the smoke house

we had

ashtrays all over the house.

they

were always filled

with dead

butts, thick drifts

of grey

plumes.

my mother smoked,

my father smoked,

my grandmother,

never took a breath

without a Virginia Slim

in her hand.

i remember the matches

and the silver lighters,

the snap of their lids.

the lighter fluid.

how my father kept

a pack in his

shirt sleeve the way he

saw Marlon Brando do it

in The Wild Ones.

he would tap

a pack down,

until

they were ready to be lit.

smashing flat each

cigarette tip.

the house was filled

with blue

smoke.

we were all red eyed

and coughing.,

even the new born,

and yet somehow we lived.

a night at the Kennedy Center

we get all dressed up

for the show

at the Kennedy Center. we're

both in

black.

coat and tie, white shirt

for me,

her in a formal gown,

with gloves up to her elbows.

it's a play

by Ibsen, or is it O'Neil,

maybe Tennessee Williams,

it doesn't matter,

we're on time, and have

taken a break from Netflix

and Amazon Prime.

how many reruns of Everyone

Loves Raymond

can one person watch?

we find our seats, then

settle in, her with her

Twizzlers and me with my

large box of buttered popcorn.

let the show begin.

to be continued

even when

we agree to disagree,

in mild

surrender to keep peace,

there is an air of

to be continued later.

it will not

rest,

this disagreement,

this difference

of opinion.

it will surface

again and again until

it ends us.

the next large wave

the water is cold.

my feet

are almost blue, below

the white

wash

of sea.

slowly

i move out.

my feet gripping

the rocky

sand.

now i'm up to my knees,

now hips,

it's time to go

under, here we go,

as i wait

for the next large wave.

my very woke friend

my very woke

friend

wants to save the whales,

the turtle eggs,

the unborn salamanders,

but

abort the babies,

she wants to

have

the confused kids

go under

surgery to alter

their sex.

snip, cut, fill and form

like silly putty

the children.

everyone gets a trophy

in her world.

an A for effort.

a medal

for last place.

everyone's a winner.

she wants to burn the books

of Mark Twain.

tear down the statues.

rewrite history,

give every street a new name.

she wants to hand out

needles to

the drug addicts,

decriminalize

crime.

release the prisoners,

let them

loot and rob. 

run wild in the streets,

burn the city

in an angry mob. 

they

just weren't hugged

enough

when they were children

she says.

and she's a therapist.

God help us all.

finding bottom

there's a lot of anger

going around.

people

are sad

and lonely, full of despair

and worry.

the music

doesn't do it for them

anymore,

nor does the wine,

or dope they smoke.

when they sober up,

their life is exactly where

it was before

they got stoned.

there's a hole in there

that needs to be filled,

but not that way.

there's no bottom

to that life.

coasting through another year

most of the jobs

i had

i fired myself, making it easy

on my boss.

i wasn't interested

in most

of the work i was hired to do.

whether,

mopping floors,

digging ditches, or

working in

department stores.

the worst job

was writing code for programs

back in the 80's.

i liked break time,

lunch,

and talking to the new

receptionist

at the front desk.

there was volleyball on

Wednesdays,

and happy hour on Friday,

not to mention

Christmas parties.

i still have the birthday

card

that the whole office signed.

it read,

you've coasted through another

year.

with a picture of a guy

holding a beer

riding a coaster.

the work was mind numbing,

but they

were fun.

school shopping

with school

about to start, my mother

would take

us all to Sears for new clothes.

one shirt each

for the boys, and dungarees,

and one dress each

for the girls.

if she had a some extra

money,

we'd get a pair of shoes too.

or sneakers.

she'd buy pencils and erasers

in bulk.

along with seven

lunch boxes

with a thermos inside.

it was a long

school year

of bologna sandwiches,

three cookies,

an apple

and milk.

the loaf of olive bread

i tried to give

a loaf of bakery baked olive bread

to the man

i see standing on the corner

every

morning

with a cardboard sign

that reads, homeless, no job,

five kids,

veteran,

dyslexic and psoriasis

he looks at me

and says,

what is this?

he's been on this same corner

for about seven years now.

i almost feel like

we're friends.

i tell him it's bread, fresh

out of the oven,

still warm

and doughy,

it cost me nine dollars

at the Great Harvest Bakery.

it's got a thick crust. amazing

loaf of bread.

i bought two loaves, but you

can have this one.

huh?

what do you want me to do

with it, he says.

i don't know,

eat it?

maybe slice it up and put

it in the oven.

put some butter on it.

goes great with a cup of coffee,

or tea.

you can use it for sandwiches too.

take a sharp knife

and cut it into

slices.

i like to use Virginia ham

and Swiss cheese on it.

a little bit of mustard.

excellent toasted or not toasted.

but you do what you want

with it, okay?

here take it.

but he doesn't take it. he waves

me to move on,

cursing under his breath,

while the line of cars

behind me start honking

their horns.

what the future used to be

the antiques

in the yard are tagged with

prices.

the old number crossed

out from

when the chair

or table,

or armoire was dragged

out last year.

a stack of life magazines

tied with a string

is on the table.

all of them for three dollars.

i buy them.

i want to remember what

the future used

to be.

but please vote

why is there no choice.

why

is the orange man not in jail,

how many

times can

old uncle Joe

fall down a flight of stairs,

why is

the v.p. a walking word

salad.

what a tragic

comedy it all is.

isn't there one smart and kind,

compassionate

soul

without a bag of dirt

in their hand.

not a single bone of honesty

in all of them.

left or right.

but please vote.

pffft.

the leather straps

some mornings,

 i wake up

and wonder

if it's worth

trying to chew through

these leather straps.

but, i'm an optimistic

person,

so i press on

and continue

gnawing.

don't worry, be happy

you sound so sad, she says,

unhappy,

you must be troubled

by your

past, and 

worried about your future.

we worry about you.

don't you have a happy

place to go to?

you know there's pills

for what you have.

therapy and shock treatments.

books and podcasts.

please, please,

stay away from sharp

objects and tall bridges.

we can help you get

over whatever it is that's

bothering you.

replace that frown

with a smile.

we can fix you 

and make you happy,

and oblivious,  like us.

you'll be singing and dancing

to new tune.

the end of life insurance

i get about twenty or thirty

phone calls

a day,

pertaining to the end of life

insurance.

they are chasing

me around

with shovels, ready to dig

a hole

to throw me in.

i listen to the script by

young Indian men and women,

asking for all my vital

details, before i stop

breathing.

sometimes i use my grandmother

voice,

saying that i'm Emily Wilson,

while other times

i'm Kate Hepburn, or Elanore 

Roosevelt.

still living in the White House

with Franklin.

they only need my social security

number to seal the deal.

which i can't find

because my purse

is in the car.

my beneficiary

is my dog, Louie.

or my parakeet, Lucy.

at this point they usually hang up.

the sky was blue, the ocean too

there's not a drop

of blood,

in his new book of poetry.

not a dark

cloud,

not a broken

bone

or heart, or tear fallen.

it's lovely

nature

without the storms,

the lightning,

tornados

and fires.

it's pleasant enough,

but scares me,

as he paints a

hallmark world, 

one absent of fear,

without desire.

they stopped talking

i dreamed

i could see a mushroom cloud

in the near

distance.

right over the dome of

the capitol.

it was white

with a plume of red

and yellow.

a magnificent

thing to see, even if it

was just a

dream.

all at once they stopped

talking,

finally,

and listened

to the screams.

the bloody lip

i should

have understood who

she was

when she

bit down on my lip,

instead of a gentle kiss,

drawing blood.

i should have

known

right then and there,

to beware.

to run for the hills, 

but no.

i needed more bites

before i finally

disposed

of her.

the garden party

as i look out

into the green yard

flush

with rain.

the ground filled,

not a stone seen.

there is so much

growing up and beyond

the fence,

i wonder what's a weed

and what

isn't.

does it matter, i won't

be part of'

the neighborhood

garden

party

anytime soon.

let's not talk about that

these eggshells

we gently

tread upon, have been there

for years,

mostly when

you're in the room.

how careful

we are with words, with

the faces

we make,

our gestures.

we avoid what needs

to be avoided,

so many elephants

you bring

to the table.

you rule this world,

don't you?

three a.m. purchase

unable to sleep

i see

an ad on tv for wrinkle cream

it's infused with coconuts,

and made by NASA's

space age

anti-aging formula.

it's three a.m.,

i take out

my credit card

and buy some on the phone.

a box of twenty-four

tubes.

soon i'll be

able to sleep.

ships in forty-eight to

seventy-two hours.

banking on the next life

we're not unhappy,

just miffed at the way things

have turned out.

i should have

been taller, faster, smarter.

i should have come from money,

had a real father.

had skin

of another color.

worshiped a different God.

had a brother or sister

to lean on.

a true friend.

maybe in the next life.

if there is one.

her latest soul mate

she tells me

that she's met her soul mate,

but there's a

catch.

he's happily married

with a beautiful

wife.

but he's the one, she says,

showing me

the ring

the watch

the bracelet, and car

that he gave her.

we're going out on his boat

tomorrow

while his wife

is in the hospital.

what should i wear.

is it time for the yellow

bikini?

that always seals

the deal.

the kitchen dance

romantically

we dance

across the kitchen floor.

around the table,

bumping

the oven,

the sink, the trashcan

in the corner.

we sashay beneath

the dim light of a candle.

the music

from the other room

in our ears.

her head is on my

shoulder.

we kiss,

my arms are wrapped

around her.

and then i ask her,

if she smells something

burning.

i spin her around,

it's her dress

on fire.

twenty-seven new passwords

i can't keep track

of my

passwords. so many to remember.

i write them

down,

but then forget to cross out

the old ones,

replacing them with the news.

names

and numbers, crazy

dashes and dots, dollar

signs

and numerical offerings.

too weak,

moderate, okay, i guess you're

good for another

day.

like mice, these scammers

chew their way in,

they find

a way.

the blue ribbon entry

she gave

me a small jar of apple butter,

one she

had entered into the Winchester

Apple Butter

Festival.

a blue ribbon entry,

first place.

it's on the shelf

next to a box of macaroni.

i should open it one day

and spread it across

a slice of bread,

toasted.

then tell her how lovely

it is.

but it was years ago,

and i doubt she'll remember me.

joint counseling

there's a plumber

for the pipes,

and electrician for the wires.

a roofer

for the leaks,

a carpenter

for the rotting porch,

a maid

for the dust and debris,

a mechanic

for the car.

a therapist for you

and me.

phone call from Venice

i'm in Safeway,

holding up an apple to the light,

looking for

brown spots

when

my friend Jimmy

calls me

from Venice, Italy.

yo, dude.

you've got to come here,

he says.

man, the babes

are wild over here.

he sends me a picture of him

on a gondola

drinking a glass

of wine,

with some woman he just met,

named Bridgette

under his arm.

she's got a friend that's just

your type.

a complete

psychopath with blonde hair.

what are you doing, he says.

i can hear

the chatter of Italian

and broken English, someone

is telling him to sit

down, he's rocking the boat.

i'm buying an apple,

i tell him,

i can't decide, honey crisp,

or granny green.

maybe a pear, i haven't had a pear

in ages.

dumb as rocks

there's no

need to learn spelling anymore,

or history,

or math.

there's no need

to learn how to write,

how to read

a book, or

a map.

it's all easy now.

laid out on a silver platter.

we're dumb

as rocks,

but we have apps.

tomorrows yet to come

it's early.

we have time. we have

all the time

in the world

we say to each other

when young.

we'll get it done.

in time

we'll grow up,

but for now,

let's have fun.

so much living before

us.

so many tomorrows

yet to come.

relax. 

sit back.

we're young.

the time machine

thank

God for the time machine

we found

in the garage

i tell my girlfriend,

Viola.

it was under an old dusty tarp

beside

rusted hulk of

the Kenmore

washing machine.

we can go back now

and alter

that mistake of eating

those last

uncooked

oysters on the plate

and getting

food poisoning,

let's hop aboard and go back

a few hours,

we need to change our

order and both

get those rib eye steaks.

save the whales

nearly

everyday i'd get a meme

of some

sort from her,

sent via text or email.

black lives

matter.

defund the police.

save the whales.

open the borders,

pride month.

eat plants

not animals.

abort the babies.

ban the books.

use the new pronouns.

free food.

free tuition.

no work anymore.

she was a long time friend.

mother earth

herself

in the flesh.

a Peace Corps Madonna,

but it just had to end.

dear Edgar Allan Poe

it's an Edgar Allan Poe

construct,

stuck in my brain.

the parking 

garage,

going down and down,

further

and further down the concrete

drain.

the fluorescent lights

give no hope,

nor do the painted

numbers and signs.

the arrows

pointing in all directions.

the thinning air.

what if the earth

shakes,

or a bomb lands, or there's

been some

engineering mistake

that finally fails.

what then

dear Edgar Allan Poe?

what hell.

mummering why

nearly

every time we meet for a drink

or a meal,

i can't help

but wonder why i keep

putting myself

through

this ordeal.

i don't even like this person.

and yet.

what little good 

that there is in me,

keeps saying,

give him one more chance

to grow up,

to mature

and let go of his

overwhelming ego.

but no such luck.

again, i walk away shaking

my head,

and mummering why?

the butterflies of love

trust

your gut, your best brain.

it has more

neurons

in it than the brain in your head does.

go ahead

and look it up.

your body knows,

it keeps score.

informs you of danger,

and bad souls.

when those butterflies

start wagging

their wings

inside of you, it's not the elusive

butterflies of love,

but a fire alarm

telling you to run, get

out.

toxic person,

dead ahead.

find shelter.

the iceberg lettuce, lost

when i get

home from the grocery store,

i can't find

the round

fat head of iceberg lettuce.

i was so

looking forward to

its crunch of leaves

on a bed

of bread

with ham

and Swiss cheese.

a cut onion,

and tomato.

a mayonnaise squeeze.

somewhere there's a loose

head

of lettuce

out there rolling around

in a parking lot.

if you see it,

bring it to me, please.

fragile friendships

it's me.

okay. i know it's me.

my

lack of patience and acceptance

of others.

i'm at odds

with the world, with

people.

one small hole

sinks

the ship of such fragile

friendships.

i need a vacation.

a pie in the face

to each

his own cup of tea

when it comes to humor.

some

like it sly and clever, subdued,

with a smart turn

of phrase,

while others

prefer the prat fall,

the pie in the face,

the clown

with big shoes,

the splash of a pail

of water.

either will bring a smile

to the face,

but one

will wear out sooner

than the other.

we're waiting in the closet

my shirts,

my ties, my suits, the dress

pants

and shiny

shoes

and boots, all of them

stare back at me

and wonder why

i never put them on

anymore.

isn't there a wedding or

a funeral

to attend, 

some fancy show?

i hear them

talking about me at night,

in whispers.

asking each

other,

why.

no more beans

what if

there was no more coffee.

no more

beans

to crush and press

and pour

hot water upon,

what then?

what reason would there

be to go

on?

tea? lemon water?

oh, please.

mending the heart

for some

it's the spill of another drink,

the cool slide

of alcohol

down the hatch,

for others it's food,

the buffet

line,

the bib tight around

the neck,

and then there's drugs,

so many pills

to try and right the ship.

sex too.

does that appetite ever

end, another

band aid

trying hard to get the heart

to mend.

a few whisper of words

when dry,

when the well no longer calls

back

when i drop

the bucket down.

i go to the shelves.

to Larkin

and Plath, Strand

and Levine.

and the others, so many others.

just a few

whispers of words

from them,

and the pen retracts.

never reaching shore

careless

with money, with love,

with

purchases

or moves,

jobs, taking on life

without a plan

or cause,

will

keep you off kilter.

unbalanced,

near drowning,

as you tread

the water, never

reaching shore,

forever more.

an extra rip cord

we need spares.

whether

tires, or towels, shoes

and shorts.

we need back ups of

a sort.

a friend

or lover, someone

to help

you out, when the other

is not around.

an extra

rip cord on the chute

as we're

tumbling down.

just go around

you know

it's probably not mentally healthy

to never

leave the house,

expect for work

and food,

but you manage to do

just that

without

too much angst.

you've fallen out of love

with most

humans

that you meet.

why do they beep the horn

and flash

their lights so much,

just go around.

the spider bite

it's small

welt, a spider bite of some

sort

beneath

the shirt, far

up on the sleeve.

was it day,

or night,

that he or she feasted

on my flesh,

then left.

no card or letter,

no get well soon.

nothing

like that.

spiders, what are you

going to do?

the ripping off of the bandaid

i suggest the polite,

but well

written letter sent via

the postman

or 

email.

a well thought out

letter listing the doubts

and reasons

that this relationship

can ever progress

going

as it has for so long.

but keep the door

ajar that maybe, just

maybe a friendship

can survive.

i tell her to list gently

the causes

of breaking up.

the drinking,

the angry children,

the grieving of an ex-wife,

deceased.

the distance,

the run down house.

the weight of it all.

but instead she texts

and says,

we're done,

to which he replies. 

have a good life.

the Exorcist stairs

after seeing the movie

and having

the pee

scared out of us,

of course we walked 

over to

the Exorcist

stairs

in Georgetown,

the long concrete steps

rising and falling

into M street.

how did her

head turn around like

that, my friend Betty

asks me.

and that potty mouth,

in seven languages.

floating

above the room

with the strength of

a gorilla.

and then that plume of

green vomit

shooting out all over

the place.

oh my God. it all seems

impossible to me.

is there really evil like

that in this world?

you never met my last

wife, i tell her.

after her, i'm a true

believer that indeed,

there is that kind of evil.

go ahead and take the world

as we age,

i often hear from others.

that we lose

our appetites.

for food,

for sex. for sleep.

our ambition

has dwindled to a few

embers

in a dying fire.

we tell each other that

we're up at four

in the morning.

we brag

about our doctor visits.

the numbers,

our vital signs.

blood pressure

and the rest.

we're easily bored

with so much,

having seen the changes

go by our windows.

we're no longer

impressed.

the young can have it.

go ahead,

take the world we made.

it's time for us

to rest.

the Turkish bath

as i sink

into the steam and boil

of a hot

bath,

my bones

and muscles sinking to the bottom

of the tub,

aching,

i imagine

i'm in a Turkish bath

somewhere,

in some

exotic locale

where

the women are dark

and mysterious,

not here

in this row house.

built with

little imagination

but to make

money,

then head south.

as she picks her dress up off the floor

she tells me, as she picks her dress

up off

the floor

that she's catholic.

did you hear me, she says,

as i lie back

on a pillow

catching my breath.

i'm catholic,

she says again,

i thought you should know

that.

no problem, i tell her.

me too,

at least according

to the paperwork

in some desk drawer.

i won't hold it against you.

i kind of thought so

anyway

when you asked me

to close the door.

Sunday Morning

you enter the room,

but already your desire to leave

is greater than the one

that brought you here.

it's not where

you want to be.

but here you are.

you find a pew and sit,

someone tells you to move,

it's where they sit.

you find another pew

in back of the room.

by the exit.

and so it begins.

smoke and mirrors,

preaching.

soon it will be over and

you will leave,

no lesser, no greater than

before you came.

you've heard it all before.

and it worries you

how no one changes.

finding the time

i admire those

that give back, those that volunteer.

ladling

soup

into bowls down

at the shelter.

changing diapers

on the maternity ward.

those

adopting streets

and picking up the trash

of others.

what good souls

they are.

so selfless,

so good and kind.

so unlike the rest of us,

who haven't

got the time.

the thinning of you

ah the ghost of you

is thin

today.

thinner and thinner

with passing

days.

i can see right through

you.

but that's nothing

new.

is it?

the encyclopedia salesman

an elderly

man comes to the door

with a satchel of books.

encyclopedias.

i invite him in,

because it's a thousand

degrees outside.

he takes off his hat

and shakes out his long coat,

then sits down.

i get him some ice tea.

do you mind if i take

my shoes off, he asks.

sure, i tell him.

sure, why not.

take a load off brother.

do you have kids, he says.

yes, a girl and a boy,

but they're grown up now.

one lives in Idaho,

she's a sheep herder,

and the other is in the wind.

someone spotted him

in Portland once delivering

pizzas.

let me get to the point

of my visit, he says, opening

his satchel.

we have a special deal on now,

a set of brand new updated

Encyclopedia Britannica's.

the latest version.

there's even a chapter on

Covid and a picture

of Dr. Fauci in there.

but why would i need them,

i ask him.

everything there is to know

is right here in my phone.

i hold the phone up to him.

ever hear of google.

there's no need for libraries

anymore, or books.

huh, he says. interesting.

i've never heard of that. but

tell me you this, sir, he says.

what if your battery dies. then

what? what if you can't find

your charger, or there's an electrical

storm knocking out the power.

then what, how are you going

to look things up

in the middle of a dinner conversation?

yeah, right.

i got you there.

so what do you say. fifty-nine

dollars a month for three years

and this set

of twenty-one books

can be on your shelf by next

week?

we take Venmo, PayPal, check

or cash.

so what do you say?

oh, and do you mind adding

some ice to my drink,

and maybe a small slice of lemon?

the Woke Dinner Party

we decide to have a little dinner

party in our house,

but we're worried that we're not

woke enough.

i ask my wife Betty if we have

one of those

BLM placards to put in the window.

she shakes her head no.

we never had one of those.

well, i tell her, maybe put that 

Michelle Obama book on the coffee

table so that people can

see it, and maybe ask the Jacksons

if they'd like to come to the party.

she writes that down.

oh and put the SUV in the garage,

and pull the Prius into the driveway,

maybe scrape off that 

Support Your Local Sheriff bumper

sticker if you have the time.

Betty writes that down.

What about your friend Bruce,

she asks me. maybe invite him too,

and his boyfriend, Timmy. oh no, he's

on Fire Island for the week, darn.

but maybe we can borrow his

rainbow flag that's hanging on his

porch and tack it up over our doorway.

excellent idea, she says.

doesn't your therapist know the 

psychiatrist who has Greta Thunberg

for a patient. that would be a major

coup. excellent idea, and put

out those blue recycling bins that

we never use. put them out by

the curb so that people can see

them when they arrive.

are we for the war in Ukraine, or

against it?  hmmm. we'll have to play

that one by ear,

but we are definitely open to open

borders, and no tuitions, free

needles for all those people lying

in the streets all over the country.

agreed, she says. agreed.

do we know any socialists we can

invite?  i can't think of any.

nah, me either. maybe that teacher

who just moved into the neighborhood,

the house on

the corner with all those chickens

in the yard.

i'll stop by and see if she's interested

in coming.

i think she's part Asian too, so that

would be a bonus.

you know what would be golden,

i tell her, what, she says.

if we could get your sister to pretend

she's a transgender.

no offense, but she does have a

boyish figure, and short hair.

and all she has to do is put on a plaid shirt

and some combat boots. we can pay

her a hundred dollars.

she looks kind of confused and angry

all the time anyway

in that pre-op kind of way.

let me call her, she says, writing

that down on her list.

what about food, she asks me.

should i try to make that tofu turkey

that i saw on the internet.

sure, why not, give it a try, but

organic tofu, okay.

and put out a bowl of skittles too,

everyone

likes skittles. i'll pick up a case

of Bud Light in those blue cans.

yes, she says, most def. high five.

oh, one more thing.

maybe we should go see that movie,

Barbie, before the party,

so that we can tell everyone

how wonderful and true it is.

we can both wear pink.

that's a deal, she says.

i think we've got this.

she's always there

there

is a certain joy in seeing

the woman,

the same woman

at the bakery

behind

the counter

for years and years.

smaller

with each passing day,

but pleasant.

she even

knows your name.

the smell of fresh bread

in the air,

is her.

the smile

on her face is cream

and sugar.

as are

the pastries sweetly

laced.

getting our fix

each click

a bump of dopamine.

a little

treat

for the brain,

we feel good with

what frivolity

is on the screen.

we click and click,

again and again,

there is no end to this.

we are zombies now,

walking

in a daze,

bumping into things

that are in

our way.

they own us.

we are mindless consumers,

obedient slaves.

but i love my horse

she climbs

back onto the horse,

with her

broken leg

and arm,

her bandaged head,

concussed.

she grips the reins,

locks

her boots into the stirrups,

and off they

go again, galloping

across the field

towards another fence

that won't be jumped.

the horse shakes

her head

and says, really,

again, i have to throw

you off?

where are the locusts?

are we

there yet, in Biblical times.

nearing the end

of the world

as told in Revelation?

one would

think so, from casual

observance,

what with the plagues,

the fires

and floods,

the violence

and famines.

wars and immorality.

we seem to be just waiting

on the locusts

to top things off.

will there really be 

gnashing of teeth?

pass me the salt, please

we're not all bad.

evil,

despicable,

and unkind, all

the time.

we have our human

moments.

they say even

Hitler would pass you

the salt,

if you were sitting

down to dinner

with him.

of course, that was

on a good day

and early in his

conquering the world

thing.

the fact checker

he wasn't dumb,

but he wasn't all that bright

either,

although

you wouldn't know it

by how often he'd

try to correct or contradict

you

in casual conversation.

say, the sky is blue,

and he'd counter

with, well, not exactly.

exhausting.

whether science or politics,

books

or movies.

drink or food.

he'd straighten you out with

his version

of truth.

a fact checker without

the facts.

so you played along 

and avoided topics,

all topics, well actually,

nearly everything

under the sun,

for no good reason

does God

look at us, like how we

look

at ants.

all those ant hills,

all those ants,

industrious

and busy

with their lives.

how easy

it is to just sweep

them all away with a foot

or hand

for no good reason,

making them

start all over again.

smart cookies

we

used to laugh and make

fun

of things

when we turned it over

and read

made in China.

we assumed

it was poorly made,

rushed

through a factory

by little

slave children

with smudged faces.

but what isn't

made in China

anymore?

my friend

Jennifer

even has two adopted children

from China

now.

Sally and Biff.

they're scientists at NIH

and they're

only three.

his night job

my neighbor

Bill,

married, with three kids.

a good job

down at the factory

making rivets,

a dog,

a nicely trimmed

yard,

with roses bordering

the house,

is a drag queen down

at the club

Zanzibar in the city.

sometimes i see him

with the blonde

wig on,

the long dress

and heels and whistle

at him.

he blows me a kiss,

and says,

toodles,

as his wife and children

wave to him

from the door.

we can't live here anymore

i see the ghosts

leaving the renovated

house, now sold.

they're talking, mumbling

to themselves,

disgruntled

with the changes.

they aren't happy with

the new floors,

the fresh paint, new windows.

the pipes are fixed.

nothing creaks anymore,

not like it used to.

there's no longer bats,

or mice

running free in the cellar.

that's for wine now.

and the new tenants.

how can we haunt them?

they're so young and innocent.

so much of life

before them.

and that dog, always barking

at us.

time to go.

we can't be scary here

anymore.

taking a break

the unfamiliar

steps

will fool you, the first

step

higher than

expected.

you stumble, grabbing

the rail,

but to no use,

down you go,

tumbling.

but you're okay, as

lie face up

on the grass.

you stare into the blue

sky.

cloudless, not a drop

of rain in sight.

you need to take

more breaks from life

like this.

to enjoy

the scenery and not be

in such

a hurry

with your busy

ways.

no matter what our age

i didn't purposely

go to the window to see the new

neighbor 

sunbathing in her yard,

topless.

but i didn't exactly

close my eyes either,

or walk away.

what is it about us men

that we like to see

women without clothes,

no matter what our age.

where's the dog?

i forgot to do something

today.

but i can't remember

what exactly it

was.

i need to write things down

more,

tie a string

around my wrist,

put a tag on the door

before i leave.

i'll remember at some point

what it was.

i always do. but

where's the dog now?

The Bowling Alley

it's an old window

unit

circa 1970, or so.

the buttons are worn down

beneath

the plastic

shield. i hit power

on.

the small cool wind

that eeks out

smells like

beer.

draft beer

from a Miller tap.

maybe a cigarette too.

perhaps a pair of size ten

bowling shoes

after the spray is induced,

but i don't mind.

it reminds

me of the bowling alley

where i spent my youth

sliding quarters

into the pin ball machines

on a Saturday

afternoon, just to pass

the time.

a swim at ocean city

what are we diving into here?

this murky

ice cold water.

is it brown or green, hard

to tell

without the sun.

why do the waves

have foam

on them?

what's up with this gravelly

sand,

pointed rocks,

and hard shells.

i'm bleeding again.

i think a fish, or a plastic

bag, or a dead body,

just rubbed

against my leg.

watch out for that beer can,

its sharp edge.

throw me

a bar of soap and a tube

of Neosporin, 

i'm getting out.

princess on a float

her life,

as she imagines it to be,

is one

of a slow rolling

float down

main street.

her hand

waving to the adoring

crowds.

who doesn't love

a princess?

who isn't in line to be

her spouse?

even in old

age,

the delusion is strong.

flesh and bones,

with more make up.

more Botox.

more blonde.

he's not one of them

he's not one

of them, he's never been

one

of them.

he's been alone,

independent

since the day he was born.

he has

no desire

to enter a rest home.

there's not a pickleball

bone

in his body.

he can still put a sandwich

together,

climb in and out

of the tub.

he's a cookie

crumbling in milk, but

he's not

joining the others.

he's not of them.

a final resting place

the sand

will be your floor now.

the sun

your ceiling,

with the overhead light,

to warm you.

you'll 

find room

in this wide-open space,

you and the ocean,

at night 

the moon.

you have arrived, at last

to your final

resting place.

unstick and pull

unglue

yourself from that or

who

won't let

you

live the way you

want to.

sever the ties with a sharp

knife

down the sides,

with a few

strong cuts, unstick,

and pull.

permanence

there is  a certain

permanence

to us,

the unhappy child

stays

so.

no matter learning or

love

that comes along

the way.

it's ingrained.

it's rarely ever not

the same,

even with age,

perhaps just a 

different shade.

trouble is coming

trouble

is coming, says the glamorous

blonde

weathergirl,

before

the doppler radar map.

the grids,

the blooms of warning

oranges,

and fearful reds.

she's in yellow

today.

with a black sash,

and white

heels.

a human butterfly.

it's hard to take tornados

and storms,

floods

and the destruction of

a thousand

trailer homes seriously,

when she's

so bright and

cheerful,

fancy

with her weather wand.

the wishing well

as a kid

i wished that i had all the coins

in the wishing well.

that was my one wish

standing there,

bent over the rounded

bricks,

staring into

the clear water at all

those shiny coins,

wasted

and lost on silly hopes,

desperate wishes.

duck and run

as i listen

to them argue,

small children

beside

them.

his shadow across

their faces.

i hear the shrill

of my own youth,

the subdued

violence,

quieted by being in public.

home

will be another thing

altogether

duck and run,

i want to tell

the young mother.

unremembered

this drink

is temporary, this drug,

this

thing

in my hand.

this car,

or house, these clothes.

even you,

even me.

mere

are whispers, mere specks

tossed

in time,

floating in the wind.

soon 

unremembered,

soon undone.

free wi-fi

are you here

for business or pleasure

the clerk

asks,

at the roadside

motel.

he looks at my toothbrush in

hand,

searching for

the luggage that may be

at my feet,

but there is none.

hopefully

a good nights sleep,

i tell him.

one night, please.

sign here, he says, pointing

at the register.

oh, and we have

free wi-fi.

i don't care, i tell him.

that's on my long list

of things i'm trying

to get away from.

a postcard from Paris

i get a postcard

from Paris.

but it's hard to read,

the ink

is smudged, the words

run together

like blackened slush.

at some point

the card was rained upon,

or the postman

dropped it in

a puddle.

it could say, i'm sorry.

i love you

and can't wait to see

you again

when i return, or it could

say,

forgive me, but it's

over, i've met someone new,

and i'm in love, but

not with you.

i ignore the later

interpretation and go with

the previous one.

stepping in it

i try to stay away

from drama,

away form toxic people.

angry people.

people with steam

coming out of their ears,

people who everytime

they open

their mouths,

a lie falls out.

i try my darndest

to steer clear

of Shakespearean

entanglements,

but sometimes you

blindly take a step and 

you're in it up to your

hips.

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.