my anxiety was triggered

Baskin and Robbins

triggered

my anxiety.

taking the ticket for

the line,

so many barrels to choose

from.

so little time.

i'd begin to sweat,

my heart would pound,

i can't keep getting

the same flavors

over and over again,

on a sugar cone.

mint chocolate chip

or rocky road, could

I finally break out of my

usual? maybe get a cup,

or a waffle cone,

was it time to take a chance

on Butter Brickle?

when the mask fell off

it was

interesting how she prayed

over her meals,

went to church

three times

a week, listened

to the Catholic channel

on the radio

and had three sets of rosary

beads hanging

from her rear

view mirror.

not to mention the altar

she built in the house,

and the giant

cross she wore around her

neck the size of a spatula.

no one guessed or had

a clue

who she really was

behind closed doors, 

when no one was looking,

not even me,

until the mask fell off.

the horror, the horror

there is a gasping

moment

now in every movie or tv show

when someone

throws

a phone out the car window,

or into the ocean,

or smashes it

with a boot

or hammer.

evil having no boundaries.

the entire audience in

the theater,

murmurs oh no. oh my

God. gasping,

oh my God, oh no,

what next?

was everything backed up?

the decorative cutlery

unable to find

a clean

fork or knife or spoon,

i grab

the giant wooden fork

that's hanging

on the wall.

the second wife put it

there

as some sort of decoration.

i believed she watched

too many

episodes of little house

on the prairie.

it's not easy

eating a salad

with a giant wooded fork,

but it'll have

to do.

stolen identity

when i get

home from work there's a Jamaican

man

sitting at the dinner

table,

eating with my wife

and children.

my dog is at his feet.

what's this all about, i ask,

setting my briefcase

down, my hands

on my hips.

he's you now, my wife says.

he showed me

his I.D.

and he knows everything there

is to know about us

and you.

he's stolen your identity.

hey, man, he says to me, pull

up a chair brother.

this chicken is delicious.

didn't i talk to you

this afternoon,

i ask him.

you wanted my Medicare

information

to send me a new card?

yeah, man.

that was me.

come on, come on. sit down,

please.

you know you shouldn't give

out your information

so easily.

let's do something fun this weekend

i used to

go to the opera with her,

or to go see the River Dancer show,

or to the shoe

sales

at the mall.

we'd go see the cherry

blossoms

in April,

we'd  pick blue berries

on a farm

a hundred

miles from here.

we'd visit her cousin

who makes

straw

baskets in West Virginia, or

attend the Apple Butter Festival

in Winchester.

finally we broke

up.

and now when i see her

with her new

boyfriend driving by

off on some new

adventure, i wave at them 

and smile

while the new boyfriend

shakes his head

in despair

and closes his eyes.

i love that jacket you're wearing

it used to be

that

you could talk to people

in line

at the store,

complete strangers,

or say

hello when passing

by.

you could tip your hat,

smile and nod.

perhaps

offer a comment

about the weather

or complement them

on the jacket they

may be wearing.

it used to be that

no one

thought you were a

psychopath

back then

for doing that.

the fallen tree

at last

the enormous tree fell

beyond the fence

in the night

after

the heavy rain

and ice.

it gave up

and dropped towards the stream

down the slope.

the weight of it

unbearable

at last.

the gravity of all things

and age

taking it down.

not yet, not yet,

but us too,

one day.

movie stars

it's hard

being a celebrity, rich

and famous,

a movie

or pop star,

but dumb

as a rock.

saying things about

issues

they have

no clue what they're

talking about.

but the worship

of their fans,

the adoration,

gives them courage

to do so.

and out from their

mouths

comes a tumbling

a lot of

uneducated B S

about the worlds 

problems.

my fault, again

a strange puddle

of water

appears

on the floor in the basement.

i look around

the pipes,

the washer

the sink.

i can find no leaks

no trail

of water.

i have no dog either.

i have no one to blame

it on but

myself for

whatever caused

the spill.

i need more people in

my life

to blame

things on.

the perfectonist

the unhappiest

person

in the world is the

perfectionist.

wishing and hoping

for what

can never be,

but still trying their

hardest

to make it so,

making everyone

around them

miserable.

taking it to the next level

my significant other

suggests that

maybe we need to jazz up our

sex life a little.

i lower

the newspaper

to see if she's joking.

she's not.

are you bored, i ask her,

no, not bored exactly,

we're just sort of stuck in a 

routine.

you  know, Wednesday after Law

and Order

is over.

or Saturday

after Saturday night live,

if we aren't too tired.

we need

to take it to another level.

jazz it up.

i mean our level is

good, don't get me wrong

but we

can spice it up a little.

my friend Amber,

at the gym,

told me about a store

downtown

in an alley behind

the liquor store where they

sell sex stuff.

like what?

i put the newspaper

down. the dog hops up into

my lap

and we both listen intently.

oh you know, the usual kind

of stuff.

yes?

leather outfits, vinyl boots,

the usual

gizmos and things.

feathers and toys,

whips and chains.

risqué lingerie,

cages.

riding crops. party masks.

wigs and toy guns.

cages? guns?

yeah, but easy to unlock

cages,

same with the handcuffs,

and the guns are fake.

everything is biodegradable

and no animals

were hurt in the making

of these products.

although a lot of the gizmos

require double AA batteries

or an electrical outlet

nearby. and, and,

the beauty of this is that

they leave absolutely no

carbon footprint.

Greta Thunberg would shop there.

my friend says that her and her

husband 

go there all the time,

usually after happy hour,

and they have a safe word

if things start to get out

of hand.

what's their safe word?

she says it's Ouch or Stop.

makes sense,

i tell her.

how about we start off a little

slow.

maybe one of those

feather duster things.

see how that goes.

i saw something like that at

home depot the other

day

when i was buying paint.

i'll pick one up

next time i'm in there.

i need to buy some weed killer

for the yard.

the weeds are out of control

this year.

bathtub beer

my father

enjoyed beer so much that

one day

he decided to make

his own

beer in

the bathtub.

the only tub in the house.

this didn't go well with

my mother

who had five

kids to take care of,

to feed and scrub.

for years

we all smelled like

malt liquor.

as we stumbled

around, thoroughly

buzzed.

across the Mersey

after

she moved to 
England,

in a flat near Liverpool,

i never

heard from her

again.

no postcard,

no nothing.

she left me in the dust.

changed her

name to Maggie,

and started eating

butter pies

for breakfast,

hanging out

in soccer pubs.

she let her hair go

curly and a rusty

shade of red,

let her skin go

pale

from lack of sun.

for awhile we were in

love,

i truly thought that

she was the one.

Blimey.

stay away from these people

if there's a volcano

erupting

these people have to go

there

and stand on the edge

to view 

the molten lava,

they have to fly into

the eye of a hurricane,

or be on the ground

as a twister

destroys everything

in its path.

they like to jump out

of perfectly

good planes.

they have to dive deep

into the ocean

to view the Titanic,

they have to climb

Mt. Everest

with a rope and a pickaxe.

they have to plant

a flag on the moon, or

Mars, or go

to the Macy's Day Parade.

my advice is, stay away

from these people.

far far away.

for the person who has everything

what gift do you

give

to the person

who has everything, and

has the money

to buy

more?

what possible thing

is on a shelf,

on a truck,

online

or in a store, than can

show you

how much you care

for this person

and adore?

another book,

another bauble, 

another gift card

Applebee's or

to Red Lobster

or the Container

Store?

three bites of tiramisu

she doesn't order

dessert,

because she knows i will.

she'll

be coy about it,

oh no, she'll say, not

for me,

i'm stuffed, i'm full,

but of course when

the plate

of tiramisu comes

out,

it's her coffee spoon

reaching

from across

the table for one more

bite, maybe two,

okay,

three. blaming it all

on me,

when tomorrow

her dress is tight.

glory days

i understand

the childlike enthusiasm

for games, men

being boys for as long

as they can.

bats and balls, gloves

and uniforms.

glory days, extended

into the dying

light.

bouncing the ball,

running

on busted knees,

spent tendons.

one more game, just

more shot,

one more chance

at winning, or even

losing,

is all we want.

the defrosting

at last,

a week in, maybe

nine days

or so, 

after a familiar

verbal brawl

about leaving the butter

out,

she began

to defrost a little,

became

a little less

cold.

she actually

looked at me

without a scowl,

when she came home

from work,

and murmured

a soft hello.

rainy day people

it's the good weather

friend

at the door,

the one flush with money,

filled to

the brim with love

and joy,

that makes you pretend

that you aren't home,

makes you lay still

and quiet

away from the window,

on the floor.

give me the rainy day

souls

anytime,

they understand you 

more.

the winter cricket

the large green 

cricket

hopping across the carpet

from shadow

into light

in great leaps

is a wonder.

finding his way in.

through what door?

what window,

what secret passage?

is he alone,

does he have a family,

friends?

i watch him

disappear

down the hallway,

pushing himself high

into the air.

jumping, jumping.

going somewhere.

he's lost.

i wish him all the luck

in the world.

who hasn't been there?

crackers and peanut butter

funny what you'll

settle

for when

truly hungry, or truly

in need

of love and affection.

crackers

and peanut butter,

the crazy girl,

next door

teaching piano

lessons.

567 9031

for no reason,

the phone number of the phone

that hung

on our kitchen

wall

fifty years ago,

enters my mind.

all seven

digits,

it was before we

needed ten

to connect with

someone on

the other end.

and now

a hundred numbers

fill my pocket phone,

all of them unknown.

i barely remember

mine.

once upon a time

nearly

every memory can begin

with the words

once upon a time.

one year, one month,

one week

can suffice.

even an hour contains

some stretch 

of time,

some sort of happening

that's left

behind.

the sign in the clouds

a good

hot soup should do the trick.

a broth

of sorts,

steaming

hot

to a boil, should

help me turn the corner

on this nagging

cough,

and cold

that has me under

the covers.

i shine the bat sign

out into the clouds,

in the shape

of a bowl,

with a spoon.

chicken noodles,

or a nice thick clam

chowder.

come soon.

coming for you

the neighborhood

watch

is out there.

i can see the mob

of angry

men and women,

children too

with

their torches.

carrying signs.

they're in the street,

searching,

peering into

windows,

questioning your

diverse opinion,

looking for the likes

of you.

a cold glass of water

is there

anything better than a cold

glass of

water

on a sweltering

summer day.

your kiss comes close,

really close.

give me another,

let's see

if you can persuade

me.

vacancy

the light is on,

vacancy.

it's a rental,

a room,

a place to lay your

head

before

you're back into the car

and down

the road again.

it's a stop

along the way,

out of the rain.

temporary,

as you are.

dirty talk

i told her that

it turned me on when she

talked dirty,

it melted my butter

when she whispered

dirty things into my ear

to get me aroused and

excited. i dimmed

the lights

and climbed in bed

next to her.

okay, i told her.

i'm ready.

okay, she said,

well,

tomorrow i'm going

to clean the bathrooms

she said,

all of them,

and then

vacuum

the entire house, 

the cobwebs will be gone.

i'm going to spray

windex on the windows.

i'm going to

change the sheets on

the bed, do all the laundry.

all of it, then

fold it and carry it upstairs

in a basket,

and then, and then,

yes, yes,

go on, i told her.

don't stop.

i'm going to wash and wax

the kitchen floor

on my hands and knees,

so that it's clean enough

to eat off of.

oh my God,

whew, i said. exhaling, 

exhausted and out of breath,

a smile on  my face.

i lit a cigarette.

and leaned back to look

at her.

you're amazing, 

you know that?

what you do know

with more

and more years, you realize

the shallowness

of your

knowledge.

how little you know

about life

about the world you live

in.

which is alright.

you make due with what

you do know,

the lessons

learned

by surviving.

what's meant to be

it's normal the curiosity

we have

for one another, when becoming

friends,

or beyond that,

lovers.

we ask, how did you get here

from there?

do you tell

them about the woman,

at forty three,

the girlfriend

who died

in her sleep

upstairs, how you bought

her house

and that now 

you have lived in it

for nearly twenty years?

or do you leave that part out?

and instead offer them

a view of the woods

out the window,

the trees, the blue sleeve

of stream that puts you

to sleep at night. 

do you tell them 

that it was meant to be

somehow?

the prodigal father

in his later years

when

he reappeared

in our lives,

his spoon got

heavy, his feast on

the table

was always too much.

too much

food, too much drink.

too long

of hugs,

there was a sudden

abundance of

generosity.

it was obvious

what he was up to,

trying so hard to rewrite

his life for us.

everything changes

change

is hard and yet that's all

the world

does,

but change

its shape,

from cloud to sea,

to shore.

even us, aging,

set in our

ways,

moving on towards

the next day,

the next day, each

different,

different, and even

then

nothing remains

the same

as we're laid into

our grave.

boycotting a coffee shop

it's interesting

when people boycott businesses

for one reason

or another,

politically, or environmentally

motivated.

that's it, they say,

marching outside

the door.

i'm no longer going to buy

a Venti seven dollar

mocha skim latte

with three pumps 

of chocolate and whipped

cream and an extra shot

anymore, no more stale

five-dollar squares of crumb

cake either.

until they end all wars,

take care of the homeless,

lower inflation,

find me a job,

clean up the ocean

and eliminate their carbon

footprint from the earth.

how dare they rob my future.

that's it.

i've drawn my line in the sand.

with this company,

this will teach them

a lesson.

i will no longer be a customer

of this establishment.

and i might lose weight too.

the blank card is best

i go for the plain

holiday cards now, the blank

ones.

the ones

that aren't full of mushy

platitudes about

the person

you're sending it to.

no one can stand up to such

a high bar.

the best dad ever?

always there for me?

really?

a most grateful and loving

son and daughter,

grateful, ha.

a mom who's always on

my side, through

thick and thin? right.

it's not all good, we're human,

we're flawed.

we're not caricatures in a 

Hallmark movie

on the lifetime channel.

the blank card is best,

the kind with a single

snowflake on front,

with a few

words. something like

love you. happy holidays.

i wish you all the best.

life on other planets

more and more

people

are staring out their windows

with telescopes

looking for

life on other planets.

me too.

sometimes i focus my lens

on Mars,

and stare at it for hours.

although occasionally

i get distracted

and see this very

attractive woman

in the high-rise building

a few blocks away,

on the tenth floor,

a corner apartment

she's doing yoga

in her living room,

standing on her head

in a skin tight leopard

outfit.

amazing flexibility.

if he wins, i'm leaving

before every presidential

election

you hear people say with a straight

face,

if that guy wins,

that's it,

i'm leaving, i'm moving out

of the country.

of course.

they don't.

they get used to the same old,

same old.

they go to work.

they eat and sleep, raise

their kids,

walk their dogs.

sure they complain, and

kick and scream,

but they don't leave.

they don't know where to go.

France, Germany,

Costa Rica, maybe?

they eventually suck it up though

and move on,

having never packed a bag.

it's all in the game.

the non-blinking eye

the world

knows everything there is

to know

about you.

your age,

your weight, your height,

the color of your skin.

they know

where you live, what you eat,

what you watch,

or don't watch on tv.

they know your needs

and desires.

they know where you shop,

where you go

on vacation.

they know the soap you

buy, the milk you drink,

where and how far

you drive.

they know

who you voted for,

they know which side

of the bed you got up on,

they keep track of your

children,

your parents, your husbands

and wives.

they know everything

about you from

top to bottom.

the world is a non-blinking

eye.

make small talk only

you hear people say,

whatever you do, don't talk about

politics

or religion, at a party,

don't bring up racism,

or wars,

or anything

important.

keep it to small talk,

keep

it peaceful and calm.

don't disagree, just smile and

be quiet.

keep your opinions to yourself.

go along

and ignore.

tip toe on that carpet

of eggshells.

sounds a lot like my

last marriage.

we were both on the same page

she didn't marry

me

for my money, or my looks,

or my

position

in the world,

and we had no shared

interests,

so what was it

that attracted her

to me?

was it

just the sex?

the intimacy?

were we both on the same

page after all?

the job interview

the pencils

on his desk were all lying

down flat,

two inches apart.

each pointing north

he was wearing a bowtie.

and a red

sweater without sleeves.

the paper clips were

in a small jar,

the stacks of paper

were neatly

aligned, perfectly

collated and

alphabetized.

there was a ball of rubber

bands that he

took out of his drawer

and bounced

on the floor.

so where do you want

to be in five years, 

young man, he asked me,

anywhere but here,

i told him

and knocked his hourglass

to the floor.

the paranormal

unbeknownst

to me

the house i once lived

in was

on ancient burial ground.

who knew.

but my dog seemed

to know.

barking his little head

off at something

in the corner of the room,

near the ceiling.

i stood on a chair

and reached my hand

up, and felt around, see,

see, i told him, nothing here

to be afraid of,

and then i felt my arm

slip into a very cold

sleeve of air. ice cold

from my hand to my

shoulder. the dog

yelped and ran

out of the room. i quickly

followed.

choosing the right stock in America

years ago

i made the right decision in

investing

in

girdles and stretch pants,

tent like

clothes

to hide

the fat.

i invested in liposuction

and

diabetic pills,

Hawaiin sugar cane fields.

the fried food

was everywhere,

the candy

and cookies,

the Oreos, double filled.

as soon as i saw another

duck donut

shop

in the neighborhood,

another Baskin
and Robins,

and a cupcake shack,

i took a chance.

now i'm rolling in the

dough,

not cookie dough,

but cold

hard cash.

a flying plate of spagehetti

my mother,

being the Italian woman that she

was,

would throw

dishes at my father

when he came home late,

scratched and smelling of

perfume,

lipstick on his collar.

she'd take a plate of spaghetti

and meatballs

and throw it at him

as he sat down

for dinner, playing innocent,

smirking and full

of charm.

she'd usually miss

though, and the plate

would crash against

the far wall.

she had a hell of an arm.

the dog would

come running in, happy

at what he found.

by the end of the night, after

we were all

in bed, except me on the steps

in the hallway,

near the door,

i could hear them making

love again in the squeaky bed

with the clanging

headboard,

all was well once more.

that gut feeling

if you

feel it in your gut,

a hunch,

a premonition,

a tingling

of sorts,

listen to it.

it's never ever wrong.

your gut has more

neurons

in it than your

actual brain does.

it keeps you

alive,

your gut knows

everything,

it tells you

what or who to fear,

when to run,

it leads you,

protects you.

listen to it and

survive.

how long does a goldfish live?

to get a dog,

or not get a dog, that's the question.

a small dog?

lap size, a dog i can

carry to the vet

when he eats

a dead bird.

medium size?

a non-barker,

with a good digestive

system.

fun, but not too fun,

i need some

rest.

house trained, or a brand

new dog

right out of the oven?

pedigree or mutt?

a left over at the pet

store

or at the dog pound

locked up for bad behavior?

can i reform

the dog?

rehabilitate him?

is he on meds, shock

therapy?

hmmm.

what about a gold fish?

how long do they live?

i can't remember

i can't remember

the last

hangover i had,

the last

time

i threw up, or had

a raging headache

after a night

of drinking.

i can't remember when

was the last

time

i woke up not knowing

where i was,

asleep

somewhere,

waking up next to a stranger,

dry mouth

and woozy,

wondering

where my car

keys were,

waking up the person

still asleep and asking her,

how do i get to the beltway

from here?

the lost and found drawer

the lost

and found drawer

in the other room is full

of things

left behind.

a watch,

a bracelet, a brush,

a comb.

eyeglasses. who leaves

without their

specs

or one high heel

shoe.

a silk stocking, whose?

a book

on desserts,

a book on tantric,

a book on booze.

a small brown bottle 

of pills,

a broken picture frame,

the picture missing,

a tube of glue.

three eggs in a pan

i crack three

brown eggs into the black

pan

of melted butter

and stir.

turning the heat down.

i've done this before.

so many times

i've stood here in this

kitchen,

at this stove,

with this pan,

cracking eggs. usually

just three,

rarely more.

outside the window

the seasons

have changed.

years have rolled by.

children have grown.

i reach up for the salt

and pepper shakers

in the cupboard.

hmmm, they must be busy

when people

don't call back, or text back,

for weeks,

or write

you a note,

or email you.

when there's no smoke

signal,

no knock at the door,

no drive by,

no nothing but silence.

you shrug your shoulders,

and think oh well.

they must be busy.

it is that time of year.

getting ready for the physical

before

my yearly physical,

i try to lose weight,

i ponder joining

a gym,

i meditate

for three minutes a day.

i throw out all the candy

cake

and cookies

and stop

drinking gin.

i buy some carrots,

some

fruit,

some nuts and seeds.

i'm basically a bird

at the bird

feeder for the whole week.

i do

some push ups

on the floor,

some sit ups.

i stretch, then walk

around the block, quickly

with my arms

and hands

in motion

like a duck.

the doctor is going to be

amazed

at the specimen

i am.

how much for this tree here?

because

the trees are in the church

parking lot

at St. Bernadettes's i expect

a kinder

more reasonable price

on the six foot blue

fir.

but no,

the burly men

sipping amber

liquids from

silver flasks, will

have none of that.

they are as firm and

tight on price

as the rug

dealers in Ephesus,

not budging an inch

on this cold winter night.

A Rosebud moment

do we all

have a Rosebud moment,

ala Citizen Kane,

as we take

our final breath

in a dream like state,

muttering

about some childhood

sled

before death?

perhaps, but

my last words, i truly

believe,

will having nothing

to do with a sled,

but maybe

something about

the Radio City Music

Hall,

Rockettes, and

how they kicked those legs.

you can't handle the truth

something

is wrong with you, isn't there?

my friend Judy

asked me

as i dribbled coffee

onto my shirt.

yeah, i think so, i told her.

i can't sleep at night.

it's the news.

the weather, my ex's,

my five children.

you have five children?

no, not really, i'm making

that part up.

like i said, she said,

there's something seriously

wrong with you.

you make a lot of stuff up,

don't you?

they don't even know we're lying

i told a woman

once,

that i met online

that i used to be an astronaut.

that i had

gone to the moon.

she believed me.

why not?

i posted pictures of me

standing

next to the lunar

landing

module and the American

flag,

in proud salute,

as the blue marble

of earth floated

in the background.

she invited me to one

of her fancy

parties up on Foxhall

road.

she said

i'd be an interesting guest

to include

with her assortment

of politicians

and generals,

movie stars and the rest.

i didn't go though,

because i had already booked

a party with

former workers

for Ringling Brothers,

having told them i used to

get shot out of a cannonball

back in the day,

in the big tent.

life is funny like that

i googled my

father

once and found out that he

had recently

won the Virginia state lottery.

a few hundred

thousand dollars.

they had him on a stage

holding a giant

oversized check for 

the photo shoot.

he looked bewildered,

worried perhaps that his

nine children

would find out.

but below his name

and the lottery photo was

my older brother's name,

with a junior at the end.

and an article about how

he was trying to pass

a law to keep gambling

out of 
Tennessee.

life is funny like that.

the winning tickets

when i was  kid,

i used to go

to the racetrack with my friend

Ritchie,

the harness

races in Baltimore.

i remember his father

in his dark

sunglasses,

his white shirt

and black suit.

he used to buy us candy.

he won a lot it seemed.

it's almost

as if he knew

ahead of time which

horse would win.

standing there with his

hands on hips

smoking a fat cigar.

i read about him years

later in the newspaper,

his hands

behind his back,

being led out of a nightclub

by the police.

his sunglasses

still on.

i have no idea what

happened to his kid.

go fly a kite

when someone is mad

at you

and they tell you

with a wave of their hand

to go fly a kite,

listen to them.

Ben Franklin's wife

said that to Ben

when he annoyed her

with his stamp

and coin collection

from France,

and viola, it wasn't

long before we had

electricity and lights.

the animal house

she lived

across the street from the zoo.

i called her

zoo girl.

at night

i could hear

the monkeys

chattering, 

i could hear the elephants

doing

what elephants do.

i could hear the lions

roar,

the seals clap their

paws together.

i could even hear 

the rhinoceros's snore.

but that's not what kept

me up night.

it was her radiator,

seventy-five years old

spitting and groaning

upon her floor.

got milk

once upon

a time

there was a cow.

and that

cow

gave milk

if you got under it

and squeezed it's

teats

with a bucket

below it's belly.

you got milk.

fresh from the source,

milk.

there wasn't soy milk,

or almond milk,

or a dozen

other man made,

plant base

concoctions calling

themselves milk.

there was no

skim milk,

or lactose free

milk.

it was just milk.

white

milk, pure and wholesome

and if you whipped

it, hard enough,

you had cream,

then cheese.

and that was it.

that was the whole story

of milk.

bricks through the window

the woman

down the street, the mayor

of our

cul de sac,

the brown shirt

who goes by the name

of Becky,

tells me to take the blue

and white

Christmas

lights out of my window.

i know what you're

doing, she says,

you're making a political

statement,

you're taking a side

aren't you?

well,  we'll have none of

that here on this block,

on my watch.

now unplug those lights

and get some real Christmas

lights,

or you're going to get

fined by the board everyday

until they're out,

and or a brick

through your window.

do hear me, little mister?

and if elected

as president

my first act as commander

in chief

would be to outlaw

leaf blowers,

followed by

loud motorcycles,

and then

i'd start working on

crime,

the borders,

on poverty and hunger,

terrorism,

cartels and fentanyl

inflation, homelessness

and teachers

that actually teach,

outlawing wokeism,

not to mention refunding

the police

and allowing free speech.

that's day one.

the second day i'll probably

take a long nap.

the clean car road trip

there is something about

a clean car,

washed and waxed

that makes

one feel as if it runs better.

the engine seems

to purr after so much

love and tlc.

the inside

smells like wintergreen,

the black wall

tires gleam from

the silicone spray.

the windows are clear

from vinegar and newspaper.

grandad's recipe.

maybe we should gas it up

and take a drive 

to the eastern shore,

eat some seafood, get

a room and make love

to the sound of the ocean

through the open window,

the open doors.

we're so so sorry

the illogic

of evil is showing,

that after

raping,

and killing, beheading

babies

stuffing them alive

into ovens

and

slaughtering hundreds

in their

sleep,

at the breakfast

table, and at a music

festival in peace,

that now,

a few,

handful of kidnapped

innocents

are released.

see how kind we are,

how generous

and loving

we are towards humanity?

here, please take back

this little

baby,

and this nine year

old girl.

please don't be

mad at us

anymore, please.

don't hurt us as we hide

beneath

our hospitals,

our homes, our sheets.

buying a second home

he's busy,

this red headed woodpecker

in the tree.

fat with feathers.

people are stopping

to take pictures

of him,

as he hammers loudly

his beak into

the trunk.

digging a hole, for what?

winter?

eggs?

or perhaps a second

home with a view

of the lake.

fall in love that way

it's best to meet

people

in a train station, sitting

next to each

other

with your bags

on the floor between

your legs.

sharing so much as

strangers

often do

the icing on your cake,

not the troubles

that burden you.

when travelling

fall in love that way,

then part

still as friends, with

the hope

that forever love

still can begin.

get over yourself

no, it's

the wind, the cold.

the bitter

air, that's

the reason

my eyes are wet and

running

with tears, no, it's

not because 

of you.

so get over yourself.

it's January.

going carnivore

i always

went with the third doctor,

the outlier

when it came to what

they were

recommending

to keep us healthy.

two out of three doctors

preferred menthol

cigarettes, but not me,

i went with the Camels

non-filtered.

three packs

a day.

two out of three doctors

preferred red wine

over white, while i went

with gin and tonics,

and the occasional

shot of tequila

at the bottom of a

miller lite.

two out of three doctors

said to eat

plants and vegetables, 

salads, but

not me,

i went with steaks,

mostly sirloins and ribeyes.

finally i got 

something right.

the glue of us

what is the glue

that keeps

us together, is it love,

sex, kissing skills,

money, power?

location?

is it mutual interests.

bird watching,

or growing

flowers?

reading the same books,

listening to

the same music,

going to bed

at the same hour?

is it looks, the way

she smiles,

the way

she's honest

and forthright, 

how she melts your

butter, or is it,

how you never catch

her in a lie,

or is it her

cooking skills, her

fried chicken and mashed

potatoes, her

apple pie?

please God, no bubbles

before

any job i do, hanging 

wallpaper,

i get on my knees

and pray

at the side of my bed

that all will go well.

i pray fervently

that the client is not a picky

knucklehead.

an anal retentive

perfectionist.

i plead to God,

that it's quality wallpaper,

that it lies

down nicely,

flat without wrinkles

or bubbles,

or misprints.

i pray that the seams

all butt

together

with no splitting.

i pray that the paper is

wipeable with no stains,

easy to cut,

easy to hang.

i pray that i don't fall

of the ladder

or cut my hand.

i can almost hear God

laughing,

and shaking His head,

saying to the angels,

oh my, not this prayer

again.

the guilt phone call

i'm waiting on the holiday

guilt phone call

from

family.

it's a yearly thing.

the why don't you

visit more,

why don't you call,

why don't

you stop by for dinner

this Sunday,

or fly

to California?

why don't you send

me some

more money

or buy me 

a new car.

that sort of thing.

but

it beats getting the hallmark

card.

a box of stockings

i go through my box

of Christmas stockings. 

all of them red

and soft with

glitter stuck to the cloth.

but each with a big cursive

letter sewn onto

the front.

a few J's, a few C's

and S's.

lots of A's and B's.

half the alphabet is

represented.

there's even an X

and the rare Y,

i think that was Yvonne

i finally find one that 

hasn't been used before.

a big M

i find the hammer and

tack it to the mantle.

next years resolution

i'm turning over

a new leaf

my friend Jimmy tells me

over drinks

at the local pub.

i'm cleaning up my act.

no more drinking

and chasing skirts.

i'm going to lose

weight.

i'm going to start going

to church again.

i'm going to read all the books

i need to read

and find out where my

children live

and not call any of their

mothers names.

i'm going to see the world

as a cup half full.

are you with me?

i raise my glass and clink

it against his.

sure. i tell him, but

didn't you say

all of this last year too?

Merry, whoops, i mean happy holidays

i'm not sure

you can say Merry Christmas

anymore

when you're out and about

on the street.

the birth

of Christ

has been diminished.

kids no

longer have

that party where

they exchange gifts.

no tree in the school,

no ornaments.

we're all walking

on eggshells these days.

even Mrs. Claus

and the elves

are nervous with what

gives.

three times around

as the dog

circles

three times before

he lies down

to sleep,

i too have my

routine before

bedtime.

it involves just

falling

into the feathered

bed,

face down,

to weep.

the lost Christmas card

lost in the mail

for years,

the Christmas card finally arrives

from my

mother,

who's been gone

for six years now.

it's from the box of five

hundred cards

that she bought years

ago

at j.c. penny's.

a snow scene, with Santa

Claus in his

sleigh

crossing a deep blue

sky

with silvery twinkling

stars around him.

i have ten of them.

each signed

love Mom,

all with the five dollar

bill

still inside.

scraping ice in the morning

each chip

of ice

on the windshield, is

slow

going.

it's taking time for

the heat

to build inside.

the bloom of my breath

against the glass

helps, but i'll

be here for a while,

bent across

the hood of the car

in the darkness

of morning.

and now, the other side.

another day another march

as the children

march

on the streets, clueless

with their

flags

and signs,

their chants.

they are birds without wings.

wasting

their precious time

when

they could be learning,

reading,

becoming

better people,

more forgiving,

more kind.

for one moment

if they could put down

their anger

and look at both sides.

as we drive by

we could see it

from

the road as we drove

by, it was

a white church.

clap boards, old timber

held

it together.

the arched roof,

the tattered cross

needing paint, but too high

up to venture

painting.

empty now, a shell

on the shore

of this

dying town.

the doors opened

to see

the turned over

pews,

the altar gone,

hymnals strewn about

the floor,

but lives must have

filled it

at one time.

people of faith,

or no faith

kneeled there,

they prayed, got married,

babies were

baptized

it was a final

stop

along the way,

before the nearby grave.

beyond the clouds

small

gems they are.

these

stars, this glimmer

far off

beyond everything

we know,

sparkling. earths

emeralds and diamonds.

rubies.

they have

nothing on what lies

beyond

the clouds.

the jewelry

box

of God.

the human chessboard

it seems

that evil has our hands

tied

behind our back,

we're blindfolded

and 

starved,

hidden in some tunnel

waiting to be

released,

to go home, to go back.

even the devil

can quote the Bible

when he

needs to, when

he wants

the world to believe

that what he

does isn't so bad.

played like a pawn

on a chessboard.

what's black is white,

what's white

is black.

the yearly visit

it's a yearly

thing.

the car

colonoscopy.

the sticker about to expire

on the windshield

of your automobile,

taking it to the garage

where a man

barks

at you if you've pulled

up too far

in the inspection line.

telling you

to leave your keys

and registration.

there's a wrench

in his hand,

grease on his face.

he appears to be suffering

from dental issues.

at last he waves you

forward

into the darkened hole

of the stump like

building.

you hate this visit,

almost as much as he

hates his job.

maybe tomorrow

the mistake

we make so often is

that we

stay too long

at the proverbial fair.

whether in love gone

sour,

or a job we hate.

the room we rent.

we delay

tomorrow, but hoping

and wishing

that things

will get better.

we don't want to quit,

surrender.

we press on, gritting

our teeth,

we dig in.

but in the end we're

just digging our

own grave.

surrender

as the leaves

carpet the yard in an

autumn

quilt of color,

i imagine

that the neighbors

think i've lost it.

gone mad.

i hear them

out there with their

blowers,

their rakes,

and bags, collecting

what's fallen

in their yards, but

not me.

i'm done with that.

i've surrendered.

let nature

take its course.

smaller portions

a smaller

portion does the trick now.

having lost

the sense

of taste

and smell because

of a cold,

and the chronic travails

of a stuffy

nose,

my appetite has waned.

i settle for this,

this small dish,

hot or cold.

as you get things done

despite the winter

slash

holiday blues, things still have

to get done.

the plants

need watering.

the dog

has to go on his walk.

there are bills

on the table.

dishes and clothes

that need to be washed.

there is little time,

to sit

and ponder 

the weight of life, 

the trouble underfoot,

so you carry it with you

as you get

things done.

the fading lights

he did

a little acting

in his day.

dinner theater mostly,

community

playhouses.

Hamlet in the round

while people

ate

roast beef

and drank bad wine.

he often quoted Shakespeare

or Eugene O'Neil

randomly

in conversation.

it was in his

blood, this acting

thing,

the call of the lights,

the stage.

i saw him at the mall

the other day,

getting his steps in.

he was wearing a long

blue cape,

reciting lines, rehearsing

for his next play.

the demonic spell of Cinnabon

how can

you not stop at the rest

stop

on the Jersey Turnpike

after nine

hours of driving

and get a cup

of coffee and a Cinnabon?

for twenty miles

the signs have been persuading

you in neon

letters to stop soon.

the demonic

pull of sugar

beckons you to put on

your turn

signal and park.

there's little one can

do when

this spell comes over you.

conflicting prayer

i see

a group of young children

out in the street

staring up

at the grey sky.

it's Sunday

and they are praying hard

for snow.

their mittened

hands

pressed together 

pleading

for a foot or two of

a cold white

blizzard

that will cancel school.

i'm inside,

praying for the opposite.

xmas in the city

although there's

a string of Christmas

lights that adorn

the bars

on the windows,

and a wreathe on the door

of the convenient store,

it does not feel warm

and welcoming.

there are cameras

in every corner,

the lone employee

is protected inside 

a bullet proof glass cube

with a small

opening to slide your

card or cash through.

will your car

still be there

when you leave with your

bread and milk, 

will there be

a gun

in your ribs, a hooded man

or two

asking

for your wallet,

your phone, your keys?

it's Christmas

again in northeast dc.

more than a few regrets

i regret a lot of things

in my life,

making bad

decisions about work

and relationships,

cars i've bought,

clothes, that plaid shirt

for instance

with orange stripes,

and places to live.

what was i thinking

renting an apartment

near the railroad tracks?

but right now my

biggest regret is eating

at that Ethiopian

restaurant last night,

and ordering something

i couldn't pronounce.

Sweet Jesus, forgive me 

for all my sins,

I murmur in tears,

lying on the cold

bathroom floor

with my hands clutching

the porcelain rim.

Christmas in July

my mother

who was on a strict budget

set by her nefarious

second husband,

Hitler, you may

have heard of him,

would finish her Christmas

shopping in July

and tell us all about it.

her basement would

be stacked with meticulously

wrapped

presents, bows and ribbons, etc.

gifts to all her children,

grandchildren,

and others. i'm sure

the dollar store misses her

dearly.

the holiday dazed and confused

i agree with you,

it does

feel like Tuesday, it's got that

whole day

after Monday

feel to it.

a day before the middle

of the week, 

but it's not.

it's Sunday.

maybe we should leave

the house

today,

after we throw

the turkey carcass

in the woods,

get some fresh air,

see human

beings beside each other.

we've had the tv on

for so long

i don't know how to turn

it off.

those small fluffy animals

beware

of the small animal.

the fluffy furry

thing on the side

of the road,

striped or non-striped

they'll do

anything to live.

if they can't

run, or escape from

you,

they'll rip your lungs

out Jim.

they have teeth

and claws,

some like porcupines

have spikes

to throw at you.

don't even make

eye contact

with their kind.

with a scoop of vanilla icecream

do i miss

the arguing, the fights,

the disagreements?

the tears

and anger?

the lies?

do i pine over

anything

about you, about us

being together.

not really.

although at times

i do reminisce about

your apple pie.

none of it my plan

strange

how quickly the city changes.

buildings

gone,

concrete and iron

disappearing.

trees

and shrubs, the old

dime

store,

the park and playground,

no longer

there. the place

where we met

so long ago.

all those memories

washed

away

with the big hand of

time. none of it

my plan.

circle the lake

it was cold

in the city, but we didn't mind.

the sun

was out.

the park was crowded.

but we had

our coffee,

our paper,

our toasted bagels,

and it was Saturday.

we had a plate

of empty hours

before us and in no

rush

to do anything. to do

nothing,

but walk and bask in

the sun, to

circle the lake.

when they play you

she used

to throw hints my way,

and say things like, oh my,

i love that scarf

that woman is wearing.

so silky and luxurious.

it wasn't long before

i'd find

the same exact scarf and

give it to her

for no reason.

or she'd say,

i love dark chocolate

with almonds,

the next day she'd

have a big bar

of chocolate on her pillow.

wouldn't it be nice

to lie at the beach

in the sun

and drink pina coladas

all day, she said

one night at dinner.

the next week we were

in Cancun.

just yesterday she pointed

out to me

a beautiful white

Mercedes Benz. oh my God,

she said,

that is my dream car.

then a light went on in my

head,

finally i understood what

was going on here.

game over.

the dwindling Christmas card list

my Christmas card

list is

down

to three.

i look at the thirty-five

names

that i've crossed out

over the years.

dead,

dead,

dead.

no longer in contact

with.

disappeared from 

the face

of the earth.

mad at me.

mad at me.

mad at me.

won't return calls.

they owe me money.

i owe them money.

in prison.

in rehab.

lost at sea.

they'll know who did it

one of the ex wives

said to me

once as we

were going through

the usual

marital spats,

while eating dinner,

she said,

that if anything ever happened

to her,

and she disappeared,

they would know that i did it?

huh?

i said.

what are you talking about.

i'm just saying, she said.

it's always

the boyfriend or the husband

that gets rid

of his wife,

or girlfriend.

they find them in a swamp

in Jersey,

or behind a brick

wall in the basement.

every episode of Dateline

tells you that.

so, i just want you to know

that you wouldn't

get away with it.

okay, i tell her.

is there anymore pot roast

in the kitchen?

this is really delicious.

have you taken your meds

today, by the way?

dial 911

everyone is scared.

and how

did we get this way?

our parents

for starters.

telling us to not talk

to strangers.

don't touch

that dead animal

in the street, look both

ways before

crossing.

zip up your coat, or

you'll catch

your death of cold.

our teachers

showing us how to hide

under our

desks when

the H-bomb drops.

telling us that

if you don't study, you'll

fail and be

a bum

under the bridge like

your cousin Eddie.

eat this, don't eat that.

chew your food, or

you'll choke.

say your prayers,

brush your teeth, you

want teeth when you get old,

don't you?

if someone breaks

in, there's no time to load

your father's gun,

there's a baseball

bat in the hall closet.

use that, or just climb

out the window

and run. dial 911.

never leaving the nest

some kids

never

leave the nest. never

fly away

and build their own,

never laying

eggs.

despite the college

degree

the car, the clothes,

the food,

the bed, they've

never had to struggle,

or work too

hard.

why leave when

there's the basement,

or the upper room,

the mom

or dad, or both,

keeping

them safe and warm.

the meals cooked, 

the laundry done.

why leave, 

and fly into the unknown,

when you can have

this instead.

is this who they think i am?

when the boss

comes around to your cubicle

in the office,

and asks you

if you'd like to play Santa

Claus this

year

at the annual office party,

you hesitate,

giving him a jolly

laugh,

and tell him that you'll

think about it.

when he walks away,

you feel the long white

beard on your face,

pull at the belt

around your ever increasing

waist, and think,

is this who they think i am?

it's a good place

there are days,

sometimes weeks where you

no longer

feel the need

to reach out to anyone,

being alone

is enough.

you no longer

ask for

forgiveness or feel  the need

to forgive.

you are free

of the past, unworried

about the future.

settled in the now.

it's a good place.

making sandwiches for the PCH team

in order to collect

my 4.5

million dollars from

the Publishers Clearinghouse

prize package,

my Jamaican friend,

Mr. Lexus,

instructs me to put ten thousand

dollars in cash

in a box,

and send it to his mule

in New York.

i have to put the bills between

pages in a magazine,

and double wrap

the box to protect it from

being x-rayed. plus bubble wrap.

it makes sense.

paying the taxes early is how

it's done with the PCH,

Mr. Lexus tells me.

i also need a receipt so that he

can track the package

as it makes its way to NYC

he promises to deliver my winning

prize money

and the Mercedes Benz,

early next week after

the box of money arrives.

i tell him that i can't wait

to meet him, finally after

talking to him for three weeks.

boring him with stories about

the bunions on my feet

and the trouble with blue jays

in the bird feeder bullying

all the little birds.

i tell him i'm going to make

sandwiches, for him

and his team when they arrive,

and a jug

of strawberry Kool-Aid.

i narrow it down to

egg salad, tuna fish and ham

on rye with cheese.

thank you, he says.

i love you Emily.

the feeling is mutual, i tell him,

as i dial up the FBI.

get used to it

and yet,

there's not a whisper

of

complaint

from

the bird,

the ant, the snake,

the bear

in the woods,

the raccoon, or

beaver.

not a hint of anguish

from the lion,

or deer

as each

make their way

through life.

it's only us making

noise

about the struggle,

about the strife.

forgiving lateness

the milk

man is

tardy with his bottles

of cream

and juice,

butter,

a carton of eggs.

the rooster crowed two

hours ago.

the newspaper

boy,

taking his good old

time

slinging my newspaper

towards my

porch

finally.

the mail is late too,

i see

him coming up the walk

slouched

by the heavy

bag on his shoulder.

unhappy with Christmas.

i don't dare

look at my watch.

pumpkin old spice aftershave

i buy

some Old Spice

after shave at the grocery store.

i'm surprised it's

still on the shelf after

all these years,

but this bottle is

pumpkin Old Spice,

a seasonal selection

for the holidays.

there's a hint of nutmeg in it.

it's a hit with the old

ladies on the subway

as i head into town

to shop.

they all want to sit

next to me, and tell

me recipes for holiday

desserts.

one tells me that her husband

used to wear that same

cologne before he

went off to war

in 1944.

they ask me if i'm married

or single,

i tell them no, not married

but i am on the prowl.

which makes them laugh

and giggle, all

gathered around me

like school girls

in the playground.

pumpkin

old spice after shave.

it's the bomb.

so, what have we learned?

so what have

we learned, i ask my therapist

as i write

her another check

for two hundred and twenty-five

dollars?

what have we learned

in today's session?

i get up from the couch,

lightheaded

and woozy.

confused. she hands me

a bottle of water.

so what have we learned,

i say again.

this always makes her laugh,

when i say this.

will this ever end?

i ask her, will we ever get

to the bottom of this

troubling

anxiety that i feel?

i hope not, she says, i just

put a down

payment on a new boat.

just shut up

my rich uncle

leaves me a large sum of money

in his will.

a million dollars

to be exact.

i was his favorite, or so

i thought.

i find out that he left all my

siblings

two million dollars a piece.

this bothers me,

i feel resentment, anger

and envy.

i can''t sleep at night

over this disturbing slight.

i tell my therapist all of this

at my weekly session,

after talking about

my mother again for thirty minutes,

and the only response i get out

of her is,

just, shut up.

the meaning of gifts

i get a tin

of assorted nuts in the mail.

cashews, almonds,

pecans,

walnuts, Brazil nuts,

peanuts and Macadamia nuts.

all salted.

i'm grateful,

but as usual i try

to read between the lines

of this gift.

what does it mean?

does someone think i'm nuts?

is that it?

or am i being too sensitive.

of course i did

send that person

a fruitcake again.

Innagodadavita

i'd write you

a love

song but i don't do music.

i have

zero talent when it comes

to playing an instrument,

or constructing a song,

piano, forget it.

guitar forget it.

although

in high school,

i could tap out 

Innagodadavita by Iron

Butterfly, on a Ford

Fairlanes dashboard

like nobody's

business.

so that's something.

the Sibley Emergency Room

i awaken from

a turkey coma in the emergency room

at Sibley

Hospital.

someone is pushing on my

chest

and scraping the dried

cranberry sauce

off my chin.

there's a tube

in me,

gurgling up fat, and

there's a needle in my arm

shooting fluids

into my body

to reduce the inflammation

from salt

and butter, gravy

and pumpkin pie.

give it to me straight, i ask

the nurse who's

putting ice on my brow,

am i going to make it?

be truthful,

we'll see she says, we'll,

see, but for

now, get some rest and don't

eat anything else

for three days.

now roll over on your back,

we've got one more

thing to do.

the airplane ruckus

there seems

to be

a lot of people losing their

minds

on planes

lately.

screaming and kicking,

causing a ruckus.

hallucinating,

seemingly

possessed by the devil.

what is it that's causing

these mental

break downs?

the long lines?

the wait, the security checks,

the pat downs,

the airport food,

salty crackers handed out

by the stew?

maybe it's the air

everyone is breathing inside

that long

metal tube.

holding your legs

and arms

together for six hours

like sardines

in an oily can can't be

healthy either,

not to mention that little

box of a bathroom

called hell.

maybe that's it.

the middle ground

i'd like

her more, if she didn't talk all

the time.

she'd like

me more

if i opened up

and spilled my guts.

let her know

what i'm really thinking.

there has to be a middle

ground somewhere.

maybe that's what

friends are for.

thank you for our bounty

as i peel

back the foil of the steaming

hot Swanson

tv dinner, baked for

thirty-seven

minutes at 350 degrees,

i say a prayer

and thank the good Lord

for once more

providing me

with a meal,

and all the other stuff.

it sort of looks like turkey

as i pull back

the curtain of tin,

potatoes

and green beans.

and what's that, a biscuit?

do tell.

but they still haven't,

even after

all these years,

found a way

to keep the applesauce

cold.

the pale girl in the shade

the pale girl

is more interesting,

the white

of her,

the calmness

of her nature.

unworried

by what she needs

or doesn't need.

there she is in the shade,

never wasting a moment

of her life

lying in the sun

with her eyes closed,

her body oiled,

there is so

much more to do,

to read,

she has so much more

to offer when

she asks you to sit,

come here and sit

in the shade with me.

winter is best

the winter

beach

is best. the deserted

sand,

the cold air changing

the color

of the ocean

to the darkest of blues.

the weathered

gulls,

the freighters

plowing

their wares to other

lands

across the endless

curve of the world.

winter is best.

the hardened shore,

the low melt

of sun, the absence

of nearly everyone,

the salt carried 

in the wind.

the long walk in thought,

a shell in hand.

the dodge dart swinger 1970

the dodge dart

swinger, circa 1970,  painted

a dull army

green

was a piece of junk.

it died on

the highway

coming off the lot.

the window was cracked.

the trunk filled up with

water when it rained,

the whole

thing shook like having

an electrical

shock treatment

when it hit sixty miles

an hour

on the interstate.

the engine smoked,

the oil leaked,

and it ate gas like it

was going out of style,

which it was at the time,

but other

than that, 

it was the car i made love

to Martha in,

which seemed to cancel

out everything

else.

whatever melts your butter

i need a menu

for all

these different religions.

Wikipedia says that there

are over four

thousand of them.

but it would be nice 

to have

a clear

and concise description

of what they all believe in.

Judaism,

Buddhism,

Islam,

Muslim,

Presbyterian,

Mormon.

you've got your Quakers

and your

Lutherans,

Catholics of course

with the gowns

and gold,

then there's the Baptists,

you can see

them coming with

their pot luck dinners,

clutching knives and forks.

Unitarians,

Amish with their chairs

and tables,

the Shakers,

Taoism.

Seventh Day Adventists.

whew. it's endless what

we believe in or don't believe in.

God must feel like Gumby being

pulled in so

many directions.

the fifteen cent raise

i had a job once,

where each

year

they'd give you a Christmas

bonus.

and a small raise.

usually fifteen cents on

the dollar.

quickly i'd add up the hours

and figure out

how much more money

would show

up on my next paycheck.

minus state and federal

taxes, FICA.

i was grateful,

strangely thankful to have

a job. to be

working.

they gave everyone a turkey

too. that was the bonus.

that was gravy.

for a brief delirious moment

there are moments,

brief moments

when i feel like i need a pet

of some sort.

a dog,

or cat, something.

a live animal that's waiting

for me when

i get home.

a face, albeit it furry,

in the window.

and then i come to my

senses and sober up,

and call Betty

to see what's cooking.

open the windows

whereas most people put out

the good China

when having guests over for

a holiday dinner party,

my mother

went the other way,

using paper plates.

but not the cheap flimsy

ones that couldn't hold

the weight of a potato, no

she went with the thicker kind.

sturdy and safe. Chinex.

with thirty people over,

and no dishwasher

she had no other choice

in the packed warm house,

the oven and burners

still on, a pot of coffee and

candles heating the place up.

there are times i still want

to drive over to the old house

and break in,

and open the windows, let

some air in.

What's up with Ming?

the only

thing i know or half

know

about the Ming Dynasty

is that

they made some good pottery,

bowls

and other

things.

plates and saucers too,

i suppose.

who was this fellow Ming,

that his

legacy

is an expensive bowl

that's too valuable to even

put a salad in?

i'm sure he must have had

his hand

in other things.

where's my phone,

i need to google this.

mayhem at the market

a woman

in the  grocery, no bigger than

Bella Abzug,

knocks me over

and takes

the last sweet potato

out of my hand.

she looks

into my cart and steals

my dinner rolls too,

along with the last packet

of turkey gravy.

i yell her, to stop.

but she smirks and then

kicks me in the knee

so that i can't follow

her through the crowd.

an old man, comes over

and looks at me

he tells me to get up,

what are you doing down there?

the floor's dirty, what's

wrong with you people?

he says, then runs

the wobbly wheel of

his grocery cart over

my hand.

whenever you're ready, come on back

there's too much

news going on.

too much happening in this

wacky world

of ours.

wars,

politics,

terrorism.

China, Russia, Israel,

Mexico,

what the hell.

inflation and fear.

civil rights,

gender rights,

protests and pronouns,

animal rights, don't drink

the beer.

the migrants,

the tyrants,

the lost and lonely,

the poor and homeless,

the mentally ill.

drugs and drink,

all of it news, breaking

news.

tik tok,

x,

CNN and Fox,

i'm mainlining news.

Sweet Jesus, we need a break.

anytime you're ready,

come on back.

it feels like you're way

overdue.

the lemon cake travels

for years

i'd bring a lemon cake

to a gathering,

to a party,

iced

with cream cheese frosting.

it was my thing

for a while.

don't ask me why,

why lemon,

why not chocolate or spice

cake.

why not vanilla?

it's one of life's great mysteries

i suppose.

and here i stand with

the mixer,

staring into the yellow batter

swirling in the big

blue bowl.

you're part of it too

i know the way by heart,

but let me 

give you directions in case

you want

to stop by.

bring nothing, but you.

i'll be there before

you arrive.

you take a right at the stop

sign,

then at the light go left,

from there you take

the exit to the highway.

after ten miles or so,

you bear to the left and

turn right at the yield sign.

in the summer there's a field

of corn as far as the eye

can see, but it's autumn.

you're close now.

another mile and into the woods

you go, over the stone

bridge, onto the gravel

and dirt to her cul de sac,

to her wood framed house,

whitened by the sun.

her wishing well out front,

the pond to the side.

the white geese,

the dog barking as your

car arrives.

there she is, her house,

and her waiting with open arms

to all her friends,

you're part of it too.

time to regift

i still have

the horse someone gave me for

Christmas

last year.

actually a pony.

it's in the back yard

that i filled with oats and hay.

i haven't

bought a saddle yet,

but soon.

i talk to it from the window

sometimes,

but haven't yet

decided on a name.

i should take it for a walk

at some point.

or just open

the gate,

and let it go on it's way.

perhaps it's time

to regift.

settling on the snow globe

to buy a tree

or not buy a tree this year?

to go down to the church

and haggle

with a man

in a red hat and drinking

whiskey from a flask.

is it time

for the plastic one?

the one

already with lights.

already decorated

and stores easily in the attic.

all i have

to do is plug it in, no

tying it down,

or watering it.

no falling needles, or

fire hazard.

what about one of those

little ones

i can set on the table?

simple and easy,

no strapping it on the roof

of the car.

or how about the kind

in a little glass globe

that i can

shake and make it snow?

i can put it on the window

sill so that

anyone walking by will

know,

that i'm into Christmas

this year.

i think i've

made my decision.

the street clinic

i see my

doctor on the street corner

with another

doctor,

eating donuts and smoking

cigarettes.

two large coffees

in hand.

quickly

they toss them aside

as they see me coming up

the street.

what else are they

keeping

from me?

my doctor says hey.

i say hey

back.

your x-rays came in he,

says.

they look good, real good.

you've got at least six more

months.

huh, i say.

you must be thinking of someone

else.

oh. right, right. you look just

like this other patient that i have.

did you have

your flu shot yet?

i say no.

well roll up your sleeve.

he then takes out a syringe

from his pocket

and stabs me in the arm.

thanks i tell him.

then walk away.

when i look back i see

him retrieving his donuts

from the bushes.

the gift of giving

gifts are hard

at this point in life.

what to buy for a loved one.

what doesn't she or

he have?

more baubles for the jewelry

box?

more clothes, more

shoes,

more books,

more blankets to keep

you warm.

gift certificates

to the local

massage parlor?

what is there in all these

stores

that she really wants?

i settle on

a homemade pumpkin

pie

and an enormous bottle

of red wine.

the hour glass

the circle

is closing.

your radius of wandering

out

decreases

over time.

true friends have

come and gone.

your world

is shrinking, the hour

glass

once full of sand

is running

out of time.

even you, once strong

and straight,

has curved

and slowed,  bent

but clinging

like a vine.

you can't tell anymore

she was pre-med,

but dancing her way through

college

at the Kitty Kat Lounge

near the airport, next

to the train depot

and county jail.

she was different than

the other girls.

beautiful with long legs.

but less trashy.

she didn't smoke

and had no tattoos,

or needles marks

that i could see,

and during her breaks she'd

be at bar

in her thong, watching

reruns of

Grey's Anatomy

on her phone.

it wasn't love, but clearly

there was deep admiration

and infatuation.

i finally made my move,

and sat next to her

at the bar,

milking my Shirley Temple,

because it cost

twenty-five dollars a pop.

she looked at me and smiled,

then put her hand out,

which was strangely larger

than mine, we shook,

then she said,

before we go any further,

i have to tell you, my name

used to be Stan,

but you can call me Star.

the strangers that i know

i wish my

walls were thicker,

the floors

and ceiling too in this

old hi rise

building.

i know everything there

is to know

about my neighbors,

the food they cook,

the music they like,

when they go to bed,

when the tv goes on

or off, i know

when they arise

to the chirps of their

alarm clocks.

i hear their footsteps

from the bed

to the bathroom,

i hear the water in

the shower, the toilet

flush.

i hear their arguments,

and the lovemaking

late at night.

but when i see them in

the hallway or on

the elevator going down,

i don't let on to what i know.

we're strangers

in public,

it's better that way.

holiday traffic

i see the van

beside me,

full of children and dogs,

a mom and dad,

luggage tied to the roof.

there's a Christmas wreathe

wired to the hood.

the rosy cheeked children

wave at me.

i wave back.

i wonder where

they're going.

Pennsylvania, maybe,

Vermont,

or Boston,

to see the old folks,

to eat turkey

and pie.

to reminisce about

the old days and comment

on how big the children are.

i'm taking the next exit,

to work,

stopping for coffee at

7-11 and a package of

Little Debbie Cakes.

the nine to five carrot

bushed.

tired, call it what you may,

but the strings

that tug

at your arms and legs

are frayed

from being

pulled by

your masters, controlling

the puppet

that you are,

making you obey.

the carrot is always

just out of reach,

but you reach

you will again come

Monday.

the wedding album

browsing

through my book collection

is not unlike an archaeology

dig, a time line

of relationships and life.

beside Catcher in the Rye,

and The Red Comet,

there is a tattered copy of Life as an INFJ.

and The Art of Loving

by Erich Fromm, then

there is the Venus and Mars book,

the Four Languages of Love,

Psychopath Free,

and Should I Stay or Should I Go?

by Dr. Ramani.

then the big book.

the DSM 5.

describing in clinical detail

every mental disorder

there is known to man.

i put photos between

the appropriate pages,

wedding photos, mostly.

but some close calls too.

day two of a ten day cruise

when she

took a swing at me on the cruise

ship

as the boat

sailed gracefully

down the Aegean Sea,

i ducked

and her fist hit me on

the shoulder.

she was red faced

and crying.

i asked her what's up with

that?

and she said,

you don't know, do you?

i said, no, i don't.

i sat back down and continued

to eat our gourmet

dinner as she stormed

out, going

back to the cabin.

a few hours later, i peeked

in to see her in bed.

what was that all about?

i asked her.

i'm sorry, she said. but i

didn't bring my

meds.

i slept with one eye

open the rest of the voyage

with a butterknife

in my hand.

tomorrow we were going

to be

climbing a volcano.

getting a fresh start

you've got your

menial sins, your lite sins

if you may,

and then

you've got your mortal

sins.

game over.

it would be nice

to have a list to see where

you stand

in the hierarchy of sins,

and the penance

required to get a fresh

start, as the new year

approaches, but the Pope

refuses to answer

my letter personally.

google it,

is the only response 

i get from the Vatican.

adorable and fun

i buy a live

turkey

for the holiday

and put it in the back yard.

thanksgiving

is a week away.

the turkey knows what's

coming.

he sees the axe stuck

in the tree trunk.

i see him out there

rubbing his neck

and looking

for gaps

in the fence.

before long he starts doing

tricks,

tap dancing,

telling me jokes.

singing songs

and doing cartwheels

and flips.

i know what he's doing,

he's trying to get on my

good side, making himself

adorable

and fun.

it reminds me of an old

girlfriend i used to have.

Beth.

black coffee

the dream

sticks with me the whole day.

a bad dream.

a grey

once pink

wad of gum now

stuck to the bottom of my

psyche.

it nudges itself into

my day, my

pondering,

my quiet reflection,

as i stare

deeply into a cup

of black coffee.

they want us to be happy, Dad

when my

son

was young, i looked at his

homework,

his tests

and quizzes and asked

him why

so many words were

misspelled?

why the math was wrong,

the history

twisted.

his writing looked like

a chicken

had dipped it's claws

in ink

and dragged them

across the paper.

he had an A plus at the top

of every page.

he smiled and said

teachers don't care about

stuff like that

anymore, Dad.

they want us to be happy

and feel good

about ourselves.

we too can be a fool

we need

to fail, to fall and stumble

to say the wrong

thing

at the wrong time.

we need

egg on our face,

a coffee stain on our shirt,

a streamer

of toilet

paper on our shoe,

we need spinach

between our

teeth, our zipper down,

we need to be

caught in a lie,

caught in the rain

without an umbrella.

we need to remember

that we too

can be a fool.

our ant hills

funny

He must think

we are, how we

accept

so much

assigning to it

the mystery of life.

resilient to death

and pain.

still believing, still

with faith.

does He laugh at our

folly,

at us, trying to figure

it all out,

asking why,

why why, each day.

how can He not Love us

as we start over

like the ants do,

when their world

is brushed away.

three trips past midnight

you can only

pull back on the reins

so much.

at some point,

it overtakes you,

not in one enormous

wave,

but in small increments,

the pain

in one's knee,

one's hand,

the sudden notice

of the crepe skin,

the circles

and ravines

of age.

the three trips to

the loo

past midnight.

flowers on flowers

the house is dark,

with shadows.

shades of yellow and

muted green

on the walls,

complimentary colors

to the wallpaper

i'm about to install.

flowers on flowers,

the curtains half drawn.

it feels like

surrender

of some sort, of fatigue.

the room a collection

of years of travel.

she looks up

from the newspaper and

greets me

with a placid

smile.

welcome back, she says.

my husband will show you 

around.

let me know if there's 

anything you need.

what's wrong with this picture

i remember

seeing my father in the kitchen once,

standing at the sink

doing dishes.

forlorn

and staring out the window.

i stood there

for awhile and thought,

what's wrong

with this picture.

what other strange things

are down

the road.

a flip of the coin

i flipped

the coin a long time ago,

but it's still

in the air,

turning and turning.

my hand is out waiting.

i still haven't

decided on which

way to go,

what to do

on so many things.

hopefully it will land

soon.

the suspense is killing

me.

just turn the page

there are

no scandals anymore.

no such thing

as sin.

no embarrassments, or lies

to unfold,

no shame or guilt.

from top to bottom

the well

is poisoned.

getting caught means

nothing,

no one truly

cares anymore,

we shrug and say oh well.

just turn the page,

and move on.

someone like you

i used to stay

out late, it's true, ask anyone

i used to know

if they're still

around.

they'll tell you stories

of those 

youthful days,

most of them

true.

sometimes i didn't bother

coming home

at night,

not lost, not wandering,

just finding a bed

to lie down in

with the likes of someone

like you.