not everyone can be happy

will a fresh

coat

of paint, change them,

suddenly

make them

content and happy.

i don't think so, but i

try to

please their troubled

souls

with more layers

of paint,

another coat.

pinks and blues,

tans

and golds,

a rainbow of colors.

and for a moment

the sun

comes out, and there's

a smile

upon their frown,

but that soon goes.

what's wrong now

i can't walk

in your shoes, although

the sentiment

is nice.

acquiring empathy 

for your plight by

putting on

your loafers

or boots

or spending a day

in your

Birkenstocks.

i can only go by what

you tell

me.

so tell me.

what's wrong now?

can i pet the tiger?

confused

by the nature of wild animals,

the woman

puts her

hand

in the cage

of a gorilla. no hand

comes back. a brave

man sticks his head

into the alligator's mouth,

the snake

is wrapped around a child's

neck.

let's picnic

where the bears are.

someone is feeding

the shark

from the edge of the boat.

these beasts must

laugh and wonder,

what it is about them

they we don't get.

more roads ahead

there is more road

behind

you than in front of you,

but it doesn't matter,

you press on.

you fill up the tank 

and go.

foot to the pedal,

with the radio on,

the windows down.

you'll know when you

get there,

when it's time to stop.

when it's time to

rest, and find a place

to lie down.

people

you try hard

to like people, to overlook

their

flaws,

you have them too,

you give them

room

to be who they are, but

there's

still something

wrong,

something about them

that keeps you

from getting close.

keeps you

from

wanting to be around them

very long.

the list of concerts

i go through

the list

of concerts seen.

Dylan and The Stones,

The 

Grateful Dead,

Tony Bennett. 

The Zombies,

The Motels, Elvis

Costello.

Boz Scaggs

and Roseanne Cash.

Edgar Winter.

Johnny Rivers,

CSNY,

Elton

and the Clash.

U 2.

Gordon Lightfoot

and 

Credence.

Grand Funk Railroad.

how we rushed

the stage for that.

there was Leon Russell

at the end.

the Guess who

at the beginning.

Ray Charles and BB King.

Springsteen

Tom Waits

and Southside Johnny.

but the most memorable

was you

doing karaoke,

singing 

Al Green's,

I'm Still In Love With You.

becoming one

in time,

her laugh becomes

his laugh,

his way

of speaking so like

hers.

they even begin

to look alike

in the face,

the way the eyes

are set,

the tilt of nose

and brow.

marriage will do that

to you,

if you don't look

out.

burned wise

the silly

girl, the foolish boy.

will they grow out of this

blissful

numbness

and become like us.

road weary,

and struggling at night

to get our

boots off.

burned wise.

will they stay on the merry

go round,

the swings

for long,

will they believe in love

forever

and ever with

heads in the clouds,

how we wish we all could.

it's just a dream

thankful

that it's just a dream, you

sigh,

and think,

that was a close

one.

you stretch

and pull the cord

to the blinds,

you let

the sun in.

the light is on you

once more,

you're free again.

who won't be missed

so young

to take his own life.

so wise

and talented.

how you read his books

and underlined

the passages.

he helped you and others

heal,

he gave direction

to when

your life was upside down,

but now this.

how do you tie it altogether.

who among us,

even strangers,

won't be missed?

the Jefferson nickel.

you are

not in heaven, or

in space

afloat.

you are not asleep

in a dream

untethered

by lifes gravity,

no,

you are in the neighborhood

pool

under water

near the cement bottom

painted blue

looking

for the nickel

you tossed in.

i ring the bell

i ring the bell

on my desk to have the butler

or the maid

bring up

another cup

of coffee and a poached

egg

with toast.

i ring and ring and ring.

but no one comes.

just the cat

and the dog, not far

behind.

i work for them.

it's different now

a long

time ago, when people would

tip

their hat,

or say good morning,

hello

and maybe strike up a conversation

about the weather,

or how nice it is

today, or

how cold,

you'd meet people like that.

maybe you'd

see them again

on the same path, walking

the same

trail.

it almost seemed like

anyone

back then could be a friend.

it's different

now.

scar face

with the 48 hours

up, being

the good patient,

i carefully pull off the bandage.

a wide

swatch

of gauze and tape

stuck to the side

of my face.

people stare, but don't ask.

it could be

anything, they must

think.

i take a look at the long

ragged

scar in the mirror.

the tiny train tracks

of stitches.

my friend Betty tells me

that facial scars

on men

are sexy.

oh, do tell, i say

to her,

maybe i'll get some more.

the relic on the hill

the hotel

on the hill had it's day.

had its years in the 1920s,

but had

fallen

in disrepair.

the bones were good, but

the paint

was peeling,

the pipes groaned,

it smelled

of rot and mold,

the elevator was

broken.

but we stayed anyway

because it had

a glorious view

of the ocean.

we ignored the mushrooms

growing in our

room

and brought our own

sheets and pillows.

who needs money anymore

apparently

you can go into a store now

with a shopping

cart and fill it up,

then leave without paying.

they are watched

by the employees, they are

on camera, these brazen

thieves.

but no one does anything

about it.

there's no police,

no one to stop them.

no morality or guilt.

they just wave and say,

we're poor and we have

needs.

until the lease runs out

don't rent

a room, or a house.

no one

cares.

the driveway fills

with cars,

there's a party going on

all hours.

they're your neighbors, not mine.

it's not their floor,

their walls,

their sink or toilet

that's backed up.

the burned out

bulb

means nothing to them.

that smell in

the floor board.

it could be

a raccoon, who's to

know these things.

we're only here

until the lease runs out.

your left rear tire is losing air

there's

a smugness in the tone of voice

when

a person points

out to you

that your shoe is untied, or

that a trail

of toilet paper

is stuck to the bottom

of your shoe, or

that there's spinach

stuck between

your teeth.

they feel so wise and helpful,

while you

stroll on through

life,

fumbling without a clue.

candy apple red

what boy

didn't want a candy apple

red car

or truck or bike

at some point

in their early life,

or 

a girlfriend not unlike

that.

something

or someone

that glistens in the sun.

sparkles.

something

to be polished

and cared for.

an amulet of sorts

to be envied

and admired by others.

some grow out of it,

this longing,

while for many

the search goes on.

i've forgotten your name

i'm

forgetting, he told me,

shyly.

into his sixties.

i can't remember

where

i'm supposed to be half

the time,

or what to say.

words

are suddenly bars of wet

soap

that i can't

get a grip on.

so pardon me

if i've forgotten your

name.

you bury it so

even now

i shiver at the sound

of a pair

of heels clicking across the floor.

how i sweated

and dreaded

that noise coming up

the stairs,

after

hearing the door

close.

it never leaves you.

that fear,

though

you bury it so.

the house on the corner

there was always

the haunted

house

on the corner.

the grass

three feet high.

a wisp of smoke coming

from the chimney.

occasionally you'd see

a face

peering out

behind

a broken window,

behind a grey sheer curtain.

an old

man,

an old woman.

they rarely left the house.

we'd stare

at it from our porch 

and weave

tales of what was going

on inside there.

were they eating children?

animals?

one day, would they come

to get us?

we'd never

find out.

her secret stash

in person

or out to dinner, she ate like

a small

rabbit,

crunching on lettuce

and carrots.

a few grapes

for dessert, but i suspected

that when

alone

her hand was deep into

a big of frito lay chips,

and she was working

her way down

another row

of oreos.

the good mood

despite

nearly everything, 

you wake up in a good mood.

it's inexplainable.

how can this be

with all that's going on

in the world,

globally and personally,

but you roll with it, shrug

your shoulders

and smile,

and say, okay.

nearing the end

if i ever

finish this nine hundred

page

book. The Red Comet,

i'll be sad.

i'll miss old Sylvia.

her mother Aurelia,

her husband, Mr. Hughes.

her father Otto,

and brother Warren,

Mrs. Prouty too.

i'll miss her days in

school.

in England and Boston,

New York too.

i'll miss

her bee keeping skills,

her journals

and letters,

the endless submissions,

her days as a nanny,

a waitress,

as a mother,

as a lover.

Her Bell Jar draft.

i'll mis her poetry.

her ambition

and her

love affair with writing.

i'll miss all of them if and

when i ever

finish the book.

only 200 more pages to go.

i can do better

i stare

at the black and white

photo,

stuck

inside my laminated drivers

license.

do i really look like that.

a mug

shot.

guilty as charged, about

to go to the gallows.

i don't look happy,

i look

old, tired,

heavy in my winter coat.

my face as pale

as fallen

snow.

i ask the woman

behind the counter if i can

have a do over.

she shakes her

head no.

then pushes the number

for another

person, and yells out,

next.

the turned over ice-cream truck

after my

father left my mother

and his

seven kids for some hot tamale

from Brazil,

my mother

started

dating a man named

Chuck Porter.

a heavy set fireman who

worked

at engine company

42

in Maryland.

he was on the scene once,

when

a twelve-wheeler ice-cream truck

was hit by a train

in Hyattsville.

we ate ice-cream all summer

long after that,

into the winter.

Chuck was history by then.

a can of salted nuts

my mouth says

one more,

one more handful of salted nuts.

one more

nut to crunch on,

and taste

the salt

before the final

gulp of water.

just one more.

i have the willpower

of a baby.

thank God i never knew

anyone with

cocaine.

not that i'd ever go

there.

nuts are pretty much my

limit

when seeking salivatory

satisfaction.

my desires have alwys

been quite

tame.

the third woman

there's three

women

standing around me, working

on my face.

one, the queen bee, has a scalpel

digging a ravine beside

my ear.

excising

cells gone wild.

the ear is plugged with cotton

to keep

the river of blood out.

the other woman, a nurse

in green,

dabs

at the flood, while

the third

woman

is behind them, doing what,

i can't tell,

because my vision

is blocked by the bright

operating light,

and thin blue sheet of paper.

when you're a Jet

i ask

the thespian next door,

who

was once in a soap

commercial

twenty years ago,

and now

an extra slash waiter

in the West Side Story

at the local

dinner theater

if the strike is affecting him.

he says

it's a disaster

the phone

is not ringing

anymore.

and then my sister said this

i interrupt

her story to tell her that

there's

tomato sauce

on her white blouse.

she's an hour

into the tale

about the mall and what

her sister said

about weddings.

but i'm saved

at last as she runs to

the bathroom,

dabbing, dabbing, dabbing.

and so it begins

how many

grams

of fat, of sugar, of fiber

in this

apple

Eve says to Adam.

are there

carbs too?

and so it begins.

payment due

too much

sun

has led you here,

to where

the doctor takes a fine

shiny

scalpel

to the side

of your face and ear.

the joyful

frolicking of

youth

is now

up for

payment. it's past

due.

mid-summer splashing

from the window

i can

hear the clatter of children in the pool.

mid-summer

splashing 

ensues.

the call of Marco polo

over and over

and over again.

the guard's whistle,

the shouts.

a barking dog.

mother's

in full hen mode, keeping

watch

on their brood.

father's asleep

in their plastic chairs.

someone could drown,

but they wouldn't know.

just one drink

i sip

now at a drink.

i linger,

i feel the glass against my lips,

the chill

of ice

in gin.

i taste the tartness

of a cut lime.

i have no where to be.

there's no rush,

nothing

important to attend to.

i sip now

at a drink.

whereas in the past

i need three or four,

hurried down,

but now, 

just one. just one

will do the trick

to help forget you.

despite tight stitches

there will be a scar.

no doubt.

the cut was deep.

and even though the stitches

were pulled

as tight as they can

be,

still,

the wound will never

cease.

there's no blood anymore,

but 

a reminder

will never leave.

her rainy day

she made

her rainy day my rainy day.

and here

i was about

to skip out the door,

doing cartwheels

in the sun,

but no,

she grabbed my arm,

and said, please,

please,

don't go.

there's so much i need

to tell you,

so many things you are

yet to know.

the names of others

i have used

the names of others

to enter

this site and others.

small

and great writers.

from Updike

to Salinger to Hemingway,

to Plath and Sexton,

Larkin,

and Levine,

Cheever,, to name a few.

i attach a few numbers

to the end,

plus some non-numerical

symbol,

to tighten the screws.

it's hard

to get in though, sometimes

i can't remember

who's guarding which

door,

and i have to start all

over again.

carnivores vegans and keto

i watch the pundits

battle

it out on YouTube.

medically or anecdotally

prescribing a variety

of diets.

the carnivores,

the vegans,

the fruitarians,

the ketogenic followers.

the rigid

purveyors of intermittent

fasting,

and one meal

a day

type souls.

everyone is right,

everyone is wrong.

but the fight goes on.

it's all about content

and subscribers,

views.

chaos and controversy

is what

it all thrives on.

try no sugar for a day,

no seed oils,

no processed foods,

and low carbs.

exercise, take a walk and

drink water.

that should do it.

now throw the phone away.

longevity

the trouble

with falling in love

with dogs

or cats,

or people is that they

surprise

you by dying an early,

or an untimely

death.

a turtle seems to be

the way

to go,

with shell and all,

though there's very

little cuddling

when the creature

is in bed.

as the world turns

when my

grandmother sat down 

with her cigarettes

and coffee

in front

of the tv

to watch As the World Turns,

there had to

be utter silence.

she put the dog in the yard,

and put her

finger to her lips.

demanding our complete

cooperation

in being quiet.

then she turned up 

the sound,

put her feet into a bucket

of warm water

and Epsom salts,

and got into it.

untold discipline

i admire

her, how she can sit for

hours

knitting.

and never

look at her phone.

she keeps

at it.

the needles clicking

against

one another

as the yarn unfolds.

what discipline it takes

to not

check her messages,

her e-mails,

to veiw

a tik tok,

or you tube video.

she's not human.

too early for that

too early

i tell the leaf fallen

and turned

yellow,

another gone red.

go back,

get back up there

and reattach yourself

to the tree

you fell from.

i'm not ready, not yet,

for summer

to end.

and you too,

stay up there sun,

just a little while

longer.

the big left turn

they used

to be great cities.

San Fran,

NYC,

LA,

Seattle

and Portland.

Vancouver.

not anymore.

trash heaps and crime

ridden with.

throngs

of lost souls

living in the sewer.

tents,

lying on the sidewalks,

full fentanyl.

who's to blame,

who's fault is it?

the left, the right?

who knows,

but it feels like this

country will never

be the same.

and the beat goes on

it's a long

discussion on the phone.

we try

to figure out the world,

never an easy

task to take on, we discuss

the behaviors

of those far,

of those close.

all these labels of toxicity

to apply,

don't mean a thing,

any attempts to diagnose

the mentally ill

are fruitless.

you can't change people

who don't

see anything wrong

with themselves,

so the beat goes on

as they great philosopher

Sonny Bono

once said.

i should know these things

it's a blank

spot

in me. the knowledge

of plants,

of seed.

i should know more.

know

more about the seasons,

the weather,

when to dig

when to plant and what

goes where,

for sun or shade.

i should know these things.

regardless of the hour

tired

enough, so the clock makes

no difference.

the hand

just barely over

the nine.

so what.

there's no shame in

fatigue,

crawling into

in bed before ten,

before

twelve.

regardless of the hour,

it's sleepy time.

give them an inch

the inches

add up

to feet and feet into yards,

then miles,

before

you know it

they've taken

over your life.

and crowded the joy

right out of you.

there's no where

left to hide.

move on

it's a shiny

object

catching the light

as you

walk

down

a darkened street.

a short

cut

through the alley.

is it a diamond,

or a shard

of glass.

do you dare bend

down

to pick it up,

to grasp.

or do you let it lie.

and move on,

settling for ambiguity,

at last.

going on strike

i tell myself,

that i'm going on strike.

i'm demanding

lower hours,

higher pay and more coffee

breaks

during the day.

i want a paid vacation,

paid holidays

and full health

coverage.

a retirement plan would

be nice too.

myself tells me to shut up,

and be thankful

you have work.

now 

get out of my office

and quit whining.

the cat's away

with her husband

in intensive

care with four stage

cancer,

lingering

at the hospital

on a ventilator, she tells

me on the phone

that she's getting ready for

her date.

she sends me a picture

of her in a cocktail

dress

above her knees,

her low-cut blouse,

and heels.

her hair, teased.

i'm exhausted she tells me

from being

at the hospital all day,

but i really like this new

guy,

he's picking me up at my

house

at eight.

did we bring enough protein bars?

when we

get to the moon again,

or mars,

what then?

with no air, or food,

or

water

to speak of.

now what?

did we bring enough

protein bars?

and enough

fuel to get back.

could the billions

have been

spent better, or is

it too hopeless

back there to turn

it around?

four syllable words

i hear

words out of his mouth

that i never

heard before.

words plucked and studied

from books

perused.

he's discovered the dictionary

and the thesaurus

all in the same

day.

he wants you to know

that

he's smart now.

not the kid

who grew up on the wrong

side

of the road,

like you were

so long ago.

it's all vanity

is it harder

for men, or for women

to deal

with this deterioration of the body,

the aging

process,

relentless as we're

reminded each day

with a new

stretch of skin,

loose

and crepe an added

wrinkle to the brow,

below the chin.

the shortened length

of us,

the weight

dispersed where it's never

been.

is

there a difference

in vanity

between us.

at times i think there is.

neither sex

wanting to give in.

running the red light

it seems that

stop

signs and red lights,

speed limits,

and detours

are just mere suggestions

anymore.

it's a wonder

how any of us get home

alive,

on this racetrack

of life.

longing to get home,

to turn

the knob

on the front door.

self medication

live long

enough and you'll know what

to eat or

drink,

and when to stop.

you'll know what your

body

can tolerate,

put some years

under your belt and you'll

know 

that if you take in

too much,

you'll know

which shelf holds 

the antidote,

the bottle, or pill

to bring you back around

once more.

with a bag of ice

on your brow,

you'll be fine by tomorrow.

the church bells

there is something

strange

about

the church bells, what is it.

is it time

they're trying

to convey.

a wedding, or the passing

of another life lived,

now gone?

let them ring,

let them sing in their

deep harmonious

gongs.

ring the bells, for me,

for someone

once loved.

for all that has come

and gone.

a field of cut grass

it was always

the cut

grass that you smelled on

those fall

days,

before the first practice, 

before the chalk

lines were laid

for games.

the pads

and helmet on.

fast and strong,

elusive

with an arm to toss

the ball.

we were boys.

and we still are, wishing

to go back

in time to

play again, to smell

the cut

grass once more.

the writers on strike

what will we do now,

with the writers

on the strike,

the actors too. how will

be spend our free time,

our nights

without a new episode

of the Price is Right,

or Naked and Afraid.

will we play board games,

actually talk to one another,

maybe read a book?

make love, or

fight?

this is uncharted territory.

one drink and out

when you

stop drinking, down

to a one

drink

maximum,

and you sit there and listen

and observe

those

tossing more down,

one after the other,

you wonder,

was i like that, that dumb,

that absurd,

soused,

and unhinged.

full of careless behavior

and words.

Christmas in July

it was about this time

of year,

at the end of July 

when i'd get the call

from my mother,

telling me that she just finished

her Christmas shopping.

all of it done

for her seven children,

and fifteen grandchildren,

a few nieces

and nephews and for her

sisters and brothers

in Philadelphia.

i could hear

the rattle of paper,

the ribbons and bows,

the snip of scissors

in her hands, 

and

the tear of scotch tape,

out of breath

but happy, as she

filled the closet with box

after box.

a name tag on each.

have i lied to you, yet?

she put her finger

to her chin

and pondered my question,

have i lied

to you yet, she said.

looking

suspiciously right

then left,

avoiding my glare.

no need to answer, i told

her.

i have the answer

right there.

lost and found

it's odd

to forget things.

to find notes, or money,

or numbers

written down on slips

of paper, folded

and stuffed

in the pockets of coats

or pants.

little touchstones of the past.

ticket stubs.

a hotel key,

a picture of you being

happy for once,

somewhere

off the coast 

of France.

sometimes she'd call

she told

me once, before she died,

that the first thing

she did

when she got

home from a long day 

of work

was to pull her bra off from

under her

blouse and fling it across

the room.

then she'd pull a cork

from a bottle of wine,

pour herself

a healthy drink

then cry.

after crying for a while,

she'd

fix dinner.

light a candle on the table.

sometimes she'd call.

sometimes she wouldn't.

sometimes she had nothing

to share,

nothing to talk about,

keeping to herself,

what was on her mind.

someone to depend on

do you have

someone to depend on?

a true friend,

a brother or sister

who has your

back,

is there someone you

can call upon

no matter what hour

of the night

it is.

penniless or flush,

will they come to you

in the worst of

times,

will they sit at your

bedside

in sickness, and in

death.

do you have someone

who knows

you best?

if so, count yourself

lucky,

few

have anyone like that.

it's no surprise

it's no

surprise and yet

we are,

by what life has in store

for us.

it's all been written

down

and lived,

look at all the books

on the shelves,

and read.

see what's always

behind us,

see what's up

ahead.

bathtub reading

like cake boxes

coming off the conveyor belt

in an I Love Lucy

episode,

with Ethel and Lucy

frantically trying

to keep them filled,

the New Yorker

Magazine

keeps arriving through my

door,

i can hardly read

and enjoy the last one

before another one

hits the floor.

there's only so much

time in the day

for a two hour bath,

and reading time,

not to mention the water

going cold.

your mother called me

strange

to see you with no clothes on.

you used to be so shy.

when

did you decide

to become

an actor

in such movies?

such taboo clips

all over

the lower end

of the internet?

i recognize the star tattoo

on your shoulder.

even after all those

hours

of medical school, now

this.

i almost

didn't recognize you

with your hair

dyed blue, with

assorted fillers

strategically infused.

your mother called to tell

me,

that you had decided upon

a different kind

of thespian route.

building from scratch

the tool

box

is full of tools of every

need

or imaginary

project that you'll never get to.

but therein

lies

the flat head driver,

the Phillips,

the wrenches and saws,

the pliers,

handful

of nails and screws

of all sizes.

oh, the things you could

make,

and do,

with all these tools.

but building things from

scratch, no,

it's just not

you.

Andover Drive

i remember that house

on Andover Drive,

weather beaten and

shadowed

beneath a cobweb of hedges

and vines,

the old man,

the sick woman

living there, tethered to

her oxygen

tank.

him in his compression socks,

legs up on

the frayed

recliner

from another age.

musty with time.

each room layered

in artifacts from when the children

were young.

it was always tea and crackers.

and a vague offer

of gin, pointing to where

you might find

the bottle.

he'd waddle to the stove

to make a bowl

of popcorn

to round out

the cheese and cut salami.

it was a strange

little world, winding

down.

winding down.

all the secrets 

boxed in the cellar

collecting mold.

a world you had no place

being in,

but would soon 

fortunately disappear from.

all her bases covered

she suggested

burning

sage, and spreading the smoke

all around

the house, in every

room,

to get the demonic

spirits out.

she was

part gypsy, part catholic,

and part

zen

guru.

she had all her bases covered

when it came

to heaven and hell,

and all that lies

in between.

three out of four doctors

not all lawyers

know

everything about everything.

the same

goes for doctors

and garage

mechanics, some can do

brakes,

but are baffled by transmissions.

some doctors

can 

fix an infection, while

others are stymied,

by

cardiovascular

infractions.

that lawyer may help you

with the traffic ticket

but when it comes

to divorce,

they're clueless.

broad daylight

we need locks.

we need passwords, and safes.

we need

protection

from the outside world getting in.

but in the end

they find

a way.

in the dead of night,

or in the light of day.

they pry open

the window to your heart

and soul,

and steal

away.

venial and mortal sins

i like

how the Catholic

religion,

rates

sins.

which is worse than the other.

venial

and mortal,

those that fall somewhere

in between.

you've got your pride, greed,

lust and envy,

resentment,

anger,

murder, sex outside of

marriage, thievery,

and hatred.

laziness is on the list too,

as well as missing

mass

with no valid reason.

yikes on that one.

it's a long list, one

that your conscience

keeps track of, if not those

virtuous souls

around you.

some sins

need a handful

of Hail Marys and

Our Fathers

to clean

the slate,

while other take a dose

of holy water,

some callouses

on the knees,

an intervention of the Saints

and priests,

maybe an exorcist,

and prison time,

to get whole once again.

the afternoon nap

the heat

makes one sleepy.

the solitude

of low light and the fan,

twirling

in its whispering

spin.

the ice

falling and falling

in the tumbler,

now

less gin.

will i ever rise from

this cool

couch

in the basement, make

a go of it,

again?

they're trying to kill us

it's a clean meal.

not a single

chemical additive.

it's out of the ocean.

off the local

farm,

out of the ground

before

a chemist can get his

hands on it.

before big brother turns

it into

a health catastrophe

food, causing addictions

and obesity.

diabetes.

no emulsifiers,

no industrial oils,

or added

sugars,

no starch, no modified

carbohydrates,

acidity regulators, or

flavorings, or

antioxidants

before being

formed into an edible

helix.

just meat,

and vegetables,

fish.

raw milk to wash it down.

maybe an apple.

where's my passport?

i need to widen

my interests.

change it up a little.

maybe take a trip somewhere new.

like Iceland,

or Timbuktu.

Bali,

or Canada,

but

then there's the airport

to deal with,

the delays, the planes

crashing.

flight attendants telling

me to put

on my shoes.

global warming,

and hurricanes,

wildfires,

tornadoes, covid,

monkey pox,

vaccines and

passports.

riots and wars.

not to mention

dealing with how everyone

hates Americans.

and for good reasons

too.

nah, forget about it.

maybe i'll just take a stroll

around the mall

today.

a strange man in the neighborhood

the next door

neighborhood app is fun.

there's always

a Marge looking

out her kitchen window

keeping everyone

updated on

what's going on.

did you see

a strange man walking by the other

day,

someone writes in.

he was wearing a hat,

and gloves,

but not with a dog.

that was my husband,

a woman replies.

and i agree, he is strange,

and getting stranger by the day.

if you see him again,

please send him

home.

i sent him out for milk yesterday.

a bag of ice

when the power

finally

goes back on, i hear a thousand

beeps

from all over

the house.

i get up

to go turn the lights off,

the tv off.

turn the porch light on.

it's hot as hell

in here.

the ac finally clicks on.

i get a melting

bag of ice

from the fridge and bring

it to bed with me.

i wrap it in a towel

and curl up

next to it.

two dogs in the park

i overheard

two dogs talking at the park

the other day.

long in the tooth,

old dogs.

dogs

who refuse to learn any

new tricks.

remember when,

the one dog said to the other,

when we

ran free with no leash,

no one walking 

behind us with a plastic baggie.

i mean

how embarrassing is that.

there's no privacy anymore.

i never had a shot in 

my life until

i was dognapped and moved

to the city.

heartworms, who cares?

i ate a dead bird the other day

and my owner

went wild.

you'd think i'd shot someone

in cold blood.

we're dogs for 

god's sake. it's what we do.

we eat dead things in the woods.

i'm tired of my owner 

whining about

the cost of every trip to the vet.

it's always 500 hundred

bucks,

no matter what they bring you

in for.

i've had more blood taken

out of me

than a vampire sucks in a year.

hey look,

there's as squirrel, you want that?

nah, i'm good.

you can have him.

ah forget about it.

i wish i had a real bone to chew on,

like in the old

days, a big old T-bone from the butcher.

they gave me

a rubber bone the other day,

what the hell?

how would they like it if

i bought them

a plastic blow up doll to make love to?

it's crazy man.

my owner is a vegan too, i haven't

smelled charred

meat in years.

just shoot me.

one arm bandits

i cash

in my social security check

for quarters

and head

to Atlantic City

to see what all the fuss is about.

i find

a slot machine,

and a chair,

a pot of coffee

and some snacks, and

settle in for the day.

i keep pulling

the arm

of the slot machine

until the money's

all gone.

but another check

arrives next Tuesday.

so i'll be back.

over the rainbow

you

have to stay away from

the idea

of hope, i tell

my friend Betty.

at sixty-three

she's still hoping that the right

guy will

come along.

that her ship

will come in, that there

will be a pot

of gold at the end of some

rainbow.

prince charming 

is just over the hill on

his horse.

she watched too many

Disney movies

as a little girl,

and swallowed the big

lie whole.

i feel your pain

i feel your pain,

and your

need to cuddle in

time of crisis,

in fact,

because of your elbow

in my

back,

i too have pain.

can you give me some

room.

just a few inches

of space.

arms length would

be nice.

thank you.

drink water if you get thirsty and other summer tips

very hot

and humid, the weather girl

says.

she's wearing a red

dress to indicate

to the viewers

how hot it is.

she looks like a thermometer

about to burst.

don't go outside if

you don't have to.

don't breathe,

don't open your eyes

and look at the sun.

stay away from matches

and charcoal.

don't rub two sticks together,

don't fall down on the melting

tar road.

hydrate, or drink water,

if you prefer that phrase,

when you're thirsty.

stay tuned for more helpful

summer tips,

now back to you Jim,

for news about that erupting

volcano

near the forest fire.

bumper cars

the first time

you get behind the wheel

of  a car,

you say to yourself,

this is easy,

i got this,

what's the big deal.

gas, break, signals,

stop and go,

but soon you learn

that it's not you

that you

have to worry about,

it's everyone else

that's on the road.

the drinkers, the texters,

the distracted,

all those fiddling with

the knobs and gizmos,

the young and old.

can't stop what's coming

just as i can

look

out a window

and see that a storm is coming,

that a hard

rain is about to fall,

so it is with you,

one look into

your darkened face,

your fierce eyes,

and i know

what's coming too.

thirteen steps

which bone

is it now,

which muscle pulled,

or inflamed

joint

that makes me wince

as i negotiate

the stairs

going down.

thank God for rails.

at some point i'll repaint

these walls

where my arms

and shoulders

have leaned upon in

going down

to the kitchen.

going up is much easier.

crawling

like a child.

this won't hurt bit

ah,

the dentist.

the Brazilian model

schooled in the art

of dentistry.

she's tanned

a golden brown,

she smells like coconuts

and limes.

she's

in her white smock,

with tight blue latex gloves

and 

a sky blue visor.

is she going to the beach,

or to play golf,

or to drill on my

teeth.

she gives me the sermon

on

receding gums,

bone replacement,

on brushing after every

meal,

the necessity of flossing,

she smiles and says,

you liked candy and gum

as a kid,

didn't you?

i say, uh uh. yes ma'am.

indeed. open wide, she says,

this won't hurt

a bit.

as she holds the syringe

in the air,

the bright light shining

on the wet tip,

but all woman

say that

at some point.

still life with pears

her skill

at making an Anjou pear

enigmatic

was

eerie.

how light her touch

was with

brush

and paint, the blank

canvas,

the bowl of green

and red pears in front

of her.

showing how

the light from the window

landed

on each curve

of fruit.

when it was done,

you had

tears in your eyes,

but still

nowhere to hang it.

where are they?

i buy

a dozen or more bar

rags,

kitchen rags,

whatever they are

about once a month

to wipe down the counters,

the stove,

etc.,

but i never know what happens

to them.

they seem to disappear.

i know

they're being washed,

and dried,

but somehow they never

reappear

in the kitchen again.

socks seem

to have that same disappearing

act down too.

a rack of lamb

i'm glad

i don't have to kill a cow,

or a baby lamb,

or pluck

a chicken,

catch a fish, or 

wrestle anything else

to the ground

to eat it.

would i become a vegan then?

hell no.

i'd just put a log

on the fire,

sharpen a good knife

and get used to it.

the gravy train

one ex wife

used to tell me, if you

truly loved

your son,

you'd buy him that toy,

this video

game.

those shoes,

that camera, that bike,

the college

tuition,

another car.

you'd give him money

to go on

that trip to Bali,

fund his marriage,

his honeymoon,

his life.

after he turned 40, still

with no job,

floundering,

i figured it was no longer

about love and that

i had done him 

more harm

than good.

he's waiting on the will

though.

no stars service

the girl

hands me my cup of coffee,

then

a receipt

pointing to a web site,

asking me to go online

and fill out

the survey

telling her company

how well

she did at her job, of

pouring 

coffee into my paper

cup, putting the lid

on and handing it to me.

this happens all day long.

at the grocery store,

the clothing store.

the hardware store.

even my doctor

and my dentist want me

to fill out

a survey telling them how

wonderful they are.

how'd we

do, putting that carton

of milk

in a bag?

i give everyone no stars.

this has to stop.

the stuck key

with the key

stuck

in the door, i look around

as if there

might be

someone nearby

to figure this out.

free my key.

maybe a locksmith

or someone

like that.

i wonder if i have

any oil

to squirt in there,

or some tools to 

jimmy it around.

but no.

then i see a kid running

up the street

win a hoodie on

and a mask with an

enormous pink purse

under his arm.

hey, i yell, out,

hey kid.

you wanna make five bucks?

he comes up to the porch

and stares at the lock.

he tells me

you have to jiggle it.

i've tried, i tell him, then

i let him have a go at it.

he opens the large pink

purse looking around for

something,

but finds nothing he can use.

so he rubs his hands together,

then puts his ear to the lock,

then jiggles it

back and forth, slowly at first,

then with a hard turn,

freeing the key.

i give him five bucks.

i hear police sirens approaching.

thanks, mister, he says,

but i have to go,

they're chasing me.

Canadian bacon

when she got back

from Canada, she came over

with a gift

wrapped in a bow tied box.

but she wanted to talk

first.

she wanted to tell she was

breaking up with me.

seems she met

a Canadian Mountie

while horseback riding

in the mountains.

what's his name, i asked

Zeke, she said.

you'd love him.

he's a lot like you, but

you know how

i love a man in uniform.

he has a beard too.

oh well, i said, as i rubbed

my smooth shaven cheeks.

i'm gonna miss you.

what's in the box?

open it, she said.

so i did. it was a fancy

bottle of maple syrup.

so i made us some pancakes,

and tossed a few slices of

Canadian bacon

into the pan.

it was a fond farewell.

yellow journalism

in an attempt

to actually watch the news,

to get a world

view of what's going on

out there

in the wild

blue yonder,

i stumble back and forth

between cnn

and fox.

all they can talk about

though

is trump

and biden,

the drug addled kid,

the coke

in the white

house,

hookers and prostitutes,

court dates and other assorted

garbage

that few normal souls care about.

but they have to swing the vote

somehow,

the extreme left,

the radical right.

shoveling muck where they can.

yellow journalism

at its most troubling.

there is no middle anymore.

just screamers

and accusers on each side

of the aisle.

for a good time call my friend Tony

if you want to have

a nice wedding,

or a great funeral, you have

to go Italian.

they know what they're doing

when it comes

to those events.

if you want a good time,

you have to rent

a hall

and have all your Italian

relatives and friends

involved.

singing, dancing, drinking,

eating.

it's a wild fun time,

and same goes for the funeral.

Catholics know

what they're doing when

it comes to death.

they've got that down.

the smoke and mirrors,

everyone in black,

aunt Delores with her lasagna.

the candles burning, the priest.

and altar boys.

a few words in Latin.

the whole shebang,

a major production as they

show you the way out,

you'll get a lot of hysterical.

crying too,

as they carry you down 

cemetery road.

her love of crackers

i remember

how my grandmother loved crackers.

any kind of cracker.

saltine, wheat,

it made no difference.

she'd put

butter on them,

peanut butter,

jam,

fig goo,

she'd spread cheese

on a cracker,

jellies,

sometimes she'd cut a piece

of salami

and put it on a cracker

with a dab of mustard.

she loved crackers.

the crumbs always littering

the front of her

dress.

i can still see her opening

up a new

box, biting

through the plastic wrapping to

grab a few

to have with her tea.

Mike's cousin Beth

he introduced me to his cousin,

Beth,

and said we'd get

along perfectly fine.

a blind date

to go see the movie,

Five Easy Pieces

at the Cerberus 9 in Georgetown.

it was okay,

until she took my

hand in the dark

theater, the hand that she'd

been coughing into

since the previews began.

she then leaned over

to put her hand into my tub

of buttered popcorn,

before stealing a kiss.

i had the flu for a week.

iceberg dead ahead

people love, love

love,

the Titanic.

they can't get enough of the rusted

bucket

lying at the bottom

of the ocean.

a tragic tale indeed,

but

we need to go look at it,

write stories,

make movies,

romance

the sunken stone.

we need to

build little tubes to sink

down

to take a look

at 250 k a pop.

what we can't see is always

more interesting

than what we can.

hand in the fire

you learn

quickly not to put your hand

into a fire.

but when it comes

to people,

friends and lovers,

no matter how

many times you get burned,

you try just one

more time,

there's no lesson

learned.

the sinking in takes longer.

don't know much about history

do they teach

math anymore in school,

history,

what about grammar,

or science?

are there even books

to read?

or do they just hand

each

child a phone

and say, you've got this.

go on.

we're done with you,

go home.

My UFO encounter, true story

strangely,

a UFO, pulsating

with green

and red lights hovers

over my house

and lands

on top of my roof.

i look out and see

the silver

saucer

leaning precariously

against

the chimney.

the alien is out of his

craft,

a very skinny ghost like

fellow with big eyes,

and no clothes,

or any indication

if he's a she, or vice versa.

reminds me of a Barbie

doll, or Ken doll

my sister used to have

when we were kids.

i assume it's a man alien though,

by the tenor of his

voice and a discernable

Adam's apple

lodged in what i guess

is a throat.

he's

waving sheepishly

to me.

shrugging his shoulders.

whoops, my bad,

he says.

do you have a ladder

by any chance,

he's speaking in

English but with a British

accent.

i really could use

the loo too,

if you don't mind.

seems,

i've run low on plutonium,

and my

AAA account has expired.

my friend James, is

about a million light years

away, but should be

here in no time.

be a prince

and don't call the news,

or the authorities,

if you don't

mind.

mums the word, dear boy,

okay?

i just despise all that fuss,

and do you mind holding the ladder

for me,

i'm rather clumsy

on these things.

the cobblestone path to Santorini

they

were old burrows,

with sagged

backs,

covered

in woven

wool blankets,

striped,

but faded in color.

the man

at the bottom of the hill,

old as time

itself,

sat there

with his hat

where you tossed

your Euros

into, for a ride up,

but not back.

he motioned to the line

up

of donkeys.

i called mine 

Seabiscuit as we headed

up the treacherous

slippery

path to Santorini.

i whispered into his grey

ears, you can do it.

come on,

you can do it.

prayer

was necessary,

with

the rocks and ocean

just over

the stone wall,

a hundred feet down.

certain death.

central park

i see

a squirrel on the park

bench

stretched out

on his back, a cold

drink

in his paw,

his little mouth

sucking

on a straw.

the daily news

under his head.

he's wearing home made

sunglass

from bottle shards.

it's hot.

go ahead, sue

me,

he says.

go get your own

park bench.

time blindness

the new

illness of the young is called

time

blindness.

they refuse,

or can't be on time

for work,

or other things of importance.

appointments,

dates made.

they're just perpetually

late

for everything.

what next?

will the children

of this

wackadoodle generation

stop

being children for the rest

of their lives?

clean up in aisle six

there used

to be a sex store up the street,

next to the Unitarian Church,

and Dunkin Donuts,

but it's closed

down now.

it was two levels,

with an

elevator

and an escalator, with

shopping carts.

there were mannequins.

in the windows

wearing

sheer lingerie.

and a red pulsing sign

that said

open all night.

a middle aged woman

covered in tattoos

with pierced eyebrows

and blue hair

greeted you

at the door

and pointed to an area

of your

needs and desires.

toys and gizmos on aisle

three,

movies

and books on the second

floor,

the basement had chains

and cages.

at least, that's what i heard.

you were warned to be careful

in aisle six.

don't slip.

mind you, this is all hearsay

of course.

they were hungry

i realize

that i have too many credit cards

after my

wallet is stolen

from my car

in the middle of the night.

it takes all morning

digging up

bills

to call the customer service

numbers

to cancel them.

why so many cards?

the only one

the thieves used was

the Visa card

at Mcdonalds.

they had two egg McMuffins

each,

hashbrowns

and two large cokes.

they were hungry after a

night

of breaking into cars.

where do i hide it?

i was confused

when

she gave me a cactus

for my birthday.

a small pickle like plant

with sharp

needles sticking out the side.

ugly and sad

as all get out.

you don't need to

water it much

she said.

i'm perplexed,

but she's right about that.

the Harley

it's a long

scar, a deep old wound

on her leg,

one on her arm too.

they look

like shark bites.

just one trip around

the block

on the back of a motorcycle

with my friend

Ziggy, she says,

and down we went.

but they sewed

me back together again.

lift up my

shirt and see the scar

where they

put a new kidney in.

what about Ziggy, i ask her.

oh, he didn't

make it.

hosing them down

you see the firehoses

out in France,

in Israel.

just about all countries

in the world

are in some sort of trouble

that the need

a drubbing.

they are

turning the powerful

hoses onto

the crowds

of protestors.

here too.

each city ready

for the hose to be turned

on.

a giant spray

to wash those tears

and worries away.

the same old baloney on stale bread

we got nothing.

we got the old guy.

the orange guy.

the babbling word salad

vp.

we got no one in the wings

to vote for.

how can a country

so full of

scholars and philosophers,

brilliant young

souls,

good men

and women

have no one

to lead us

away from this horrible

path we've been on.

what's the point

in voting anymore?

it's the same old baloney,

time and time again.

lynnie blank

i can't believe

it's been five years since

Lynnie died.

i feel like i can call her

up and she's

there.

full of golf stories, jokes,

telling me

about her father, her next

new job.

her dates,

her heart aches.

her unpublished novel,

an erotic

tale on the links,

with ribald chicanery 

on the front nine.

if we laughed once,

we laughed a million

times.

i still have her green wine

glass on my

kitchen window sill.

what joy it brings when

the sun

shines through the glass

and i remember her,

eternally,

forever young.

twenty minutes with Tony

i remember

seeing tony Bennett

in concert

about twenty years ago.

he sounded

just like you expected him

to sound.

it was

like dropping the needle

on an old vinyl

record, but without

the skips or scratches.

he hit all the notes

as he sang

his classic songs.

leaving his heart once more

in San Francisco,

for the millionth time.

he did about twenty minutes,

smiled and waved

to the crowd,

and then someone

took his elbow and

walked him off.

the next group i don't

remember,

or the one

preceding tony either.

fly me to the moon

i'm

undecided if i want aliens

or not.

would they be

good for us,

or a bad influence.

steer us wrong,

or would they right

the ship that seems

to be sinking.

i guess all in all 

it would be fun

to have some different

forms of life

walking around.

jazz things up a little.

maybe we could take

tourist trips

on their shiny saucers

to places

beyond the sun.

the celery girl

we disagree.

on dinner, she's into celery

stalks

with a swab of peanut

butter,

while i prefer

the red meat.

a rib eye steak on the grill.

i hear her

crunching

from across the room

and ask her

to keep it down,

i can't hear the television

when she's

having dinner.

my advice, dig deep

we have

water and dried food in the cellar

for when

the bomb is dropped.

batteries

and a non flushable

toilet.

a closet full of toilet paper.

four ply.

a radio.

and several hazmat

suits

when we need to go outside

and scrounge around

for things.

we're so ready.

but please don't come around

knocking after

the big bang.

it's a little tight down

here.

my advice is to start digging

soon,

and dig deep.

don't wait until you see

the fiery sky and

that massive mushroom.

did you feel that?

is it an earthquake,

or  sonic

boom.

or is it thunder,

perhaps

God's foot

stamping the earth

with displeasure,

rattling us in our

chairs.

breaking the good China.

we'd better

turn on the news

to see what the hell

is going on out there,

though it's doubtful

we'll get the truth.

try the window.

not so gentle persuasion

the movie

wants us to buy things.

it's all part of it,

the music,

the plot,

the dialogue, all

of it

persuading our

minds,

and money.

telling us how to think,

how to behave,

what to buy.

it's subtle at times,

while other times,

it's smacking us in

the face.

smaller issues

with age

the smaller issues come

more into

focus

than worldly problems.

you want to know

what time a store

opens,

will there be a line,

will the coffee be fresh,

traffic,

a senior discount?

the wars

and troubles of

the planet

can go on and on and on

as they always

have,

but enough of

that.

i'm running late for

pickleball,

where's my new

racket?

Hi, I'm Barbie, what's up?

there's a gaggle of small

girls

in front of the movie theater

all dressed in pink.

it's Lord of the Flies

times ten.

they are chanting loudly

over and over again,

Hi, I'm Barbie, what's up?

their skinny arms

flailing about,

their eyes wide open

with hypnotic zeal.

mostly little white girls

with wealthy parents standing

behind them,

drinking lattes, and taking

pictures.

it's an event

before the woke movie even begins.

we cross the street and go see

Oppenheimer.

the atomic

bomb seems to be more of

our liking.

the tour de O and D trail

the serious bikers,

you have

to watch out for on the path.

they have their costumes on.

bright yellows and reds

with

numbers

on their back.

their bike shoes strapped

into the pedals.

helmets with cameras.

water bottles within

reach, clocks and odometers.

gps gizmos

attached to their handlebars.

they are on a mission.

in a race.

bent forward, determined

to get somewhere

to not be late.

crazy and dangerous

while they whizz by you

bending to tie a lace.

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.