the vacant lot

it was a beautiful yard.

roses

lined the fence,

the grass was perfect.

the trees  trimmed,

there was order and

civility about it.

a small fountain in

the middle, made of stone

arced water into the air.

every weekend

he was out there doing

what he had to do to

keep it up, to weed,

to cut, to mow, to mend

the fence that border friends.

a flag waved from the porch,

and then things changed.

he got old, he lost interest.

the marriage failed

and the kids went off to

lives of their own. yards

of their own.

it had to end.

turn the baby monitor off, i can't sleep

it's your baby

too,

she used to say when the little

whippersnapper

would start

to cry

in the other room,

wanting a bottle,

or his diaper changed.

his staticky whining

coming through

the baby monitor.

how do i know

for sure

he's mine, i'd tell her.

you led a pretty wild

life

before me.

pfffft, she'd say. look

who's talking.

and besides,

he has your

eyes, and toes.

and the shape of his head

is just like yours.

she had me there.

hubcaps and blueberries

you don't have

to drive

far from  ground zero,

washington

dc

to see another world.

hear another 

language.

you can almost hear

the battle cries from the civil

war. there's wide

stretches of farms,

horses,

cattle, gas stations

where

they fill you up,

wipe your windshield

and check your oil.

there's a woman

with 

pies on a table,

she points to the field

behind her

shack where you can

go pick blueberries.

she has a box

full of random hubcaps.

it's not

far,

go west to where the mountains

rise,

where the bears roam

free,

where you can hear

a banjo being strummed,

a washboard

being slapped.

you'll know when you've

arrived, because

it's not like here.

twizzlers and string cheese

in order

to get a clean bill of health

i don't

eat potato

chips,

or ice cream for a whole week

before

my blood work.

no grease

or sweets.

the doctor is pleased

with my results.

he says,

whatever you're doing,

keep it up.

i can't wait

to get back to my car

to eat

some twizzlers

and string cheese.

hot air and blather

it's mostly

talk,

hot air, blather,

about what to do about

the war,

about the migrants,

crime

and

poverty.

so much to say

about

racism,

the unsolvable problems

of the day.

but it's their job

to strike

the gavel,

to rise at the podium

and get elected,

making promises,

promises to the masses

that they'll deliver

better days.

the waiting

the layer

of leaves have filled the small

square of

yard, but more

to come

say the trees,

fluttering

in an orange

and yellow breeze.

i look out the window,

at the old rake

leaning

against the fence,

waiting.

tomorrow looks

promising, once it

rains.

dark friendships

there

are those, that you feel

their

presence

when you enter a room.

a wet

cloud

of darkness.

a vibe of danger.

some of these

demonic souls proclaim

to be friends.

they don't have to speak,

but you

know.

stay away, don't

engage,

get out. 

your primitive

instincts are trying

to protect you.

i'm in a bad relationship

i get into bad relationship

with the woman

in the car behind me,

albeit short termed, because

i have to exit

the interstate in three miles

on the right.

she's in a mini-van,

tail gaiting me a seventy

miles per hour.

the Friday traffic is thick

with travelers and trucks.

buses and what not.

she's fuming

about me being in the right

lane, not moving

fast enough.

i wave out the window

for her to go around, but

she honks her horn instead

and gives me the one finger

salute.

she's smoking a cigarette

and eating a sloppy kabob,

sucking on a long red straw

from her coke can.

i can see her kids and dog

in the back seats, jumping

around, finally she passes

and pulls in front me, only

to tap her brakes to teach me

a lesson about driving slowly.

on the back of her

van are stickers. it takes a

village, coexist, Biden and Harris,

and my son beat up your valedictorian.

it all makes sense now.

sweet sadness

there is such

a thing as sweet

sadness.

the end of a book, turning

that last

page,

the movie

sliding into credits

after

stirring your soul,

the lover

leaving after one

last kiss

on the cold porch

as rain falls.

the cat's eye marble

there's the junk box.

bolts

and nuts, screws and nails,

rubber bands,

and coins

from Mexico,

and then there's the more

important box.

the one with ticket

stubs,

and receipts,

pictures of loved ones,

and rings.

a gift watch,

post cards from 

the deceased.

a Catechism from

childhood,

a cat's eye marble,

green.

mirror mirror

when young,

you can't get enough

of the mirror,

turning left

then right,

trying to figure

out who you are,

what you look like,

what others see.

are you good enough for this

world?

do i fit in?

will they like me?

and now,

you don't even turn

the light on

in the bathroom

when you go in to pee.

i know you

there are those people

that you

feel like

you've always known them.

in a minute

of talking,

they get you

and you get them.

the humor,

the intelligence,

their outlook on the world

aligns with

yours.

old souls meeting

old souls.

it's rare, but a wonderful

thing

to be there.

rebellion light

we were good

at climbing fences, 

going places

we weren't

allowed in.

getting onto rooftops,

jimmying locks,

entering

windows, or doors

unlocked.

we meant no harm,

stealing

nothing.

it was mostly rebellion

light.

getting a small

thrill

out of disobeying

the world,

at night.

not everyone can be saved

not everyone

can be saved, not every

cat

or dog

at the pound,

can be rescued,

stuck

in their cage.

some are meant

for a short

life

here on earth. 

destined to endure

a brief

and uncomfortable

stay.

central park zoo

it's a small zoo.

one old bear,

asleep in his

cage.

a seal,

some birds which

flew in

from

another state,

three pigeons,

a duck

from the pond.

a stray dog

with a collar,

and a feral cat

who just had a litter

of kittens,

but the price is good,

one dollar.

it used to matter

it used

to matter, games,

sports,

the score.

who won, who lost,

but the thrill is gone.

i just don't give a flying

fig anymore.

i sleep

well either way, despite

how we're supposed

to throw

ourselves off

a building

if our team loses.

strange

how so much of it has

become a bore.

drinking a smoothie

she's into smoothies

now.

she puts on her yoga

pants,

does some stretches

then throws

an avocado into the food

processor, followed

by a peach, and some green

grapes,

an orange, a banana,

some chocolate chips

and

an apple, then hits the switch

to the machine.

around and around

it goes,

chopping and 

swirling, until it's done.

she pours a frothy

green like

foam out,

and asks me if i want some?

nah, maybe

later.

are you going to do some

more stretches later?

i'll spot you.

the wood carver

he shows me

the duck

he's whittled from a block

of wood,

then painted.

it's beautiful.

it took me a year

to get the feathers

right, he says.

carefully he puts it back,

then pulls a mountain

lion off the shelf.

this is my pride and joy,

he says,

placing it in my hands,

treating it gently,

like a Fabergé egg.

two years

for this one, he says,

shaking his head.

it was hard on all of us,

just ask

my wife.

a stretch in solitary confinement

you truly

do not know, or understand

loneliness until

you are in

a horrible relationship

with someone

and you live with that person.

there they are

lying next to you, a foot away,

both of you

wide awake.

it is the seventh

layer of hell.

nothing tops it.

not even doing a five

to ten stretch

in the county jail.

playing the bongos

next time

we come to the park, we should

paint our

faces and wear a costume,

i suggest to her

as we sit on a bench

in Central Park

drinking our morning coffee.

we need to fit in,

we look too much like tourists.

maybe we can sit in

on that circle of bongo

players, or

join that ukulele fellow

singing 

Tiny Tim songs. it might

be fun.

she says nothing, but hands

me part of the Times,

which no longer even

has a sports section.

using the Heimlich at Katz's deli

i notice

the defibrator

at the back of the restaurant

in Katz's deli

in New York.

on the wall is a diagram

on how

to save someone's life

if they're choking. it's

a picture of

stick like

people doing the Heimlich

maneuver on someone

with mustard

on their face.

each menu comes with

directions on how

to compress a heart.,

delivering CPR.

then our

forty dollar

pastrami sandwiches

come out

each ten inches

high

and a plate of fries,

and i begin

to understand.

the nine inch pickle

alone

might kill us.

maybe we should walk

with

pepper spray in our hands,

our money

stuffed in

our socks,

our phones hidden

away

we decide not to take

the subway

when we see blood

running

down

the stairs,

and hear a piercing

scream.

instead we get in a cab,

where the driver

says

the meter is broken,

and we have

to pay

up front, or he's not

taking us

to Broadway.

we do as he says,

and hang on

as he

speeds like a madman

through signs

and lights.

pedestrians jumping

out of the way.

two regrets

there are big regrets

and small ones

there's

the i wish i'd never met

you regret,

me letting

a psychopath

into my life,

when i should have run

for the hills.

and then there's 

the regret of eating

two hot

dogs with everything

on them,

some onion rings

and a slice

of apple pie,

and then a beer or two

to wash

everything down.

each will give you

severe heartburn.

good luck to you

good luck

he says,

or she says when patting

you on

the back dismissing you

to your own

life,

and path.

good luck out there

with 

whatever it is you're doing.

wherever you

go,

whatever.

it's a very nice way of

saying,

we're done here,

now go away.

the bowl of fruit

so much

is about image, not

substance.

it's in

the style you wear,

clothes

and make up,

the muscles that you

build.

maybe it's the car

you drive,

or where

you live. so much is

a mirage.

nothing being

what it pretends to be.

take that bowl

of fruit on your mother's

table,

for instance.

back seat driver

i can't sleep

in a car, or a bus,

or on a train.

i can't even doze

off

on a plane.

i want to keep an

eye

on the driver or

the pilot

in case

we're about to crash.

maybe there's

something i can do,

to help

things.

take control of the wheel,

or pump the brakes,

and get us

there safely,

that's how delusional

i am.

the sidewalk diagnosis

my doctor

is on strike, i see him in

the picket line,

holding a sign

and walking in his white

smock.

his nurses are there too.

the receptionist.

i see his Bently in the parking

lot.

i go up to him and show

him the rash

on my arm.

he takes a look and

says,

it could be poison

oak, or poison ivy, or

something along those lines.

you might be allergic

to peanuts too.

dang.

i tell him, i just had a

peanut butter and jelly

sandwich and hour ago.

come and see me in three

weeks or so,

he says,

or sooner, once the strike

ends,

but for now, maybe

rub some mud on it,

and stay away from the peanut

butter.

he puts his hand out,

and so i give him twenty dollars.

a lovely bee flies by

she's a pretty bee

in her

black

and yellow cloak.

she smells

of honey, i like the sound

of her wings

the buzz

of her

is enticing.

should i let her land

on my hand

or arm,

or worse yet,

my heart.

should i allow her

to give

me that fateful sting,

before we

part?

none of this is real

none of this is true.
it's all

made up.

a fictionalized version

of reality.

so whatever you read here,

don't quote it,

or treat it as

real,

don't take a single thought,

or word

to heart.

it's just a bunch of imaginary

renderings of things

that might have

or might not have

taken place

or a period of sixty odd

years.

it's sprinkled liberally

with sugar

and salt,

seasoned well before

placing it into the oven

to bake, or

burn.

somebody get the alarm.

the longest day of the year

i remember

sitting at the thanksgiving

table

one year.

my mother's husband,

not my father,

who we called

Hitler, or Himmler,

would be smoking a cigar,

while

in his underwear,

cutting the turkey

with a dull knife that he

wiped on his shirt.

twenty people

would be

there, the windows shut

tight,

no air.

the phone wouldn't stop

ringing.

at one end of the table

was my sister's

husband with a metal

halo

keeping his neck straight

and his head

upright

from being shot

in a drug deal gone bad.

four or five dogs

would be running around

looking for dropped

food, or an unattended plate.

smoke was in the air,

the ash trays full.

children would

be crying.

the television would be

blasting with a football game,

there'd be

cursing and cheers.

there'd be a line to the bathroom

down the hall.

my mother would be in

the kitchen, sweating,

making gravy at the stove

and squeezing cream cheese

into olives.

her little radio

on the counter playing

Christmas carols.

new york new york

new york

is in love with itself.

they tell

you that the second you arrive

in the city,

putting a shirt

and hat on you

stating that you love

new york

with a big red heart.

we have the best cheesecake,

the best pizza,

the best deli,

the best subway,

the tallest buildings.

we're the largest and most

crowded,

the noisiest.

we have the most crime,

but the best

cops.

the most taxis.

we have the most rats

per capita.

we're a city that never

sleeps,

or stops eating, or

jaywalking.

we are the best.

we are new york.

forget about it they tell

the other cities.

we are the center of

the universe.

not you, so step off.

blood from a rock

i haven't heard

from my broker in a while.

i'm worried.

usually she calls

once a month to shift

some of my hard

earned money

into

a new cash cow.

churning me for her fees.

i think she's looked

at my portfolio lately

and sees that there is 

no more blood

left to squeeze.

the opera next store

something is going on

outside.

i hear the neighbors

arguing in the yard,

someone's crying.

plates are being

thrown,

curses are made.

vows of revenge 

are proclaimed and

doors are slammed.

there's the shattering

of broken glass,

there's twisted arms

and blackened eyes.

but i don't budge

to go look out the window.

i grew up with this

kind of thing.

i know how it begins

and i know how it ends.

what's the answer to number nine?

we sat next to each

other

in nearly every class 

from the 4th grade

into high school and even

in college

for a few semesters.

he got his answers

from me,

looking over

my shoulder onto

my test.

i studied like crazy

while he had

other things to do.

he'd whisper, what

about this or that,

true or false?

whispering his signal,

pssst, psst, i did

the homework

and he'd made a copy.

years later, i found out

that he was a doctor

now, a surgeon, one

of the best.

i'm very proud to have

helped him along

his chosen path.

the right thing to say

how do i look,

she asks,

holding up a photo of herself

in a yellow

dress,

going to the prom

in high school.

it was taken a while ago,

she says.

but i look the same now,

don't i?

yes.

i tell her.

of course you do. you

haven't aged

a day

since i met you.

what now?

i hate when women

are angry

with me.

giving me that look,

you know what i mean,

don't you?

they go silent

and aloof.

more than usual.

half the time they don't

tell you why

they're upset

and you have to guess

the whole day

at what's bugging them.

you go on your best

behavior, putting the seat

down

on the toilet,

not putting your shoes

on the coffee table,

or leaving the butter

out on the counter.

you even pick up a bouquet

of flowers from

the grocery store

which seems to help a little.

it can't be her birthday

again, already, can it?

where did this come from?

i wake up

and

roll out of bed,

then pinch

the side

of my stomach.

where did this new roll

of fat

come from.

this little spare

tire that

wasn't there

last week.

i haven't had a donut

in ages, or

pasta,

nor have i licked a cone

of ice cream

in months.

confused, i carry out

my bin

of empty gin 

and wine bottles

to the curb

for pick up.

five dollars a cup

i stopped

drinking coffee at Starbucks

for a year

and had enough

money for a new

Lamborghini.

it came with

an espresso machine

in the glove

compartment.

it's red of course.

sometimes i drive by

to say hey

to my old barista,

and grab a handful

of stevia packets

on the counter.

a penny saved is a penny

earned.

she came in a box

when she

pulled her hair up over

her head,

i saw the little stamp

tattoo

on her neck.

made in China,

it read.

but i didn't question

her on it.

things were

going too well to upset

the apple cart.

i kissed her

on her cold almost

flesh like

forehead instead,

then we went to bed.

in celebration

hunched beneath

the awing

of the seven eleven,

shivering

in cold rain, he'd

be sucking

on a cigarette as if

that was his

only means of breathing.

the whites of his

eyes would be filled with blood

from drink.

his hands would

tremble

as he reached for

the door, and climbed in.

the whiskey

rose from his skin.

why do you

drink so much, i'd ask him.

what makes

you do this to yourself?

he'd laugh.

when i'm sad, i drink,

he said,

to help me with my blues.

and when

i'm happy, when

i have a pocket full

of money and a place to sleep,

i drink even more in

celebration.

unregistering to vote

i go down to the county

voter

registration

office to unregister

to vote.

i'm done

with it i tell the nice

lady at the desk

who reminds me

of Flannery O'Connor,

with the same

exact accent from the deep

deep

syrupy south.

now why on earth would

you want to do

a fool thing like

that, silly boy, she says.

i've never heard of such

a thing.

unregistering to vote,

that's just plum crazy.

who in the ham sandwich

put a notion

like that into your pretty

little empty head.

my great great grandfather

fought in the civil

war trying to protect us from

the northern aggression,

unfortunately we lost, but

he was a true

patriot of the south. so,

i refuse to assist you in

undermining the nature

of our democracy.

obviously you never

heard of the constitution,

or the bill of rights,

or the declaration

of independence?

have you, look at me when

i'm talking to you.

take your eyes off that young

lady walking by.

i can see the sin in you

from a mile away.

i do believe our education system

has failed us

when it comes to boys like you

from the north.

now skedaddle on out of

here before i call your

poor mother up, and she comes

down here to give

you a righteous whupping.

tomorrow can't come soon enough

the dog

next door waits all day

to be let

out into the yard.

he gets about

three or four barks in

before the owner

comes out

to quiet him.

then back inside

he goes.

back to couch,

where he sits, with

paws up,

at the window.

like with most of us,

tomorrow can't come

soon enough.

so lost and blue

if only

we were rich, if

we were

taller,

thinner, had blue

eyes,

and perfect teeth.

if only

we went to a better

school,

had better friends

lived in a better

house.

drove a nicer car.

if only our parents

were better

at what they did,

their parents too.

perhaps

then

we wouldn't be

so sad

and lonely. so

lost and blue.

live long enough

it's a bad cup

of coffee, but you sip on it

anyway,

as your eyes

search for

a new place along

the way

to get a fresh cup.

a disappointment,

but one you'll get over

soon.

live long enough

and you understand.

you stare at the cup

in your hand, cold,

weak,

picking the pieces

of grounds

off your lips and tongue.

and yet the sign said

the best

coffee in the city.

how could you go wrong.

one more

sip, and then it's done.

go slow

there are various

forms of no.

the no, not now, not never.

then there's

the soft no.

the maybe no.

or the no

attached to a wink,

that says, go further,

but go gently,

go slow.

the cold slap

i step

into the cold shower.

full blast

and let

the icy stream

hit me.

suddenly i'm awake

from whatever

dream

i had.

no longer thinking

about

the past

or what i lack, or

need

to get through the day.

the cold

water

is a well needed slap.

to lie in the shade

sore from

walking, pockets turned

out with

stubs

and receipts, lint,

small tid bits of where

we've been,

debris.

i need a rest from

the long

weekend.

a place

to lie in the shade,

and sleep.

despite us

a strange

inch deep puddle, that

has resisted

sun

and the stamp of boots

and shoots

along

the busy sidewalk.

survives 

somehow.

a pond

in the concrete,

luring birds.

nature finding a way,

despite us.

what has changed

what has changed.

what hasn't

what stays the same,

almost

nothing.

but let's pretend, okay?

pizza for breakfast

it's late,

but we're still hungry.

room service

would be nice,

but 

where's the menu.

we look

all over the room, pulling

open drawers,

checking

inside

the cabinet. the bathroom,

is it posted on a door?

it's nowhere

to be found, but we'd

like a slice or two

of pizza.

so we call downstairs,

to the front desk.

the girl tells us

to go online,

to turn on the tv and

scroll, then down,

then right.

it's past midnight. we give up.

tomorrow, it's off

to Original Ray's Pizza,

for breakfast.

when is your birthday, exactly?

for girls,

for women, it's birthday month.

it's not just one

measly day.

everyone knows.

the word is out.

the cards

and letters pour in,

the texts,

the calls. flowers arrive.

balloons and

gifts.

but please,

tell me once more,

exactly which day is

it again?

taking my pants off

it's an eighty degree

day

in Manhattan.

we sweat

on our walk.

we drink water,

we lick a cone of ice cream.

we take some

clothes off.

go barefoot

in the park.

maybe the world is

becoming too

hot.

maybe not.

but let's dance while

we can

on the green grass.

wait for me as i

take my

pants off.

we feel at home

as we cut into our plate

filled

dish

of red meat,

a rib eye

on bone, with

a strong drink beside

the bread,

and Caesar salad,

the red lights

all around,

putting an eerie

glow

on our faces.

the music low.

we're happy

in the restaurant below ground,

off 58th

and Broadway,

we oddly feel good,

we feel at home

sunday at the park

it doesn't matter

that the drummer can't

keep a beat

or that the saxophone player

is drunk,

or high,

or that the singer is off

key,

his guitar missing

a string or two.

and those dancers

twirling about with two

left feet.

what the hell.

it's central park, welcome

to the human

zoo.

and then we'll sleep

too much food.

too much

drink,

not enough sleep.

too much

of nearly everything, 

everything there

is, except you,

of course.

i'll have another

and then we'll sleep.

the water at Camp Lejeune

all day

i get phone calls about

Camp Lejeune.

was i ever there,

was anyone in my family

ever there.

has anyone died or become

sick from drinking

the water there.

i tell them my name

is General George Patton,

and yes.

i've got a bad cough

and my hair has fallen

out on

account of the toxic

water.

i'm sipping a canteen 

of it right now.

i think my lungs are

falling apart and my knees

ache.

i'm transferred to a lawyer

named Jimmy,

who wants to take my case.

nobody's happy anymore

as we walk

by the White House, we notice

how many protests

are going on.

people wanting more

money,

less hours on the job.

there's girls that want to

be boys,

and boys that want to be

girls.

there's a group

of nuns

protesting equal rights.

there's two mobs

hanging on the fence,

some want open borders,

others want

them closed.

there's a group of cub scouts

complaining

about making knots

to get a badge.

dogs are barking

wanting to be off their leashes.

there's people from all

over the world

wanting something.

everyone is carrying a sign,

and chanting.

nobody's happy anymore

with their lot in life.

meanwhile 

the commander and chief

is at the beach.

always forgetting something

did i forget something,

i think

as i lock the door.

i stand

on the porch and think about it.

the oven's off.

the iron.

the back door locked.

the windows

pulled down

in case it rains.

there's money and credit

cards in

my pocket.

two changes of clothes.

a toothbrush.

and then she opens

the door

holding her luggage,

and says, what's up,

don't you want me to go?

picking up where we left off

true friendships

never

end.

years may go by,

decades

without a word

spoken,

and then you meet again

and pick up

exactly where

you left off,

shaking hands 

and embracing, you'll

see them again,

down the road

perhaps,

or hopefully in

heaven.

the Lincoln penny

these shiny

coins

that appear out of nowhere,

fallen

from  pocket

or hand

and left

for the next set of eyes

to discover them.

pieces of silver,

of gold.

to some, i imagine,

disregarding luck,

they're

not worth the effort

to stop

and bend.

a bagel with everything

i have little interest

in the Statue

of Liberty these days, or

the Empire State Building.

i don't care

about the Brooklyn

Bridge,

or Wall Street.

the Lincoln Tunnel.

i don't need to go to

Times Square 

anymore, or Noho,

or Soho, just get me

to a deli,

where they serve

a pile of pastrami on a slice

of seeded

rye, with a swath of

mustard, or just

a bagel with everything,

toasted.

forget Chinatown

and Greenwich Village,

the Hudson

and the East River,

The Edge

and The Highland,

do i need to walk Central

Park once more?

perhaps, but

let's eat first and then,

we'll walk,

and do it all.

when all else fails

i can't trust

my nose anymore,

or my eyes,

my ears.

or even taste.

what was spicy once

upon a time,

is now bland.

words

are garbled.

vision blurred.

i can no longer smell

what's coming

around the corner.

i just have my gut

now,

to see me through.

a few skips before you sink

like the stone

i cast

side armed

across the black pond,

i let you go.

i let you have a few

skips

along

the surface, but that's

it.

one, two, three,

then down

you go.

the train going by

with the window

open

to the yard, the stream

below,

through

the thickness of woods

shedding

leaves,

i can hear the train

whistle

plainly, i can hear

clearly

its tug and pull, its

pitch,

all of it calling after

me.

what kind of cheese?

when i open

the door

to let some air in,

a woman

walking by with her

dog

says to me, hey,

what are you cooking

in there.

it smells good.

i shrug,

oh, just a burger.

actually a cheese burger.

i can smell it

out your window,

she says,

the dog is looking at me

as it raises it's

leg to pee in my yard.

okay,

i tell her.

not knowing what to

say next,

well, i should go in

and eat.

are you putting onions

on it,

she asks.

yup.

what kind of cheese?

umm,

cheddar.

what about condiments?

ketchup,

lettuce and tomatoes?

of course i tell her, trying

to step back

into the house

to close the door.

what about potato chips?

nope.

no chips?

fries?

nope. i'm so disappointed,

she says.

i love fries.

but i bet you're going to have

a beer with it, right.

an ice cold beer.

just some ice tea

i tell her.

the dog is pulling at the leash,

sensing my anxiety.

thankfully the smoke alarm

goes off.

well.

it's ready, bye. i quickly

shut the door

and turn off the burner on

the stove.

i see the woman out the window,

still looking in.

sniffing the air.

you should really have

some fries with it, she yells

in.

give me the black and white Zenith

i look

at the battery powered drill.

push the button

trying to turn a screw

into the wall.

dead.

i have no

clue where the charger

is.

which one of a dozen

wires

belongs to it.

the weed Wacker, dead.

the phone,

almost dead.

the lap top,

the i pad.

i miss the plug in the wall,

and the turn

on and off button.

putting tin

foil

on the rabbit ears

to watch the Twilight

Zone,

Alfred Hitchcock

and the Outer Limits.

fiddling with the horizontal

and vertical

dials like a Nasa scientist.

throwing in the towel

like the rat

problem, the city has

given

up on crime.

they've thrown in the towel.

the jails

are full.

go ahead, loot, riot,

shoot each other,

rob,

we're too tired to deal

with it

anymore.

maybe if they could

just get the criminals

to do their

deeds late at night,

while we're all asleep.

like between the hours

of 2 am and 4.

what's up with babies?

what's up with babies?

when do they

start dreaming?

is it after a day or two

of being born, 

does it begin once

they've got

some life under their belt?

do they dream

about the nurse or doctor

who pulled them

out of the abyss and into

the light.

do they have nightmares

about their bottoms being

smacked.

the audacity

here for one minute

and already

they're being attacked.

do they remember the drive

home strapped

inside plastic seat.

the strange world out

the window

going backwards.

they've got nothing,

no clothes, no money,

nothing

but a diaper and some

lousy shirt

the hospital put on them.

at what point do babies

get annoyed

or worried and start thinking

about the future.

when do they get

sick of apple sauce again

and again, with

no teeth to bite down

on a rib eye steak

or a ham sandwich.

and mother's milk,

how embarrassing.

the left, then the right?

no chocolate or strawberry?

it's tough being a baby.

having to cry

out every time you wet

your pants, or

worse.

you spend all day

staring at the mobile

over the crib making

you sea sick.

you don't even know what

the sea is yet.

there's nothing you can

do when you're too

cold or too hot.

you can't even sit up and

rattle the cage

they've put you

in, or crawl out.

why are they passing me

around,

pinching my cheeks.

everyone looks like giant

monster.

it's no wonder that we have

no memory of those

beginning years. it was

horrible.

making sense of it all

the window

seat is best. i want to see

what's

going by

as we travel.

i want to see how others

live their

lives.

i want to see the abandoned

houses

and buildings.

chain linked fences

around empty lots.

i want to see the estates.

the golf courses,

the rusted out

hulks of cars.

the wealthy

the poor.

i want to see children playing

in the streets,

screaming with joy.

i want to see

banks

being robbed.

dogs off their leash.

i want to see the lights,

the water,

the dirt.

the newborn and old.

i want to see what's out

the window, take

the world in,

and try to make sense

of it all.

the jails are full

as the looters

steal

from the stores.

breaking windows

and glass

cases full of phones

and jewelry,

whatever isn't nailed

to the walls,

they scream

and holler,

it's fun. it's exciting.

they are wild bees

in a violent swarm.

there are few parents

anymore.

they know how to make

the babies,

but that's it.

where did this chicken go to school?

i thought i knew

what an egg was.

a white fragile orb

that fell

out of a chicken

in the coop.

but not anymore.

i'm confused.

brown eggs, large,

extra large,

small,

medium.

pasteurized.

organic. some white,

some farm raised.

caged or uncaged.

the history

of the chicken

is on the crate.

were they treated right,

did they go

to good schools,

did their parents

hug them and read

to them at night.

i just want a few to

scramble in

the morning.

the rest i don't care

about.

new in town

we're new in town.

happy to be look at

a house

on this tree lined tree.

birds are chirping,

and the sky is blue.

it's a sunny bright day.

we like the Zillow estimated

appraisal.

the pictures are wonderful.

we ask

the agent, are the schools

good here?

how far a walk

is it to the library,

to the store.

is there much crime?

do we need to lock

our doors?

the agent laughs

and says,

obviously you're not

from around here.

run, don't walk,

anywhere you go.

send your kids to

parochial school

across town.

and always lock your

doors.

i suggest bars and a

camera

on each one. maybe

get a small hand gun.

creative facial hair

when men

go bald they feel the need

to grow

hair elsewhere,

the devilish goatee,

or the seventies porn star

mustache,

with sideburns,

no less,

a full beard, maybe,

ala Moses.

or the rug burn look,

just a half an inch

of whiskers

that makes the girls scream.

they might dye it,

or style it accordingly, 

depending

on which male

actor has one

in the latest movies.

you've got the Salvador Dali

look, or

the young Burt Reynolds

to go by.

maybe Grizzly Adams,

or that strange Amish look,

creative but

unfinished.

i'm working on

the handlebar stache,

like in the old

westerns.

boy oh boy those were the days

sometimes

i reminisce,

although my therapist,

calls it ruminating.

whatever.

but i go up

into the attic

and see the old straight

jacket, size petite,

hanging from

the rafters.

a few long strands 

of blonde

hair still attached.

boy oh boy, those were

some crazy days.

i look at

her gnaw marks,

fresh as they day she

chewed them

trying to get out,

her teeth bites

denting the straps.

a world without sugar

without

sugar, it occurred to me,

that there

would be

no holidays.

no pumpkin pies,

or cakes, no candy

to hand out on Halloween.

no Christmas

candy in

grandmom's little

plates,

or  mince meat pie,

or fruit cake.

no easter bunnies

made

of chocolate,

or statues of Jesus

or Mary

with almonds imbedded

inside.

no jelly beans,

no peeps.

no valentines box

of sweets,

no candied yams

at Thanksgiving or

cranberries soaked

in sugar.

no more caramel apples

to break out teeth.

Sansa belt and stretch

pants

would no longer

exist.

dentists would all

at last die.

her security door bell

after we broke

up

and i put all her

belongings

on the curb in trash

bags, she found

another place to live.

she put a camera on her doorbell

to catch anyone

walking by,

or near her front door.

how sad

and disappointed she must

have been,

when no one

approached her apartment,

no old boyfriends,

or burglars,

no peeping toms,

not even me.

carnival occupations

i get a job

at the carnival guessing

ages

and weights

of

people walking by.

if i'm right they

get nothing,

if i'm

wrong they get a stuffed

animal

from a box

of stuffed animals

we bought from

Indonesia

made by little slave kids.

it's only a dollar per

guess.

so well worth it.

my goal is to work

the concession

stand next year. it's located

near the tent of

the fat lady

with  a beard.

i feel a vibe

between us.

if there is no God, then what?

as the plumber

fixes

the leaky

pipe, with grease on

his face, he expounds on Kafka,

talking

about our

existential plight.

what's real,

what's an illusion.

he tells me that

if there is no God,

then

what's the point of life.

to eat and drink,

work,

find love, or misery,

then die?

i want him to stop

talking

and turn the water back

on.

i need shower.

i hand him a wrench

and hold

the light.

make yourself at home

my father's new girlfriend

has her

whole

family

over to his house

on weekends.

rummaging

about.

examining his check

book,

and clicking the dials

on his safe

trying to open it up.

her son is asleep on the couch

after reading

his books and magazines

and helping

himself to candy

and nuts.

on a pad of paper he's been

practicing

signing my father's

name.

her daughter is in the bathroom

taking a shower,

and dying her hair

after going through the medicine

cabinet and

looking for drugs.

meanwhile

my father is in his big easy

chair,

at 95 now

unable to see or hear.

he's eating from

a Styrofoam

container of chicken

and mashed potatoes

delivered by meals on wheels.

he calls out

to his girlfriend, i need some

salt and pepper

dear.

chicken soup, sort of

i'm into

reading labels now on packages

and cans of food.

trying to eat right,

not putting poisons into

my body.

i'm one of them

now.

the guy standing in

middle of the aisle

holding

a can of soup up to

the light,

my glasses on the tip

of my nose,

trying to pronounce

words i've never seen

before on the list

of ingredients.

chicken soup is no longer

chicken soup.

it's a conglomeration

of chemicals,

gathered together

in a lab by men in white

coats.

a little chicken flavoring

is present, and then

some of this,

some of that.

don't shake the can,

it might explode.

one two three four

we used

to go down to the mall

and protest the war, chanting

hell no

we won't go, or

one two three four we don't

want your fucking war,

and other little ditties

like that.

on the fourth of July

one year,

Bob Hope was there

entertaining

the  crowd.

we kept it up with our

loud teenage

voices

not wanting to, 

when we came of age,

go fight

in some jungle

for something we didn't

want or understand.

our screams and yelling

interfered with Bob's

dead pan lines,

the dancing girls,

the Mormon Tabernacle

Choirs mind

numbing songs.

then the tear gas flew.

and we ran.

the war continued

for another five years.

at least

another twenty thousand

died.

they just spit it out

despite

being a baby, a relatively

new born

infant.

babies know what they like

or don't like.

put a spoon

full of something

in their mouths and either

their eyes will

light up,

or they'll shake their

heads

and grimace

and spit it out.

there's something there

to be learned

in that.

i'll pass on the lima beans,

thank you.

and you can give my slice

of carob cake

to someone else.

you don't want to see

what happens

if i take a bite.

sowing the old oats

in my

younger days when

they were juggling

me,

and i was juggling

them.

Christmas was never

fun.

always shopping

for at least four or three.

leather gloves for her?

is it time

for jewelry

for Nancy,

a ring for Sarah,

a television for Jean,

she loves tv.

do i dare

give Ruth

lingerie? is it too early

in the game

for Victoria Secrets?

and what about Donna.

a book again

on the culinary history

of Italy?

maybe gift cards this year

for everyone.

make it easy.

the new Ellis Island

we stayed

there once, the Roosevelt Hotel

in New York

City.

a grand old

building

with history.

Guy Lombardo

used to welcome in new years eve

from there.

there was a wedding

going on

when we arrived.

the lobby was

lit up

with bright lights.

there was music and dancing.

i could see the bride in the back

room

in white,

the groom.

young and both happy,

champagne alive,

and now,

with the hotel closed for

business,

it's the new Ellis Island.

a wandering family

from Guatemala

is in our room.

enjoy

your new life.

getting road ready

i spin

the cap off the wheel

and align

the pump accordingly.

attaching one

to the other.

i pull up,

i push down.

i fill the tire with air

until it's hard

and tight

and road ready.

coffee works for me,

most mornings,

except when you're

here.

the business man

he's neither

sad

or happy. he just is.

sitting

there with hands

folded in his lap,

waiting for his flight.

the small

bag beside him.

he's wearing a thin

grey suit

with a blue tie

and white shirt.

black shoes.

perhaps a business man.

no wedding ring.

no phone

in his hand to call

his children,

or ex wife.

i make his story up

as i watch him

over the edge of my

magazine.

is he lonely. is he lost.

rich or poor, or

is he just an average

man.

in the middle

of life.

where could

he be going.

will things turn alright?

under the autumn moon

in the dark

we ambled along

the side of the cemetery

road,

carrying out shoes.

a slight yellow

moon

as if an eye, visible

between

the floating clouds.

the grass

was wet

on our bare feet.

i remember it well.

her hand

in mind

as we read

the carvings

on the stones, tilted,

or on the ground,

upright.

born then died.

was it love, or something

else.

too young

to understand

these desires.

about to be fulfilled.

a box of donuts diplomacy

if i was

in the debate, i'd have a drink

at my

podium

with a long straw

to make a

crazy slurping sound,

and some snacks.

maybe some chips

or nuts.

a box of donuts.

i'd used them

as props, throwing

peanuts at the person

who says something

i don't agree with.

i'd make a point with a 

glazed donut in my hand

and clear my throat

as i choked

on a peanut shell or two.

as a piece offering

when the debate heats up,

i'd reach out

with my bag

of junior mints and say,

hey friend.

go on, take a few.

we can save the country

together.

him her they them

as it buzzes

around my head

i try

to get the fly out of the house.

chasing

him with a newspaper,

not to kill him

or her,

i'm not quite sure

of it's pronoun,

but to persuade it to

fly towards the open

window,

where it's

nice out.

it finally does, but

another one

flies in.

only the faces change

it's out of control,

the debate.

nine

well dressed men and women

babble on

and on and on

about their solutions

to crime,

and immigration,

inflation,

wars

and strikes,

abortion and whatever else

is on their minds.

it really doesn't matter

who wins,

who loses.

nothing every changes.

just the faces.

old age looting

inspired by the news

and lack of law enforcement,

i call my friend Betty

and tell her,

let's go shopping. 

but my social security check

hasn't come yet, she says

i laugh, forget about that.

i'll pick you up

in ten minutes.

so we put

on our hoodies,

our covid masks,

grab a hammer or two

and set out

to the local mall in my van.

Betty calls up her

knitting club

and face yoga class to join us,

advising them

on what to wear.

sketchers will help

you keep your balance

when it's time to skedaddle,

or ortho shoes.

her friend Sally wants to

go too,

but she's in a wheelchair

and can't roll away

fast enough once

the smash and grab begins.

she requests some canned cat

food for her cats

and a bottle of witch hazel,

whatever that is.

we start off at the vitamin

store,

stuffing ginkgo bilboa and saw palmetto

into our jackets.

sleeping pills

and ex-lax.

someone grabs a case of Ensure.

we work our way over

to the heating

pads,

and Depends.

i wipe the shelf clean of hearing

aids,

and wrinkle cream,

then grab a box of Tums,

and a new magnifying glass.

Betty gets a case

of prune juice.

then we limp out of there

before the po po comes.

to be like him

we made

fun of him, of course.

we were stupid

pimple

faced kids

raised

by knuckle dragging men.

we called the boy fancy

pants,

or said that he

was light in

the loafers, there was

a hint of mint

about him.

he liked boys, not

girls. but we were never sure.

he never threw a ball,

or got into

a fight.

he knew how to dance.

he played the piano,

he could sing.

he could paint and write.

in looking

back at him

i think we were jealous

and cruel,

with no

appreciation for

the finer things.

young fools.

the dark wink

i took the wink

from her

as a friendly

gesture, a notion of that

we're in this

together.

a smile attached,

like a cat

with a mouth full

of feathers.

until death do

us part,

the preacher cooed.

what could go wrong,

i wondered

as i said with trepidation,

i do.

the bloodied knife

i'm a slow learner.

look

at the tips of my fingers,

the scars

from putting them

into the fire.

look at the dents

in my car.

the weeds in the yard.

look at the stale

bread

on the table,

the soured milk left

out overnight.

look at my heart,

the pieces

on the floor.

the bloodied knife.

more than fifty ways

we have options.

always.

there's always a choice

we can make

to make our lives

easier,

to exit, stage right

and ease

the pain.

we can leave.

we can quit.

we can end things.

we can find

another.

i can think of more than

fifty ways,

Paul Simon,

to leave a lover.

a waste of time

strange,

how we no longer know

one another.

surreal

at times.

it's like nothing

ever happened 

between us.

not a single sweet moment

can be thought of.

all of it

has become

a mirage, a vague

memory

forever fading.

all of it,

in looking back,

is lost time.

walking pieces of art

can one

have

too many tattoos,

too many

piercings,

too much red or blue

dye

in their hair?

apparently not.

it seems competitive

at times

everyone is a piece

of art now

walking about.

Salvador

Dali

and Andy Warhol

would

be proud.

Sears and Roebucks

he's smoking

a cigarette and coughing

as he sits

on his front porch.

i miss Sears and Roebucks,

he says

out of nowhere.

i used to buy everything.

there.

from tires to dungarees.

my mother's house

was ordered

from their catalogue.

we used to get clothes

there,

do all our school shopping

for the kids,

and at Christmas

they sold trees.

Santa Claus would sit

next to the escalator

and our

kids would hop up on

his knee.

my fridge and my washer

and dryer are all Kenmore.

my vacuum cleaner too.

they don't make

em like that anymore.

and if they broke down,

Sears would send a man out

to fix them.

he crushes his cigarette

under his shoe,

then lights another one

as a big blue truck pulls up

on the street.

Amazon.

my wife, he says. we get

a package nearly everyday.

she don't feel the same as

i do about

old Sears.

as the sun sets

we take

a walk after dinner.

hand

in hand. 

we go up the hill

then

around

the bend

to the lake.

we find a bench to

sit on.

i tell her what a wonderful

dinner

it was.

thank you,

she replies.

we kiss lightly

on the lips,

then get up to walk home,

we go inside.

but all i eat are vegetables

she pretty much

ate green

beans and kale,

spinach

and lettuce for most

of her life.

rabbits had nothing on

her culinary

skills.

nibbling at whatever

grew

in the ground

or fell off a tree.

so then why the clogged

artery.

the heart attack,

why the large

waistline?

could it be

the ice cream

and apple pie, 

the cakes and candy?

maybe.

cruel to be kind

he's mad,

she's mad. they're all mad

at me

for some reason.

maybe they

shouldn't send me

their poetry

for criticism.

it's their fault, not

mine.

i'm cruel when it

comes to

the written line.

theirs and mine.

Flannery's chicken

the man from New York

came

down

to report on the chicken

that could

walk backwards.

he took the dirt

road

to Flannery O'Conner's

house

in Georgia

and watched

as the chicken prowled

around in the

dirt,

pecking at bugs

and finally performing

his impossible

feat.

Flannery was only seven

and never

got to see the snippet

of film

shown in theaters

years later of her chicken

walking backwards.

but it never left her,

the amusement of what a

world it was.

strange indeed.

nothing being what it seems.

we'll see, He says

God is funny

about answering prayers

or in making

proclamations.

is it all in good time?

or is He

trying to decide,

pondering both sides

of the issue,

weighing the consequences

of a yes or no,

by the divine.

maybe he'll

change his mind

after sleeping on it

for a while.

seems He's no rush

with

any of it.

you know nothing

my boss

in my brief office days was

a tiny man

from Viet Nam.

Su Bao

was his name.

he had war wounds

all over him, scars

all over his

body.

one arm was nearly

useless.

his hand folded together

like a vise.

he used to yell at me

if i made a mistake,

which was quite often,

he'd yell loudly

so that the whole office

could hear him.

you know nothing,

you're stupid.

you know nothing.

he'd repeat this over and over.

screaming

at the top of his cigarette

filled lungs,

and stamp his

brown shoes with his clip

on tie

flopping around.

part of me wanted to smack

him across the head

with a keyboard,

and the other half

of me wanted to hug

him. and talk softly

to him, to have him tell

me all about it.

i can't imagine what he

went through,

but he was right.

i knew

absolutely nothing.

the fading blue of the day

at last

the windows are open.

how

nice to feel

the air,

to listen to the rain.

i find

the book i'm half

into

and slide

the chair towards

the darkening

woods.

but i don't read.

this is good enough

for now.

the fading blue of the day

upon me.

i used to be a cheerleader

after a few

martinis, 

and we get past the part

about her being

a cheerleader

and that she can still fit

into her uniform,

it's all downhill from there.

she begins to leak out information.

she's never

had a job.

she has no money.

she has several personality

disorders

and sees three therapists

weekly.

she's a vegan.

her second husband,

twenty years her senior,

is a convicted felon.

her son

has never worked or

had a girlfriend and has

lived in

the same room

for thirty years in his

father's house.

her last boyfriend 

of ten years was

married

and looked like Santa Claus.

her father sexually abused

her as a child.

her rescue dog bit her on

the arm.

she shows me the scar.

she doesn't own

a car

and she's afraid of the dark.

and oh, i'm not really blonde,

she says

as she digs a fork into her arm.

quickly i raise

my hand to the waiter

and yell out,

check please.

the photograph online

it was

the wrong chair for the room.

orange.

too large,

too loud.

the cushions hard.

and yet

in the store it looked

perfect.

stylish

and sexy

in what little light

there was.

even the picture

online

was wonderful.

it got great reviews.

i've made this mistake

with people

too.

the sleep over

as she

sleeps, i stare at her dress

on the floor,

a yellow puddle

in the morning light.

it's the dress

i complimented her

on when

she came

through the door.

she didn't even

bother to fold it on

a chair,

or take a hanger

and hang it in the closet.

she just threw it there

before we climbed

into bed.

i don't know if i can

live with someone

like that.

we'll see what happens

on date

four.

my show is coming on, shhhh

what is enough?

how

much

money do you need to see

you through

until the end.

who will carry you

to your grave,

what legacy

will you leave behind,

what will

others say

upon hearing that 

you've passed

away.

is there a heaven,

is there a hell.

will they

welcome you

at the pearly

gates,

or will the devil

punch your ticket at

the other place.

i don't know.

right now i'm busy

with other things.

who cares, where's

the remote,

my show is coming on.

the shopping spree

i go into the Catholic

book

store on King Street to browse

around.

i grab a cart

and push

it down the rows

of books

and crosses.

i'm the only one there.

there's

holy water in little

jars.

books on saints,

psychology books

combining God and science.

how to pray

books.

paintings of Mary,

of Jesus.

glow in the dark statues.

bracelets and rings.

rosary beads.

a wide assortment of

Holy

things.

Sister Mary Margret,

behind the counter

in her new age

nun garb,

asks me if i need any help.

to which i say.

don't get me started.

achoo, god bless you

when i wake

up stuffy and coughing,

blowing my

nose,

my eyes watering,

i know it's raining out.

a cold front

has moved in.

i don't need

a weatherman,

or doppler radar,

giving me the news.

i don't even need to look

out the window.

i put my rain coat

on, grab

my umbrella and go.

i'm a very private person

please,

the celebrity says, as

the cameras flash

and the audience

claps.

i want my privacy, i'm

a very private

person.

and after this next world

wide tour,

and interviews

on every station,

i'm going to take a break

and only

do ten shows

a year.

i want to write a book

about who i am,

what i believe.

i'm a very private person.

i love every one of

you,

and i know how you

love me,

but please respect my

privacy.

be sure to watch my

three part

documentary 

coming out soon once

the lawyers agree.

it's all about my

wives, my children

my parents and pets,

my illnesses and fears.

you'll see what a shy

and private person i really am.

i'll be signing

autographs in the lobby

after the show,

cheers.

the gold rush in jersey

shockingly they find another

corrupt

politician

hiding in plain

sight.

who has gold bars hidden

in their closet

next to high heels

and loafers?

a half a million

dollars

stuffed

in his clothes, sewn

into jackets,

the cups of his wife's

bra

filled with

jewels.

all after just returning

from a trip

to the Mideast.

and then they find that

he's googled

what a bar

of gold is worth.

and which country

doesn't have an extradition

policy.

new jersey's finest.

serving his constituents.

too tired to fight

prior to believing

this

you believed that.

forever

changing your mind

about so much.

agreeing with

a new

take on whatever

the topic

may be.

you swing left

you swing right,

but then

find yourself

decidedly

settled in the middle,

too tired

to fight.

leaving it all behind

when i

see the new addition

to the neighbor's

house

being built.

a pool dug in the yard,

the new

car

in the driveway, i wonder.

which

grandparent,

or rich uncle has

bought the farm.

who's died?

Peking Duck

i stop eating

Chinese food, not because

of Covid,

or 

their aggressive nature,

wanting

to dominate the world

militarily

and economically.

trying so hard to be like

us.

no.

i stop eating crispy beef

and 

chow mien,

Peking ducks with

plum

sauce

because of the grease

and indigestion.

plus i'm very allergic

to MSG

and find chopsticks

annoying.

not another speck of news

i care less

and less and less

and less

and less

about so much.

i'm sort of done with it,

i'm up

to here with

all of it.

i don't won't to hear

another word,

another

speck

of news.

you too?

it's mutual

do i worry

about

the squirrel with a nut

in his

mouth,

undecided on which

way

to cross the road.

a prewinter

wind

already

thickening his fur.

does he concern

himself with me and

my life?.

what i go through

to make ends meet.

no not at all.

it's mutual.

in a nutshell

more news

arrives

in the shape of no news.

no letter,

or call.

no drive by, or

ringing of the bell

to apologize.

i guess it's over,

that's it

in a nutshell.

beauty is nothing

beauty

is nothing.

it's 

a scam, a game,

an illusion,

an easy

road to hell.

few of them have

learned

what we know.

beware

of beauty.

seek

the ugly

and strange, the boring,

the mundane.

the average.

look for

the underdog.

and

be happy.

stay sane.

my ceiling, his floor

the man

above me used to have

a party

every weekend.

there'd be loud

music

and dancing

into the wee hours 

of the morning.

sometimes i'd call

the police and ask

them

to a pay a visit, to

settle things down.

which angered my

neighbor.

who gave me sneers

and the evil eye

when he'd see me

around.

if only he would have

invited me

once in a while.

all of this could

have been avoided.

what is that?

there's pretend

meat

in the stores now,

pleasing

the emaciated

vegans.

sticks of fake

butter,

taste like butter

the label says.

almost sugar

from a plant leaf.

coconut flour.

almond flour.

soy milk,

which isn't milk

at all.

i remember when

milk used to come

from an animal's

breast.

what's next, a wooden

apple,

a styro-foam

peach.

grapes made in the lab

from a petri

dish?

tourists

after

seeing the robbery,

the man

pushed into the path of

the oncoming

train,

we avoid

the subway.

we walk and take a

taxi

instead.

Central Park,

dead ahead.

staying close to each

other as

we walk up

5th Avenue.

are we scared about

what's around

each corner,

heading back

before the sun sets.

hiding our

money in our pant

legs.

yes.

cupid's first arrow

i see the young

man

in the grocery store

picking out

a small bundle

of flowers,

counting his money.

maybe it's his first

time.

he's carrying a Hallmark

card

and a small

gift in his hand.

he's just getting

started.

infatuated with 

someone, trying

to win her hand.

i nod and walk by,

saying nothing.

staying alive

stay

curious, stay thin,

stay

frugal,

have

friends.

laugh

and make amends.

extend

your life another

year or

two.

eat well

and drink less.

look both ways

when crossing

the road.

if your lucky

and the stars align

maybe

you'll make

it to a hundred.

but everyone else

will be

gone, or a mess.

she always returned calls

i hear

her phone ringing,

as she

lies

in her coffin.

it's in her hand, 

perpetually

there

for years.

and now in a death

grip.

i look over

my shoulder

and ask

if maybe

someone should

get that?

finally it

goes to voicemail

and we hear

her voice

one more time

before the casket

is lowered.

i'm out and about,

she says,

but i'll return your

call just as

soon as possible.

everyone

stares at their phones

and waits.

helping my neighbor Emily

i see my

friend Emily Dickinson,

who lives next door

at the elevator.

she has her cat

on a leash

which she cleverly

named number nine.

i almost mistake her

for a nun.

she's wearing all black

and has

a doily around her neck.

hey, i say.

hello sir, she says back.

she looks glum.

is everything

ok?

i ask her.

we both stare up at 

the lights

of the impossibly

slow elevator.

she shrugs and says,

i guess so.

i'm stuck on a poem.

i shake my head.

you're thinking too much

i tell her.

over thinking gets

you nowhere.

you just have to let

them rip.

blood and guts, 
Emily.

put a knife in them and

make them

scream.

she puts her hands over

her ears and closes

her eyes.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

look, i'll stop by later

and you can run a few

of them

by me, okay?

thanks, she says.

i don't know what i would

do without you.

you're such a kind

gentleman.

i'll put some tea on.

the all Saints fiasco

as we

made frenetic love,

me and

rehab

patty,

in the guest room,

with

music on.

her religious

bracelet broke

in the mayhem.

off her wrist went

flying

all the saints.

there they went

St. Peter,

St. Anthony, St.

Ambrose.

St. Ignatius of Loyola

down

into the air

vent, clicking

like chicklets.

oh my

are you not

Dorothy

with her little dog

Toto,

in the house

as it spins

high in the sky caught

in a tornado.

the window

to the outside world

holding

nearly everything

you've ever

seen or done,

or thought.

the scroll of your

phone,

your picture box,

your

scattered memories.

all of it

in the air,

wind blown

and  tossed.

when the trees go down

i can hear

the buzz of saws cutting

the trees

away,

having fallen in the street

while it

rained last

night.

lines are down,

a crowd gathers.

i can see them

from the window.

dogs, and children.

cups of coffee in hand.

it's a cheerful

crowd.

i should go out and join

them,

be part of it,

but i'm not feeling it,

i need more sleep

as well.

lock up your cheese

it's a long

article on rats in the New

Yorker.

one for every person

in the city.

it talks about how they

jump ships

and 

get off at each port.

three different types.

it's how the black plague

started.

killing millions,

full of fleas

and lice.

there's nothing we can do

about it.

too much trash.

too many places to hide.

too much

food discarded on

the streets

and left behind.

they chew through walls

and wires.

they're everywhere.

just be careful

when you

go out at night, and lock

up your cheese,

please.

the silk tag

the child

will find

comfort in the soft silk

tag

of his blanket,

rubbing it gently

between

a finger

and thumb. feeling

safe and warm,

the comfort

of his home, the gentle

touch

of a mother

or father.

a good life starts here

knowing

he's not alone.

finding sleep

before

sleep, your mind wanders,

finding

the right pillow

to lie on.

the right soft thought

or memory

to fall upon.

you turn it over

and over,

slip in a prayer or two,

counting blessings,

then find

the right position

to let

the day fall away,

at last

you're through.

down Broadway

as we arrive

we see the city in silhouette.

grey,

mottled wet

by the rain

on our windshield,

so much

life in such a small

space, tall,

stretched out

along the Hudson.,

it all disappears

as we

enter the Lincoln Tunnel.

down Broadway.

it's not home,

but it feels like it

on this rainy day.

the darkened road

i remember

you falling asleep on my

shoulder

as we drove

the long trip home.

the endless

miles of

darkened road,

our hearts

warm.

what could wrong

with love

like that?

bee stings

as the bee

stings

he dies in retreat

leaving

behind

his vital organs.

beware

of the sting,

whether

giver or taker,

either

can be deadly.

she was unsure

as my mother

knelt to tie

my shoes, she told me

to be

good in church,

still not

trusting

the good

already in me.

here's fifty cents to put

in the basket.

now run along,

take your

catechism,

and bring me back

the bulletin.

see how much we loved?

the industry

of death

and marriage, is based

entirely

on guilt, on the weakness

of the human

heart.

we need to go big

and bright,

expensive.

we need to show loved

ones that we

cared.

bring me the gold box,

the carriage

drawn

wedding.

the five-tiered cake,

and the

ornate coffin to be

buried in.

see how much we loved?

with hammer in hand

she's always

looking for a nail to bang

down.

she carries

the hammer all day,

searching

for the loose nail,

the warped

board,

the broken tile on

the roof.

trying hard to make

it all right.

she's a busy girl

in this 

broken world.

this loneliness

her loneliness

has little to do with rain,

the grey

of clouds,

the soft percussion of

weather on

her window panes.

it has nothing to do with

love either.

or lack of friends.

the small apartment

she lives in.

it's deeper.

much deeper than these

simple things.

when you arrive

is there

anything of nature that

swells your

heart more?

puts tears into your eyes,

after a long absence,

as the love

of your own children

greeting you at the door,

when you

arrive?

man overboard

i wonder

about the ark. Noah's ark.

how did

the animals get along.

how did

the lions not eat

the zebras.

how did the snakes

not eat the bird's

eggs,

spiders and bees?

mosquitoes?

the smell of it all

and those screeching monkeys.

not to mention Noah

sharing

his cramped cabin 

with his wife

for forty days

without a fight.

kind of unbelievable.

one or the other would

have been overboard

in a weeks time.

as the ship sinks

the news

shows ten thousand people

in one day

from

other countries 

illegally crossing the border,

knee deep in

the river,

cutting through the coils

of barbed wire.

they have back packs.

kids in hand.

they want out

of whatever hell they were

once stuck in.

come on in, we tell them.

make yourself at home.

food, no problem,

shelter, you want a job,

okay. we got this.

this is the land of opportunity.

come on aboard.

give us your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses

yearning to be free,

there's always room for more.

nothing to see here

nothing to see here

the cop

says as we roll down the window

to take a look

at the accident.

move on, he says, waving his

sparkling

crimson flare,

let's go, 

nothing to see here, he says,

move it along.

but it isn't true.

we're slowing down

because there is something

to see here.

i can't breathe

don't make me

go,

i plead on my hands and knees.

i don't know

any of these people,

and you know how i hate

being trapped

in a room

doing small talk

with strangers.

before i even get there

i'm ready to leave.

i'm sure they're wonderful

people.

all them lovely.

smart and educated, 

good citizens,

kings and queens,

but please, please,

where's my rescue inhaler,

i can hardly breathe.

donna reed with a whip

i shouldn't have

opened her medicine cabinet

or peeked

into her purse.

the crazy pills,

the knife, the gun,

the map

of something buried

in the woods.

and what's this under

the bed?

a leather whip,

and a wig.

handcuffs?

to me she was always

Donna Reed taking

a fresh batch of cookies

out of the oven.

but all of that has

changed.

over twenty dollars a tooth

i think my

dentist is gouging me,

and not just

with drills

and needles, sharp

metal tools,

yesterday she took

thirty-six x rays

of my mouth,

and i only have twenty

two teeth.

five hundred dollars

payable by cash

or check.

she insists on me 

coming in

every six months,

regardless,

cavities or not.

she showed me a plan

yesterday

for gum enhancement,

that's next.

the basement wedding

a wedding

that takes place in a basement

with no

witnesses

held by a man

found on the internet

an hour

before it starts, is more

than likely

a mistake and doomed.

yeah.

i get it.

i know that now.

a climate solution

the weather

is to blame for nearly

everything

today.

rain or snow, heat or cold.

we need

to get back to where

we were before.

you know.

clean air and water,

no people, just

dinosaurs.

a wave from the car

i'll call you,

i tell her, but i don't.

whatever

we had

has ended. not in a furious

battle of right

and wrong,

but with a whimper,

a wave

from the car,

so long.

you can leave now

as she

lay in her rented bed

in hospice,

being fed with

a baby spoon,

and a drip

from a tube, i'd

whisper into her ear,

you can go

now mom. 

it's okay.

no need to hang on

like this,

her brown eyes

searching

for something, her

body a cruel 

pile

of skin and bones.

let go, i'd tell her.

it's time. 

you can leave now.

go on. go home.

strange love

swimming in the ocean

at night, without a moon,

is different.

it's a new kind

of love, with darkness

being the difference.

the water is the same.

it's cold, and the waves

keep breaking upon

us. it's unsafe and unwise

to go in there,

and yet we do.

strange love once more

making us insane.

the recipe

folded

in a book of recipes

i find

her recipe for stew.

undated, but

stained

and frayed,

often used.

a dead sea scroll

of sorts.

i'd never it seen before

when she

was here.

beef cubed, onions

and carrots.

broth,

salt and pepper,

mushrooms.

a cup of wine.

she was always holding

back so much

that would please

me.

her foot always straddling

the door.

picnic at the lake

we find

on the path the white

stones

of bones.

a skull.

a wolf perhaps.

a fox.

no blood, or ravaged

skin,

but teeth

intact.

something has died

here,

along the way

to the lake

where we'll open

our sandwiches

and eat,

drink our lemonade

and tell

each other how

beautiful

it all is.

the destination wedding

i get a wedding

invitation

to a wedding in Italy.

it's a brochure

and a pamphlet,

coupons are provided.

rates of rooms, 

dining

possibilities are suggested

by the bride to be

and groom.

a giant map of Italy

is inside.

there's a picture

of a gondola

and another one of

a bowl of raviolis,

next to a loaf

of bread

and bottle of red wine.

it's his third

wedding and her number

five. maybe

i 'll wait for the next one,

something a little closer.

the maids are coming on thursday, maybe

i hesitate in using the word

maid,

because

now you're supposed to say

housecleaners,

or something,

but my maid Milagro

is late again.

sometimes she arrives

every thirty days,

and other times,

it's two weeks.

8 am, or two pm.

who knows.

i'll get a text at midnight

telling

me tomorrow.

she's all over the place.

i try to reason with her

to set a schedule, but she

yells at me

in Spanish,

and says that i don't understand.

she's right i don't.

i just shake my head

and leave the key under

the mat and go to work.

cleaning up of course, before

she gets there.

the studio apartment

when starting out,

with your

own small place, a studio

apartment

facing

the dumpsters

in the buildings driveway.

your furniture

was cheap

and wobbly.

but you made due.

everything from Ikea,

or Target.

sheets, cups

and plates.

silverware that you will

eventually use

to open cans

of paint.

the walls were thin

and the ceiling

leaked.

were they the good old days?

not really.

but you slept well

and you ate.

do this to live longer

my neighbor,

Ella May, has a YouTube

channel

now,

who doesn't?

something about

plants, my

aunt Delores has one too.

red sauce is her

thing.

my mother

is on Rumble.

and Tik Tok, telling

the world

the benefits of vinegar

when she cleans.

my cousin is on

Instagram.

my sister's on Twitch.

everyone is making

a little money

telling

us how to live.

i saw an ex wife on

there the other

day.

telling everyone about

red light therapy

while

standing on her head.