on my leg.

i need to be more proactive

with my friendships

on here.

i'm down to a few siblings,

and a few

people

that are dead.

the filling station

we try to

but we can't ignore

the grease

of the station, the oil

cans

stacked, the cat on the counter.

the pin up

calendar

stuck

on Rita Hayworth.

it's on a back

road

heading towards

Winchester.

the last stop the sign

says

for cigarettes

and gas.

we pull up,

and

use the bathroom,

the large

key

on a wrench. neither

of us

sits down.

we manage though.

the man's wife asks us

if we want

a cantaloupe, she grows

them in the yard

around back.

we take one, and a map.

they both

wave to us as we pull away,

the tank

filled,

they yell out, we appreciate

your business,

hurry back.

keep your eyes down

the rules now

are that you

don't make eye contact

or say

hello to strangers anymore.

when you're on the path

riding your

bike, or walking, you

keep your head down

and look straight ahead.

you pretend that other

people don't exist, that

they aren't really there.

focus on your phone

whether it's ringing or not.

this goes for on the streets

too.

head down, arms by

your side, say nothing.

acknowledge no one,

pretend that it's only you

that exists in the world.

keep walking

and don't turn around.

sharks in the water

you don't give

up on God, but you kind of throw

modern religion

over the side of the boat.

the gowns

and hats,

the pedophile priests

and ministers.

the prosperity preachers

with their

mega churches

and zombie eyed parishioners.

t.v. evangelists

promising

blessings for a thousand

dollar check.

all those shiny people

flying around

in private jets.

sharks in the water

with people now desperate.

you're sort of done

with all that.

mr softee man

we are all

still running towards

the ice cream

truck,

the bell in our ears,

the tune

stuck in our ears.

coins in our hands.

we're running

always

running in the hot summer

sun

for the sweet cone

hoping the truck will

stop,

and we'll have our turn.

crumbling

the cities

are crumbling with trash

and crime,

God hep you

if you take the subway,

or make

a wrong turn down

a street.

the jails are full.

the psychiatrists are busy.

no manners anymore.

no respect

of elders.

no book in hand.

parents

aren't parents anymore.

children now rule

the world.

uneducated, confused

about their sexuality.

perpetually weak,

proclaiming now

that it's their turn

to speak.

a letter of apology

i write the apology,

then rewrite it.

i put it in an envelope,

then tear it back

open. i rewrite what i said.

i start over.

i think about all the things

i wish i could take back,

then remember

what Allie said to Ryan

in Love Story, that cringe

movie from the sixties.

love means never having

to say you're sorry.

total b.s.

saying sorry, and actually

being sorry are two different

things.

i send the letter anyway,

despite not really being

sorry. it's a mess.

a little off the top

the barber

would snip and snip

as i sat

in the enormous leather

chair.

just a boy.

he always had

an Italian hoagie

full of deli

meats and dripping

oil onto the counter.

i could smell

the garlic

and onions on his breath.

i can still

see his thick

dark hands

as he moved the scissors

and comb

about my head.

singing a song i didn't

understand.

simplify

simplify,

simplify, throw the dead

weight

over the side.

reduce,

revise.

draw your life in 

a straight line.

there's still time to untangle

the mess 

you've made.

here's a sharp

knife,

now cut those toxic

vines.

tourists

you

can't have an oversized

umbrella

on Manhattan

streets.

you learn

that quickly as people

duck

and dodge

your metal

swords

with rain pouring

down.

they shake their heads

and sigh,

tourists.

the tracks of you

i see

the tracks of you.

your

pointed

shoe,

the dragged tail,

i see you.

i see past you.

i smell

the cold pot

of 

your stagnant stew.

how unmotherly

of you,

to be this way.

unloving

to the nth degree.

black blooded

and careless with all

the clues.

enjoy the moment

the sun feels

apologetic as it kindly

lays

upon

your face, 

while you read

at the table

in the yard.

we don't speak.

for what words are

there to say

to excuse the absence

of a loved one.

we just enjoy 

the moment, for it

is brief.

the wall clock

when my

ears are having a good day

i can

hear the mid-century

wall clock

doing what it does in

keeping

time.

it's a nice strong

tick

as the hands swing

forth.

a small axe

chipping at wood.

just one more minute

of listening,

then off

to work.

crying babies

if it's not your baby

on the train,

the crying

is hard to take.

it fills your ears and you

wonder

why aren't they

taking care of this noise.

feed the poor child

or change him.

do something

to make the blood curdling

screams go

away.

where is the binky,

the blanket,

the bottle, or toy?

it's your turn now,

to raise the child,

not mine.

the yellow birds

they are birds

alighting

on the house in yellow

aprons.

one for

each floor.

they arrive almost

wordlessly,

taking the key from

under the mat.

around they

go,

then back.

flapping their wings,

whirlwinds with dusters

and mops.

putting a shine

on everything.

no time to stop.

another

house awaits down

the block.

stretching it out

my mother

full of worry,

would take her blood pressure

everyday

at the dining room

table.

she'd check her

glucose.

she'd prick her finger

for blood.

there were pills, and creams,

lotions,

shadows

on x-rays.

she'd do

yoga on the back porch

in the morning

sun.

with a cup

of herbal tea

she'd do puzzles to keep

her mind sharp.

she'd even pray

for good health.

and yet

she died anyway.

along route 4

how calm

the vultures are, 

judge black, and pensive

in their

oiled robes,

standing

by the side

of the road.

they wait

for the next meal,

knowing

there is always more

to come.

their ears

listening for screeching

of tires,

the turn

of wheels, wild life

drifting

onto the road,

another meal.

where are they now?

where did i set

it down,

those keys,

that book.  that note

i wrote

to myself.

where are all the things

i need.

the nerve

to go on.

the courage to wake

up

and begin again,

the sturdy boots

to climb into 

another day.

what is it?

was it

her hand on mine,

or

the kiss as we parted.

was it

how she walked

away

when we

said goodnight.

was it

the moon, the stars.

was it

the timing being

right.

what makes it any

different,

this time?

a cold glass of milk

it's everything

this cold glass of milk

before me.

it's youth.

it's sunlight, green fields.

it's a summer

full of tomorrows.

the glass

in your small hand,

as you turn

it to your eager mouth.

your mother

pouring more.

she sees the good in you.

your cold cold heart

you have

have to dig deep,

be bent in sorrow,

get lines

on your face,

have an aching in your bones

to write a song

like that.

you have to almost

lose the will

to live,

to go on, to pen

a masterpiece like that.

it's beyond

heartbreak.

it's the eternal

damnation

of never healing from

being wronged.

you get one song like

that

per lifetime.

your cold cold heart.

more more more

it's a drug,

this commerce, these

sales

tempting you with every

turn of the head,

click of the key

board.

so much to buy to try

and fill

that unfillable

hole

in your soul. more,

more more.

a new car,

a new house,

another shiny ornament

for your tree.

another

watch for your wrist,

hat for your head.

clown

no one

likes clowns. they aren't

funny.

there's nothing

funny

about them,

the nose,

the shoes, the flower

that squirts

water

in your eyes.

that tumbleweed

of orange hair.

who cares.

they are frightening

to everyone,

with their painted smiles,

their painted frowns.

remembering everything

fear not.

no need to worry.

i will

remember all of this

in technicolor.

each line

said, as if a play

i've watched a hundred

times.

that nuanced

glance,

that

clever detail, you

thought i'd miss.

all of it.

all of it is forever

in my head.

i can sleep through anything

i have

napped through lesser things.

parents

arguing.

dogs barking.

i have slept soundly

through

the night,

despite thunder, or

the roar

of fire engines racing

to some house

set aflame.

televisions

blaring

from another room,

phones ringing.

when i'm that tired,

there's

little one can do.

even

the tragedy of you,

won't

stop the next dream.

feeding slowly on Lowell

i take my

time

foraging through this book,

the tome

of Lowell,

his life and times.

his convoluted mind,

his brilliant

lights, a confessional,

of course

laid out in

poetic lines.

i nibble the pages,

take

small bites and move

on

to another that

pleases me.

i can't go from top

to bottom.

shelf to shelf.

i need to feed slowly

on what

this man is all about.

365 days of love bombing

she sent

a card on arbor day,

then another

on flag

day.

roses were sent on Valentine's

Day,

a gift

was on my

porch for Christmas,

jelly

beans in a basket

with eggs

for Easter.

for Veteran's Day

i got a flag

stuck in my yard.

my birthday was filled

with balloons

and cake.

on thanksgiving she left

a turkey,

stuffed

and baked.

for new years, she

left a bottle of champagne

and a whistle

to toot.

for labor

day she left 

a calendar.

and an alarm clock.

she left something

for me

nearly every day.

it'll end soon though.

the police are on their way.

click click click, then post

it's the image

we portray, isn't it?

you don't

need money,

or virtues,

just look

as if you have them.

extend

that credit and put

a shine

on the rust you own,

throw some

wax onto

your immoral

life.

hold the camera

high

on your rented

boat, just click

and click and click,

then post.

half in half out

nothing

is completely true

or false.

there's a middle, a fine

line

we tip toe daily

across.

half in

half out,

always measuring

our words,

careful

with what we say,

and at what

cost.

losing our way

we need

laws, we need boundaries

and restrictions,

rules

to go by.

we need in part to be

fenced in,

corralled

like animals, at times,

no longer

relying on our conscience

to keep

us free from

sin, from running

like lemmings

off the cliff.

it seems

we've lost our way.

Godless and forsaken,

some say.

the one hour honeymoon

the honeymoon

lasted

about an hour, and then she answered

her phone,

which had

been dinging

the whole time we made

love.

it was her

married boyfriend

of ten years, asking

for one more

chance.

he told her he was leaving

his wife

right after Valentine's day.

just give me

one more

chance. please. please.

i can't live

without you.

she showed me his texts

and the picture

of himself

on his boat, holding a sea bass,

with tears

streaming down his face,

wilting his

grey mustache.

what should i do, she asked me

as she lay

in bed wearing her

honeymoon

lingerie, with church rice

still in her hair.

do i believe him this time?

should i give him

another chance?

the 1-800 chat line

feeling

lonely i dial up the 1-800 chat

line.

it's late,

i've had a few

cocktails,

and my hand is deep into

a bag of Doritos.

a woman

comes on the line.

she sounds sweet and sexy,

but with a high pitched

Minnie mouse voice.

she lets out a long deep sigh

until she

starts coughing and

slapping herself

in the chest.

she excuses herself

and then

comes back onto the call.

hello sugar bear, she says.

i'm back.

smoker?

i ask. yes, she says.

two packs a day, i can't quit,

now where were we sweetheart?

i'm wearing

almost nothing, she says.

just a smile

and a pair of handcuffs.

what are you wearing?

i look at my

t-shirt with Dorito stains on it,

and my red Christmas boxer

shorts that my ex

wife gave me.

i still have my black socks

on from work.

i describe my clothes to her.

oh my, she says,

coughing again.

hacking up a lung.

are you okay?

hey, you should try hypnosis

for your cigarette

addiction, i tell her.

really, she says, clearing her throat.

yes. it really works.

after one session i gave

up cigars and the hookah pipe.

hmmm,

she says, back to her sexy

voice.

so, darling, tell me what you like

to do in the boudoir?

you know what, can i call you

back

tomorrow?

i'm really sleepy now. am i being

charged for this?

i mean nothing

happened on my end, okay?

nothing sticks like they said it would

i'm having

words with the glue

i'm

spreading

along

the edges of this broken

lamp.

not quite porcelain,

but

perhaps

some sort of Chinese

glass.

nothing sticks

despite

the promise on the label,

the ads

i've seen on tv.

in the end it collapses

on itself

and falls to the floor.

i grab my coat

and hat.

time for a new lamp.

the beach house

we buy

a house at the beach

so that we can

see the ocean

from the top

floor, 

where we sleep.

it's been our dream

forever.

we wake up

and stretch, looking

out the window

at the beautiful view.

the blue

stretch of water,

the sand,

the gulls, all of it.

we open

the window and breathe in

the salty air.

this goes on

for about a week or so,

then strangely

no more.

her rescue dogs

she's older

now,

i see her out the window

with a new

set of rescue dogs.

the three

of them together

limp along

in the muggy air.

her with her plastic bags

and well

worn leashes.

the dogs

keep dying on her.

she gets them late in life,

from the pound,

or some online site.

she says

nothing to them.

gives them no commands,

no direction,

like her

they seem to wander

until

the walk is done.

it's love, it seems to be

something

else

i know nothing of.

the flight instructor

as his small

plane

sputtered across orange

county,

he didn't care

if he landed

safely or crashed,

for what was

there to live for.

a wife

he didn't love,

children

he couldn't stand.

bills

and the promises

of more.

old age,

next stop.

that lovely mountain

over there, 

he thought,

looks like as good a place

as any

to end it all.

why not?

give me a reason

does the mud

stop

you, rarely.

like the child you are,

you step right into the thick

of it and sink

up to your ankle.

there's the hose

in the yard,

the brush

and broom,

the tub to throw them

into.

these shoes once

new.

favored over so many

others, but now

you have a good reason

to buy more.

peace at home

chills,

i get in remembering.

a quick

shiver

up the spine.

i peek

out the window,

secure the door.

all seems

well for now,

all is fine.

but it's never far

away,

its locked with

permeance,

inside my fragile

mind.

my total recall

of the past

is terribly

unkind.

no school tomorrow

it's nothing i haven't

heard before,

or

grown up with.

the loud

crash,

violent curses,

the tinkling of broken

glass,

the slash,

the blood, the footprints

leading in,

then out.

there's nothing new

to see here,

my mother's arm

in a cast,

the phone cord

sliced

in half,

the dog cowering

in your lap.

ah, there they are at

last,

policeman

with clubs against

the door.

it's Saturday night after all.

no school

tomorrow.

miles and miles in front of us

we were

working overtime

in the sun,

laying

a new stretch of road.

shovels and rakes,

in hand,

shirtless, wearing

heavy boots,

and darkened jeans.

black

tar

for ten miles.

we couldn't see the end

of it.

we were young.

and the money

was good

as the fumes stuck

to our lungs.,

our faces,

our hair. but life

was almost perfect.

tomorrow

there would be more

roads to tar,

there were miles

and miles

in front of us,

all summer long.

a new lamp

the new

one lamp, with the bright

white

shade

topples

everything, as if the world

is a set

of dominoes.

one by

one, the art goes,

the rug,

the shade,

the table.

the lamp has altered

the world

you once

knew.

this house is coming soon

a few years after

the wife died, the old

man is finally wheeled out to some

rest home

in the far reaches

of the county.

at 97 he's finally done.

it's oatmeal time

from here on out, fed

by little spoons.

the boxes

of fifty

years are carted up

the stairs,

the attic and all rooms

cleared of

frayed

furniture,

broken tables,

silverware never used.

dust heavy drapes

are pulled from the windows.

thin mattresses

from high school

still on the floor

are carried out.

the cobwebs and secrets

in closets

are slowly removed.

the daughters,

now old and tired,

alone in their shrinking worlds,

arrive to take

what they want.

their own war chests of

victories

and wounds.

the house is gutted.

every inch is painted,

fumigated,

the floors stripped

and stained,

stoves and sinks,

bathrooms,

everything is new,

the outside too.

the tall shrubs, the weeds

dug up.

the drive way is paved

a black

that shines in the sun.

it's almost as if nothing

ever happened here.

all is gone.

a sign

is hammered into the yard.

coming soon.

the grocery clerk

he taught

for years, maybe twenty

or more

at the community college.

he loved

his work.

his students.

he was full of Dante,

Dostoevsky

Hemingway

and Plath,

and then i saw him

at the grocery

store,

bagging milk

and bread,

oranges.

retired at last.

he nodded to me and

said, hey,

how's it going.

still writing, i hope.

it's in us all

despite all

we've seen,

cruelty still bothers us.

no

matter how long

one lives,

survives

in this world, the acts

of violence

still

stun us to the bone.

how could

they, could he or she,

do such

things.

where

is the humanity?

is this in us all?

jealousy

is there

a worse state of mind

than

jealousy.

of that sick green

fog of

worry.

the hive of wasps let

loose in

your gut,

knowing but

not knowing,

uncertain

about the fidelity

of your loved

one.

there's smoke eking

out of the barrel

of the gun,

blood tracks

are on the floor, 

and yet

still

you're unsure.

go on, it won't kill you

at thirteen,

in our thin leather coats,

they passed around

the cigarette

up on

the hill behind the Deale

Drive

apartments.

it was cold and wet,

Christmas break.

i said no,

no thanks.

they looked at me

and laughed.

go ahead,

they said, it won't

kill you.

one puff.

so i did.

my eyes teared, my

lungs burned.

Bobby Bates handed me

a beer to wash

it down,

popping the tab,

it was my last drag

on a cigarette,

and that was that.

say when

as a kid,

the first time

you see the giant wooden

pepper

shaker

at a fancy restaurant,

you think, wow,

what value

there must be in pepper.

it takes

a special visit

by the waiter

to crunch it upon your

plate.

asking you to say when

as he

holds the enormous

shaker with his hands,

leaning it against

his shoulder.

it's an odd thing.

when you get home

you stare

at your mother's salt

and pepper

shakers

on the kitchen table

next to the toaster

and bottle

of ketchup.

they are

shiny porcelain things,

shaped like small dogs.

you wonder

what the difference is.

the death of the soft shell crab

she likes

her soft shell crabs,

in season,

while

i gag

and turn away,

blocking

the carnage

with the giant

plastic menu.

i can't look as she

crunches

into it's back,

it's claws,

it's whitened legs.

the spot of hot

sauce

looks like a gunshot.

the sound of her teeth

crunching

into the lifeless

crustacean

is frightening, while

the life juices

of the dead crab

drips

from the corner

of her smile.

the horror.

the horror.

the story of my life

it felt

like a Stephen King

story.

my printer

began printing

during the night and

wouldn't stop.

i came into

the dark room

and pushed all the buttons,

pulled the plug,

but it kept

going

and going until

the paper

was out.

i fed it more paper.

then it continued on.

i started to read what

it was printing.

it was story

of my life.

from birth until now.

i shut

the door to block

the noise

and went back to bed.

i didn't want

to know

how it all turned out.

stop by anytime

in the olden days,

the golden days, back

in the last century,

when you moved into a

new neighborhood

people greeted you,

waved and said hi.

they brought you a tuna

casserole and invited you

to the block party

in July. they asked if

you needed anything,

they gave you their names

and phone numbers,

introduced you to their

children and dog.

they pointed up the street

to where they lived

and said things like

stop by any time.

you became friends,

friends for life.

the doors were never locked.

born to run and run and run...

as

the rock legend,

thickened

with time,

trips

on the steps leading

up

to the stage

in Amsterdam. you cringe.

at how

quickly

old age comes upon

us, even

stars,

and yet

what else is there to do,

but play on.

play on.

sing and strum 

that old

guitar.

the Linden Tree

as

they cut and saw,

hack

away

at the three hundred year

old Linden Tree,

tears fall.

children

have climbed it,

weddings

have been held below

it.

generations have

come and gone

as it continued to rise

and bloom

in each

new season.

and now

it comes down.

limb by limb,

as we all will, but

in lesser

time.

so long.

all fair game

it's all fair game,

the swift,

the dumb, the fleet of

foot

and wounded.

each

in the open field

as you

point

your pen, cocked

and

loaded.

there is no malicious

killing

of such prey,

just another meal

to lay

upon the your page.

living in the city

live in any city

long enough and you know

where not to go,

in any

hour or time of day.

bullets are in the air.

car jackings,

muggings,

fun stuff that you see on

the news every day.

you learn

how to take the long

way around.

windows up,

doors locked.

it's jungle out there.

she doesn't live here anymore

the metal sign

on the door says, so and so

lived here.

Edgar Allan Poe,

the date

given,

then another, says,

Richard Nixon,

one more,

says

Gerald Ford.

another reads Alice.

i give

a knock to the door.

a proper burial

it was a proper

burial.

you know,

the black limousines,

the flowers,

prayer

and ritual,

the whole deal.

no one said a bad

word

in public about her,

lips

were sealed,

but later,

at the pub, after a few

hours of

heavy

drinking.

the truth was revealed.

is it luck?

is it luck,

fate,

divine intervention,

that guides our life,

destiny?

or a combination of

all of the above?

a mishmash

of whatever,

is God playing dice

with the universe,

pulling the bar on

the slot

machine,

or is He

too busy for the likes

of us?

the yellow peep

like

that yellow bird

on the sill

peering in.

a puff of sunlight.

a nervous

jittery little fellow,

i hear

from you.

from your small but

energetic

wings.

the peep

a whispering.

taking the day off

the dishes

in the sink can wait.

so can

the bills on the desk,

the laundry,

and the trash.

all of it can wait.

i'm taking  the day off

from everything,

from you

too.

it's your turn to do

something

around here.

i'll be back later

tonight

and then maybe we

can have that talk you're

always wanting 

to have.

the paper cut

it's just

a small paper cut, but oh

my,

the blood.

the tiny bloom of red

dots

all over

the place.

a trail of crimson

lady

bugs

across the desk,

the book,

dotting

each page, showing

me where

i've stopped.

why work for money

at 35

i don't press the boy about

a job

anymore.

i've given up on that.

i don't hint at the value

in saving

money, or

the importance

of having

a work ethic.

i'm out of words

with all that.

kids these days.

why

work, why waste your

life

at the wheel

of commerce, when others

can do that

for you.

the asylum visit

i pack

a lunch and make the drive

upstate

to visit the ex

in the asylum.

i hear she's doing better now.

her self inflicted wounds

have healed.

modern

medicine is a wonderful

thing.

she looks great in white,

she looks

like flour,

whitened with age.

her eyes large

and open, squinting

in the light.

her hair wild, and all

over the place.

for the visit

they've loosened 

her straps

and put fresh bandages

around her

wrists.

i put my hand up to the glass

and she

does the same.

we get along so well now.

waiting for fish to bite

the fish

aren't biting, so i move

around to

the other

side of the lake and cast

my line out.

maybe

it's the heat,

the time of day,

the bait.

it doesn't matter.

i have little else to do

today.

i have all

day to wait for the fish

to bite,

and to think of how

my life

went astray.

the light is out in the hallway

my father

calls to tell me the hall light is out

in the hallway.

can i come

down

and change it for him.

it's a four

hour drive, but i say, okay.

i stop

and pick up a six

pack of 60 watt bulbs

and drive

to his house

on the eastern shore.

when i get there,

he has the ladder out.

i change the bulb

then eat a tuna sandwich

with him at his small

round table in the kitchen.

i ask him, if there's anything

else.

he says, no, not now,

but i'll call

if i think of something.

he waves from the door,

as i drive away.

increasing book sales

it's disturbing

to read

about the lives of so many

poets

and writers

who did themselves

in.

mentally unstable

for much

of their lives.

at some point after

a short life

of brilliant writing

they do themselves in.

finding fame

and adoration in

the afterlife.

it's obvious

i'll never be as good

as them.

making beach friends

far out,

beyond where the breakers

break,

where the ocean

flattens

out into a darkish

rough,

i see a man waving.

one hand,

then two.

he seems excited.

i wave back as he

continues

to wave, and yell,

but the stormy

ocean blocks that

out.

he has no boat,

or board,

to hang onto,

but seems happy to be

out that far,

adrift.

i continue to wave,

feeling good that i'm

making

new friends

at last.

she was a good person

i knew

she was a good person.

she had

the stickers on her car

to prove it.

and she

posted daily

ecology

memes,

end the war, 

on her face book page,

aligning herself

far left

with each cause.

it was obvious that

she cared, with

her 

virtue signaling

about whatever current

crisis would

arrive.

for God's sake, she gardened,

even.

she was all about rainbows,

and unicorns.

she smelled like lilac.

and looked

good

in her peasant dress,

her hippie garb,

her head

band,

and peace corps

necklace.

she was mother

and sister

earth.

a relic from a different

time.

she was good, you had

no doubt

about that.

social warriors

i'm curious as to the causes

people

acquire,

whales and wars,

abortion,

and equal rights,

global warming, etc.

ad nauseum.

i see them with their

signs

and good intentions

marching

up Broadway

or Pennsylvania avenue.

when did

they decided to become

a social

warrior?

in what moment did they

open

their eyes

and say, today is the day

i march

then chain myself to the

white house

fence.

when such things mattered

child like

in thought, you were hurt,

stung

by faint praise

or no

praise at all.

being ignored

would harm you, prick

the skin,

draw

blood

on your thin ego.

i remember

when.hw

it seems so long ago

when such

things mattered.

do you remember?

the camera

does not tell it all.

having been there, i disregard

the smiles,

the gaiety

of the photograph,

the blue sky and sun,

are

incidental

to what's really going on.

do you remember?

i doubt it,

but i do.

the orange nehi

even now,

i can still feel the cold iced

water

where i reached

my hand into

the cooler, up to my

elbow,

to secure

the rippled glass bottle 

a nehi

orange soda.

i recall

the tart sugar, cold,

rushing

down my throat

as we stood outside

the corner store,

sun in my young eyes

as i tilted the bottle

homeward.

stage props

i should

care more, or at least show

more

interest

in things like that mountain

over there,

the grand canyon,

red oaks,

and such

monuments of nature.

but i have

little if not zero

interest

on such things.

they seem to be props,

mere

stage background

to bigger

and more

substantial things.

more mysterious doings,

like you and me

for example.

the made bed

better still,

the illusion of

the made bed, the few minutes

alone

with each fold

and stretch,

each

tuck

of sheet and cover.

the toss of pillows

just so,

makes you believe

that

there are reasons

to go on.

the last breath

when

her mother died,

taking her last breath,

the tubes at last

unattached,

the monitor gone flat lined

and silent,

finally

not enough air going into

her fragile

grey lungs,

her daughter's

world collapsed.

what now?

what ear will she find

to speak

into

and get only love

back.

unloading the books

someone

will box these books and carry

them out

to the truck

or curb.

maybe they'll sift through them

and take

one for themselves.

maybe finding

Catcher In the Rye,

and thinking,

i've heard of that.

but most

will curse the heavy

load

they carry from each shelf,

down

the stairs,

up the stairs.

wondering

why.

why so many books.

who reads

anymore?

such a strange person.

what the hell.

the biography

so

full their lives appear to be.

the thick

book

documenting

each breath they took

from birth

until death.

telling us

who they slept with,

what they

ate.

who can stand such

scrutiny.

each foible listed,

each

mistake made.

most books, are short.

most

of our stories

have little to do with

history.

they just fade away,

thankfully.

a brief moment in time

it was a different era.

Kennedy

and Khruschev.

big fin cars,

chubby checker and the twist.

the nuclear

family.

the bomb.

the fall out shelter.

kids

playing in the street.

we were

not yet

on the moon, but

heading there.

it was before

long hair

and Haight Ashbury,

before

Woodstock,

LSD.

it was surf city,

and California

Girls.

it was

before the war

was endless dying,

before

Dallas.

it was before

the bloom was off the rose.

it was a different time.

the dinner party

quietly

i excuse myself,

and slip out the side door.

no fanfare,

or farewells,

no handshakes,

or goodbyes,

just go, be gone,

i take the stairwell,

down i go,

out into the night.

with tie off

gulping in the quiet

of cool air.

unfortunately

in my sweaty palms

i'm still holding

her heirloom

silverware.

late fees

give me the paper

bill,

the paper

statement

in the mail,

the paper notification,

give me

the envelope,

the ink,

the stamp,

the return

portion that i tear off

at the bottom.

give me

the check book,

the pen.

the sign here line.

be done with

your

online banking and

electronic

docusign.

i'm tired of late fees.

the thrill is different

where once

you desired more, now you

see the beauty

in the touch

of a hand,

the mild kiss, or embrace.

so much

said, and remembered

in so little.

it's not that the thrill

is gone,

it's just more

advanced and real,

with age.

the revolving door

i neither let them go,

or do they allow

me to go.

it's just so.

the revolving door

we're born

into

and out of.

the constant flow.

there's always another

side

to enter

as you leave the side

you're on.

hopefully someone's

waiting.

a new love to take

your arm.

the remedy

soft

sand and cold water.

the remedy.

the long

day

of a sun refusing to go

down.

our chairs nested

on the edge of waves.

the wind.

the salt

the muffled cry

of gulls.

the boats in the distance,

on the blue

plain,

with candied white

sails.

how can you

not

love it all.

jackson m.

i remember

buying

his books, underlining

each

clear cut

diamond of a sentence,

defining

the moment i was in or

had endured.

clarifying

and helping

me to survive.

half my

age,

and now gone.

so young to be so

wise,

and yet with him too,

the demons

won.

from where i sit, i see

the bright

yellow cover on 

the shelf.

its light. that will never

die.

keeping up

i envy their lack

of envy,

their disregard for each other's

nest,

or hole

dug in the ground.

there's no worry,

no keeping

up with the jones's.

it's survival

of a better

kind.

the dead bat

it's face pointed

with

open mouth, showing

translucent

teeth,

the eyes open too,

how did it

get here, this clump of

fur,

a small mole

with wings

of sharpened bone,

stuck between the brick

and downspout.

an omen

of sorts, i thought.

and it was.

though at the time

i didn't

trust my instincts,

pressing on with make

believe

love.

it's snowflake white!

do i need a new computer,

no.

the three i have

are quite enough, but i'm

lured by

the sale

online, tempted

to buy

the all in one HP desktop,

with a 27 inch touch screen,

measured diagonally,

with tons of memory,

and a camera to boot.

how clean,

how sexy, it's

snowflake white,

oh my,

do tell.

the wireless keyboard

and mouse.

but what will i do with these

others,

the closet is already

full of printers and monitors,

old phones,

so many electronics i'm unable

to throw out.

one little voice say no,

stop,

while the other screams yes,

you only live

once, why not?

you can leave your hat on

i've reached

an age

where i answer the door in my underwear,

no shirt on.

i take the trash

to curb

in black boxers,

or white

briefs, i

run out to the car

to retrieve something i left

in the trunk.

i don't care

anymore,

but i always put my hat on.

any small thing

is it too small

a thing

to write about?

where would the poem

go,

going on and on

about

the leaky

faucet,

tying it into life and death

the small

tickle of

days going

down the drain.

the sound of it from

the other room.

unstoppable.

yes.

i guess any small thing

will

get us there.

her day at 80

i remember

asking

my friend who was 80 at the time,

how she spent her

day.

she brought out a tray

of cups

and saucers,

a kettle of tea,

some sugar and cream.

we sat in her garden,

besides the new flowers,

under her

favorite tree.

it was neither summer

or spring,

but the kind of weather

that falls

gently in between.

well, she said, today,

we do this,

you and me, talking books

and film.

you tell me your worries,

your ambitions,

and i tell you

that later, after going to

the post office

i'll take a nap.

and maybe, after dinner

take a short

walk

with my dog.

at night i'll go to bed

and read,

until i'm too tired to go on.

i'll mark

the page,

then fall asleep.

what's the deal with your God?

in an accusatory manner

she used

to condemn

my faith by saying things like

well how

do you like them apples.

look what your God

has done now.

she'd stick the daily news under

my nose

and show me a flood or

fire,

whole towns wiped

out by

some plague,

or someone lying in the street

full of bullet wounds.

bombs blowing up,

cats stuck up in trees.

what's wrong with your

God, she'd say.

how can a loving and kind,

compassionate God

let things like this

go on?

yup, i'd say it's a mystery

why horrible things

happen, like me and you

being together.

it beats me.

sorry, but i didn't catch your name

i find

it hard to remember names.

they slip

from my mind

as quickly as they enter.

they evaporate

and fade

with the sound of the voices

attached.

but i do remember

what was said, or left

unsaid,

i remember

the lettuce stuck

between teeth,

the sadness or joy

in someone's eyes,

the scar

upon a chin or cheek.

i remember the grey roots

in their hair,

slowly

creeping into

the blonde or brunette.

i remember not the name,

but recall

almost all the rest.

trees in storm

of course,

that is the answer, isn't it?

to bend,

to continually bend

in whatever

storm

or wind

that comes upon us.

despite each darkness,

each

catastrophe, bend,

keep bending,

don't break.

do you know a good plumber?

people often ask me,

because i'm in a 

blue collar trade,

do you know a good plumber,

a good electrician,

a good

housekeeper,

or landscaper.

someone that does floors.

i write down

a few names, a few

numbers.

they look over my shoulder

at my rolodex,

and say, hey,

give me those too,

your therapist and your

divorce lawyer.

old fashion crime

another car is

stolen from in front of someone's

house.

a store robbed

at gun point.

identity theft,

and credit card fraud.

a door pried open,

the jewelry

gone.

packages

are swiped off the porch.

i miss the good old

days,

when pickpockets

were a problem.

they slip away

in time we lose touch

with others,

even with siblings,

and cousins.

lovers have become

strangers.

distance

and years have pushed

us away.

a gradual

fade.

old friends once a daily

part of your life,

have slipped

into some vague fog,

almost

dream like.

paper plates

my mother

would buy paper plates by

the hundreds.

it was easier that way

with seven

mouths to feed and

with no

dishwasher in sight, only

her raw pink hands,

but you had

to gauge

the amount of food you

placed upon

the fragile plates.

mashed potatoes were

a problem

as was gravy.

pork chops had to be

served

one at a time.

it was always a challenge

to unbend

the forks

that had been used earlier

to pry

open a paint can,

or unstick a stuck

drawer, but we managed.

our cooking styles

in the kitchen

we each have our styles.

i like

to be quick about things,

chop and dice,

sauté,

while you

like to lolly gag about.

stirring slowly

while reading

a recipe.

i'm fast with the stove,

the knob turned

full,

while you're

a crock pot sort of gal.

low heat,

a simmer, then taste,

forever

taking your time.

it occurs to me, as i watch

you cook, that

nothing changes in

the bedroom

either.

where'd you hear that?

when i hear

you using expressions that i've

never

heard you use

before,

i question where you've been

and with who.

having

never read a book, or

watched

a movie that didn't involve

a comic book

character,

i wonder what's up

with you.

saying clever and cryptic

things is

obviously suspicious,

and something new.

the black bear and other stories

near exhaustion

from

your trip, your tales of travel,

from Yellowstone

to the Pyrenees,

i fix us

another drink

then sink into the big chair

across from

you, and the photo

album.

heavy in your lap.

i've paused you in mid story

about the black

bear,

but please go on,

and nudge me if you suddenly

hear a trace

of snoring.

just say no

you stop doing things

you don't want

to do.

it's taken a while

to get there, but finally

you say no

to attending

the wedding, or

to meeting the parents,

the siblings,

you refuse to walk someone's

dog,

or watch their cat,

you just say no.

the party invitation,

jumping

into the pool when asked.

no thank you,

you say,

no exuses,

no lies, no made up

stories about why you

can't be there.

you just say no,

i'm sorry. the walk away.

i'm here all night

things weren't working out,

i needed air,

a new

place to lie down in.

so i

booked a few nights

at the local inn.

the edge of town.

near

the tracks,

near the abandoned

warehouse.

three nights

i told

the lady at the desk.

double or queen

she said,

while eating a tuna

sandwich.

just me, i replied.

just me.

a twin bed would be

fine as well.

we have free wifi

and color tv, she said

with a smile

handing me the key.

do you need help with

your luggage?

no, i said, showing her

my toothbrush,

i'm good.

well, she said as she

wiped mayonnaise

off her chin,

if you need to talk about

anything,

i'm here all night.

i've heard these stories

before.

it's a woman, right?

the Catholic girl

how will

i know when you're satisfied,

i ask her,

as she kisses

me on

the cheek and bites

my lip.

drawing blood.

how will i know

when you've had,

enough,

that it's over?

when i untie you, 

she says,

with a dark smile,

but first

the whip.

i'll not move an inch

before the rain,

i go outside to sit at the black

table

and open

a book,

The Red Comet,

that i may

never finish,

but the trees have my interest

now,

the dance

of leaves, the ominous

clouds,

it feels dangerous

and sexual.

this sudden swirl of wind.

the roar

of thunder imitating

war.

the power in and out

with itself,

the flashes of light

like swords.

i'll wait it out, i'll not move

an inch

until it

pours.

a tin full of ashes

it comes

down to money, doesn't

it?

can we afford it.

another child,

a new car.

that dress in the window?

coupons are cut,

pennies

saved.

is there enough in the bank

for a vacation,

two star,

or three. enough

cash in the bank

for our

teeth, or

to have a maid

just once a week.

we count and count

and count,

even in the end,

someone is taking

measure

of us.

will it be wood or steel,

brass,

perhaps gold inlaid?

or cheaper still,

perhaps

we'll cremate.

McLean asylum

what is,

what was this place,

the asylum

on the hill, taking in

so many

that we know.

through

song, or book, or

show.

they seemed so

bright,

so smart.

poetic.

what demon has got

to them

where they need

electro

shock treatments,

therapy

around the clock,

lobotomies,

and more?

three squares  day

and a tennis

court,

a place for the crazy

rich, no doubt,

not the poor.

the penniless are still on 

under bridges,

having conversations

with ghosts,

inventing lives

while

begging at the corner.

waving from a boat

people

love to wave from

ships,

from small

boats

on the sea or lake.

they extend their arms

in the breeze,

beneath

the sun,

and smile.

they are happy to be

out on the water.

away

from it all.

a joy expressed

in a carefree

wave to strangers,

with feet on the ground,

still on

the shore.

the Catholic Chat Room

you need to pray

more,

Father Smith tells me

in the Catholic

chat room.

all of you need to pray

more.

but,

i tell him. i'm getting

mixed signals

from God.

rarely do i ever get exactly

what i'm asking

for.

Father Smith

types in, what are you a child,

is God Santa Claus

for crying out loud?

is He coming down

the chimney

with some hot blonde

and a bag

of money?

do you think there's

going to be

a Mercedes Benz in

front of your house

because you

prayed for one?

no.

you need to make your

prayers

a little easier to fulfill.

He's under a lot of pressure

you know

with global warming,

and wars,

inflation, etc.

how about you lose some

weight,

and get a job?

she's a very busy girl

i find a pair

of shoes under my bed.

they aren't mine.

they are black and recently

polished.

size 11.

i get on my knees

and look

under the bed,

there's a man under there,

trying to hide

in the shadows.

i hear a rattle in the closet,

so i open

up the doors,

another man.

the toilet flushes, i

knock.

a man says, hey,

i'm busy in here.

my wife, geeze, i just

can't trust her

anymore.

we're growing meat now

i ask

Martha, who

is still wearing her

lab coat and hazmat

helmet, what this is on my

plate.

what kind of meat

is this?

pass me the gravy,

i ask her,

reaching over for

another slab

of something

that seems to be glowing

a little

with a purplish hue.

i grew it she says

in the lab

at work.

it's a combination

of elk

and chicken, some

trout dna too,

we grafted those cells

together

and voila.

bon appetite.

it'll stop moving in

a minute.

time to let go

i am unable

to let go of things.

i realize this

as i open

the ice box

and see

a multitude

of mysteriously wrapped

hunks of

what looks like

ice covered meat,

undated,

fish.

some god forsaken 

broccoli

casserole

left there by a disgruntled

vegan.

anorexic wife.

my therapist tells me

i need to let go

of things,

so i pull the trash can

closer,

and start there.

you have my number

i stare

at the phone waiting

for the New Yorker Magazine

to call,

the Atlantic Monthly,

Poetry,

The Hudson Review,

but no.

there's dead silence.

not a peep, not

a whistle, not a single

wag of the finger

saying come here

dear boy, we want 

them all.

the marshmallow life

the young

man

laughs at you. asks you

why

do you still work,

why aren't you

sitting on your can

drinking

a beer at some beach

resort.

a box

of fried chicken between

your legs

and reading

a book?

he's never worked

a real

day in his life.

his hands are as soft

as the marshmallows

he eats

with his wife, both

of them

on the dole.

clearing the cache

you

have little memory left,

no room,

no storage.

you're chock full of nonsense

that the world

fills you with.

useless information

about movie

stars

and celebrities,

conspiracy theories,

political diatribe.

how can you clean

the cache,

empty the files of your

cerebellum?

erase the temporary

images.

you shake and shake

your head,

no luck.

it's all stuck in there until

dementia

comes along

to give you a clean slate.

don't wait for this

the open

coffin

is hard to bear for loved

ones.

and those

familiar

with his laugh,

his words.

he looks different they

say

in hushed tones,

bending

to touch the wood,

to stare once

more into

his face.

it reminds us

to say love early and often,

don't wait

for this.

after a hard rain

it does

seem simple, 

the white chickens

in the yard.

the cow,

the fence

and blue sky.

what else do we need.

the well,

the land green and

full

of spring seeds

now coming

about.

your hand in mind

as the sun

rises

and blesses us

after a hard rain,

with its shine.

the golden field

to each his own

path

to tomorrow. the limited

land

in front of us.

once a golden field

of sunlight,

a place

called forever,

but still 

there is no ending in sight,

though you can

smell it,

feel it, almost touch it

with your outstretched

hand.

to each

his own way,

in his own stride

and gait,

all arriving eventually

to where

we're they're meant to be,

no one

is ever truly late.

the five star bagel

let's stop

here for a bagel and a cup

of coffee,

she says,

looking at her phone.

yelp gives it three and a half

stars,

the jalapeno

cream cheese is rated the best,

or should we keep

walking and find

a five star deli?

there's one in Soho.

we can catch the cross town

bus,

or the subway,

and be there

in no time at all.

Queens too, has a five

star bagel.

they recommend

the onion.

after the first lie

should

i open that sealed box

in the attic.

should i look under the bed,

or creak

open the medicine

cabinet

while she's in the shower.

should i look

in her purse,

her phone.

should i drive myself

crazy with another

untrustworthy

woman?

or just let it go

with blinders on.

settling for dumb bliss,

letting her secrets remain

unknown?

let's save it for the morning

can we

finish this argument in the morning

i plead

to the angered

wife.

sleep on it?

but she says no,

we're going

to finish this tonight.

i sigh

and take my shoes off,

i loosen my tie.

i miss arguing with the first

wife.

she got it

right.

she was able to leave

things be,

slam

a door, and go to the other

room

for the night.

but not this one.

she wants to dig her heels

in,

load her gun,

and fight fight fight.

so much goes unfinished

very little is decided.

sentences go unfinished,

lines of dialogue

are left hanging

like

unpicked fruit

on a vine.

balloons of thought

are in the air,

no longer

tethered

by the one who

thought them.

very little is finished,

not the poem

the story,

the lie.

things drift off

as they often do,

life rushes forward

with no period pressed 

at the end of each line.

the summer hot dog

you learned

the art

of the summer hot dog

at church

picnics.

the bun,

the relish and mustard

applied

with caution.

you stood in line

beneath

the great oak tree

where

a man in a white

shirt

and suspenders would

tousle your hair.

you were hungry.

sermons did that to you,

kneeling,

then rising,

then kneeling again

in the airless room.

although still absent

of shame

and guilt at that age,

you had a feeling that those

days would come

soon enough,

but here, outside

the church

standing in the dry grass,

you were

hungry, not so much

for worldly

things, or the words

of God.

no. it was real hunger.

you needed food,

and you were next in line,

at last.

dead before the knife

you don't truly

appreciate

the beauty of the rainbow

trout,

or any other

fish

that silently swims

below the world

of air

and light.

we know it, but don't really

understand

the colors, the fins, the eyes.

the magic

of it's life.

they become stranger

now,

and more beautiful than

you realized,

lying still in our waterless

world.

dead before the knife.

the door slightly ajar

we

avoid too much light,

letting

others in

with caution, not hiding,

but being

careful

with our words,

our

current state of mind.

selfish

with out time.

we like

our room less cluttered,

free

from drama,

we eye the world

with suspicion,

with a wariness learned

the hard way.

we tilt

the door just slightly

ajar,

and ask what, or why?

the hundred mile bike ride

she wants

to go on a bike ride.

let's do a hundred miles, she says.

she's wearing

her bike costume,

pink and black,

her biking shoes

strapped

into the pedals.

there's a number on her

back from when

she was in the tour de

Chantilly, Virginia.

she's wearing

high gloss sunglasses,

with a space age helmet.

there's a gps on her handle

bars, with a mirror

and heart monitor

attached.

i look at her, and say okay,

then put my little

dog, Fifi, and a water bottle

into my basket.

adjust my flips flops

and say, okay,

let's go. and oh 

by the way,

there's not a lot of hills

are there?

temporary benevolence

i spend

the day forgiving people.

i don't know

what has gotten into me.

i'm in a very

benevolent mood.

i'm suddenly kind

and empathetic

towards

people that have done

me wrong.

i decide to end all

the grudges

i've been holding inside.

it's like i drank some holy juice

and seen the light.

i make a list then call

them one

by one.

telling them, hey,

remember when you lied

to me,

cheated, betrayed,

stole money,

slandered me,

and broke into my house

and took my dog,

remember that time you were

late

and never called, or the time

you borrowed money

and never paid me back?

well,

i forgive you.

it's a long long day,

but finally i reach the last

name

and start to dial her number,

but stop.

nope.

can't go there.

there's no forgiving that.

she's up to something

my father's new girlfriend,

Ellen,

who

he met at

Krispy Kreme's one

morning

as he picked up a dozen

glazed and

a bear claw,

and a large

coffee,

is suspiciously getting

too close

to him.

she answers his phone.

opens

his mail,

comes in without knocking.

he's ninety-five

and she's

eighty-seven.

always bringing over

a new bottle

of baby oil.

even now it's hard to know

what trouble

he might be in,

as she reads off the numbers

of his lottery

tickets

with a magnifying

glass, then saying nope,

we still didn't win.

his day job

i ask

the boy, the skinny child

man

sunburned,

with golden hair,

on the corner

who stands at the light

and marches

back and forth

at a nice clip with his sign

and plastic

bucket,

how long can he keep

doing this.

how many more years.

he says,

nothing as he walks by,

to grab a dollar from

the car

behind me,

then returns 

when the light turns green.

he tells me

in a loud voice,

it's the governments

fault.

to which i neither

agree

or disagree.

a little strange is okay

i like strange

people,

quirky souls, collectors

of odd things.

out of the box

kind of thinkers.

they're fun

and different than the regular

joes,

they surprise you with

what they

say and do.

i like them,

they're

interesting to be

around,

but not all the time.

the camping trip

i see the neighbor

loading

up his oversized

v8 truck,

raised high

on giant wheels.

his weekend son is with him,

lanky

and quiet,

sixteen years old,

bewildered

and distracted by his phone.

i see fishing rods

go in,

a cooler,

a skim board, folding

chairs and blankets.

a tent.

odd luggage, of various

sizes and colors.

it's for a week

somewhere.

i imagine. 

along some stretch

of the Carolina coast.

i remember trips like that,

trips that i'll

never take again.

i want to yell out the window,

don't forget

the bug spray,

but i don't.

a certain way of doing things

you find

a routine at a certain age

and stick to it.

waking up

at the same hour,

the brushing of teeth,

the cold

shower.

clothes on, then down the stairs

to boil

a pot for coffee.

there's the porch light

that's turned

off.

the paper on the stoop,

retrieved.

there's the letting of the

dog into the yard.

there's the waving

to the woman

out back,

smiling, leering

into my house, so nosy.

the fierce wind

there are days

and then there are days.

some feel

as if they will never end,

while

others

careen by so quickly.

the hours

speeding past,

as if caught in a fierce

wind.

i remember her elbows

i distinctly

remember her elbows.

i recall

the sharpness of them

at the bend

of her stick like arms.

she used to rub lotion on them,

some sort of plant

based suave.

aloe, perhaps.

they were soft elbows.

the skin,

yet strange

and boney, knife like

things. weapons

of some sort.

at night i worried about

my teeth

and eyes. my nose.

sleeping far far away

on the other side.

forever in the game

he needed money

to get out of jail.

a few thousand should do the trick

this time,

for back payments

on child support.

he said he

had a Rolex watch in his

coat pocket

that i could sell.

all i had to do

was break into his locked 

one room rental.

without setting

off the alarm,

then find a pawn shop.

he was exhausting.

the trouble he stayed in.

the courts,

the fines, the law suits.

the car repossessions,

the back taxes,

and child support.

always in the game, but

never winning.

Sunday morning at church

it

was a small 
Baptist church, celery green

and white

walls

within which provided a

calm

of sorts,

i took a peak

inside

at times to use the loo,

or find

a water fountain.

the pews shined of old

wood,

the burning of candles

hung in the air.

there would

be singing,

as pretty girls in dresses

sat, in virginal rows,

like so many

flowers yet picked.

i stopped

bouncing the ball

to watch them enter,

me in the lot

beside the church,

worshiping a different God,

with shirt off at the

basketball

court.

narcissistic tsunami

it's a me

me me kind of world now.

it always

was to some degree

but

it's gone too far.

everyone wants their

fifteen minutes

of fame,

turned into a lifetime

of being a star.

they can't sing, or dance

or write.

no schooling,

no books read, but still

there they are

in front of us 

all day all night.

screaming

to be seen,

wanting desperately to be

loved on

center stage,

forever in the spotlight.

her glasses

after blowing on them,

she rubs

her designer glasses 

against her blouse.

a corner

of her white

blouse, 

one lens then the other.

then puts

them back on.

pushing them onto her nose.

she's ready to tell me

something

of great importance,

something

that i'm sure i already

know.

ten worms equal twenty

sliding the worm

onto

the hook after cutting it in half

with a butter knife,

was bad enough,

but not nearly

as bad

as pulling the hook

out of a fish's

hard lip

when you reeled one in.

the fish all slimy

and jittery refusing

to sit still,

his lungs gagging on air,

as you

held him down on a rock.

what lives

these creatures

endure at the hands of

small children.

whatever happened to what's her name?

i run into somebody,

who i barely

recognize,

who asks

hey, whatever happened

to what's her name,

who?

you know, that girl?

the girl you were seeing

for a while?

which one?

you know the one, about

this tall,

dark hair,

blue eyes.

geeze, i have no clue.

i think you have me confused

with someone else.

aren't you, ummm.

no.i'm not him,

but good to see you again too

whoever

you are.

it's nothing personal

they are all good sharks.

despite

the bad reputations,

they are just

eating arms

and legs because they're there.

they're not

angry, or mean,

vindictive, or

psychopaths, they're

just hungry.

they have enormous

mouths,

and rows of sharpened

teeth for a reason.

they have insatiable appetites.

this is what they do.

they eat things in the ocean,

and if they see you

wiggling around in the water,

they eat you.

it's nothing personal.

too good to be true

it's shocking

to the brain and other

assorted

parts of the body when

you realize

that nothing was true,

it was all a lie,

nothing

was what you thought

it to be.

everything

you believed in

was a fantasy,

a complete and utter

gaslit stew.

another rain check

i cancel.

i say i can't make it.

sorry.

but i'll be out of town.

at the beach.

or on the moon.

i'm not sure

which at this point,

but mars

too is on my horizon.

let's do a rain

check,

again.

and again, until

you get the message

that i'm

never coming.

i feel so close to you

when i was

near death from eating some

strange

cut of shredded meat

in an Ethiopian dish,

she told

me that she never felt 

closer to me

than in this moment.

me,

with tears in my eyes,

groaning,

as i lay on the cold tile

of the bathroom

floor.

asking God to intervene.

i squinted my

eyes and looked her 

and said,

what does that mean?

the ny times

the new york

times

disposes of it's sports department.

yes.

we're inching closer

to the end

of the world.

they want to concentrate

more

on war,

weather

and money. 

the vagaries of life.

no longer will you find

a Yankee

box score.

i'm not like you

he held

the dark cloud above

him

with

strings. it went where

he went.

always

with a story of what

went wrong,

and how.

childhood

trauma,

jobs and wives.

wayward children.

it would begin to rain,

lighting

would flash.

you don't know the trouble

i've gone through,

he'd say, not even Job

can match the life

i've had. 

i haven't had one lucky

moment,

i'm not like you.

for crying out loud

she's crying

as we visit her dog's grave site,

the stone

carved

with the name,

and age,

an engraved

imprint of Fido.

she lays down a bag

of Purina dog chow,

chicken and rice,

his favorite brand.

i've never seen her cry before.

not in all

the years

i've known her.

through tragedies,

the death of parents,

the loss

of others.

but for some reason visiting

the grave

of this dog

that's been dead for ten years

turns on the water works.

as we leave,

i put my arm around her

as she shows

me a scar on her hand.

he bit me

once, she said, then we

had to put

him down.

stuffed pork chops

he asks

me over the phone if i'm the one

who gave

him the recipe

for stuffed pork chops.

i tell him no.

it wasn't me.

he's asked

me this several times over

the years,

when winter ends

and he gets the propane

grill out from

the shed.

this repetitive questioning

scares me,

seeing how much younger

he is.

it's everything

how quickly

we are these days to lock

the door,

and stay in.

switching the bright porch

light on

before it's even dark.

there's nothing that you lack.

no reason

to go back out there.

it's as if the apocalypse

has already

happened.

there are bars on our doors,

cameras on the roof.

no one makes

eye contact anymore.

it's not one thing that's gone

wrong.

it's everything.

we're in their hands

for how

long has my life been

in the hands

of a woman.

starting

with a mother, then

onto aunts

and neighbors,

grandmothers.

and then, as life often

does,

it puts you on the road

to romance,

such that it is.

one upends

their life,

moving to be closer

to the one

who has your heart.

she takes

your hand and leads

to where you will live,

decides your

fate,

how you will

dress,

how you will make love.

the string

is long

with no end in sight.

they have you when born,

and at death,

they're standing close by.

which one

i like what

you wrote the other day

about love,

she tells me.

i nod,

and say, oh, well thank

you,

but which one?

i move

on so quickly as you know.

tell me it's not just me

stuck in

the sweltering heat,

of summer, that strains

to keep

things light,

happy us, on our feet,

i long for winter.

i long for snow.

i long to chip ice off

the kitchen

window,

to shovel my way out

to an unplowed

street.

i am never happy with

where i am.

love thrills me,

then bores me

all in the same day.

i am never happy

with this food,

laid out on my plate,

i want to be hungry again

and start all over.

tell me it's not just me,

but you too.

the layman's diagnosis

i'm not a doctor,

not a psychologist,

or therapist,

but

i deem you incurable.

i give

you the layman's stamp

of disapproval.

you will never change,

never bend

or alter your ways.

you are disordered

and crazy from the cradle

to the grave.

just as that snake

in the grass

is who he is,

so will you remain the same.

the cat in the bed

hurry

hurry hurry

i tell the cold water,

wanting

it to heat up

before i step in.

hurry up with the pot

of coffee,

will this water ever boil?

i rush around,

finding my shoes,

my pants,

a shirt,

my cap.

a few dollars,

the phone and keys,

a book.

hurry hurry hurry

i tell myself.

while you lie in bed,

smiling

like a cat,

with no where

to be.

fresh fish

the sign

says fresh fish,

never frozen.

let's hope so, i tell her.

we pull the car over

and go in.

we're risk takers

below

this soft skin.

go sit by the fire

we shake

the snow off us,

brush

it from our hair,

and remove our coats.

we go sit

by the fire.

we have things to talk about.

decisions to

be made.

but we get lost in

the flames.

the crackle

and comfort of heat,

tired from

the walk,

we set our boots aside.

we say nothing. 

as we so often do.

it can wait.

once more, 

it can wait.

just a pint please

it's not

that i don't want to give blood,

fearful,

or that there

is something wrong

with my blood, 

i would be very generous

with my

blood, if there was an easier

way of getting it out

of my body.

a spigot of sorts

instead of a silver spike

taking aim 

at the blue string

in my arm,

the vein tapped fat

and ripe.

my birthday is coming up

her birthday

is coming up. everyone knows.

everyone

is prepared for

the month to come.

she's made

a list of gifts she wants,

of where

she wants to go.

she names her flower,

preferably

the pink or yellow rose.

she hints around that she prefers

silver

over gold,

perhaps

a nice hotel

is in order, a three day

stay

no less, with room service,

a massage,

and a salon

for nails and hair.

a view of the water 

and sailboats would be

wonderful,

but please, please don't

make a fuss.

two poems about the moon

i asked

her why, why do so many

poets

write poems about the moon,

and she laughed.

she smiled

and nodded, still holding

her purse

over her shoulder

as she stood in front

of the class, 

preparing to lecture us on

poets that she loved.

Lowell and Plath,

Larkin

and Strand.

Elizabeth Bishop.

she had no answer about

the moon, but then asked the class

to write one.

no.

write two.

is that a double oven?

she praises the granite,

the new

tile,

the oak floors stained

a dark brown,

the bathrooms

of course

all shiny with fixtures,

the tub

clean enough to eat off,

and then there's

the kitchen,

where she nearly faints

to the floor,

touching

the stove, the ice box,

the spigot,

is that a double oven,

good lord.

look at the size of these

rooms,

the closet space,

so many windows to bring

in the light.

i see the yard, i envision

a hammock

stretched out

across the grass, anchored

by two trees,

as it swings

quietly

in a summer breeze.

did you call me last week?

some so called

friends,

return your calls or texts

quickly,

while others,

more busy than you'll

ever be,

take their time.

maybe in a week or two,

they'll get back to you,

they'll text you

back and ask, 

did you call me last week,

why?

the swimming hole

the small

pool

adjoining the shed

where

the landscapers

keep their tools, is

surrounded

by barbed wire.

there's one lifeguard

on duty,.

a young

girl in the high chair,

smoking while doing

her nails.

the pool is full of children,

half a float

and screaming while

an old man

hangs

onto the side

kicking his legs in some

prescribed

exercise.

the water is a greenish

yellow.

through the fence

i see the eyes of a raccoon

family,

waiting their turn.

we should talk

i see you

turning the bottle of poison

into my

drink.

a few drops

more, then you stir

and hand

it to me.

we should 

really talk about

things.

a clear message

in the quiet

of the yard, determined,

relentless,

things grow,

no matter

how much you cut

and trim

back, sever vines,

or dig roots from

the ground,

they keep coming,

keep growing

with

a clear

message from the world.

a hole in the earth

hardly

an animal, a mere

small

ball of fur,

a cartoon character,

chestnut brown,

looking

up to me

before he dashes

away

into a hole

he finds in the earth.

there's

so much of the world

going on

without

our knowledge.