the Royal Cruise Ship

it's a large boat,

nine stories tall, longer

than the empire

state building

in new york.

we go up the gangplank

with our

luggage

for the seven-day cruise.

where's the food i hear

the man

behind me yell out.

i look back

at him and his wife, she

has her mouth

open, like a baby bird

in a nest waiting

for a worm.

a gaggle of waiters begin

to throw

lobsters at us

and pads of butter.

pork chops

and ham sandwiches.

from the poop deck,

a man in a chefs hat is tossing

pizzas at us

like Frisbees.

a small catapult shoots

scoops of ice

cream at us while

someone puts a cake

into our faces.

welcome aboard,

the captain says and puts

a giant bibb

around our necks.

peep peep peep

i suppose

we were as equally stupid

when

young.

how quickly we forget

how

dumb we were

with so little knowledge

in our heads.

you cringe

at them as they tie

themselves

together

on the street, yelling

for peace.

clueless

small birds of a feather,

still living

in the nest,

going peep peep peep.

the early morning tiff

i hear

the neighbors arguing

in the morning.

what is it this time?

did he leave

the seat up, or leave

the butter out

all night on the counter.

did she overspend

the money

on things they don't

need,

will they ever take

that vacation to Italy,

or is it

the beach again

this year?

she asks in a muted

scream,

ah, love and marriage.

such a wonderful

thing.

maybe stripes this time

i spend an hour

online

searching for a new shower

curtain.

who knew

there were so many to choose

from.

do i go polyester

or cotton,

maybe a blend.

stripes

or plain, abstract,

flowers?

the world is full of too

many choices.

i miss

the times when you

married

the girl next door,

and there was only one

milk.

and a friend was really

a friend,

not this Facebook

malarky.

maybe stripes this time.

Apollo Blue

i want

this blue, this can of paint,

he says.

Apollo Blue

by Martin Senour.

i've been using it for fifty years.

i want the same

thing,

it's the paint my children

grew up with,

my deceased wife

picked it out.

in 1965. 

the shiny kind,

but, i tell him

they don't make it any more.

that company is

out of business.

it's nowhere to be found.

please, he says. please

try,

it would mean

the world to me.

if i don't get the color

i want,

i may die.

frosting the cake

if lucky,

you were in the kitchen

when

your mother finished

frosting the cake.

the spatula

was all yours

for the licking.

and the bowl too.

the others,

in the other room

doing children things,

were too late.

hesitation

the animals know,

they know.

they just

know, as we do. but

we're too

smart for our own good.

we intellectualize

each moment

of danger, blinking

in the eye of fear,

not trusting

our instinct,

our most vital organ,

our gut.

all is lost in hesitation.

remember that guy?

what was his name?

do you remember him, i ask

Bill.

who? he says.

you know, short

guy

with the jump hook.

bald.

traveled all the time,

threw his elbows around,

hot temper.

he was a lawyer.

he used to play up at the court

with us for about fifteen

years.

oh yeah, that guy, Bill

says.  i can see his face,

but i can't remember his name.

hated playing with that guy.

yeah, me too.

what about that tall skinny

guy,

we called him slim,

or string bean,

something like that.

Left handed?

yeah, but couldn't go to his right.

oh yeah,

i remember him. he was

a doctor or

something.

what was his name?

beats me. he was only up

there for about

ten years.

the card game

we play

cards deep into the night

for mere

coins.

nothing we can't afford

to lose.

it's about

laughter and food.

stories.

old tales of love and youth.

a second or third

wife

might pay a visit.

we are working

stiffs,

collars of blue.

if we make it until midnight

i'll be surprised.

we don't even

drink anymore, 

it's been decades since

any of us have

seen the sun rise.

the insanity

apparently

anyone can buy a machine gun

now a days,

and enough

ammunition

to fight a war.

mental illness, no problem.

crazy as a loon, pfft.

welcome

come on in.

do you want a scope

for that

gun, maybe a few

more cartridges.

hey, we just got in some

hand grenades,

and plastic

handguns.

two for the price of one.

night vision goggles?

there's a special on bundles

of TNT.

how about a helmet

and a bullet proof

jacket too?

we just got in a shipment

of knives

too. good for throwing at

bears and what not.

come back soon, we're

open all night. tell all your

friends

at the asylum, tell them

to bring

a friend too.

tomorrows breakfast

i crack some ice

out of a metal

tray,

spilling the cubes into

a glass.

i pour myself some well

water.

i look out

the window at my cow,

and think

about the milk

i'll need in the morning.

there's a chicken

on the table

out back looking in.

eggs.

and the there's Alfred,

the pig,

trying to hide himself

in the mud,

bacon, minus

the nitrates.

who is she exactly?

I'd never heard

of

Taylor swift

until she started dating

a football

player, and her mug

was on the screen after

every play, but i'm sure

she's a wonderful

person.

i've never heard

her music,

her songs,

or been to one of her

concerts.

they all come and go so

quickly these

blonde divas.

Madonna and Miley,

Brittany,

and the rest.

i wouldn't know her

if i bumped into

her on the street.

do i care?

not really.

i've always leaned more

towards

someone like Flannery

O'Connor, or Madam

Curie.

hold on tight, it's going to be a bumpy night

everything can

be lost,

money, your fortune, 

love,

houses

and cars,

all of it can be gone

on the turn

of a dime.

cats and dogs. even

children can

be in the wind,

lost and gone.

but hold on tight

to that funny bone.

don't let the bastards

do you in.

the circle is getting smaller

my social

circle is decreasing with

each

passing day,

each

new death

that appears on

the back page

of the metro section.

she's gone,

he's gone too.

and good Lord,

down goes

Sally Mae Mcgillicuddy,

from my old high school.

so now it's down

to the mailman,

and my barista,

the garage mechanic,

and you.

her flowered gloves

i see my mother

in the yard,

hunched over her garden.

her knees deep

in the black dirt.

she's wearing her old pants,

her large brimmed hat.

her flowered gloves.

i yell out to her

from the porch.

she turns and waves,

then holds

up a bright red tomato

in the sunlight.

i go down to help her up,

to give her

my hand.

i turn, but no

the nose

leads the eyes, 

where have i smelled

such a rose

before,

or what's

on the stove

that's making my

mouth water,

my feet to slow..

who just walked by

with the scent

of an old love upon her?

i turn, but no.

Indian Summer

it comes

in a bright blue flow

of clouds

and sky,

a dress warm with

sunlight.

a spell of sorts, called

Indian summer.

it won't last for long.

we know that.

but

we show her in,

ask her to sit

for a while on

the wide

front porch.

we're in no hurry for

what comes

next.

Chesty Morgan

as young boys,

we'd skip school with

a pocket

full of change

then take the A-2 bus

to the National Archives

on 9th Street.

we'd spend the day

playing pinball machines

we could hardly

reach.

we'd wander in back to

the peep shows,

until chased out by a man

with one leg.

we'd eat at the diner

on the corner then run out

on the check,

then we'd stand outside

the club, The Blue Mirror

hoping against

hope, that when the door

swung open we could catch

a glimpse of Chesty Morgan's

bosoms.

be lazy, be late

when young,

we

push

aside the task at hand

until

tomorrow.

it can wait.

so much can wait.

we believe we're

immortal,

that we have all the time

in the world.

relax

and take it easy,

go ahead, be lazy,

be late.

can you peel me

a grape?

you work, i'll wait says the kid

why work,

he says.

why get up at the same

time every morning

and go

to a job i don't like?

what's the point of that?

punching

the clock,

answering to a boss, 

the endless hours

at the wheel

of someone else's business?

why should

i waste

my life on that?

college was hard enough,

with classes

and books,

how about you take

care of me

for another thirty

years,

and when you die, i'll

have everything that 

you have?

father and son time

when my son was

about five

years old

i taught him how to make

a sandwich

for the game.

he stood attentively

at the kitchen

counter, as i laid out

the groundwork.

i showed him how to

use the toaster,

instructing him on how to hold

the serrated knife.

we set out all the ingredients.

the mustard and mayo.

the tomatoes

and lettuce, the onions.

the peppers.

which he made a face at.

we took out

the ham

and roast beef already

sliced.

we debated on which cheese,

settling on

muenster.

i showed him how to shred

the lettuce into small pieces,

explaining to him

that big leafs of lettuce

would make

everything slide out,

then picked our bread,

long hoagie rolls, which

we buttered

then toasted.

we began the careful layering

process.

after a quick swath

of the butter knife

with mustard or mayo.

it was time for

the meat and vegetables.

the cheese.

delicately we laid out

the slices of tomato and onions,

the meat,

then closed it all up.

i showed him how to wrap

the entire sandwich in foil

so that it wouldn't topple

over when we carried it

downstairs to the coffee table.

a lesson learned

the hard way.

i put a handful of potato chips

on his plate next to a large

pickle. then a giant chocolate

chip cookie.

viola, i told him, let's go.

the game is about to start.

we can clean this mess up

at halftime,

before your

mother gets home from 

the shoe sale at Nordstroms..

grab us some sodas.

vote early and often

they run

on a platform made of sand.

the wind

blows

left, it blows right,

they hold

on tightly,

as meaningless words

tumble

to the ground.

no comment at this

time.

we're working on

the murders,

the thieves, the border,

the crime.

a handful of wars,

but pay them never mind.

it's complicated,

just be sure to vote for me

in the next election.

i have no other skills

than this,

this well crafted form of

BS,

i wouldn't survive like

you do in

the long bread line.

vote early, vote often.

everything will be fine.

the next great flood

it's time.

it's

way overdue for

the next

great flood. the world

needs a do over,

a mulligan

of sorts.

not everyone needs

to drown,

just a few,

for starters, and

the rest

we'll see in time,

if they decide

to come around.

clearing the calendar

i clear

the calendar for sleep.

for

reading.

for

evading the ringing

phone.

the knock

on the door.

i'm making room

for food

and drink.

for coffee in the morning.

the paper.

i'm no

longer at work, i'm

happy

at home.

the end of the world as we know

it's the big bomb

that worries me,

the one with the mushroom cloud

and complete

annihilation

of everything

as we know it.

the destruction of all living

things.

it's the start over button

that they'll

push

one day. but

hopefully not tomorrow

i'm meeting Betty

for a very

hot date.

i'll call you on that

the slowness

of things

doesn't bother me anymore.

i understand

the buffering,

the delay,

the long lines

out the door, i'm slow

too,

to respond

or climb the stairs,

to answer

the call.

i'll get back to you

on that,

i often say,

maybe tonight, but

no later

than tomorrow,

i promise, soon.

as the basket comes around

from childhood,

i know

the rituals, the script

by heart,

the kneeling

upon entry,

crossing my heart.

the confessional booth

shaded dark.

forgive me 
Father for I have sinned.

i know

what comes next,

the Hail Mary's,

the Our Fathers.

communion,

etc.

the blessing,

pray for the sick

and dying.

etc.

etc.

potluck on Tuesday.

and as the basket comes around

i take in the art,

the statues,

the embroidery of gold.

the chalice,

the gowns.

i'm just not there,

despite

believing. at times

this all seems

like a giant cup of crazy

and i can't help

but wonder

how did it get to this?

coffee and candy bars

the train

is more interesting than

by bus

or car.

the tracks snake

through

the small towns

through

the rubble and despair,

the empty factory

yards.

you see how people

really live.

day by day

getting into a line

somewhere

for sustenance.

so different than

the interstate

with its rest stops

for coffee

and candy bars.

forever young

you wish

they could remain young.

innocent and naive

unbothered

by the calamity

of life.

never knowing ugly

or pain.

forever wishing

upon stars,

throwing coins into fountains,

reading their books,

their small hands

clasped 

together in prayer

at night.

small steps towards cold

in small slight

benevolent steps, the sky

darkens.

winters

first bite is at your

nose,

your cheeks,

time indeed for warmer

clothes.

come here

and kiss me. let's start

there

before we chop

wood

for the fire.

you left your arugula

i've never

bought arugula, and yet,

in the crisper

drawer

of the fridge, therein

lies a batch

of it.

browned and limp

next to parsley

and basil,

lifeless.

someone has left their

arugula for me.

how nice.

another set of keys

i change the locks

on my

door, again.

new keys for the front

and back,

a new knob, and new latch.

the man at

the hardware

store nods his head

and laughs.

while he grinds out another

set of keys.

over already?

he asks.

yes, i tell him, and give

me two of those

camera things too,

one for the front, one

for the back.

lost in America

the man

on the corner, squatting,

legs

folded

over,

his knapsack beside

him,

no sign anymore,

no small bucket

for change.

no pleading

for money.

no rising to walk

down

the line of cars

when the light changes.

he just sits there.

he seems to have given

up on it all.

no one slows

down

anymore to hand him

a dollar.

in the rain, he's forever

there,

in the wind

and now on sunny days

he's there.

i imagine

he has a mother 

somewhere.

the stupid pills

they finally

invent

a stupid pill. maybe it

will save

the world from 

bad decisions. it's chock

full of vitamins

and chemicals

used on

rabbits and rats,

giving them an abundance

of common sense.

and intelligence.

eradicating stupidity.

the race is on to air

lift them

in bundles,

dropping them like

confetti

around the world.

leaders and politicians

get the first dose.

one more pina colada

the vacation

doesn't work, it doesn't do

what it's supposed to do.

in fact,

it makes things worse.

you dread

the upcoming Monday,

as you lie

in the sand

with your unread book.

you know what

awaits you when you return,

your desk full

of problems,

your computer

and phone stuffed

with e-mails, texts

and voice mails.

two weeks away

and you're doomed.

one more pina colada

then back

to your boardwalk room.

whose side are you on?

whose side

are you on, he asks me,

with eyes

wide open,

leaning

aggressively towards me

with books

and newspapers in hand.

a checkered

scarf around his neck.

which flag

do you fly?

i don't answer, what's

the point

of saying what's true

for me, only

to be corrected

and contradicted

once more

and getting on his

dark side.

how about this weather

we're having

i ask him.

i couldn't take it anymore

i never

realized

what a noisy eater

she was

until she was at the kitchen

table

eating corn flakes

and buttered toast.

i could hear

her all the ways

up the stairs.

the crunch crunch

crunch

of her teeth

against the cereal.

the spoon rattling

against

the bowl, her loud chopping

up of a banana.

the scrape of butter

against

the burnt bread.

this will never work out,

i thought

from the floor above,

she had to go.

fear or fury

it's a small

snake,

an infant just getting

started in

his life

of crawling

and biting legs,

but angry too, as i move

him

with a stick

to the dirt

and grass beside

the sidewalk.

he lashes

out at me.

his tiny fangs white

as ivory.

his blood

black eyes full of

fear,

i imagine, or fury.

who knows

the difference anymore.

to build a fire

as if i'm

in the Yukon,

stuck in a blizzard,

ala Jack London.

i bring the dog closer

to me

for warmth.

i wish for a fire to warm

us.

he shivers, i shiver.

we curl

tightly together,

but there is

worry in his eyes.

mine too,

as the wind blows

and the snow falls

outside.

reluctantly i close

the window,

and go down the stairs

to turn the heat

on.

the rolodex on the wall

if blessed with good

fortune,

lucky, as one might say,

we accumulate

a rolodex of sorts

for those who can

assist us on our way.

a plastic sheet of numbers

and names.

no need to list

them alphabetically,

or in order of 

importance, but in ink

they'll stay, laminated

by the kitchen phone

catching light from

the window, the flicker

of the microwave.

and therein lies the plumber,

the painter,

the electrician,

the dentist,

the doctor and lawyer,

the veterinarian

a trusty worthy mechanic

for the car,

and a landscaper

to keep tidy the weed

and vine

infested yard.

and no less a number is

Betty of course,

for her recipes for gravy

on holidays,

and her cakes come

birthdays.

it's all temporary

in the dumps,

blue

with the way things have

gone,

how life

has turned out,

my ship still not arriving

in port,

i rent a car

and drive away

from it all,

then rent a room,

i borrow

some money

from a stranger,

then rent

a girl

for the night.

everything is temporary

these days,

these

sleepless nights.

all or nothing

she took the whipped

cream

from the door shelf

of my fridge,

shook the cold can,

then turned it towards

her open mouth,

squirting it all out,

pushing on the trigger,

until the can burped

with air.

that's who she was.

an all or nothing kind of girl.

she scared me.

read and learn, then run

does knowing so much

about how

the mind works, help at all?

does reading

every book

you can find on psychology

and the disorders

of the each of us,

even help?

does therapy open

a window

in learning what makes

us tick?

slightly, but it changes

little, if nothing

at all,

best to run, to bail when

someone

brings you into their

own dysfunctional hell.

the melting of lives

he eats,

so she eats, she drinks,

so he drinks.

she sleeps in,

so does he,

lives

are melting into

one another,

the books they read,

the movies

they watch,

their take on politics.

his laugh sounding

like hers.

they are becoming

twins,

separated at birth.

slip sliding away

i've lost

track of days, of numbers

and names.

where

am i supposed to be on

Monday?

who have i promised

work

to be done,

what time

and where am i supposed

to be.

i need an assistant

these days.

with everything slipping

from my

mind like

autumn trees

disposing of leaves.

the clogged drain

i call

the plumber to unclog

the drain

in the spare

bathroom, formerly her

bathroom

where she did her miraculous

transformation.

he pulls out a giant

wad

of blonde hair

and tells me that the dye

alone

will rot my pipes, if

she keeps brushing her

brittle hair in here.

the scary couple next door

the neighbors

put out an array of pumpkins

for the holiday.

white, orange,

painted and carved,

some with a candle

in the middle.

they stretch out fake cobwebs

across the tree

and yard.

there's a speaker on the porch

that emits a scary

noise,

a skeleton hangs

in the doorway,

and when the bell rings

for trick or treaters,

She's dressed as AOC,

babbling incoherently,

and he's wearing a blue

suit with orange makeup,

and holding

a court order.

just having a little fun, she said

when she

first put her hand on my knee

as we laughed

and talked

about life, throwing

her hair back

around

her perfumed neck,

i became optimistic

about the night.

quickly i ordered another

round of martinis

and dinner,

but by eleven

she told me

she had to go back.

she said that her husband

would be worried

if she came home

late another night.

you're married? i asked her,

shaking my head.

yes, she answered slipping

her rings back

on her finger.

three kids and a dog too.

he's a wonderful man,

dumb as a rock,

but we have a wonderful life.

it's the MSG

i can't eat

like i used to.

Chinese food, or anything

delivered,

i can't take a bite

of a rotisserie

chicken

anymore.

it's the freaking MSG

they cover

it with.

i season nothing now.

salt and pepper,

is it.

but there are no regrets,

i've eaten

enough Peking ducks,

General Tao's chicken

and fried rice,

crispy beef and noodles

to last a lifetime.

those days are over

as i brush

the dust and debris

off my

shoulders

and face

at the end of the day,

i stare

at the paint

on my hands,

the dirt beneath

my nails.

my eyes are red from

being weary.

i can hardly

take my boots off

as i fall

into the big chair.

do i have the energy

or strength

anymore

to go out and find love?

no,

i think those days

are over

at last.

it's almost a relief

as i think about food

and drink,

perhaps a book to read,

then sleep.

too busy saving the world

where do

they get this angry energy?

this pent up

bile?

where do 

they find the time

to take

off work

and go down to shout

and march

and make

signs.

who's walking the dog

at home,

who's helping

the children with their

homework,

who's hanging clothes

on the clothes

line or mowing

the lawn?

what's for dinner tonight,

peanut butter

and jelly, again?

grad school thieves

we used

to worry about the city

pickpockets,

those

petty thieves

who would bump

into you

on the street and swipe

your watch,

or wallet,

but now,

they are in our phones,

in our

gizmos.

in the mail, in

every detail

of our lives,

their hands are buried

deep, no longer

petty,

they've moved on to

bigger and

more devious things.

a very deep sleep arrives

i fall asleep

in the middle of the third inning.

the last thing

i hear

from the announcer is

a swing, and a foul

ball

down the third base

line,

his ninth foul ball.

now he's stepping aside

to adjust

his gloves,

his pads, his hat,

his shirt

and shoes, and to scratch

himself

again after adjusting

his manly

appendages.

the bat boy is now bringing

him out

a new bat, apparently

the last one

was cracked.

the other team has decided

to make

a pitching change it seems.

the manager is coming

out with his left

hand raised

towards the centerfield

pitchers dugout.

we'll take a commercial

break

and be right back.

where did i put my good sword?

the hunt

is the thrill, the imbedded

genetic code

of men,

some women too.

let's not

pretend.

but most prefer to gather,

to form

and mend.

but we sharpen

our spears, our

swords

and go out into the wilderness.

no matter

the weather,

snow or wind.

we can't stop ourselves

from being

who we are,

genetically predetermined

to survive

and win.

chicken necks

when my

grandmother,

Lena, would wring

a chicken's

neck out in the back yard,

then pluck it clean

for dinner,

we'd watch

from the window,

our hands

feeling our

own necks.

we were well behaved when

we visited her, 

not knowing if

we'd be next.

showing me her new baby

the nurse,

after putting me under

the blue

light

for sixteen minutes

to shower

my head

with tiny beams

of cancer

fighting bites,

she shows me her

photo albums.

her child,

her husband, the time

they went

to Disneyland.

i give her all the appropriate

words,

like very nice,

beautiful,

that's some little girl

you've got there,

etc.,

then tell her, see you

four weeks.

is it okay if i wash

my scalp

tonight?

lessons learned early

strange

how people hate one

another

for things like the color

of their skin, their

ethinicity,

or their faith,

where they were born.

they teach

their children to hate

in the same way.

making sure that

it doesn't end.

strange word

that we're living in.

change the channel

when we tire of the wars

going on

around the world.

we flip the channel

to a baseball game,

a nail

biter in the bottom

of the ninth,

or turn

the tv off.

maybe we go for a walk.

take a nap

out back in the yard.

maybe we

go for a swim,

or play some tennis.

when we return we can

watch more of the word's

chaos again,

half paying

attention

as we stand at stove

making dinner,

searching the cupboard

for spices

to add in.

sip carefully

once you get your

cup

of coffee down, there's

no turning back.

French roast, hot

and black

with two sugars added,

a splash

of half and half.

it won't change from

here on out.

this dog, when it comes

to new tricks,

won't get off track.

why change

what isn't broken?

sip carefully, it's hot.

Biblical times

the world

feels like a tightened string

about to snap

and send

everything and everyone

up in smoke,

blasted into

smithereens.

the tension

is in the air, in the eyes,

in the words

of victims

and predators.

what comes

next

will be Biblical, 

i bet.

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.