B-29

my mother loved

to play

bingo

at the firehouse

in Wayson's Corner in
Maryland.

three cards

at a time.

i remember how she'd get

all dolled

up to go, lipstick even.

i think there was more

going on than

just bingo though.

she'd tell us to behave

for the baby sitter,

as she fixed her hair

in the mirror.

did she ever win?

did her number ever

come up.

i'll never know.

the check is in the mail

after a week

of dragging out the publisher's

clearing house

scam

on the phone, using my Emily
Wilson voice,

i begin to tire.

i may be losing my marbles too.

he goes by the name of David

Cooper,

with a thick

Jamaican accent.

i've reported his

number, his mule address

to the authorities,

his bank account information.

what more

can i do, to end this charade?

but he wants

so badly

to give me the new Mercedes,

the five point four

million dollars, and deposit

the five

thousand dollars a month

into my checking account.

what am i to do?

He says he's a 
Baptist minister and believes

in God, and the salvation

of Jesus.

i hear dogs barking in his yard,

roosters crowing.

a child screaming

for something.

he gives me a recipe for soup.

he tells me to get

some rest and be thankful

for what's coming next.

he tells me that he loves me.

sweet dreams, he says

before reluctantly hanging up.

he'd be a wonderful man

if he wasn't a lying thief

preying on old people,

never uttering a single word

of truth.

and this here is so and so

bad

with names, i forget them

within

three

seconds after

an introduction.

in one ear,

out the other as they say.

but what's in

a name,

it's not like we'll

ever

see each other again.

name tags

would be nice.

Open all night

how did we eat

so much food in the middle of the night,

stopping

at I hop

after a night

of bar

crawling,

to feast on pancakes

and eggs,

bacon and sausage, toast

with butter

and jam.

we were starving

at that young age,

thrilled to see the blur

of neon

lights

blinking Open, come

on in, so we did,

parking the car

in the gravel lot,

then

hurrying in the rain.

dreaming of another life

he stares out the window.

despondently,

it's time

again,

the grass has grown

after

so much rain.

the hedges too need to be

trimmed.

he remembers

sidewalks

and concrete.

streets and bridges.

brick and mortar, how

did this happen

that he spends his days

cutting

the grass again.

the stupidest phrase ever

as we

stood respectfully at the casket

as it was

lowered into

the ground

i said to the man next to me,

she'll be missed.

he nodded

and said, well,

it is what it is.

i said,

what does that mean?

you know, he says.

it is,

what it is.

explain to me the meaning

of that,

i ask again.

you know, come on, it's

a phrase

we all use

when we have nothing else

to say. but

want to say

something poignant.

it's undefinable.

it's stupid, i tell him.

it's nonsense.

you and everyone else should

stop saying

that.

it's dumb

and everyone that says it

should be

slapped in back of the head.

he wouldn't even look

at me

when we went back to the house

for the buffet

brunch.

don't call me honey

it was a bad

fight.

she was so mad 

at me she only

made

her side of the bed,

and put

one piece of toast

in the toaster.

none for me.

she scrambled one egg,

and made

a single

cup of coffee for

herself.

how long are you going

to be mad

at me, honey,

i asked her.

you'll know when it's

over,

she said.

and don't call me honey.

the chicken wing diet

i'm on a diet,

he tells me, rubbing his Buddha

belly

as we sit

in the coffee shop.

there's

cream cheese on his chin,

which i point

out to him.

yesterday i walked one

mile,

he tells me,

without stopping,

and didn't snack between

breakfast

lunch and dinner,

except for some thin mints

i bought from

the girl scouts.

tonight i'm having French

fries and

chicken wings.

then he points at my bagel,

and says

are you going to finish

that?

no need to waste things.

my masterpiece

it's beautiful,

this sheet of white paper

without

a mark,

not a single word

is on it.

untouched

by ink,

or thought. i think i'll

frame it

and call it

my masterpiece,

then hang

it on the wall.

start spreading the news

maybe the wedding

singer

had ambition, had larger

plans

than this,

maybe he thought that he

might become

the next

Sinatra or Tony Benett.

maybe.

but for now, in his white

suit

and slicked hair,

he has the mike

in his hand

and tells the bride

and groom

to come forward for their

first dance,

then he tells his three

piece garage band combo,

to hit it.

a bagel with everything

it's the opposite

of writer's block. it's a spigot

that i

can't turn

off.

it keeps coming,

the nonsense,

the smug,

the opinionated words,

and an occasional

worthy poem

to write home about.

my fingers tap

out the mundane,

the trivial,

the small. it's an everything

bagel

with a smear of jalapeno

cream cheese.

no one and nothing

is spared.

beware.

the traffic cop

the policeman

at the church

directing traffic on a Saturday

afternoon

no less,

is flapping his arms

in all directions

and blowing his

whistle.

he's a rookie at this.

green behind the ears.

cars

are honking their horns,

there's anger

and dismay,

as the line

grows longer and

the snarl

of cars comes to a stop.

he wipes

the sweat off his young

brow

and begins to pray.

then Father Flannagan

arrives

to take over

with a cross in hand

and spraying

Holy Water, as the parishioners

wave.

making lunch in the morning

i have no

rich friends, no poor friends either.

we are birds

of a feather

with middling

amounts of currency

to our names.

we live in modest homes,

drive

modest cars.

we save, we spend.

we vacation

modestly.

sometimes we cut coupons

while other times

we throw

money into the wind,

but on Monday,

we're back to who we

are.

making our lunch

in the morning before

off to work

again.

the last piece of cake

go ahead, please,

take it,

it's yours, you have

the last piece.

enjoy,

and eat.

i give because i adore

you.

i'll be in the kitchen

baking another,

we can negotiate

payment

later upstairs,

beneath the covers.

you won't be fooled again

trusting

no one, you love no one.

you let

no one in.

the heart

is your sanctuary.

your guard is up,

you have dogs at the gate,

the fence

is electrified.

who goes there, you

yell out

into the night.

you won't be fooled again.

the unseen

does

it really come in threes?

this

news

of departing souls,

caught

in

the dark wind

of failing

life.

of disease.

what

lurks beneath the skin,

imbedded

in cells

unseen?

finding refuge in the safe

what

is deemed important enough

to find

refuge

in the safe?

which document

deserves

such a place, safely

stored

from fire or flood,

or dear lord,

theft

by an unwanted

guest.

the deeds to cars

and home,

of course,

insurance policies,

a divorce decree or two,

some cash

for dire times,

an extra set of keys to

everything

i own,

and of course a picture

of me

and you.

does he have friends?

it's a small

grey mouse, a mere puff

of life,

expired,

between the pipes,

beneath

the sink.

but is there more?

does he have

friends and family,

acquaintances

to worry about?

shall we put out the traps,

baited with a tease

of cheese

once more?

sharing an apple

he sits

and with calm

deliberation he cuts

his apple

in two,

then fours, then finally

into eight

slices.

setting them

on his plate.

he has all the time

in the world it seems,

which isn't true.

but he's at rest now,

no longer

thinking

about the world he's

seen, it's just him

and you.

it's always been here

that there

is evil in the world, still

surprises us

despite

all that we see

and witness.

there is no getting back

to the way it

was,

because it's always

been here,

just not as blatant,

and not as much.

a work morning

when

the door was pried

open,

she was lying there, next

to the ironing

board.

she was

backwards on the unmade

bed.

a dress was

there,

the iron on.

the wrinkles not out

quite yet.

she was pale, a blue

note

of color on her skin,

her glasses

on her nose.

the radio was still on.

a cold cup

of coffee was on the dresser,

the phone

was ringing.

black licorice

she refuses

to travel without black

licorice.

she opens her purse

and shows

me the hardened

bag

of black rubbery candy.

i need it,

she says.

like fish need water,

like birds

need wings,

like, like....oh never

mind,

i can't think of any

other things.

care for a piece?

no thanks i tell her

then hand her a napkin

to wipe

her teeth.

when she gets behind the wheel

she likes

her green tea

and candle.

her peaceful read.

her silk robe

and the morning light

to kneel

and pray.

she's all about

namaste.

but behind the wheel,

in traffic, she's

no different than

you, or me.

no one really wins

clearly

nothing is clear.

the fog

of war

is thick, the dead line

the streets with more to come.

revenge

being bittersweet,

the blood

will run

until it's cold

and then

a strange peace

will settle in.

all of it temporary

until the next

generation

grows

and picks up their

weapons.

nothing changes,

as

survivors, press on

in a land

of rubble,

with bread

and water with years

left to weep.

look at me

we're in

the look at me stage

of the world

now.

listen to me,

watch me,

adore me.

i know everything.

i am the light.

i am the truth and

the way.

i am the lord your

God

on Instagram

only fans,

on twitter,

stay out of my way.

worship

the ground i walk on.

i'll be twenty one

tomorrow,

my birthday, but

already

i have ten thousand

followers.

all those years

his apartment,

at last clear of furniture

and clothes,

just the cobwebs

and dust

of years

left behind.

it's empty

now.

almost.

he stands in

the foyer

without words,

the last box

in his arms,

wondering where did

all those years

go?

then pushes the door

closed, turning

the key

once more.

the meek shall inherit the earth

give

me the wallflower,

the unpretty,

the bland

and quiet souls,

who

say less, but you know

that they know

what the deal

is.

you can see it in

their eyes,

the way

they hold themselves

upright.

reluctant and wise,

smart

to not

step in to the limelight.

everyone's a king or queen

we are influenced

so easily

by pictures, by words,

by

the silver

technicolor screen,

music

and art too sways us

to become

people insisting that

everyone

can have

the dream.

be a king or queen.

time is the cold glass

of water

slapped into

our faces, saying 

not so.

which way do we go?

it's hard

as a man to ask for directions.

we're stubborn

like that.

even today

they find cavemen

frozen

in the crevices

of ice, lost

and trapped

with no map, too proud

to ask.

it shows

weakness.

even with the gps

in our phones,

we're still baffled about

which road

to take.

from here, how do we

get home?

new and improved

i empathize

with the salesman

or saleswoman,

and yet

hate them

just the same.

3 G, 5 G,

please, don't call me

anymore,

don't knock on my door

with your

magic eraser,

don't approach

me on the street

with your elixirs.

television is bad

enough,

the radio, the billboards

at every turn

of the road.

leave us alone,

let us keep

at least one dollar,

to ourselves,

give us some peace.

some sort of end

as

the statues of great

men fall,

few

are made again,

only

the athletes seem worthy

now

of being turned

into stone

or marble.

their dark secrets

buried in

adoring fandom.

we're nearing some

sort of end.

a handful of friends

you sift

through your ancient

rusted

pan,

called

face book, and look for

the nuggets

of true

gold.

real friends.

so few, the rest

just

sand

passing through

the mesh

of time.

is that thunder?

is that thunder,

or

artillery fire in the distance?

are

we at war

again,

or is it just a storm

arriving

over

the mountain.

how do we tell

the children

to hide, that

this isn't rain?

love gone wrong

maybe we gave

too much

to the boy. too many gifts,

too much

attention

too much

love and joy.

too many toys.

maybe we were wrong

in being

so attentive, attending

every game

or show,

or interest he was

involved in.

maybe we ruined him

from the start.

never allowing him

to struggle

or to

be without, maybe that's

why

the fruit has spoiled.

as nero fiddles

the pendulum

swings

clobbering the left wing,

then the right,

the extremists take a beating

on both sides.

there are no

wrongs,

no rights, just a country

dead

center

in the middle,

rudderless as the politicians

fight.

the next dream that comes

as the temperature

drops,

in the dark i get up to find

the big

blanket

in the hall closet.

the white one, heavy

and warm.

i crawl

back into the cocoon

of slumber,

not missing a beat

on the next

dream that comes.

the hollow rooms

i wondered

why

she had no books.

she had

no shelves, no dresser

with drawers

full of

her daily wear.

a few things hung

in the closet,

but the rooms

were hollow, almost

bare.

where were the pictures

in frames,

the mementos

from places she had been,

things passed

down from loved ones.

where was the art,

the soul

of her.

she left no tracks

behind her,

and made none

as she moved on to the next

unfortunate

lover.

less and less about love

give it time,

give it time. soon

you'll

be talking less and less

about love,

or money,

about trying

to understand the past.

your white flag will

have been

raised,

and now, it's wonderful

just to make

it through

another day.

tell me your secrets

my good ear,

whichever one that might be,

i'm never

quite sure

until someone

is whispering to that side.

words come in

like the soft paws

of a cat

on carpet.

oh, the things

i have missed,

the invites, the gossip,

the secrets, 

i'll never know

so much of what i was

told to never

repeat.

she had green eyes

undernourished

on this

small

meal of small talk, i drift

off

and stare

at the cat in the corner,

licking

it's paw,

then rubbing said paw

against

it's ear.

she's beautiful in her

grey fur

and her white

scarf around her lovely

neck.

her green eyes

would make Cleopatra

jealous.

what's her name,

i say out loud to no one.

who,

they say in unison.

her,

and then i point 

to the cat as she

runs off

bored too, i imagine.

terms of endearment

it's best

not to overdue it

when using

terms of endearment

with a new

love interest.

dear or honey

is good

at first, and

cupcake is fine

for a while,

but stay

off the sweetie pie,

and

sugarplum.

it's too much too soon.

buttercup and

kitty, or baby cakes

is

pushing it,

but

in the end it's

back

to first names only.

or an emphatic last name,

give it time.

the march on washington

i'm in a protest mood,

i tell my

friend Betty.

can you make us up some

signs.

after coffee and a bagel

and then

we can go

down to the white house

and march,

or something. the weather

is too nice

to stay in all day.

okay, she says.

she's so agreeable.

what are we protesting.

i don't know. can you think

of anything?

hmmm.

what haven't we protested

yet.

we've done the war thing,

crime and poverty.

we did racism

last week.

and immigration the week

before that.

how about inflation?

she says.

okay, okay. in fact

i just got a notice that my

condo fees are going up again.

inflation it is.

let's bring

some folding chairs, the grass

is going to be

wet after all this rain we've

been having.

just slap me

i can't stop

myself,

i can't lasso my tongue

and stop

telling the story of the last

wife.

dear lord

forgive me.

but out it comes.

the gory

details,

i retrace the steps,

in technicolor

i show the bloody

foot

prints, the knife,

the warm

gun, dispensed of

bullets,

called lies.

O Canada

she's Canadian

by birth, and how do you know

this.

well,

she tells you

nearly every time you

get together

for drinks

and dessert.

she brings her home

made

cakes

to the restaurant to share.

her maple

leaf sweater on,

humming

the words

to O Canada while

others stare.

it's not just about

snow

and Mounties,

or grizzly bears.

it's so much

more than that,

she says,

there's hockey and maple

syrup

across the border,

it's wonderful up there.

more important issues

what was

important an hour ago,

is less

so now.

no longer is it cold,

or the covers

rolled

onto the floor, no longer

am i disturbed

by

the light roar of

your delicate

and endearing

snore.

i'm up now and have moved

on to larger

and more

important issues,

such as coffee

and the paper thrown

into the hedges

outdoors.

what it was

she wasn't on her hands

and knees

for the purpose of cleaning

the stoop.

it was something

else entirely.

her hands raw

and red,

her nails broken on

the marble steps,

while the suds

rolled down the side

walk

to the curb

and into the street.

it wasn't about the sun

on the gleaming

stone

when the last pail

of water splashed

it clean.

it wasn't that

at all.

what it was, was never

said.

true north

easier said

than done, this taking possession

of one's own

life.

taking the wheel

and steering

towards your own

true north.

it takes years, years

of hammer

and chisel at work,

of gnawing

through the tyranny

of birth,

some don't make it,

of course.

but the few that do escape

are forever

in view, forever

young.

Bud Light

my neighbor Bill

is thinking about becoming a woman.

he's on

tik tok

all the time, and watches

all the you tube

vids on

transgenders.

Bruce Jenner is his hero.

are you sure you want

to do this Bill?

i ask him,

as we cook hot dogs on the grill,

drinking beer.

i flip over a hot

dog that's starting to burn,

but can't help

but think of Bill

removing his own

appendage.

i like fashion, he says. i like

pretty things.

i like to wear pink and yellow

in the spring.

sometimes i wear high heels

in the house

when the kids

are out.

i look at him, so what.

but you like women too.

you've been married three

times and have

four kids.

yeah, yeah he says, rubbing

the sweat and smoke

out of his eyes. 

touching the stubble on his chin.

i'm really on the fence with

all of this.

have you ever seen Cats? he

asks me.

nope.

well, i've seen it seven times.

the choreography, the costumes

and the make up

are absolutely amazing.

i pull a plump charred

hot dog off the grill

and set it in a bun.

mustard on your dog, Bill?

yes, but no relish, i'm watching

my weight.

i saw a one piece bathing

suit in the window

at Nordstroms

that i might get once

the estrogen kicks in.

i nod, whatever floats your boat

Bill, i always say.

how about another beer,

i have some old Bud Lite

in the fridge, if you want

to switch over from Heineken.

okay, he says.

and by the way,

is it okay if i still play golf

with you guys

on the weekends once i switch

over?

of course, of course,

and you can even tee off from

the white tees now.

the game is tied with one minute to go

she's on

her third book in the fifty

shades

of

sex trilogy, or is it four

or five

volumes now?

you have to read this, she

says.

it's very very

sexy.

i shake my head no.

i refuse

to involve vegetables

in our 

intimate

relations,

or strike you with a whip,

or chain

you to the bedposts.

what about a blind fold,

she asks,

or how about if i wear

a wig

and leather pants?

maybe, i tell her, but can

it wait.

the game is tied,

and it's the fourth quarter.

congeniality

she was a good

person

when someone had a gun to her

head

said the misfit

in Flannery O'Connor's

short story.

and how true

that is for most of us.

when

trapped,

when scared of death,

how angelic

we become.

pleading for our lives

with 

congeniality.

take one more step

when you hear

someone say that maybe

in the next life

things will be better, be

different,

you can almost

hear

the sputter of their

engine,

the squeal of their brakes,

the smell

of exhaust coughing.

they've nearly

given up on this one.

heavied with the weight

of past

mistakes.

heartaches,

but they have breath,

they still

have a chance to change

the regrets.

there's love still to be

made,

a painting, a poem,

a song.

something to leave behind,

something

great or less than,

it doesn't matter.

just take a breath, take

one more

step before you're gone.

avoiding the delivery charge

we were young.

and so we thought at the time

that it

was a good idea

to avoid the delivery charge

and tie

the queen sized mattress

onto the roof of

her Ford Pinto.

but then it started to rain

and the wind

began to blow.

we tried to hold it down

by putting our

arms out

the window

to steady it,

but it wasn't working.

the mattress became a sail

and flew off into the sky.

we kept driving.

i looked at her and said,

oh well.

hungry?

my treat. i have a coupon

for Dennys.

give till it hurts

after a rousing

service, i go up to our new

minister,

Reverand Jerome Jackson

to have

a discussion with him

about my prayers

not being answered.

call me J J, he says, putting

his hand on my shoulder.

so what's the problem son.

well, i tell him. none

of my prayers are being

answered. i come to church

every Sunday and put

money in the basket, i

sing in the choir and i'm

even making pancakes

in the morning for the men's

early bird bible study,

but i'm not getting any

results.

hmmm, he says. tell me

what you're praying for.

well, my marriage is on

the rocks, i think my wife

is cheating on me,

and my mother has arthritis

in her hands.

i pray that my son will get

a job and move out

of the basement.

plus, i'm having trouble

house training my dog.

he stops me there. okay, okay.

so tell me, how much to you

put into the basket every Sunday.

i usually put five bucks in.

maybe three or four dollars

if i'm short that week.

he shakes his head.

oh my, oh my.

what if i paid you five dollars

a week to work for me?

how hard would you work?

not very hard, right?

and you want God to answer

all those prayers for twenty

dollars a month?

he pulls out a laminated

sheet and starts counting

on his fingers, according to my

prayer request sheet here,

you should be giving about

four hundred dollars a month,

at least if you want God

to give you a listen.  okay?

so how about we step it up

on those contributions.  

i have to go now, my limo

is waiting for me, i'm on 

vacation next week in Palm Springs,

but i'll see you when

i get back.

when things were hunky dory

when

things were hunky dory,

when

we had

the house, the kid, the yard,

the weber

grill

and the flag hanging

from the front

porch

pole.

when we'd wave

howdy

to all the neighbors

as we walked

our little happy dog.

when things were wonderful,

when

we sort of loved

each other,

the sex was okay,

the arguments were short

and

small.

when life was a bowl 

of cherries,

we had no idea

what lay 

around the corner, when

the house of cards

would fall.

the neighborhood watch

the neighborhood

postings

online, are disturbing

and yet

interesting

at times.

cars being stolen,

accidents.

strange people

prowling the neighborhood

turning doorknobs

in the night.

did anyone hear
that boom or see that fox

in the courtyard,

does anyone

know

why the dunkin donuts

store closed?

are they relocating close by?

were those gun

shots

this morning,

or geese flying by?

an animal chewed up the pumpkin

on my porch

last night, is anyone

else having a problem

with this?

is it too early to put up

lights

for Christmas?

are we supposed to wear

masks this year

for covid?

i have a mattress i need

to sell.

don't use up the hot water

we used

to line up in the short

hallway

of the row house.

toothbrush in hand

waiting to get into the one

bathroom

that the seven

of us shared.

don't use all the hot

water

we'd say

to the locked door,

banging on it,

a sister

or two in there

mysteriously doing

all the things girls

do to prepare.

this will hurt a little

phrases

that you don't want to hear

on any

given day, at any age.

do you know what i pulled

you over,

the cop says.

dad,

can i borrow the car tonight,

where are

the keys.

we have to have a talk,

my wife says.

dear.

sit down, please.

the results were positive,

i'm sorry to say.

my doctor says

pointing at the x-rays.

i'm late,

my girlfriend tells me

in high school

as i help her with

her homework

on trigonometry

the dentist whistling as

he says,

this will hurt a little,

turn your head that way

please.

the judge in front of the jury,

asks you,

as you stand there in

handcuffs,

how do you plead?

it's ice water and lemon now

i sip

for an hour or two on

ice

water

with a slice of lemon.

talking

to the bartender.

we share

remember whens.

he tells me

how i used to drink martinis,

or vodka

tonics,

how i used close the place

down.

flir5ting with

every floozie new

in town.

those were the days,

we both agree.

i tap the bar,

holding up my

melting ice,

rattling the tumbler

in the air.

one more for the road

Pete,

hit me again.

the clock says ten.

no peace

will there

be peace in the middle east.

no.

sadly no.

there's not even peace

up the street

at the local

convivence store.

after ten

and the moon

is in the clouds.

it's every man, woman

and child

for himself.

shop early while it's

light out.

wear your best track

shoes, a helmet,

and a bullet proof vest.

he's wearing my clothes

i run into my

housekeeper at movies

on a Friday night.

she's with her boyfriend.

i see that he's

wearing

my new coat,

my new hat and my new

shoes, right

out of the box.

i shake his hand and

tell him

that he looks great, i

love what he's wearing.

please don't spill

anything on my shirt,

or wipe popcorn

butter on the pants. i expect

them all back

in the morning, okay?

he smiles

and says no problem,

and asks me if he can

keep the twenty

he found in my pocket.

sure, i tell him. have fun.

beauty is barely an inch deep

beauty is about an

eighth of an inch

deep

these days.

below that, who

knows what you're going

to get.

untie the knot

of skin

behind her head

holding her face

back

like a tambourine,

scrape off the make up,

the skin tight

plastic pants,

squeeze the Botox

out of her cheeks

and lips

and forehead,

strip the dye out of

the hair and

deflate the implants,

and there she is

in the flesh, down

to her factory parts

installed at birth.

too tired for empathy

do i feel sadness

for the chicken

that's been plucked and

divided into parts

as i place it into 

the pot of boiling water

with pepper and salt?

no.

i'm too hungry for empathy

tonight.

now for the celery

stalks.

the lemon trees

who hasn't

had a lemon of some

sort.

some bitter fruit that looked

bright and sunny

on the outside,

but bitter within.

who hasn't tasted that

at least once

in their life, such

a rancid thing, spitting

out the juice

and seed,

and a brand new black Mercedes Benz

apparently i've

won

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes

again.

four point five million smackeroos.

i use my Emily Wilson voice,

a creaky old

woman

who's a widow

and lives alone with her

cats

and ancient rotary dial

phone.

all i need to do is to get

my friend Betty

to drive

me over to Target to get

four hundred

dollars in gift cards,

and then the prize

will arrive tomorrow

afternoon.

i ask the nice man on

the phone

from Jamaica,

if him and his

delivery package

friends would like me to

make sandwiches and punch

for all of them?

tuna fish.

he says, that would be

wonderful, God Bless you,

mam.

what about Jupiter

i didn't want to discourage

the child,

but i had

to tell him

that there was no air

on Mars,

no food, or water,

no grocery store, or

places

to buy gum or pop.

there's no way to fill

up your ball.

your bike tires would

all be flat. he  closed

his astronomy book and

said, oh, i never thought

of all that.

what about Jupiter?

punishment

my mother

and father used to punish us,

by no tv,

no going out

to play

in the street.

no wandering the city

with my friends.

we had to take a bath,

brush our teeth,

read and go to bed early.

and if lucky,

maybe we could have

a snack to eat.

this is exactly how i

live my life now.

the android crack head

all day,

like a crack head

stretched out

on the streets in the

Tenderloin

of Frisco,

wanting my next fix,

i check my phone

for emails,

texts,

calls,

a new video

of some fool

standing on his head

and eating

with chopsticks.

i check

the battery power.

scared

if it drops below

twenty percent.

what if it dies, what then

dear lord,

what then?

there has to be an

outlet somewhere.

going dark in sadness

we use

to capture fireflies

in the summer

and place

them into mason jars

with holes

cut out in the lids.

it was fun

for a while, for

us, perhaps,

but not them.

it wasn't long before

they stopped

glowing,

flickering out,

which i assumed was

sadness

on account of being

trapped, but

by then we

were busy with other

things,

frogs and turtles,

for instance, putting

them into

a grassy box.

she was a gold digger

i suspected she was

a gold

digger when i caught

her trying

to open my safe,

and then

peeking into my check

book,

and 401 k account.

but i wasn't completely

sure until

one night while

i was sleeping, she

pried open

my mouth and tried to

remove a gold filling

with a pair

of pliers.

making new friends

i make

a commitment to myself

to make

one new friend

everyday

of the week. but it's

not going

well.

after approaching

people

and introducing myself,

they ask

what's wrong with me.

i tell them nothing,

i just want to be their friend.

now

i have a black eye,

a swollen

lip, and two chipped

teeth.

my ribs are bruised

and

there's a bump on my

head

that's bleeding.

friends are hard to come

by these days.

making the bed

i like how

she makes the bed.

i stand

back and watch and think,

oh,

that's how it's done.

i make notes

about the blanket

being

smoothed over

with a hand,

how the pillows are

being aligned

and plumped,

the corners

of the sheets tucked

tightly at the foot

of the bed

and top.

one day i may give

this a shot

on my own.

but where did that

stuffed animal

come from?

party conversation

i agree

and agree and agree,

just to get

out of the argument.

to end

this circular

conversation that's

going nowhere.

you are so right,

i say

repeatedly, trying

to close

the door, but no.

he can't stop with his

points, his beliefs,

his inflated ego.

finally, i tell him.

hold that thought, 

i have to go get

another chestnut

wrapped in bacon

and another drink.

a day at the beach

my baby,

my sweet little darling,

she says, holding up

her tiny

dog,

letting it lick her face

and squirm,

trying to

get to the floor.

she puts

it back into the straw

box,

with vents

for air and a handle,

and off we go,

the three of us.

i'm not sure

if i love her anymore.

the things you do

as i stand

outside the dressing room,

holding several

dresses, while

she

changes behind

the curtain,

about to show me

another flowered

dress

she might buy.

i wonder why i've

allowed myself

to be here

on such a sunny day,

stuck inside

beside women's wear,

shoes and purses,

shiny lingerie,

when it's so nice

outside.

a life grassed over

i prefer

to stay away

from the graveyards

with their wide

iron gates

and flowered lawns.

i pass by

despite

friends

and parents

resting there.

the mound of dirt

now grassed over,

the stone

engraved

doesn't do it for me.

i prefer

instead to hold on

tightly

to memories whether

right or wrong.

when the storm comes

we prepare

for

storms like we do for

war.

we store up

goods,

water.

batteries for the lights,

we board

the windows.

we pray,

then

we wait in the cellar

hoping

that our side

will prevail,

that we will

survive this dark night.

the likes of you

she was very

very

5th avenue.

sophisticated.

pearls

around her neck.

a white

cat

at her disposal.

well read,

well schooled.

no taxi

for her, only a driver

would do.

her hair

up

ala

Audrey,

she smelled of

society and money.

French

perfume.

lovely

in any season,

or light.

so why on earth

was she with

the likes of you?

when we run out of bullets, we have rocks

if there were

no guns,

no bombs to speak of.

no missiles,

or jets

or battleships,

no bullets

or grenades

would the world

be at peace

then,

no.

as long as there's

a flag to wave,

we'll always find rocks

to throw

and break

against each

other, a spear with

which to heave

and slay.

a day too late

i understand

the cry,

the struggle to get free

when

one foot

is caught

in a trap.

if only you hadn't

taken

that turn,

gone another way.

a lot of if onlys

come

to mind

with wisdom coming

a day

too late.

sleep walking

it waits,

the sly red fox

with

red eyes in the shrubbery

at the end

of the court.

hunched

as he does,

his heart

pounding,

in the cool silence,

ready to rush what

i set out,

once i'm gone

and the door

closes.

they learn, they listen,

they watch.

unlike us

with our mouths aflutter,

our eyes peeled to

our phones, in a 

perpetual sleep walk.

don't give up on me

i stare at the pen,

then

shake it.

i hold it up to the light.

i lick the tip

with my tongue,

still bone dry.

really, i think.

you're out

of ink.

already.

six years you've been

in that drawer,

reliable

and sturdy, and now

this,

giving up, quitting

on me.

i'll have to bring it up

on Thursday,

during therapy.

a bag of kale and carrots

as i take

the trash to the curb,

i remember

how the minister told us

that love

is eternal,

never selfish or proud,

it's

loving and kind,

loyal.

love lasts

forever, until death

do us part.

i take the shade off the lamp

as i set it

on the street for pick up.

your shoes,

left behind,

a box of blouses and skirts..

the charger to your phone,

and a stack of

self-help books.

then a rotted bag

of kale and carrots, 

your soap box

and rusted megaphone.

Cecilia

he tells

the interviewer

how they added drums

to the song.

using

fingers and palms,

tapping out

a tune

on a container made

of Styrofoam.

i used to love

that song,

but now all i can think of

is chow mien,

and a shrimp roll,

when i hear it on the radio,

a take out delivery

of Chinese food for Simon

and Garfunkel.

finding bail money

go find

my watch, he said, and sell

it. It's a Rolex.

there's a pawn

shop

on K street.

the watch is in my coat pocket,

the black

coat with a suede collar,

it's in a closet,

take the watch,

the one with the blue

face,

the other one is fake.

but you have

to break a window

to climb in

and use a sixteen foot

ladder.

the alarm might go

off, so be quick about it.

i hate the food here,

and they took my belt

and shoelaces.

the man bunking next

to me is carving

something that he calls

his shiv.

he snores at night.

off somewhere

still here, but not

here,

we disappear at times,

separating

body

from mind.

we're elsewhere, feet

in the sand,

the first

cold touch of ocean

above

our knees.

we're no longer

listening, or speaking.

we're

shivering off somewhere

in a distant sea.

i won't do that for you

i used to tell her,

i'd do

anything for you. i love

you that much,

and then

she'd say,

would you eat that squirrel

in that tree for me,

or jump off a building,

or swim naked

across a lake

full of snapping turtles?

would you put knitting

needles in your

ears for me,

or kiss Judge Judy

on the lips?

i had to change my proclamation

of love

to there's not a lot

of things

i'd do for you, and yet,

i still love you.

cheap wisdom

it's artificial light,

don't

be confused by how bright

it is

coming into the window

making

stripes on the wall.

tomorrow

it will be gone.

be careful with cheap wisdom

found in a silly

song.

my selfish heaven

i imagine

heaven

to not have church music,

or angels

with wings,

no clutter, no

smoking, or excessive

drinking.

there will be a long buffet table

of food

to eat,

no soy, or tofu, or lima beans.

but plenty of

drinks, and dessert, never

gaining

an ounce weight.

all my friends will be

there.

no one mean.

all the pets

i've ever had.

i'll have a giant tub

to soak

in after playing basketball

all day,

and a king size

bed to sleep in.

every book will be on

the shelf,

every movie

available on the big screen,

and of course love, there will

be lots and lots

of love, all of it without

regret.

the weathergirl at 6 and 11

i watch

the weather not because i want

to know

if it's going to rain,

or snow,

be hot or cold.

no.

i have a window for that.

i watch it for the weather girl

in her

high heels

and fancy dress.

i'm in love,

no matter what

the forecast is,

or whether she's right

or wrong.

there's something about the way

she points

at a cold front

on the map, moving in,

and says,

doppler radar with a 

toss of her hair,

then

with an endearing smile,

see you back here, at

eleven.

now back to you, Jim.

the older you become

the older

you become, 

the less you understand

the young,

despite

being there yourself

once upon

a glorious time.

the way they talk

and think

is baffling,

their strange

views, all of it

confuses you. their style

of clothes

and hair,

the piercings and tattoos,

the things they like to do.

you'd like to see

what becomes

of the world once they

take over,

but thankfully, by then,

the world

will be done with you.

my old friend

wanting love,

he wooed her, all women

desire being

wooed.

an amateur

at first, but he learned

his way.

small steps,

towards winning her hand.

a long

and arduous journey,

but then they were married.

he's won.

and now.

i see him, on the ladder

with a hammer

in hand,

i see him mowing the lawn,

walking the dog,

hanging curtains

in the window,

putting a fresh coat of paint

on the baby's room.

i see the list

his wife gives him, before

going out

with friends.

we wave to one another,

in passing.

i'd like to see him again,

but it's

too late for that.

he's won his love, my old

friend.

just another day

there's a delay.

the trains.

the traffic.

the long line for coffee.

there's nothing

we can do,

but wait.

there's no use in complaining.

no sense

in getting worked

up about

the bagels taking

so long

to come out of the oven.

the butter

being hard,

the wind and rain.

it's just another day.

as they float away

they put too much

helium

into the party balloons,

and now

children are flying

all over the park.

they seem happy though.

holding tightly

onto the strings, 

aloft in the wind,

no longer

tethered to the mothers

and fathers below.

flying off to their

own lives.

it was bound to happen.

seven layers of cookies

i finally open up the tin

of cookies

my father

sent last Christmas.

a round red

hat box of

seven layers

of factory made cookies

in little paper cups.

all stale and as hard

as rocks. they turn

into sand as

they crumble on your

lips with the first bite.

but i'll tell him, they

were great.

not wanting to miss

this years box.

the heat is on

the mercury

in my thermometer

is frozen.

the blood red drop

has

slid

down to the last

number.

perhaps it's time

to turn

the heat on i tell 

her,

as she shivers,

caked in ice, from

bottom to top.

one brown shoe

you sit in the shoe store

and remove

one shoe, to put the new shoe on,

a brown dress shoe,

out of the box.

you look at it

in the small floor mirror,

then you give

it a test walk

down the aisle, an awkward

half limp

march from one

end of the store

and back.

do you need another pair

of shoes?

dress shoes, at that?

hardly.

but it sure feels good

and looks

nice in your shorts

and white sock.

before the wind takes it

i left a note

on the door for you.

it said

everything i needed to say,

not twice,

but once.

please read it, before

the wind

decides

to take it. the wind

doing, unlike me,

what it wants.

yes, but no

how far

do you need to go

to believe

in God.

what tree,

or mountain must

you climb,

what animal, what fish

in the sea.

what insect

or star

in the sky won't convince

you

of divine creation?

of course there's death

and destruction

fear

and disease

to make you think

otherwise.

indigo

we acquire

a favorite color

early in life, whether

blue or

red,

green or yellow,

anything

in the rainbow.

we don't

understand why, but

we feel

good

about that particular

color.

we spend a lifetime

surrounding

ourselves

with it.

clothes, and things,

paint

and glass.

all in various shades.

it's

home 

and stays with us.

please, please, you have to stop

after i caught

my wife sleeping with the mailman,

the milkman,

and the avon lady,

i kicked her out of the house,

but i couldn't

get the wedding ring

off my finger.  it was stuck.

i used soap,

and lotion,

olive oil and grease, but

it wouldn't budge.

finally i took a hack saw

to it,

and slowly cut into

the gold

band, until i was able

to pry it off with a pair

of pliers.

i then went to my doctor

to get

a tetanus shot.

not again, he said. please,

please,

you have to stop.

people across the street are starving

my mother

used to force the baked

beans

and hot dogs into

us with guilt.

people in 

India

are starving. you're lucky

to have food,

now finish your dish,

or no tv tonight.

across the street, my friend's

mother would

tell her son,

finish your lobster

and rib eye steak, you're

lucky

you don't live across the street,

eating baked

beans everynight.

the two dollar ticket

as the ancient roller coaster

climbed

the first track, up an impossibly

steep hill

of crackling wood

and metal

gleaming in the summer

sun.

i wondered

why, and what

i was doing here. is this

how my

life would

end,

splattered among

the peanut

munching crowd below.

the sirens

in my ears, as my life

began to slip

away into eternity,

each memory and thought,

about to disappear.

there's always next year

the aging

fan, he is. still wearing

the colors

of his team at sixty.

the hat,

the flag,

watching every game.

living and dying with every

throw

of the ball,

each fumble or

swing of the bat,

each quarter, each inning.

there's always

next year,

he tells his wife,

as another loss adds up,

ruining

his day, his night.

his life.

the mailman is getting younger

some thugs,

young

thieves, beat up the mailman

and took

his mailbox

keys.

they're wearing

his pith helmet

and have

his sack

on their back.

i have a stack of mail

in my hands

as i approach

the box.

they tell me, we'll take

that

have a good day.

mums the word,

okay?

public speaking

public speaking

makes

my throat go dry,

and i suddenly have to

pee and run

out of there.

even in front of two

or more

dogs, or cats.

i get nervous. a flock

of birds

and i start to tremble

with fear,

quickly throwing them

my stale loaf

of bread and running,

to get out

of there.

what's your story

she used to ride

the elephant at the circus.

she was a small

girl.

a waif of  sorts

in a sequined top

and shorts.

she had big hair 

and smoked

cigarettes like they were

going out of style.

she told me her story

over drinks one

night in a dark bar

along the edge of town.

she started to cry

when she talked about

her favorite elephant

Dumbo, how when

the circus closed,

they had to put her down,

she then wiped

her eyes lit another cigarette

and said.

that's my story, what's

yours?

who am i

sometimes you can't find

the right word,

you lose your

train of thought, you

can't remember a name,

or where you put your

keys, your wallet,

your watch and you believe

at last that you're heading

down cemetery road.

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.