finding your island

we are

creatures of habit.

it provides us comfort,

stability.

we're known for what

we like,

our tastes,

or choices, whether

perceived as

wrong or right. it's how

we survive in

this world of chaos.

savoring a tiny island

of control

between the blare 

of riot.

early in the holiday season

it's still early

in the holiday season, 

Thanksgiving hasn't even

come and gone

yet, and

yet there lies another

store front Santa Claus 

in the alley,

beaten by muggers,

with his empty pot

turned over, a jumble

of knots

on his bearded

pink head.

the mad cow

is the cow

really mad? or just having

a bad

day?

angry, perturbed

with the weather, or grass

she has

to eat.

the cold rain.

tired of people

or machines pulling

on her

for milk.

patting her

on the head, giving

her human names

like Elsie.

who can blame her?

i've seen enough

the woman

in the apartment behind me

has no

curtains.

no shades or blinds.

she gets out of the shower

with no towel

or clothes on.

she strolls around buck

naked

from the bedroom

to the kitchen

drinking wine.

at first it was interesting.

i couldn't help

but look at times, but

now, a year later,

i've seen enough and turn

away,

pull the shade. 

tighten the blinds, strange

how familiarity will

bore us

over time.

i am Emily Wilson

I channel

my inner feminine side

and become

Emily Wilson

when the phone rings with

an unknown

number,

local, long distance,

or otherwise.

my voice changes into

the voice

of a seventy-two year

old widow

who doesn't drive,

who has no money,

no life to speak of, but is

happy to take

your call.

happy to hear the news

about winning

the publisher

clearing house prize

package

for the ninth time this

month. i'm thrilled to talk

to the cable guys,

Microsoft,

social security people,

the Medicare men and women

selling me

a new policy.

insurance folks from India

or Pakistan.

Dubai.

i'm a chatty old lady, sweet

and nice,

a Baptist,

with two cats, and a friend

named Betty

who drives me

around when i need to go

to the bank,

or buy gift cards

from target,

or wire money to you in

Kingston Jamaicia,

i want to keep you on the phone

for hours, for days,

for weeks

at a time. i'm.

willing to allow you to enter

my web of lies,

my life.

please, call me any old time.

the blueness of water

we look

past the small darkness,

the coffins

in the roots

of trees,

the burrowed

hills

of dirt, of leaves.

we see

the blueness

of water,

neglecting that winter

has

taken

its toll on us

and so many

things.

the sound beneath your feet

the board

that creaks beneath your

feet

does not bring to mind

a hammer

and nail, or screw

to tighten it.

no, not at all. 

by that familiar

sound, it means

you're home again, 

at last

once more,

where you belong.

for one brief moment

when

sitting on a park bench

on a warm summer

day,

licking a cone

of ice-cream,

you're at peace with

it all.

for one brief

moment,

everything feels fine.

the beginning of the end?

as you read

the list of atrocities

the hate crimes,

in

the latest terrorist attacks

on innocent

people,

it makes you sick

for the world.

how can anyone do that?

rape and pillage,

behead,

and place

babies into ovens.

then  torture

and burn human

beings alive.

there is evil

in the world and it's

spreading.

is this truly the beginning

of the end

of times?

the American breakfast

it taste like

vanilla, or a banana,

or an apple,

or chocolate,

but it's not.

it's a concoction

of chemicals

made in a lab

in New Jersey

to duplicate what

nature has already

done.

who's to know

the difference

where there's an extra

heaping of sugar

on top.

The X rocket

when

the rocket blows up

nine

minutes into the flight,

there is laughter

and applause,

hand shakes,

the control room is filled

with joy,

delighted at the explosion

in the sky.

we've come so far

this time.

what a success

it's been.

ten million dollars spent,

but well worth

it.

the next flight we're hoping

for ten minutes

in the air

before it blows up again.

with a foot between us

is the moon

cold,

the white rock, the airless

space,

the craters,

the hills and valleys,

of icy

dust.

i imagine it is cold.

very cold.

but not as cold as it is

right now,

with a foot

between us.

Victoria Secrets

i remember

years ago,

standing in line at 

the Victoria Secrets

Store,

buying

lingerie for a sweetheart,

for the holidays.

something to ring the new

year in with.

something sheer

and black,

sexy and slinky,

a pair of form fitting

fishnet stockings

and maybe a

decadent mask.

and now here i am at Kohl's

with my coupon,

holding

flannel pajamas, and slippers

in the shape

of a bunny rabbit,

and woolen socks that

she can pull up

past her calf.

it's official

it's official..

i'm old,

i say to myself as i put

on my

reading glasses

to read the ingredients

on the back

of a jar

of peanut butter

at the whole foods store.

sink or swim

it's confusing,

is she waving hello

to me

as i walk along the shore,

or is it a cry for help

as she drowns

from the burden

of her life

weighed down

by future and past

mistakes.

i can't try to save

another one,

anymore.

where's my car today?

the city

of Washington D.C.

is handing

out free

stickers to put in your car

to find

it after it's been

stolen

or hijacked.

the location

will show up on a screen

via GPS.

a micro chip buried in.

there it is

off Benning Road,

tireless,

ransacked and taken

apart,

burned.

they are too kind and

thoughtful

these days.

no thank you

there are so many

times

i should have said no,

no,

i'm not going there,

no, i'm not doing that,

no,

thank you, but no.

no, no.

instead though, being the kind

and compromising

soul that i am,

i caved in

to the wishes of others,

and did so many things

i had no interest in.

three nightmarish marriages

being clear

evidence of that.

letter to NYC

so how are you

in that great city. are you well?

is your room okay,

can you see the park,

the Empire State Building from

your window?

what have you done

since arriving,

how many plays, how many

walks to the museums,

through Central Park

have you done?

did you find

a book to read at the Strand?

do the taxis still race like

madmen down the thoroughfares?

is it safe?

tell me dear,

tell me all.

is the Hudson the color of

blue steel along

the west side?

is Katz's Deli still open

on Houston?

leave some fun for me.

i'm on my way.

i won't be long.

celebrating Arbor Day

my friend Jimmy

used to keep

his Christmas tree up all year.

the lights

on his house too.

there was an Easter basket

on the table.

a plastic pumpkin

full of candy

on the mantle.

Flags for flag day

hung on the porch.

balloons and hats for

new years eve,

were in the corner.

three leaf clovers

were stuck to the wall.

a small oak tree

in a planter

stood in the middle

of the room.

i asked him what that was

for.

Arbor Day, he said.

it sneaks up on you.

blood in a hurry

it's a surprise

how

red the blood is when

i cut

myself on the sharp

knife.

it takes my mind off

the wound

for a few seconds as i

watch

the blood flow

out like mercury

into the sink.

there seems to be so

much

wanting to escape,

it's in a hurry,

tired of being

locked up

tight and warm for

so long.

maybe i should wrap it.

the dust laden books

if you

don't study history, you

won't understand

today,

or have any clue

about where we're going

tomorrow

when your turns

come.

please, young people,

pick up that dust

laden book,

or scroll through

your god forsaken phone,

and read.

three pears in a bowl

her painting

of three pears

in a white bowl

is hung

in the kitchen,

the sheen of oil catching

the morning light.

the glow of green

in my eyes.

it feels

like a holy painting

of some sort,

i don't know why.

navel gazing

her therapist

suggested to her, that having

a hobby

of some sort

might take her mind

off of things,

off herself and her many

imaginary

problems.

but she said,

this is my hobby, you

and all the self-help books

i read,

our sessions twice a week,

trying to figure

myself out,

my victimhood,

trying to understand

all my impossible needs.

red roses for who?

they find

in his coat pocket a note

of sorts,

a list

of things,

reminders of what to do.

it's neatly

written in ink

on a yellow page

from the notebook

he kept on his desk.

there are groceries,

milk, bread,

the usual, the mundane

things

to keep us alive,

then there's the oil

change,

the trip to the bank,

a poetry anthology

by a man

named Hughes,

and then a reminder to

buy flowers,

a dozen red roses,

but it doesn't mention

for who.

somewhere where he's never been

was it love,

was it romantic love.

was she the right one,

the one

who filled his sails with wind.

or just

another boat,

to get him

somewhere

where's he's never been.

these things

he ponders as he pushes

the mower

up and down the hills

of long grass

in her yard, then rakes

until the sun

goes down.

girls and boys

she loved

her dolls, i loved my

toy soldiers.

me in the dirt

for hours reenacting

world war

two,

or a futuristic

world war three,

and her,

pushing the stroller,

making baby talk

and

squeezing her plastic

doll,

to make it pee.

don't join anything

don't join

anything, don't hitch your

wagon

to the latest

trend,

stay clear of clubs,

and 

memberships,

organizations

that make

promises they'll

never keep.

don't sign

or give away your name.

resist

the temptation

to belong to the maddening

crowd,

carrying their flag,

life will never

be the same.

my father the barber

as my

father clipped my hair

with a sheet

around my

neck,

i knew that he didn't

know what he

was doing.

the scissors, the comb,

the electric

clipper

moving around my

head, like

it was wild brush,

or hedges.

i could see in his eyes

that he

was clueless, despite

his smile.

my tears at the end

when i looked

into the mirror

seemed to disappoint him.

1961

with each

cupcake she baked and iced

and set out

to cool on large

plates,

she felt that her job was done

as a mother,

as a wife

as a woman

of a certain age

with college behind her.

this small task showed

some sort

of love,

some idea of what

happiness looked like,

but the cheerful wave

from the door

as the world went on

without her,

would soon unravel,

and all would be undone.

seeing doubles

i've been

reading way too much poetry.

when i

see a homeless person

on the street,

i immediately

think, oh my, that guy

looks just like

Walt Whitman,

or when i see a tall

anxious woman, wringing

her hands

and staring into

the sky, i think,

she looks just like Sylvia

Plath,

or Anne Sexton.

that man at the bar

having one pint after the other

looks just

like Dylan Thomas.

who is that in the long line

at the bank,

is that Phillip Larkin?

or Robert Lowell?

who's that 

at the window of the fast

food restaurant,

is that Raymond Carver,

or Mark Strand?

my neighbor is the spitting

image

of Elizabeth Bishop.

and the policeman who

just pulled me over looks

exactly like

Ezra Pound, on a good day.

my community college decade

when i finally

made

the dean's list at the community

college

my mother was

astounded.

i took math,

biology,

chemistry

and economics off my 

curriculum,

basically anything that

involved books

and reading,

or studying.

i narrowed it down

to Phys ed,

modern art,

and yoga meditation.

i audited flower arrangements

too.

straight A's yo.

three more years

i told her, and

i'm out of here.

no bombs falling, yet

there's no

water

in the entire neighborhood.

some plumbing

issue

that's gone unexplained

by

the men in the six trucks

with flashing lights.

there's a crowd

out in the cul de sac

getting restless

and angry.

i have to use the toilet

i hear one

woman say,

i should never have eaten

all those oysters.

a man whines about not

having water

for his scotch.

no ice either.

it's a terrible mood

out there.

what are we going to do,

someone asks,

if we can't bathe in

the morning. if we can't

brush our teeth or wash

our hair.

i look up into the sky,

and say

at least there are no

bombs falling. yet.

if i get another dog

if i ever get another

dog

i'm not going to let him get

fat

like i did with the last dog, Moe.

allowing him

to eat

what i ate,

the standard american diet,

full of crap.

sugar and chemicals, oils,

carbs,

processed foods,

and all that.

he'll be eating meat.

chicken and steak, poultry,

pork.

like the carnivore beast

he is.

but i might have to get

a second job

to support him.

a book of stamps

i ask the clerk

at the grocery store for a book

of stamps.

he stares at me

and rubs his peach fuzz,

then says, what?

what's that?

a book.

this is a grocery store

not a library

or Barnes and Noble.

no, no, i say.

it's for

putting onto an envelope

or a letter,

to mail out.

little sticky square

things

to lick or are self adhesive

to push onto the right

corner

of something you're mailing.

let me get my manager,

he says, shaking

his head

and pushing the button

to make his sign

light up and flash.

you old people, he says

under his breath,

then stares at his phone

while we wait.

Mazel Tov

i call up

a few friends and business

acquaintances

to catch up.

it's been awhile since

I've talked

to Abraham, my good lawyer,

or Jacob,

my neighbor,

who owns my favorite

deli

in town.

my doctor Saul is on

vacation,

and my dentist Vivian

is wondering where i've been.

i need to set

up an appointment for

a new crown.

i haven't seen Levi

around in ages,

my accountant,

not to mention Ezra or Ariel.

i've always been

in love

with Ariel, as well,

and her twin sister Sarah.

i wonder if they're

still single.

she was almost perfect

when i wrote

her obituary, i embellished

quite a bit,

i laid it on pretty thick

trying to convince

the world

how wonderful she was.

how kind

and generous,

how loving she was

to friends and family.

she was perpetually happy.

i mentioned her humor,

her gentle nature,

her philanthropic side.

i selected a picture of her

when she was in her prime.

young and healthy,

sexy, with a glimmer

of mischief in her eye.

hopefully someone will

do the same for me,

when it's my time.

the empty calendar page

i look at my

calendar,

my day-to-day notebook,

my phone,

i've got nothing

to do today.

how is that possible?

nowhere to go,

no work,

no need to be anywhere.

no checking the time

and traffic.

no worries about the weather.

no errands to run.

no calls to make.

no need to go to the 

post office,

or bank.

i don't even have a dog

to walk.

now what?

the invitation to the party

my neighbor Becky,

who i despise,

invites me to her annual

Christmas party.

it's a beautiful hand written

invitation.

drinks, food, music, dancing,

gifts. let's celebrate

this most joyous season together

it says..

i'm stunned.

i've enjoyed so many

years in not liking

her, and now this.

how do i get around this?

how can i continue

not liking her if i go

to this party?

damn her. she's so devious.

with her fur coat on

it's single digits

on the red

thermometer

out the window.

i see a bird with a hat on.

a squirrel

wearing

a tweed jacket.

there goes a raccoon

with gloves

on his paws.

and you,

still in bed wearing

a fur coat.

i guess

we all need to fatten up

for what's coming.

in her camouflage apron

my mother

would have made a fine

army cook

after dealing with her

seven children

and wayward husbands.

i can see her standing

behind the battlefield

in her camouflage apron

cracking eggs.

throwing strips of

bacon onto a pan, with

a griddle of hash browns 

and a plate of toast

on the gurney.

yelling at the soldiers

to slow down,

don't talk with your

mouth full,

and use a napkin,

for Pete's sake,

wipe your chin,

right there, right there.

you've got some

blueberry jam.

a small good fire

despite

what you witness,

some

fires are good. small ones.

controlled

blazes.

like the little bon fire

in the iron

pit in the backyard.

how easily it consumes

history

and tainted memory.

makes it all go away.

every breath you take

i know

all your secrets.

i know where you hide things.

i know what

you think

before you think it,

i know what 

you're going to say

before the words fall

from your mouth.

i'm onto you,

i'm in your head,

i'm in your closet and

under your bed.

i know everything there is

to know about you

so don't even give me

that smile,

that wink and start

to play.

the hiking Meet Up

bored and feeling

the need

for social activity

i go to the meet up

for hiking.

we rendezvous at the base

of this small hill

near a Starbucks.

it's about what i expected

twenty

woody Allen type guys

in cargo shorts

and black

glasses,

and a handful

of wiry women

who don't seem to bathe

or shave their legs.

we're hiking

Rag mountain today,

the leader says.

be careful of snakes.

there's water and peanut

butter crackers

in the bag, help yourself

and if you need to use

the bathroom

before we begin,

there's a Johnny on the Spot

over there.

i can't wait to get to the top

to jump off.

the Medicare Advantage Plan

pestered beyond

belief to acquire a new

Medicare

advantage plan,

i finally give in

and give

the man on the phone

my social

security number,

my bank account information,

my age

and weight and height,

i give him

my birth date,

my mother's maiden name.

the names

of my children

and wife.

and when i get home

from work,

he's at the dinner table,

wearing my clothes,

petting my dog,

eating

a pot roast

and explaining to my

family 

the meaning of life.

our time would come

not quite old enough

to go

kill people in

southeast asia, we went

downtown anyway

to join in the protests

to end the war

in Vietnam.

smoke was heavy in

the air,

and sometimes tear gas.

there was music, and

lots of hippy

girls

in hippy garb with

long hair,

swimming half naked

in the reflection pool.

sometimes Bob Hope

or the Mormon Tabernacle

Choir would be

performing, but we didn't

care.

we had fun, it wasn't yet

our time to go die

over there.

we still had a few years.

it must be better

the manufacturers

know what they're doing.

if they want

to sell a new product

they put

a French name on it,

or a German name.

they tell you it's from

Italy, or Spain.

whether wine or bread,

or sauces.

it must be better than

the other brand,

those people know

what they're doing

over there when

it comes to food.

slap an accent aigu on

the e and off you go.

who buys American

cheese anymore?

a thin gluey strip

wrapped in plastic.

give me the Camembert

instead.

wringing your hands

we mentally wring our hands

of things,

we sigh and say,

okay, i've done everything

under the sun

to solve this,

but now i have to walk away,

i'm done.

it's no use in going on.

but

despite the grief of it all,

there's a strange

sense of relief, a calm

in moving on.

how dare they be like us

as

the stars fall

into illness and old age,

stepping

into

their graves, we ponder

our own

mortality,

these people seemed

forever.

their movies

always on the screen.

forever

young,

forever vital and strong.

we saw

them as children,

then older and older

but less on

the marquee.

how dare

they be like us

and age.

never been married

the man

at the hardware store,

Frank,

after making me a new

set of house keys,

asks me

how many times i've been

married.

i hold up three fingers,

he laughs

and says, get out of town,

no way

you've been burned

that many times.

but i tell him hold on

a miniute.

let me break it down for you.

the first one

was for six months,

and it was annulled by the Pope,

she walked home

with her suitcase

and a toaster oven.

the second one i caught

her cheating with my son's

karate teacher,

but besides that we were

married in a foreign

country, so that one doesn't

count either,

and the last one,

well, she had a married boyfriend

the whole year

we were together,

and i believe she had her

fingers crossed when

she said her vows.

so you can throw that one

out the window too.

so basically i've never

been married.

i make a zero with my

thumb and finger.

zero times, brother, zero.

three feet of snow

as you go through

the stages

of life,

your desire for snow

changes.

three feet is fine

when you're

in school,

but when working

a dusting

is okay,

the streets clear

of ice,

but now, i'm okay

once more

with three feet

and the roads closed

down until 
April.

dude looks like a lady

i admit

i wore some girly clothes

in the seventies.

blousy shirts

with ships

on them,

Spanish boots,

vests,

and even a pair

of lavender pants

that went along

with my buccaneer

shirt.

skinny,

with the long hair,

i often heard the words

from the Aerosmith

song,

dude looks like a lady.

but i grew out of it.

they can almost smell the cheese

it's not unlike

mice

in a maze at the lab,

with

white coats observing

their behavior,

rushing home

from work,

to the store, to the gym,

to somewhere.

it's a frenzy

through

blocked streets,

the slow lights,

the detours, everyone

leaning

on their horn,

and cursing out 

the window.

they want to get home,

they can

almost smell

the cheese,

they can almost taste

it.

butter churn in the kitchen

she asks me why

i have so many pens

all over the house.

and i tell her,

in case i need to jot something

down.

like what?

she asks.

i don't know, a phone number,

a thought,

maybe write a check.

what's that, she says.

a check?

it's this slip of paper that

comes in a folder

from the bank

with sequential numbers 

on it.

it allows people to take money

out of your account

for payment.

huh?

no Venmo, no PayPal?

no credit or debit cards?

nah. i don't trust that sort

of thing.

online banking, etc.

i bet you have a butter churn

in your kitchen,

don't you, she says.

two summers and a winter

she was

a beautiful Jewish girl

from

New York,

with dark eyes, and black

hair.

her mother sold wedding

dresses

and her father

was a psychiatrist.

they didn't seem to care

that a good Catholic

boy, like me, was

seeing their jewel of a daughter.

you could see it in their

eyes, that they knew

this wouldn't

last.

but it did, two summers,

and a winter,

and i've never

lost my taste for bagels

and lox.

but not the subway, please

we need space,

elbow

room, but

the rules are different

here,

you can stand too close

to people,

or touch them

without

a written approval.

we can hardly breathe.

there are no boundaries.

we worry about

the thief,

the sneeze,

that guy over there

selling

watches,

there's something up

his sleeve.

we've got to get

ourselves

our of times square,

pronto, but

not the subway,

please.

we need an island now

like God's eyes, that

we don't

seem to care about,

anymore, there

are cameras

everywhere

recording sins,

and thievery

the brazen sides

of criminality.

it's big brother now,

big sister,

catching nearly everyone

in the act

when the devil

has his way.

forget the jails, we need

an island now.

going home again

for once

we make the train on time.

our luggage

stowed away

we settle into our seats

for the long

ride home.

through the dark tunnel

beneath

the cold city we go.

the rattle

of the rails, the conductor

taking

stubs.

then out and out,

into the wide

pastures of the land.

shoulder to shoulder,

hand in hand,

we go home again.

fighting off the curses

we could

hear when the Gypsies

arrived,

the sound of hooves

and wheels on the street,

in Castelldefells as their wagon pulled

up behind two

sagging

horses.

the man out front

would stiffen the reins,

then they'd stop.

out from the tented

trough would

come a woman

draped in a black sheet,

holding

up a crying naked

baby towards the sun.

it glistened like

a raisin.

we watched from the window

as my mother

would go to them

with money in her hand.

trying to fight off

the curses

that eventually still

would come.

artificial sweeters

one kiss

from her 

saccharin lips

and i was suddenly

diabetic,

in need

of a shot

of some sort to revive

me.

i embraced this sickness

with both

arms. it

nearly killed me,

she sucked

the blood and marrow

right out

of me

until i was a puddle

of male

goo on

the slippery

hospital floor,

bleeding sugar,

the artificial kind.

my list of saviors

the first hard

frost

kills the battery in

the truck,

i say a word that

closely

rhymes

with such vehicle.

with the turn of the key

there is

no whirring

of engine,

no turn

of the motor, i got

nothing.

i get out my laminated

list of

saviors and begin

to dial..

resistance is futile

as Oscar

Wilde once said, i can

resist everything

but temptation.

so true.

we are surrounded by

candy,

visual and otherwise,

the shiny

things,

the bling,

the sweet the savory,

the skin.

how can we not live

our days

in this world, without

an occasional

sin.

finding your sweet spot

as

the sun begins to set,

it suddenly

occurs to you

that you've become somewhat

of a recluse.

a veritable greta

garbo.

rarely going out

to do anything

of a social nature, happily

sequestered

in your house

with your things, your

books

and shows,

your food and drink.

so this what peace

and true happiness

is all about, you think.

you've found your

sweet spot.

testing your faith with a snake

it was one of those

churches

where

they throw snakes around

to loud music

and shouting.

there's a line

in the Bible that a snake

won't kill

you if you truly believe,

but don't quote me on that.

luckily i'm wearing my

long sleeve

thick Christmas sweater

that my mother gave me,

and a leather coat

with leather gloves.

i see a lot of parishioners

with scars on their hands

and arms,

their necks and faces

having survived

the testing of their faith

with venomous bites.

the Jezebel i'm with tells

me, go ahead, go ahead

and grab that big one there,

that giant copper head.

no thanks i tell her.

maybe i'll start with that little

green one over there.

that garter snake.

oh, she says, i see what 

you're all about, you have

no faith, do you?

to which i respond, you know

what i'm out of here.

a coupon to the gym

i get a coupon

to the local gym, a three

day pass

to try it out before signing

up for a year

long membership.

so i go to lift some weights,

pump some iron, yo.

do the treadmill,

and pull on wires and pulleys

to tighten up my flab.

but it's too distracting.

there's too many women

in there running around

in skin tight clothes.

bending over, jumping 

around and causing havoc

to the tubby men in there,

as they drop five pound

bar bells onto their toes.

i suddenly realize it's the only

reason that any of them go.

blowing in the wind

my neighbors have

started to complain about 

the clothesline i've strung

from fence to fence

in my back yard.

when they see my

clothes, wet, hanging there

drying in the wind and sun,

they say that it's a blight

to see, that it's bringing

the neighborhood down.

causing real estate grief.

i tend to disagree.

other things on the table

when you take

economics out of the equation

when

the struggle to survive

is no

longer the first thing you think

about in

the morning, or the nuisance

of love,

what changes?

you find other things to worry

about,

putting, smaller things

on the table.

going to hell in a handbasket

is hell

a real place?

fire and brimstone

and all

that jazz?

can there really be eternal

damnation.

and if so, who deserves

to be there?

right away

you go to the top of the list.

Hitler.

of course,

and then work

your way down from

all the evil

leaders of the world

that have come

and gone.

then the serial killers,

prosperity preachers,

a few priests

and boy scout leaders,

but then you start adding

in people like

that pillow guy

who is on tv all the time

selling pillows,

used car salesmen,

and that woman

in your neighborhood

who runs the HOA

board.

by the time you're done

with the list,

you realize what a crowded

place hell

must be, if it does exist.

my brain needs a break

sick of the wars,

the protesters,

the gab fest of newscasters,

the pundits,

the politicians, the stupidity

and ignorance

of the world

i change the channel

and begin to watch a marathon

of Twilight Zone episodes.

i make a giant bowl

of popcorn

and push the recliner back,

and settle in.

my brain needs a break.

SOS

i take a steamy

hot

bath, but i fall asleep in 

the warm soapy

suds,

the water

is cold

when i wake up

an hour later,

and the book i was reading

is floating

next to the bar

of soap.

i'm shriveled

and shivering, my knees

knocking together.

i feel seasick, sloshing

around

in this cold tub.

almost frozen.

i wish had one of those

rescue bracelets on 

like my mother used to use

when she fell down.

i could send out

an SOS for help, maybe

there's a local lifeguard

on duty nearby.

he could throw me a rope.

we went to Italy last week

when they

come back from Italy,

in their tan

clothes, black

hats and red

scarves,

they can't

stop talking about Italy.

the food,

the people,

the museums

the art,

the gondolas,

it's a blah blah blah

fest about Italy,

it's so different there,

you really

should go,

then the phones

come out

and here we go again,

from the finish,

the pictures, the videos,

around and around

then

back to the start.

i'm making homemade.

raviolis

for dinner,

you're staying aren't you?

let me get the wine.

you look tired today

we're fragile.

let's admit it. were skin

and bones,

we wear

our hearts on our sleeves,

words hurt.

snide remarks,

off handed comment

about our looks

or clothes,

our choice of style

our art.

we're children

deep inside, never truly

growing up.

a casual

comment saying that

we look

tired,

will break our heart.

why exactly are you here?

the reporter asks

a few protesters, who

are taking

selfies,

what they're protesting

about.

mostly young

college age kids

cutting class

and then painting their

faces green,

putting on a checkerboard

mask.

they shrug and smile,

they laugh.

it's fun they say, 

all my friends are here

and later we're

going out for pizza

and beer.

can you hold my flag for a minute

i think my mom

is trying to call me.

the baloney we worry about

should i order that new

toothbrush

from amazon,

and have the truck arrive

tomorrow morning,

to put it on my porch?

maybe i should get some

other stuff too,

to make it worth their while.

let's see.

socks? yes. a dozen

stretch socks,

black, brown and grey.

what else?

maybe a new applicance

of some sort.

a new microwave.

that should do it.

that should 

ease my guilt about gas

and the carbon footprint

and all

the other baloney they make

us worry about.

the broken shoe

funny

how the shoe you wore

all day

yesterday

is suddenly no longer

of use.

the sole

separated from

the binding

and glue.

so much falls apart

like that.

with parents,

with kids,

with loved ones.

friends, even,

strange how they

were so comfortable

to slip into, but

now 

no longer fit.

finding true love

i go to the dermatologist

slash Harley aficionado,

to have

him scrape off a tattoo

i had inked

on my arm

last year.

Sally Mae.

i really thought

she was the one.

he's done work for me

before.

and scolds me on the newest

tattoo.

how many times have

i told you,

love is ephemeral,

just a temporary phase

you're going through.

next time put something

on your skin that you

truly love and will never

change.

tomorrow i go down to

have a slice of chocolate

cake tattooed on my arm.

there's space now.

like it's 1939

i see a bonfire

down the street near the public

library

and school.

they're burning

books again

and roasting marshmallows.

To Kill a Mockingbird,

most of Mark Twain,

Of Mice and Men,

and Catcher in the Rye.

favorite books of mine.

why does it feel so much

like it's 1939?

so much has wandered off

i can't

find anything lately.

a flat head

screw driver for instance,

or the hammer

and box of nails.

the tube

of glue.

so much has

wandered off.

even you.

hiding your true colors

i want to run

the flag

up my flag pole, 

blue and white

with the star of David

in the middle, but

i'm worried

that it might hurt someone's

feelings,

the neighbors

might get angry

if their beliefs and flags

are different,

so i keep it bare,

i keep the flag

folded and hidden

and pretend i just

don't care.

whose land is it this century

was it simpler then,

it feels

that way, but you aren't sure,

each

era to its own

problems and mistakes.

each man

and country to his

own way

of believing

what's right for him.

the lines and boundaries

of countries

and souls,

imaginary at best,

just chalk

on a chalkboard

so easily disposed.

the tv repairman

we couldn't adjust

the horizontal

button on the tv 

to make it stop rolling,

so my mother

called

the tv repairman

from the yellow pages

book that she used

as a door stop.

this dude

showed up with a case

of tubes

and wires, tools

and pulled the tv

away from the wall, 

warning us kids to never

try this on our own.

he fiddled with it for

awhile, the plugged it

back in,

lighting up the inside

of the box.

but the screen kept

rolling and rolling.

finally he took his shoe

off and hit the side 

of the tv, which made

the rolling stop.

after that we all became

tv repairmen.

you get used to crazy

when i found

her curled up in a dark ball

of runny

make up

and tears

in the lightless room,

i asked

her what's wrong?

bad day at the office?

she said that she wanted to

end it all.

i said, what do you mean.

us?

you want to move,

to leave?

no, i want to leave the world.

scared of what she might do,

i called her therapist,

her doctor,

her mother and sister,

her father,

social services and the law.

then nothing happened,

but when she did it

again and again,

night after night,

finding her in a nervous

rocking ball

on the floor

i got used it and would

open the door

and ask her if she wanted

a salad with

dinner, and if she wanted

her salmon cooked

or raw.

connections at the zoo

as a teenager,

the Bucy brothers always

had a new

supply

of dope.

weed for the most part

and a few

assorted selections

of pills.

uppers, downers, etc.

the green

dried weed that they sold

was sifted for seeds

and wrapped in

little plastic baggies.

nickel bags

they called them,

some dime bags too.

they were quite

the entrepreneurial couple

of guys.

selling rolling papers

and pipes

from a small suitcase.

the weed in this bag

is good,

very good, one would say,

this one, milder.

and this one we laced

with elephant tranquilizer.

careful with that one.

kaboom.

i always wondered who they

knew

at the zoo.

catch and release

when the fish

aren't biting, we move

to the other

side

of the lake.

maybe the fish are

hungry over there.

we find a rock

to sit on

cast out, then wait.

we look at the box

of worms,

feeling somewhat

sorry for them

squirming in the black

dirt.

life is a mixed bag

of give

and take.

ordering the special

i met her

in a greasy spoon

near

the airport where the planes

would rattle

the cups

and saucers

as they lowered

their wheels and landed

on the runway

nearby.

she had

kind eyes

and small hands.

slender in her pink

dress,

black apron,

and running shoes.

i could have married

her on the spot

when she brought out

my waffles and eggs,

then gently refilled

my coffee mug.

setting down

a tin of cream.

strange what we fall in

love with

over and over again.

a brush full of paint

it's not much,

hardly

a brush full of cold paint

on the cold

door

to make

it stick.

hardened overnight.

locking it tight

from within

and from

out.

a warning perhaps,

of the little

things

that can do us in.

sorry, but i already have plans

someone asks me

what my

plans are for the holidays.

i shrug my

shoulders,

i don't know yet.

maybe buy some eggnog

at some point

and pour in a few jiggers of

Southern

Comfort.

that's it? they ask.

yeah, why, what are you

doing?

oh, i'm having the relatives

fly in from

Chicago with

all their kids

and dogs,

and we're going down

to the Mall

to see the big tree,

and then

we're all going caroling.

on Christmas

Eve

after church, then have

some hot chocolate

by the fire.

we like to light some candles

and listen to all the Christmas

classics by Bing

and Andy Williams.

Debbie will put the turkey

and the ham

in the oven in the morning

and then

we'll gather around

and start opening presents

in our pajamas.

if there's snow on the ground

we'll probably go out

and have the annual

family snowball fight.

you're welcome to come over

if you want, if you're not too busy.

nah, nah. no thanks, as i said,

i already have plans.

maybe there's a plan

the clock

dies

and the light burns out

on the same

day

in the same room.

a bird

flies into the window.

coincidence?

perhaps.

but

maybe there's

a plan

of some sort in

place.

picking up a dozen donuts

give me

three of those chocolate

covered,

no not the cake,

the glazed,

two

cinnamons,

two

cream filled

and 

how about three

of those

plain.

how many is that?

two more?

okay.

squeeze in a couple

of eclairs,

and a napoleon too,

separate bag,

i want to eat it

in the car on the way

home.

sluff it off

it's okay

to fail. really it is.

trip,

fall, break a leg

a tooth,

embarrass yourself.

so what,

get up

and move on.

stop worrying about

what others think.

make a mistake,

it's okay. sluff it off

and be strong.

i can't find the latch

i used to add oil

to my car

after pulling out the stick

and wiping it,

then putting it back in.

a quart low,

no problem.

i had cans of 30 weight

quaker state

on a shelf in the garage.

sometimes i changed

the oil,

sliding under

with  wrench and a pan.

i'd change

the shocks,

the water pump,

the oil pump

when it went bad.

i used to

put in new spark plugs

and set

the points.

the frayed belts, no problem.

i'd replace all the filters,

or the battery

when needed.

i used to add

anti-freeze and fluid

for the wipers,

change the wipers.

fix a flat

with the spare

and tools in the trunk.

and now

i can't even open the hood,

i can't find

the button

or the latch when i pull

into jiffy lube..

taking the scenic route to work

i take the scenic

route

to work,

the one downtown,

straight

up the middle of the city.

i want to see

the decay

and destruction,

the shake downs,

the drugs and hookers,

the carjackings

and violence.

i want to hear the crackle

of syringes

under my tires.

i want to smell

things burning,

see the broken windows,

see the police

in their cars

with their party

lights on.

i want to hear the screams

and the cries

of those

barely surviving,

partially alive.

everyone should 

take the scenic route

downtown, and see for

yourself,

the underside.

the pretty privilege

beauty

gives you a head start in life.

you have

the pretty privilege

that the average

boys and girls don't

have.

you always get your way,

going to the front

of the line,

but in the end,

it's over

and you're no different

than the wrinkled

and old,

minus the beauty,

leaving you distressed

and sad, once having

the world,

but losing your soul.

spinning tires

we get

stuck sometimes.

stuck in the mud,

in the snow,

in a bad job,

a bad neighborhood,

a bad friendship,

a bad marriage.

we spin our wheels

trying to get out,

we put a board

under

the tires and hit

the gas.

people come

by and try

to push you from

behind to free you.

sometimes though

you just

have to walk away.

slap your hands together,

throw down the keys

and say fine.

are you sure you want this job?

my eyes

glaze over as i watch the debate

pondering

who

should be the next

president

of the united states.

who would even want that

job?

half the world

hates you,

and the other half puts

you on a short

leash,

if you don't do what you 

promised to get their votes.

it ages you,

keeps you up at night.

a thousand voices in your

ear

telling you what's wrong,

what's right.

even your wife.

there are so many other jobs

out there,

why this?

dancing in the kitchen

as we

cook together.

chopping vegetables,

sautéing

meat, pouring wine.

we say little.

it's a dance of sorts

in the narrow

kitchen.

the flames on,

the oven hot,

knives and forks

in hand,

seasonings standing by

as the salad

gets tossed,

then somehow

it all comes together

and ends

up at the table,

with a vase of flowers

in the middle

that she cut in the garden.

all her cardboard boxes

she was

a box girl. tape and scissors.

the magic

marker

to indicate which room

which box 

would go into

on her next inevitable move..

she stacked

them

where she could, lived

out of them.

she was alone.

never staying anywhere

long enough

to call it home.

she dipped in and out

of her

memories, all of her

life stored

in boxes.

time was running out.

where to next?

one more than two

strange

how

the cat owner

never

smells what cats do.

oblivious

to the eye sting.

the scent

that startles you.

they're used

to it

with windows closed

and furniture

torn,

the litter box

in every room.

the cat

on the counter looking

for food.

one more than two,

is too

many.

why nothing changes

the reason

nothing ever really changes

is because

we all die

and everything we

learned,

all the wisdom we

acquired

is gone, like ashes

in the wind, away

it flies.

and the next generation

is left

to start all over again.

the unfinished

nothing

is ever really done

completely,

finished.

the poem, the painting,

the book,

unfinished,

our thoughts

and words

never end, there is always

something

we should

have said back then.

but it comes to us

at night, too late,

as we bend towards sleep

and dreams.

finding high brow literature

walking home

from school, or church, or somewhere,

it doesn't matter,

i was always walking,

i stumbled upon

a stack of old Playboy

Magazines

from the sixties.

they were set out on

the curb for trash pick up.

they were in pristine

condition i discovered

as i quickly flipped

through the glossy pages,

while looking other my shoulder.

i was thirteen or so,

and couldn't believe my luck.

i carried as many home

as i could in

my small arms

and stashed them in

the closet behind

my ball and glove,

a bat and tennis shoes

and smelly socks.

i couldn't wait to begin

reading all the fine

articles and poetry,

short stories

in the magazines when i

got home

from school the next day,

but no,

they were gone, my brother

who was studying to become

a Baptist Minister

had found them, and tossed

them out.

i've never forgiven him.

rubber floor mats for Christmas

i see the ad on tv,

repeatedly, for

rubber mats for one's car.

front and back,

the trunk too.

and then it's Christmas

morning,

and the glow of faces

on the gift recipients

is heart warming

as they

unwrap their car mats

from the pretty wrapping paper.

this is what Christmas

is all about. such joy,

such wonder.

wipeable, durable,

stain resistant mats, fits

any car or truck

on the road within

the last three years.

celebrating the birthday

of Jesus, the savior

of the world with rubber

floor mats.

saving those valuable things

in the corner

are plastic bins, from the floor

to the ceiling

filled

with valuables,

such as diapers,

and then

next to them are

blankets folded and stacked

upon each other,

all colors

all blends of fabric,

a dozen, perhaps more,

and then the cups

and saucers,

the shoes lined up

along the floor,

clothes from the 70's

on racks,

empty boxes that one

can't live without.

receipts 

and cookbooks,

empty cans of soup,

washed

out and saved upon

the counter.

three or four cats

parade through the jungle

of it all.

a few mice are snared in

a few traps.

divorceparty.com

i start a new company

for divorces.

divorceparty.com

why should a divorce be so sad.

why

shouldn't there be a cake

and balloons,

with just the bride on top

or a groom.

why not celebrate the freedom.

have a party,

the unchaining

of a heart,

the shackles thrown

to the ground.

music and dancing,

carousing.

a dart board with the picture

of the absent

spouse stuck in the middle.

why not have fun with

this disaster?

thankful, that at last 

you're out.

i miss my stalker girl

i sort of miss

my stalker, the woman

who

followed me,

who

dialed my number

in the middle of the night

and said nothing.

i miss her texts

and e mails,

seeing her car drive by,

or catching a glimpse

of her

in the shrubbery

when i lean out

to grab the morning paper.

i miss her

disguises.

the black hat

and hoodie,

the sunglasses.

showing up in random

places

and crouching down.

i wonder where she is

these days,

a knock on the door,

or peek

through my window,

would be nice.

i could use a shiver down

my spine.

heart shaped hands, please stop

i know

it's petty, it's ridiculous

to care about

such mundane

things,

but i so thoroughly

dislike

and judge people

as fools

who make hearts

with their

fingers and hands,

or draw such

shapes in the snow,

or in the sand.

hoping for rescue

some mornings

i don't have

the strength or the ambition

to try

and gnaw

through leather

straps

that tether me to this

life.

i twist and turn,

but it's no use.

i'm too old to escape,

to start over.

so i roll over

and play dead, hoping

for rescue.

flipping the pillow

the dream

is startling, so real, so

true.

so

part of who you are.

what's buried within

you.

that longing,

that

confusion, that lack

of closure,

the absence

of reason.

you wipe the cold

sweat

off your brow, flip

the pillow

and try to change 

the channel

as you drift back

into sleep.

starting over

we can

change our names,

alter

our face,

gain or lose weight,

we can

become another person

and disappear

into

the city where no one

knows us.

we can start over.

become who we were

meant to be,

not this,

this soul who lost 

his way,

adrift in the sea

of humanity.

vegetable magic

i could

eat about two pounds

of my mother's

Zucchini bread

in no time, washing it

down

with a cold glass of

milk.

it was succulent,

sweet and laced

with icing.

i had to get out my

stretch pants

when she'd put two loaves

in a bag to go.

all vegetables should

taste that good.

free at last

there used to be a woman

in the office

that we called

the executioner.

if you saw her coming 

up the hall,

you shivered with fear,

was this the day

they saw right through you,

that you didn't have

a clue, numbly shuffling

papers at your desk

for eight hours.

did they at last find out 

that the only thing you cared

about was coffee in

the morning, chit chat,

lunch, then happy hour

when the clock struck five?

and then, the soft knock

on the cubicle came.

grab your belongings,

my friend, she'd say,

today is your last day.

give me your badge and parking

pass. good luck,

oh, and leave the stapler.

swinging a dead cat

you can't swing a dead

cat

by it's tail

without hitting a narcissist

or psychopath

these days.

who isn't

self-absorbed, rude

and lacking

of empathy?

the world is full of them,

not just hell.

flying monkeys

like

monkeys we would climb

the black

cherry tree

and clean it out.

filling our

pockets,

our mouths with the dripping

of cherry blood

slipping

out.

and then the headlights

of the car

would pull into

the driveway,

and we'd fly away

on our little monkey wings.

our bellies

already aching

once again.

what kind of a day?

do i wear

the heavy coat that hangs

in the closet,

or is it too

early

for that, not cold enough.

perhaps a light jacket

will do, or

the windbreaker

that doesn't get out

very often,

maybe a sweatshirt

that i can remove

if the sun comes out,

the button up, or pullover,

or perhaps the zipper one.

should we go black,

brown

or grey?

maybe i should open

the door and dip a leg out,

see exactly

what kind of a day,

it is.

black and white

because people

don't listen

anymore, or read,

or take

the time to examine

all the facts

on both sides,

they become purposely

stupid

in what they believe,

painting

the world in black

and white.

as the lemmings march

as you

age

crowds bug you.

you don't like

the marching mob

elbow

to elbow,

cheek

to cheek.

you don't want to be

one of them,

the lemming

heading

for cliffs edge.

one of 

the mindless

gaggle

of geese honking

with blurred reason,

confused

heads.

there used to be a book called the phone book

there used

to be a book

called the phone book.

a thick

enormous book

made of thin

parchment paper

not unlike the Dead

Sea Scrolls.

it would land

on your porch

once a year with a thud.

everyone was in it.

the black print

was tiny, you had to squint

or get out

your father's

magnifying glass

and a ruler

to locate someone you

wanted to call.

you had one number

back then.

one address.

that was the complete

1970 version

of social media.

the phone book.

what a glorious time

it was.

i can't hear you

she spoke so

softly

i could hardly hear her,

i'd move

closer

but she'd whisper even

softer

as i slid

my chair towards hers.

it was almost

as if she didn't want

me to know

that she really had nothing

to say

of interest.

but i tried, i really did,

turning my good ear

towards

her moving lips,

fluttering like feathers

on a bird.

the short long life of Alfred

the boy,

Alfred,

the one with the broken tooth,

and shaggy

hair,

always in trouble,

with a perpetual

black eye,

a delinquent from day one,

he liked to throw

rocks

through apartment windows.

come on, he'd say.

pick one up

and on the count

of three

let's throw them

together, then run.

but i said no,

and was already

halfway

down the street,

my ears listening to what

he had done.

almost anything for you

i'll do anything

for you,

but that,

climb the highest mountain,

swim

the deepest sea,

go to the moon

and back.

carry you across

the threshold?

no.

i'll do anything for you,

but i'm doing

that.

the cold glass of water

shade

is what you're looking for

in this

hot sun.

this arid heat.

a cool alley,

a cold step to sit

upon.

a cold glass of water

to drink

before you go on.

maybe over

there,

maybe the next corner

i'll turn

and there

she'll be

waiting as i've always

dreamed,

just for me.

Winstons

a bar

used to be a bar.

a dark

hole in the wall, where

you could go

and sit,

and have a drink, or

a bite

to eat. a place

to ponder your life,

out of the rain,

done for

the day.

maybe there was one

old tv

on a shelf,

with rabbit ears,

black and white

with a fight on.

the volume turned down.

no one was on their phone.

the menu

had hamburgers

with American

cheese. French fries.

no salads, no spinach dip.

no calamari.

the words gluten free

weren't on there.

in front of you was a bottle

of ketchup

and mustard

and packs of sugar.

salt and pepper shakers.

the bar tender was

friendly

but he didn't want

to be your friend

and left you alone after

pouring you a drink.

no one explained for ten

minutes what

the specials of the day were.

there were no specials.

people would sit

next to each other and

talk or not talk.

silence was okay.

there might be a juke box

in the corner, playing songs

you knew all the words to.

the place

smelled like old smoke,

old beer,

old men and women

lost in their thoughts.

and when you got up to

go to the bathroom,

no one touched your drink,

or took your spot.

the floor creaked when

you walked across it and

the bar stools were

made of wood, strong and

sturdy.

they could hold you all night.

and sometimes did.

men o pause

i tried to help an old woman

across 

the street the other day,

taking her arm

to navigate

the puddles and traffic,

but she slapped me

hard against my face

and clobbered me

with her umbrella.

get your hands off of me,

she said,

i know what you're up to.

sorry, i tell her. i was just

trying to help you

across this crowded street.

men, she screamed. you're

all the same, you just

want one thing.

well, i'll have you know

i'm not that kind of woman.

you remind me of my ex

husband. always trying

to be helpful and kind.

the nerve of you.

i don't need men anymore.

thank you.

i can do it myself, i alone

can get to the other side.

let them play

the kids

in the alley throwing

dice

against the brick

wall,

playing stickball

in the street,

don't care about what

we care

about.

it's always been that way.

but they'll

have their turn

soon,

one day, but for now,

let them play.

don't vote

good news

is coming, he says from

the podium.

you'll see,

a vote for me will solve

all our problems.

i'll turn

this ship around

and make everyone

happy

like it was in the olden

days, before

we hit the rocky shore

and ran

aground,

vote for me.

pull the lever, push

the button,

scribble in my name,

let's smile

again

and remove

the frown.

making the u-turn

do i turn

around and go back home

to see if

i left

the iron on,

the doors unlocked,

something

in the oven?

or do i just proceed

to the beach

and forget about it?

do i

stretch out

on the warm sand,

on my enormous towel

and listen to the ocean

roll in?

of course

i make the first you turn

i can.

circling with a knife

i'm at a friends

house

playing parcheesi

in about 1973 when i get

a call

from my little

brother,

panting frantically, telling

me,

to hurry home,

my sister is chasing him

with a butcher

knife around

the room.

i didn't ask why,

i just took my last turn

so i take my last turn,

then ran

the ten blocks

back to the house,

hopping fences along

the way,

a short cut through

the alley 

where i dodged barking

dogs

and bums

crawling out of dumpsters.

it was just another

day

while my mother lay

in a hospital having yet

another baby.

the bar in Grand Central

it's a bar,

a speak easy of sorts,

tucked deep

into a corner

of Grand Central Station.

dark and loud.

we're the only people

over the age

of thirty in this

gyrating, phone

addicted crowd.

it's twenty five

dollars

a pop for

a short tumbler of

vodka and tonic on ice,

for the slice of lime,

no charge.

it's an old

bank of sorts from

the gilded age.

the safe

on the wall is as large

as a barn door.

no word of sound,

or note of music

escapes

from these thickened walls.

we'd like

to stay and eat and drink,

but we only have

five hundred

dollars between us.

the illusion of sight

we see

more

without our eyes.

we sense

and feel our

way

about the room,

the braille

of walls and tables,

people

standing near,

passing by.

the eyes deceive

us into

thinking

we understand and

believe

all that lies before us,

selling us on what

we see,

which isn't true..

the Sunday New York Times

in another age,

another era, which feels

like a century

ago,

you'd sit out back

in the sunlight

of fall

and read

the paper.

no phone. just you

and a pot

of coffee,

perhaps a bagel

toasted with butter.

and blueberry

jam.

you'd start

from A 1

and work your way

through all the news,

saving 

the Book Review

for dessert, savoring

it all

until the end.

imaginary lovers

your love

has not dwindled

for

what the mind's eye held

as true.

your imagination

has

been saved

in the vault of your

soul,.

your dreams prove

that, but

your waking hours,

say no.

doing cartwheels

as a kid

i could do a cartwheel

with no

problem, i could

stand on

my head,

on my hands,

i could jump

the backyard fence,

or run

a marathon.

my fingers could

reach the rim,

and i could throw

a ball

with ease

from one end to

the other.

ah, those were

the days my love,

now take my hand,

let's travel the last road

together.

give it up

put down

the weight,

the immeasurable

pounds of

worry,

lay it on the floor.

no longer

carry

the burden

with you.

year after year.

just stop,

no more.

give it to a higher

power,

if you believe in

one,

if not,

pick it back up,

good luck,

and carry on.

a ring in the nose

i've never

understood the ring

in people's

noses.

it looks so painful.

before the last decade

or two,

you usually only

saw a ring

in the noses of animals,

mostly

cattle

to lead them around

by a rope.

strung through the 

circular piece of iron.

making

them submissive.

or to wean them off of milk.

but now

it's decorative.

it's rebellious,

it's an artistic expression.

lovely.

but i can't help wonder

about metal

detectors

and getting a cold.

and blowing their nose,

what about allergies?

hay fever.

is it difficult to kiss someone

who also has a ring

in their nose?

do they ever snag it on

their clothes?

like a mohair sweater?

more than she loves me

she loves her dog.

she calls it

my baby.

she gives it a hundred

strokes

of the brush each

morning,

and trims its nails.

there goes the yellow

ribbon

around her neck,

then the walk,

the treat,

a wipe down

of the paws, then

into the basket for

a ride along

the trails.

she takes a selfie

of them

together and posts

it daily.

i have the sneaking

suspicion

that she loves her dog

more than she loves

me.

sick of this story

i'll tell the rest of the story

sometime

later, i tell her, stopping

suddenly

in the middle,

not quite having reached

the good parts.

i've grown weary of the story

having told it

so many times,

and for what reason?

who cares,

not I.

maybe one day, i'll pick up

where i've left off,

or maybe not.

perhaps i'll have a new

story to tell by then.

the apple orchard

it's crisp out.

a hard

blue sky over a field

of changing

color.

the drop

of stiffened leaves,

by frost

becomes our carpet.

we say little to

one another,

but smile

as we hold hands

marching

towards apples

in the orchard.

blow on it first

we have

to be careful with

what

we put into our mouths.

the hot

spoon or fork,

the bitter

or sour

dollop of something

gone wrong.

the ice cream

that

spikes

your head.

our tongue knows

what's

good for it, or not.

take the kiss

for example.

mini Hannibal lecters

i like

kids, i have one of my own,

but when

they start

crying

and fighting,

and breaking things,

and won't shut

up,

i don't like them anymore

and i want

their parents

to lightly beat them

with a paddle,

or at least threaten

them

with some sort of punishment,

but that's not

allowed anymore.

you can't even yell at

them

these days.

it might hurt their feelings.

but they seem to be working anyway

i find out

that my doctor has been charging

me full

price

for medications,

but each pill is a placebo.

i had my chemistry

girlfriend

Marie Curie

put them under the microscope

for me.

she shook her head

and said,

nope.

ain't no medicine in 

these pills,

Jimbo.

she calls me Jimbo,

but it's

not my name.

too tired to go out

this soup,

a thin

broth with a bone,

a few

carrots,

with slender slices

of celery,

afloat

won't fill me up.

but it's all

i have for now.

no bread and butter,

no milk,

no meat on the table.

it's just

this soup to get me

through

the hour.

gravity is not our friend

you see

the battle against the law

of gravity,

but it's of no use.

no doctor can stop it

for long,

sure, they can pull

and tuck

the sagging skin,

raise the breasts,

and brows, smooth

out that

turkey skin

on your jowl, but

in the end gravity wins,

that's why

thankfully, they bury you

lying down

and not standing up.

gravity is not our friend.

the white flag of surrender

it's a very political

neighborhood

with graduates from the Ivy

League

Schools.

they all display a flag

over their porch

and fine trimmed lawns.

the rainbow flag,

their political persuasion

flag,

the flag representing who's

side they are on

in the latest war.

there's one for climate change,

and one

for no borders.

another one for a country

you've never heard of.

a flag stating who's life

means more.

i run my white pressed 

handkerchief up

the flag pole.

i surrender.

red paw prints

the enormous cat,

paying no mind to the wet

paint

signs

scurries down

the red steps

to do his business

in the far

corner of the laundry

room

where a bin

of sand awaits.

then he comes back up

with a la dee da

sort of air.

there are red

paw prints everywhere.

on the rug,

the table cloth,

the kitchen counter,

the big

white chair.

i fill the tub

with warm water,

but i can't catch him.

the urgent telegram

i've never

had a telegram, but think

what a nice

thing that would

be.

the piece of paper,

importantly typed,

with

a few short sentences

from over seas.

something you could

frame

and hang

in your den.

the dot dot dot thing.

urgent, it might read.

wish you

were here, but we got

sick

eating some bad

oysters.

urgent, send Pepto

Bismol

soon. please.

family sized

the food is not that good,

but there's

a lot of it.

it's what we do here in America.

the land

of plenty.

just look around,

and around

and around.

so easy to over eat

when everything is processed

for addiction,

fried and

full of seed oils

and sweet.

the terrorists are here

already,

they're called General

Mills,

and Coco Cola,

Aunt Jemima,

Pillsbury

and that witch

who's making

Little Debbie cakes.

eat eat eat,

no worries, we'll make more.

suck it up

i give my

neighbor a handful of self-help

books

and psychology

manuals

that i used to read

when i was

going through

the depths of hell.

she's crying when she takes

them from me.

can i stop by later

to tell you what

happened, she says.

i tell her no.

that's not a good idea.

i can't save you. these

books can't save you.

the therapists can't save you either.

forget the priests

and friends too.

all of it can help, but

in the end

you have to suck it up

and grieve.

then go through the long

journey alone,

to heal.

we need name tags

rarely are names

mentioned, instead the news

will say,

others are

saying this, some are speaking

out.

those, and they,

them.

protesters are marching.

it's all very vague.

some wearing masks,

apparently

ashamed.

crowds and mobs

all

in alignment as if one

brain controlled

them all.

you never hear them say,

Bob, Joe and Jane,

and their

friends Mary,

and 
Evelyn are on the street again.

disappearing letters

the keyboard

is losing letters, worn off by

my fingers,

applying

light, but firm pressure

searching

for coherency, or

some

sort of rhyme and reason.

there goes

the a, then the l,

the enter bar

is fading too,

not to mention

the delete button,

and backspace.

oh well.

the working life

it is the glazed

eyes

of travelers off to work

that i

observe

from my car window, in

no particular

hurry to get where i

need to go.

it's mostly youth

and those

caught in the middle,

filling up

the road.

i see a young woman,

dressed

for business

purposes beside me,

applying makeup

in her rear-view mirror

and can't help

but to think,

she has thirty more years

of this

to go.

small yellow taxi

like angry bees

smoked from their hives,

they swarm

and one at last pulls over

to our waving arms.

it's cramped,

it's dirty and smells of fish

or lamb,

and the tempered glass

that separates

us is smeared

with either ketchup or blood,

but it will

get us there in record

time as we fly down

Broadway in the bike lane.

we hang on to

the straps and each other,

as we pray, dear lord,

get us to our seven hundred

dollar room.

no gates at the zoo anymore

we used

to incarcerate the mentally

disturbed.

we weren't taking

away

their rights, just helping

them,

with three squares

and a cot,

and someone to talk to

other than

themselves.

but now,

they're everywhere.

arms deep into garbage

cans,

screaming at demons

on the street that aren't

there.

buying guns.

becoming congressmen

and women

speaking at the podium.

the world

has come undone.

calculations

in our heads,

we do calculations.

do i have enough gas to get

me there

and then back home

again.

is there enough

cream

for coffee in the morning,

or do i need

to run out tonight.

do i have enough

money

to last me, before they

turn of the lights

and haul

me away on a

gurney?

we should have a party

insisting that we

have a small

gathering of close

friends over

to the house for the holidays,

i tell her,

i can't have

a party, 

i don't have a cheese board

or one of those

little

cheese knives.

plus i don't know American

cheese

from Roquefort.

why do so many cheeses

smell so bad,

i ask her.

and wine.

i don't drink wine.

i have no candles or cloth

napkins either. and

i haven't figured out yet,

how to sync

my Bose speakers

to the Spotify on my phone.

can't we just go to the movies

instead?

in the devilish kind of mood

i know

how to push his buttons,

and kind

of enjoy doing so,

when i'm

in that kind of devilish

mood.

sick, i know.

but he's so easy to play

with.

a cat with a mouse,

tossing him

up into the air by disagreeing

with his

hyperbole

about movies and politics,

money

and women.

he asks me why i haven't

evolved yet?

i try to disarm

his grandiose

proclamations, his

worship

of sports teams,

and all things far left,

by shrugging

and changing the subject.

i can feel

the steam coming 

through the phone

when i do that.

fun.

the dwindling class of 73

Becky

emails me about the upcoming

high school

reunion. then follows up the unanswered

email with a phone call.

she's been doing

this every five years, bugging

the hell out of former

students to attend

another reunion.

fifty years ago we all

graduated

from that stupid school.

she asks me if i know

where

Marvin Marowitz might be.

i say, who's that?

she says, well, he was

our class president and most

likely to succeed.

check Sing Sing, i tell her.

you're still so sarcastic

she says,

you haven't changed since

i sat next to you in Mrs. Moaks,

French three class.

oui, i say.

so, she says.

are you coming or not?

it's a day picnic, bring your

pickle ball paddle.

so far we have

four commitments and

ninety-seven no

responses.

we were going to invite

some of our

old faculty, but they're all

dead now.

do you mind bringing the hot

dogs and buns, kosher only,

and the mustard.

one pack should be

enough.

i'm bringing the deviled eggs,

and by the way, there's

handicap parking

and ramp access 

to the park grounds.

what about Holly 
Portobello?  do you know

where she is.

as a matter of fact i do.

yeah, i saw her online

the other day.

she was doing a class on face

yoga,

and selling wrinkle creams.

she has a web site,

so look her up.

i have to go now, my socks

need ironing.

finding the last stop

it seems at times

like

you've had nine or so different

lives.

not unlike

the proverbial

cat.

living in different houses,

apartments,

being in love,

being out.

moving and shuffling

your feet

in the sand.

finding

different ways to make

a living,

carrying your

possessions with you as

once again land

at the next stop,

wondering

where and when it will be

the last one,

pulling the line on the train

to get off.

her stash in the rafters

as i twist

the knob to the outside water,

hoping

that the pipes

won't freeze,

i remember

how she used to hide

her cigarettes

and lighter

up there 

in the dusty rafters of

the laundry room

where the pipes

run to the back

of the house.

there's a pint of southern

comfort too.

i've left everything there.

her doctor told her not

to smoke,

not to drink because

of her heart, but she didn't care.

it was so long ago,

since she died.

nearly twenty years.

but the water

is off again

as Christmas nears.

the foot long sub

not everything

is good,

i confess to the priest

as he waits

for my next sin.

i want to expand on

how my

life is going, but

i hear him on the other

side of the mesh

window,

gulping,

as he takes a drink

of soda,

then continues to eat

his lunch.

a sandwich i saw

him bring in from Quiznos.

go on  my son, he says.

then the crunch

of potato chips.

i can smell the onions.

go on, he says again.

what other sins have you

to confess?

i feel resentful, i tell him.

i feel anger towards

those who pretend

they really care, but don't.

he unwraps the pickle,

takes a bite,

then tells me, i understand

my son.

go on.

do you have a napkin

over there,

by any chance, he says.

just got some mayo

on my frock.

walking the last five miles

there are some

people

you won't get into the car with

if they're driving.

they seem

drunk or distracted

despite

being sober, they seem

confused by

lights,

by other cars beside

them,

and behind,

startled by horns,

their white knuckles

tell you

everything there is to know

about their state

of mind.

drop me off here, you

tell them,

i can walk that last five miles.

three feet of love

welcome back you say

to the winter wind

that curls

around you, 

trying

it's best to get in.

what have you brought

us this time.

i see you've shaken

the leaves

clean,

i see the frost on the windows.

i feel your

sting.

what will it be

this year?

three feet of snow

in January,

the lake frozen,

how much wood 

and love will we need?