busted for peeing in the woods

to clear my head

and get some quiet time alone

away from the hustle

and bustle of the holidays,

i take a long

walk into the woods,

off trail at Huntley Meadows.

unfortunately, i've had

two large cups

of black coffee before the walk

and now

after strolling by

a rambling, noisy stream

and seeing a fox

lift his leg up against

a tree, i have to go too.

i look around, there's no one in sight,

so i unzip and let it go,

the steam of me

rises into the crisp cold air.

but then, out of nowhere

a park ranger disguised

as a mulberry bush jumps out

and tells me to stop.

i see his hand on his holster.

quickly i zip up, but it's too

late, and he's got me

in handcuffs and reading

me my rights.

you're under arrest, he tells me,

for urinating in public

and desecrating an oak tree.

did you not see that box turtle

nestled under the leaves?

look at him, he's soaked.

he puts me into the back seat

of his car

and starts driving me to the police

station for lock up.

i'm sorry, i tell him, i just had

to go, and i couldn't hold it in

any longer, especially after

hearing that babbling brook

and seeing that fox

relieving himself.

he looks at me in the rear view

mirror and shakes his head.

no excuse he says.

i'm tired of people peeing all

over mother nature.

but i had two Venti black coffees

in me from Starbucks.

over thirty-two ounces of caffine

and water.

what's a Venti? he says,

scratching his chin

a Venti is a large, i think

it's Italian,  meaning large, i tell him, 

okay, so what's a medium?

Grande.

hmmm. and a small.

they call that a tall.

geez marie, he says, why don't

they just say small, medium and large?

i shrug my shoulders. i don't know,

i guess they want to jazz it up

to excuse their high prices.

you shouldn't be peeing in a state

park, he scolds me again,

shaking his head.

what if a bunch of kids or old

ladies were walking by, you'd be

in a heap more trouble than you are now.

sorry, i say, again. i just couldn't

hold it anymore, and these are

my good corduroy pants.

if i wet them, they'd freeze on me.

you ever try to walk in frozen pants?

huh? he says.

i mean, what do you do when you

have to go really bad,

and you're in your patrol car?

say you're on the hunt for a rabid

coyote, or someone is on the run

after fishing without a license?

he smiles. i got that handled, he says.

my wife was an arts and crafts major

at Swarthmore and she made this for me.

he holds up a giant red cup.

he tilts it so that i can see the large

hole with a funnel at the top.

she made this for me

on her work bench in the basement.

she calls it the Pee Cup. she's trying

to have it patented and then

selling it on Amazon.

wow, i tell him. she's a genius.

he smiles and looks at me in the mirror

again.

that's why i married her, he says.

for her ingenuity,

and for her buttermilk biscuits. he

gives me a wink,

which makes me think he's not really

referring  to buttermilk biscuits.

i wish i had had one of those cups

with me while i was walking in

the woods, i tell him, feigning sadness,

and letting out a sigh.

yeah, he says. yeah, rubbing

his chin again.

suddenly he pulls to the side

of the road, then leans over

the seat to look at me

after sliding his bear trap

and skunk repellant

out of the way.

you know what, he says, it's three days

before Christmas and you seem like

a nice guy,

hold up your hands and let me

uncuff you. i'm letting you go with

a warning. but don't let

me catch you peeing in the woods again.

Okay?

that poor little turtle. cripes.

i won't, i promise, i tell him. i won't.

and you know what, he says.

i'm really in the Christmas spirit, 

so i'm giving you my pee cup,

wow i tell him, rubbing my wrists

and shaking the pain

out of my cramped hands.

thank you, thank you so much.

but i'd wash it out real good first,

okay. i've been drinking from

my thermos all morning, hot ginger

spice tea,

and well, i had to use it a few times.

now get out of here.

Happy Holidays.

cleaning up Christmas

so why

are you putting up a tree

and buying

gifts, i ask

my atheist friend

Diablo.

i see you covered your

house in lights.

habit, he says.

i like the holidays.

the lights,

the music.

the gathering of people.

it's fun.

the kids love it.

i wish they could take

out that whole

thing about Jesus though.

the virgin birth,

the manger,

the three wise men.

kind of wrecks the whole

holiday spirit

with the guilt

and shame for how we

live our lives,

but we're getting closer

to eliminating

Him from the holiday though,

it's a work in progress.

i need a new scale

i think there is something

wrong

with my scale.

i've been starving myself

for eight hours.

i ate nothing but

a few cookies and

a chocolate bar

for the whole day,

plus a protein shake,

and a Big mac,

with a large order

of French fries,

washed down with a coke,

and it says that i haven't

lost a single

graham of weight.

the inevitable foxhole

more and more people

are coming

out

and proclaiming that they

don't believe in God.

this whole Jesus

thing is a farce,

a charade.

we came from nothing.

it's all

a bunch of made up stories,

malarky

from the middle ages

to keep people in line.

they don't believe

a word of it.

they don't have an

ounce of faith.

they don't pray.

they laugh about it all,

mocking the Saints

and cross.

time and near death

will tell.

they've yet to be in that

inevitable foxhole.

is everyone unhappy?

i go down

to the barn for fresh eggs.

but there are none.

i reach

into cage,

nothing. not a single

egg,

the chickens are nowhere

to be found.

i head towards

the cow

for a pale of milk,

she's not there.

the pigs are gone too,

the goat,

even the horse has

strayed.

everyone has flown

the coop.

what's going on?

then i see them out in

the street

with their placards,

marching and

chanting

in their own peculiar

ways.

clucking and oinking,

the neigh.

demanding better living

conditions,

and higher pay.

better days are coming

better days

are coming, better nights,

too.

the whole

lot

of twenty-four hours

will be

an improvement

on what

happened yesterday

and the day

before that.

hold on,

hold tight, this is all

temporary,

this hell you are going

through.

reflection in a store window

when you catch

a reflection of yourself

in the store

window

as you walk by,

you hesitate

for a moment,

and examine the person

that you've become.

am i really, that old?

that tired,

that heavy in the waist,

do i really slump like

that when i walk.

is there really no hair line, 

is this how others see

me now?

the eyes squint

in denial,

assuming bad lighting

and the angle,

before quickly moving on.

the ruby slippers

do we really need to climb

that mountain

to give

meaning to our lives,

to put everything

in perspective.

do we need to hike

a thousand miles,

jump out of a plane,

or deep sea dive.

go flying off into the stars?

buy more and more and more?

why are we perpetually

unsatisfied

with what we have

and where

we are in life, what keeps

us searching

for meaning,

when it's right there in

front of us.

just click three times.

knock on wood

i carry

a small board in my back

pocket

nearly everywhere i go

these days.

mainly

because nothing is made

of wood

anymore,

it's all plastic

and vinyl, or glass,

or some manmade

material

created by

mad

scientists

in a Chinese lab.

it's just a small piece

of balsa wood, but

it'll do when the time

comes,

as it often does

in conversation, 

to knock on wood.

piano legs

she told

me often about how her

mother

would scold

her as a child,

and call her piano legs.

it stuck

with her for all these

years.

and now,

as she lay

there in bed

beside me,

the blanket pulled to her

neck,

she managed

to break down

in tears.

full of baloney

i tried

but i failed

at trading my sandwich

in grade

school.

wrapped in wax paper,

a lame

bologna

on white bread

with a swath

of generic mustard.

how i envied the peanut

butter sandwiches

beside me,

crunchy with blueberry

jam,

the ham and cheese,

the roast beef

thinly sliced on rye

with a pickle

on the side or

the club sandwich

piled high.

no one was interested

in my poor

bologna sandwich,

hapless and dry,

the story

of my life.

walking on eggshells

when the ex wife

woke up

one morning and suggested

that i should

get a life

insurance policy

of a million dollars, it

made me nervous.

i started to let

the dog taste all the food

she had cooked

before i ate it,

i drank nothing from

an open container.

i looked under the car

to check the brake lines

for leaks

or cuts.

i hid the aspirin bottle,

and monitored

the gas and carbon

monoxide

when she wasn't home.

i was crazily suspicious

and walking

on eggshells

when i came home early

from work

one day

and she was screwing 

a silencer

on her new

shiny handgun.

an interesting demise

it's an interesting

book

about how poets and writers

have died.

some through

no fault

of their own, 

disease or accident,

but many

by their own hand,

selecting

bridges

to leap from,

or ovens to gas

themselves, pills,

guns,

and sharp

knives.

indulging in alcohol

is also a very

popular way to die.

i've been extremely

careful

ever since reading about

Sherwood Anderson's

demise.

a martini toothpick

with an olive

stuck at the end,

swallowed

and stuck halfway down

his pipe.

ain't over until it's over

you know,

you just know, you have

a gut

feeling

sometimes when

you know that you'll never

see someone

again.

the curtain has fallen

on that relationship.

the ship has sailed.

the fat lady has sung.

it truly is over,

Yogi Berra.

no doubt about it.

relentless

the damn

rust on these bolts, on this

hinge

is relentless,

despite the scraping

and sanding,

the naval jelly,

and rust removers.

the aging won't stop

until the gate falls

to the ground.

truly it

never sleeps, and lately

neither do i.

open it

as

Frank Zappa

once

said,

the mind is like

a parachute,

you have

to open it

if you want to live.

no such thing as an original sin

there is

no original sin.

there is

nothing new under

this sun

and moon that i can

think of,

no wrong,

or act of cruelty

considered new,

and yet

we are daily surprised

by what people

in this world

can do.

when the phone rings

it used to be a pleasant

thing

to have the phone

ring,

a friend, perhaps

checking in,

a brother or sister,

some loved one

far away.

we'd sit for an hour

or more and

chat, sipping coffee.

smoking cigarettes.

how's the weather,

the kids,

your work, we'd say.

your health.

we'd cover the world

at large, and end

the talk

with i miss you, or i

love you.

hope to see you soon,

get well,

but now.

i hardly pick up the phone.

it's no one

i know or want to know.

the phone

has lost its spell.

they are animals not babies

it's a dog,

it's a cat, it's not

a baby

or a small child.

stop dressing your

dogs

in coats

and scarves,

little hats,

putting ribbons

on your cat's neck.

a pink tutu?

stop with the little

booties

on their paws.

and that monkey over

there,

that chimp

playing the harpsicord,

take his vest

off.

cry me a river

maybe we don't

cry enough.

we hold back the tears.

leaving the toxic

waste

stuck in our bodies.

everyone needs

to crumble over at times

like a cookie in milk,

and have a good

cry about the world,

or relationships,

or whatever has tied

us into knots.

go ahead, i'll stand

here with the box

of Kleenex.

i use them a lot.

i know what it is

something

has gone wrong.

and i believe i know what

it is.

the aged,

the wise ones have

departed

the scene,

and now we're

left with

kids.

the ice box

it's my own

personal

Antarctica, a frost bitten

tundra

of sorts

of frozen meat and

vegetables.

leftovers

from another era

in time.

when i reach in for

the ice tray,

i look at the whitened

landscape

of wrapped

fish,

cold beans,

bread and a slice

of wedding cake,

perpetually frozen

in time.

i'll be less without you

i learned

of your illness via

the grapevine,

of which you are

a part of.

the slender

crawl

of vines that have

attached

themselves

to my own brick

wall.

i need you in

my life.

please,

don't leave, i'll

be less

without you.

survive.

mea culpa, light

i wouldn't call

it a sincere apology.

it was a weak

attempt at saying i'm sorry.

there was not

an ounce

of mea culpa in it.

obviously

she was trying

to change the subject,

to move

on

from being caught

with her drawers down.

six dogs on a leash

i see the dog

walker

struggling

up the street

with his six dogs, each

different,

each

trying to go in a different

direction,

each with his

own

choice of hydrant

or tree.

each longing

for what's

in the man's pocket,

a treat.

the man looks at

me

and smiles.

better him, i think,

as i walk away,

better him than me.

optimism

a warmer

coat

on this December day

would

be nice.

i'm shivering

in the wind.

hands deep into

my pockets,

stepping

lightly over puddles

of ice.

i'm not sure why

i took

the lighter jacket.

as usual,

my optimism

has gotten in the way.

we're still hungry

why

are we here, here in this

fancy

restaurant

paying 56 dollars for

a tough

piece of meat,

or day old fish,

a small potato

and a smattering of

lettuce leaves?

i can cook better

in my sleep.

we made reservations

for two,

we waited at the bar,

drinking

twenty dollar drinks.

we paid to park,

then walked in the cold,

paid

to have our coats

hung.

and now, three hours

later,

after a twenty per cent

tip,

we're done,

and still hungry.

beauty or regret

the clean

canvas is scary, the white

sheet of paper

waiting

for the pen.

the paint

brush,

still in your hand.

each day is like that

when

there's no where

to go,

no one to tell you what

to do next.

what's it going to be,

beauty,

or regret?

it's what the young do

soon, not now, but

soon,

they won't have time

for this.

blocking the roads,

screaming

nursery rhyme chants.

they will

one day have jobs,

and rents to pay,

children of their own.

responsibilities

to take care of.

it's what the young

do, though,

march and protest,

clearly with little knowledge

or wisdom

in their head.

the back row seat

through

seventeen years of school,

i never

once raised my

hand

to give an answer

or to ask

a question.

even if i knew

the answer.

i preferred

the back row seat.

crouched

in a open book,

doodling,

or half asleep,

bored and anxious

for the bell to ring.

she loves me for my toast

it's an art,

truly it is, the morning

toast.

browned

just so,

never blackened

or burnt,

a light sand colored

piece of bread,

freshly popped

from the toaster,

warm and ready

for a swath of butter,

then blueberry

preserves,

gently spread.

she loves me for my

toast

more than anything else,

so she says.

give it to me Ingrid

tired

and whipped

by work, and life

in general,

i go down

to my local massage parlor

to have

Ingrid walk

on my back, and pummel

my muscles

until they're nice

and soft again.

it's been a long week.

give it to me,

i tell her.

she only weighs about

a hundred

pounds,

a canary of a girl,

but i can take it.

tell me if i'm hurting

you, she says

in a soft

voice. tender,

almost loving,

nah, you can't hurt me,

hop aboard

and show me what

you got.

a bucket of water near the door

with hope

and imagination

i used to keep a bucket

of water

near

the door in case she

came back.

i'd seen the movie

the wizard of oz,

too many

times

to not understand

how to get rid of witches

like that.

age is just a number

age is just

a number, my friend jimmy

tells me,

as he sips

on his prune juice

and lathers

his face

with wrinkle cream.

what's your

number, i ask him.

i lost count he says.

i'm somewhere

between birth

and death

is all i know, and the train

is rolling

down the tracks

mighty fast.

farm yard scammers

i hear

a chicken clucking

over the phone,

a rooster

crowing.

a cow mooing,

a goat

baying and a horse going

neigh.

where are you, i ask,

the man

on the phone

telling me that i've won

the mega millions

jackpot

again.

i'm in my office he says.

now go and get

those gift cards

from dollar general,

and stay on the phone.

ornamental faith

her religion

was more ornamental

than

internal.

the rosary beads, the pictures,

the hymnals,

the statues

and crosses.

the home made altar,

and

the attendance

at mass.

it was a good show

for  awhile,

a holy mask.

but of course,

it didn't last.

heading to St. Pete's

what

makes them fly south,

the boy

asks,

staring up into the sky,

watching

the v shaped

flight of geese

honk their way south.

how do they know,

when to go?

we all do i tell him,

as i pack up

the u-haul

and head to St. Pete's.

it's our turn now

it's not

your world anymore,

maybe

it never was,

nor the generation before

you.

ideals

have changed, morality.

respect

and kindness seem

to be lacking.

there's none

for anyone, not even

the elderly.

out of my way the new

world shouts,

it's our turn

now.

the suggestion box

when i worked

in an office

i was always putting notes

into the suggestion box,

that was positioned

near the front desk.

French roast coffee, i wrote.

i'm sick

of this lame Folgers.

and

instead of a nine am

start,

how about we have flexible

hours, say

ten to two. with a long

lunch.

followed by an early happy hour.

can someone please

tell Betsy not to wear so

much perfume.

she's like a new age Irma La Duce.

i'd like a window with a view,

please,

i' feel like a trapped

rat in a sewer

with this cubicle.

oh, and by the way, can

we turn down the fluorescent

lighting in here.

this flickering

is triggering my migraines.

and the heat,

please, why is it so cold

in here.

my feet have frostbite.

is there anyway we can

get a day bed in the break room

for an afternoon snooze.

i didn't last

long.

i don't want to know

we all have

a story,

don't we? but we all don't

need to write

a book about it,

or have a never ending

poetry

blog,

to tell the world every single

thing going on in

one's life.

guilty on all charges.

but a book,

nah.

too much drivel already

out there.

do i really need to read

the about

the trials and tribulations

of Scott Baio

and the Fonz, or 

Beyonce

and Cher?

one toke over the line

he liked

his dope, his weed,

his ganja,

his pipes and papers,

his brownies

and jello.

hashish.

he had a tattoo of

a marijuana leaf

on his chest.

he was

blissfully happy

and sleepy all the time,

hungry too.

but a little on

edge

when the po po

rolled down the street,

or when someone

knocked on the door.

he was going to be

somebody,

he was going to be

rich,

successful,

with all the trimmings,

but he chose the couch,

the weed,

the music,

the long afternoons

and nights

with a smile on hs

face, instead.

would you like a two year warranty?

the clerk

at the shoe store,

asks me if i want a warranty

on my

new shoes.

two years, no questions

asked

return policy,

or one year, repairs

and a new

shine applied if leather.

if a lace breaks,

we got that.

just bring them in,

the soles

come loose, or the rubber

inserts get

twisted, we've got that too.

of course

unusual wear,

say in bad weather,

or a dog gnarling on them,

will invalidate

your warranty.

plus if you're on your

feet all day,

or dance in them more

than twice a week,

the warranty

will no longer be good.

More Daily News

with nothing on tv

i make the mistake of watching

the daily news.

first the right wing station,

and then the left.

each with their

own twisted and extreme

views of what's

taking place in the world.

there seems to be no middle

ground

with this mess.

murder,

rape, war, drugs,

illegal immigrants,

fires and floods,

kidnappings,

mass shootings,

terrorists and campus

riots. viruses, 

politics.

after about fifteen

minutes of non-stop horror,

i go take a hot

shower

with lava soap,

and weep as i curl on

the tile floor, afraid once

more to leave

the house.

can i get an amen brother and sisters

i sent some money

to the prosperity church,

to the smiley guy

with the slicked back hair

and enormous

white teeth,

because they said

that a significant donation

would

be a blessing and that

God will heal me of my

chronic sinus issues.

it's been a week

and i'm going through

kleenex, well, like kleenex.

i called them

and they said to come on

down, my problem might

need some hands on

hallelujah healing,

plus another check of an

equal amount.

so i go down.

they put me in the front

row, despite my sneezing

and blowing of my

nose, i'm full of Flonase

and prednisone,

and feeling woozy from

shooting tree oil

and saline solutions

into my nostrils.

finally, after three hours

of singing and preaching,

they call me up

for the healing portion

of the program,

and the minister dressed in

a silver roy rogers

costume slaps me on my

forehead, which makes

me fall back into the arms

of several large men

of a suspicious nature,

smelling like garlic and onions,

who suddenly are going

through my pockets

and holding my wallet

and watch.

they drag me off backstage.

one guy,

who reminds me of

Joe Pesci,

throws my wallet back into

my face

after emptying it, the other guy

is wearing my watch.

you keep your mouth shut,

you hear, the little guy

says, slapping

a baton in his meaty hand,

or you're going to be pushing

up daisies

in the jersey river.

now get out of here.

layers of sediment and sentiment

every now

and again i'll find

a trinket

of hers,

an earring, a clasp

from a bracelet,

a contact lens,

beneath the bed, or

a strange

looking pill,

a receipt, or a shoe.

all left behind,

clues

of some ancient

history

i used to know.

layers of sediment

and sentiment.

it's an

archaeology

dig, unveiled with

each pull

of the hoover vacuum.

traveling for the holidays

plans

for the holidays, people ask.

are you 

sticking around

or going 

somewhere?

i'm not sure yet, i 

tell them,

i have so many invitations

to respond to.

i'm

sorting through

them

as best i can.

but of course i'm staying

home.

what crazy person

would want

to fly

or drive this time 

of year.

i've got my canned

cranberries,

my pork roast,

my beer

and my remote control.

i'm good

to stay here.

insatiable

when my

dog rolled over into my arms,

brushing

his cold

nose against my cheek,

then licked my

chin.

i mistakenly took him

to be

an ex girlfriend.

the insatiable

Kimberly, from

Rhode Island,

the flight attendant.

not now i mumbled

with my eyes closed, can

we wait until

morning?

ruff ruff, the dog lightly

barked,

to which i said,

i know.

i know how you like it.

ten more minutes,

please.

the Sunday Morning show

the morning

Sunday

television program,

hosted

by Jane, is a gem of a show.

you want

softly thrown

balls, well here you go.

you want

to know where

an old movie star or

singer

went to, Jane will tell

you all about it.

a craft show,

a sewing circle,

a child prodigy playing

a kazoo.

she has that too.

authors and poets,

chefs,

kings and queens.

good stories

to warm your heart.

it's a refreshing ninety

minutes,

of old fashion talk,

you sit back and relax

and almost

forget the real the world

you've woken up to.

the Caribbean cruise

i buy

a new pair of sans a belt

stretch

pants for the upcoming

cruise

around the Caribbean.

i've  packed

my lobster bibb,

and my

favorite steak 

sauce.

my wife has selected

her new clothes,

all from the Momma Cass

line of fashion.

tent like

dresses.

seven days on the ocean,

all you can eat.

who cares about the weather

or these poor

hurricane destroyed

islands.

it's dinner time around

the clock,

bring it on.

dog world

like dogs,

you have to train people,

she used to tell me.

they respond

the same way

to reward and punishment.

sit, beg, heel.

it's no different.

then she tells me that

perhaps i'll

get lucky this weekend,

if i don't

make any mistakes,

or misbehave.

point made.

often in denial

most of us are in denial

about

how good things are.

we let the news

weigh us down.

we stare into our phones

and let

the craziness

seep into our minds,

our souls.

things can be worse

of course, but for the most

part we should thank

our lucky stars.

elevator music

as a rock band

you know your life has been

a success

when you

hear the instrumental

versions of

your songs

being played in an

elevator,

or in a grocery store

as you

peruse the last chance

aisle.

what's wrong with me?

i don't why

or how it happened, but i wake

up in a good mood.

almost cheerful.

something

must be wrong,

what did i eat last night?

did i get too much

sleep?

this is all very strange 

being

so content

and relatively

happy.

what the hell is going on?

mamma mia,

i hope i snap out of it soon.

running the country from prison

what if they both

go to prison,

can a country be run

by a man

behind bars?

drug king pins do it

all the time,

so i don't see

why not.

with the right phone

set up,

and daily visitors,

the orange man,

or the geezer man

might pull it off.

things probably couldn't

get much worse.

the dinner party talk

we've all agreed

that we can't talk about

politics,

religion,

education, race, gender,

immigration,

the current wars,

sexuality,

and money.

so it becomes

a very animated

conversation

about the weather.

i start things off 

by talking about

the cold front moving in.

will you still love me tomorrow?

will you still love

me

tomorrow, she says to me,

as we

sit on the couch,

by candlelight,

Marvin Gaye

playing softly,

kissing,

and trying to figure

out the mystery of buttons,

snaps

and zippers.

that's a song, i tell her.

Carole King, right?

ummm, yes.

she says.

but it's still a viable

question.

if we do this, will you

still love me tomorrow?

pffft, of course,

now, about this dress,

i'm having trouble

with the tiny clasp

in back.

singing like a canary

i imagine that i wouldn't

stand up

well to torture.

my cowardice is too

deeply ingrained

in my psyche.

i'd give up my own

mother if i heard

a chain saw

rev up, or drill bit

spinning near

my mouth,

or see someone coming

at me with

a scalpel, holding my

hand down.

i'd give them the nuclear

code,

the combination 

to my safe.

the addresses of

my current children,

and those not born.

my country would mean

nothing to me,

if they put me in a cage

with wild rodents.

i'd be singing like a canary

in about three

seconds.

strangers in a strange land

we're all strangers

to most

people,

those not in your circle

of friends

or family.

mere acquaintances.

people cross

the street when they

see you coming.

they don't give

up their seat for you.

you're nobody,

really.

there's no paparazzies

at your doorstep,

no reporters,

or adoring fans,

or worse,

those that hate 

where you stand,

but you make due.

being

anonymous

is actually not a bad

way to go.

we need them, don't we?

there's something about

the human 

touch,

the intimacy

of a hand in yours,

or lying

together, skin

against skin.

as much as you dislike

so humans,

we need them,

don't we?

there's always greener grass

there's always

greener

grass

on the other side

of the hill.

a better job, a better

home,

a better car,

a prettier a girl

to see.

it may be green from

afar,

but you've learned

your lessons

the hard way.

stay put, lean back

and relax.

don't be fooled again

by what lies

beyond

your yard.

all this loose change

i don't know exactly where

all the loose

change comes

from,

but i'm running out of bowls

and saucers,

tin boxes,

and empty

jars to put it all in.

i scoop handfuls

from the dryer

and washing machine.

finding it

between the cushions

of two sofas

and an easy chair.

the bank is rarely ever happy

to see me

coming in with my

bucket of change.

lugging it with two hands.

security is alerted

as i stagger to the coin

redeeming machine.

i spend no less than

an hour at the machine

sorting through

lint and screws, paper

clips, nails

and

odds and ends

just to get some paper

money

to start all over again.

doing her Christmas cards

my mother would set

aside

about five hours to do her

Christmas cards.

with a pot of black coffee

and a pack of Virginia Slims

she'd get to it

using her favorite blue

ink cartridge pen.

waving us away,

demanding that we leave

her alone.

i'm doing Christmas cards,

she'd say.

suddenly on holy ground

where she couldn't

be reached.

go outside and play.

but it's three degrees out,

we'd tell her,

well then

put on your coat

and stop teasing your sister.

your mittens

are in the dryer.

tell me about your cookies

as i stand

in line at the post office with

my one

box

being sent to Bangor, Maine,

to an old girlfriend

who broke my

heart,

i feel

nostalgic

for Christmas.

music is playing,

the clerks

are wearing Santa hats.

i try to shake myself out

of this

sentimentality, but i can't.

the woman

in front of me

is wearing a long red

coat with a white

scarf,

there's tinsel in her hair,

and she smells of cookies

and cinnamon.

she's holding

a tin.

i want to ask her what kind,

but don't.

you can't do that anymore.

animals know as well

within

minutes you figure someone

out.

seconds, even.

it's a look,

a smile, a grimace,

body language

of some

sort giving you clues

as to what

you are to do, or say,

or possibly get up,

and move.

animals know

as well.

they'll tell you with

a wagging tail,

or growl.

the empty space beside you

when you have been married

forever,

forever being

more than ten years,

say twenty, or thirty,

and it ends,

you still reach over in the middle

of the night

for some comfort.

your hand slides over,

but there's a different

kind of empty space

beside you now.

where are you going now?

she likes golf.

in any weather,

sun or rain,

a cold wind.

okay,

she loves golf,

she's got the arms and legs,

and disposition

to be good at it.

she tells me about the front

nine, the bunker

on eleven,

the wedge,

the six iron.

she goes on and on

about the greens,

and the slow group

in front of her.

how far away to the pin

from the tee.

in the morning 

after looking out the window

for a whole three

seconds, i watch

her putting on

her golf pants,

her golf shirt,

her golf shoes and hat.

her gloves.

where are you going now?

i ponder, but

truthfully,

i don't even have to ask.

don't buy a boat

whatever you do,

she said,

don't buy a boat when you retire.

you'll be

spending all day

down at the docks,

cleaning,

rereading all of your navigational

maps.

you'll end up

buying one of those

silly anchor emblazoned

hats.

a boat will suck you dry of

every penny

you ever saved.

my father had

a boat his whole life,

and we never

saw him.

he drowned at sea, we think.

i laughed.

believe me, i told her,

i'm not a sailor,

i like to observe

the ocean, the lakes,

or even a swimming pool,

from dry land.

although i do enjoy

a long hot bath.

at four in the morning

i'd hear

the stumble of his boots,

in the late night,

after

the dying of his car,

the light

go on

as he climbed the stairs,

his body heavy

with

the life he chose,

trying so

hard to be quiet,

but we all heard him.

and then

the door would

close.

would there be words,

would

another argument

unfold?

with pillow

over our heads, we

prayed otherwise.

show me who you are

when young

and punished

by the silence

of a friend or a loved

one,

it hurts to the bone,

worries

your heart.

you want to make amends

for whatever

wrongs you

did

to cause the silence to start.

but as the years go

by,

this narcissistic behavior

has worn thin,

it has no power over you

anymore.

you laugh in the face

of it

and welcome the end.

good riddance,

water

as clear

and cold as it may be,

as

willing

as it is to come up

from the ground,

to fill

an ocean,

or fall from the sky,

or flow

down a stream,

be careful with it,

things aren't always

what they

seem.

where are you going?

there was the pocket

knife, black and dull,

used when fishing,

the marbles,

the keys, the chain

attached to nothing.

the coins

and folding money.

assorted baseball cards

for trading purposes,

and gum.

a short black comb

and magnifying glass

for burning up ants

on the sidewalk.

maybe there was a small

red radio, a transistor,

but that was all 

i could fit into my sears.

and roebucks' dungarees

when leaving the house

in the morning, with

my mother in the kitchen,

yelling out,

where are you going?

old brown shoes

funny

how over time

you don't

miss people.

people that were an important

part of your life.

once gone,

and the years roll by, 

the memory becomes

vague,

you can't remember

the good 

or the bad times.

i have shoes like that too,

stuffed in

the back corner

of a closet.

the round tin of cookies

the red

round tin of cookies

from

Swiss colony arrives

in the mail.

small

crumbly things,

factory wares,

nestled into paper cups.

my father sends it every year.

sometimes

i open it

and nibble on

selected ones, but for

the most part

they're hard

and stale.

i feel bad about regifting

them, but i do.

it truly is, though,

the thought that counts.

i'll miss these tins

at some point.

the laser beam in the morning

it's a laser

beam

that's hitting my eye

at nine

in the morning.

i hold onto

the rails,

my head secured

in a contraption

and strap

worthy of keeping

Hannibal Lechter

immobile.

it's a short procedure,

cleaning

out debris,

the fog and haze

from a lens that replaced

a cataract.

in three days, the doctor

tells me

you'll be able to see the world

clearly.

i tell him, i'm not so sure

i want that.

please, go away

someone sends

me a book,

a self-help spiritual book

called

don't waste your life.

i'm insulted

by the title alone.

and it makes me think

of all

the workers

in the world,

the machinists, the cooks,

and waiters,

the sailors,

the fishermen,

the housecleaners

on their knees

scrubbing floors.

the nannies, the trashmen,

the landscapers,

making what they can,

while they can.

putting food

on the table,

clothes on the children.

should we send

them the book too?

will you tell them too,

that they're

wasting their lives?

dreaming of a white christmas

it was around

this time of year, the holidays

when the marriage

was falling apart

that my

second wife

tapped

the phones and had me

followed.

she also download every

key stroke

on my computer

and emptied my bank account.

i remember it well.

that clicking

noise on

the phone, looking in my

rear view mirror

and seeing

her crazy sister in her

green Ford Taurus,

slumping down

in her seat, when she

saw me looking.

every morning, when we

woke up,

the ex didn't say good morning

dear, love of my life,

father of my son,

no,

instead she'd say, today

the Sherriff is coming to 

arrest you.

for what reason, she never told me.

this all took place around

the holidays,

and so now,

every time, i hear

Bing Crosby singing 

White Christmas, or i see

a tree on top of someone's car,

or the holiday inn where i stayed

at for a week,

a tear comes,

to my eye, breathing is difficult,

and i begin to have 

a panic attack.

the fifty card box

i bought the hundred card box

of Christmas cards about five

years ago.

it's Santa trying to get down

a chimney, but

he's too fat

and stuck on someone's

rooftop.

the elves are there too,

trying to push him down

with his bag of goodies.

it's a fun card, but

i have fifty-two left.

i think i've

been sending the same

card out

to my short list

of friends and relatives

for the last five years.

no one seems to care,

or at least they haven't

called me out on it.

after Christmas maybe i'll

go down

and buy another box.

maybe a twenty card box

this time.

they should be half price

by January.

you're dead to me

just because

we come from a big

Italian

family,

doesn't mean that we all like

each other.

my uncles

didn't talk to each other.

for forty years.

a few

of my brothers and sisters

have followed suit.

grudges are held, but

the memory

of why they're mad at 

each other is vague and beyond

understanding.

they ignore each

other at funerals, or weddings.

holidays, etc.

occasionally I've heard

the phrase,

they're dead to me.

it's interesting.

i try to stay out of it, but

i think a few

of them are mad at me too.

i have no idea why.

taste like chicken, or it used to

My friend Ernie

is a scientist down at the Dow

Chemical plant.

he's part of the team that invented

napalm.

i ask him

what's new, what he's been up

to lately.

bombs, chemical warfare,

any new viruses that will end

mankind as we know it?

what are you working on

these days? his face

lights up as he begins 

to tell me that they

are now able to

make anything taste

like pineapples.

that's great i tell him,

he takes a rock out of his pocket

and says, taste this.

but it looks like a rock

it is a rock,

but it tastes like pineapple.

go ahead, bite into it.

but i'll break my teeth.

no you won't. we found

a way to soften it up.

it's completely harmless

other than tooth decay

and affecting your insulin

resistance, and has zero

 nutritional value, but it

has a very nice flavor.

it won't kill you, at least so

far we haven't had anyone

die from eating them.

i slowly chew on the little rock.

damn, i tell him,

it does taste a lot like pineapple.

amazing.

but i think they've already invented

these things, Doc.

they call them gummy bears.

no, no, these are different.

these aren't shaped like bears,

these will be shaped like

tiny pineapples,

we're working on the whole

fruit world.

bananas, cherries, apples.

with this secret flavoring technique

we can make

anything taste like whatever 

we want it to.

fish, meat, chicken.

how great would it be to take

a bite into

flounder and it tastes like

a cherry pie?

we can make them any flavor

you want.

but hey, nice chatting,

i have to run and get

down to the lab.

we're having a little trouble with

the kiwi flavor.

the end is near

the end is near,

repent,

the sign says,

held by

a man in a white sheet,

with a grey beard

and a

helmet on his head.

he's out there

every year,

around the holidays.

but nothing happens.

we're still here, 

and no one

seems to be repenting,

except those that

got caught.

dominion towing

when you

wake up and your car is gone,

you sigh.

you walk up and down

the street

thinking that maybe, just

maybe

you didn't park it in front

of your house

like you've done

a thousand times.

but it's gone, so you call

the police,

they tell you it's been towed.

your inspection sticker

is one day late.

condo rules, the inbred man,

says, cross eyed, with no teeth.

he's jittery

behind the plexiglass

and iron mesh, smoking

a hand rolled cigarette.

you slide him money

through the narrow slot,

and he slides you a receipt.

predatory towing at its best.

three a.m. going home

it's an odd hour

to be out in,

to be on

the street wandering home.

hands in your pockets.

it's cold.

and the sky is confusing

with a smattering

of jagged stars..

it's a strange time

to be alive in,

a haunting

bite of hour, somewhere

between

night

and morning.

with no around,

but shadows,

a lost soul

on a stoop, cried out

and leaning

against a door.

there's

the siren, there's a dog

howling,

there's the sad lament

of a flugelhorn.

she secretly hates me

i think

my doctor secretly hates me.

she winces

when i tell her

about the latest YouTube

video i watched

on A1C,

and lowering

triglycerides.

i go on and on about,

HDL and LDL

explaining to her

in excruciating detail how

one needs to eliminate

sugar 

and go low carb.

she humors me with

a grin. says, shhh, shhh,

that's nice,

now open wide,

then tells me to roll up

my sleeve

before she sticks a

needle in.

he never stopped barking

i have a lot of dreams

about my

dog Moe, dearly departed,

crazy Moe,

a short haired

wild eyed Dachshund.

ten years gone

he's still in my head,

in my bed,

at my feet.

i hear him bark and growl.

i can feel the weight 

of him in my lap.

his rough wet tongue licking

my knee.

that noise in the kitchen

is him in the trash.

at some point i should

throw his dog

dish out, and take his

leash off the hook.

he never saw a truck

that he didn't want to chase,

or a mailman he didn't

want to bite.

i have a picture of him

trying to 

get into the tv,

barking at a cartoon horse.

would i get another one,

another dog?

i take the folder of vet

bills out,

and examine the cost.

every time he ate something

dead in the woods

i had to take him to the mayo

clinic for dogs.

so, would i get another one,

nah, not on your life.

Louie Louie

just as we laughed

at our

parents or grandparents

telling us

tales of walking ten

miles in the snow

to get to school,

our children laugh at us

when we reminisce

about ten cent cokes,

a dime for a phone call.

quarter hamburgers

and twelve cent fries.

we tell them about hiding

under our desks

to protect us from 

the atomic bomb.

we talk about 
Elvis and Chubby

Checker, doing the twist,

the limbo,

how we grew our hair

long like the Beatles,

and how we knew the words

to every song 

from Marvin Gaye

to the Dave Clark Five,

every song

on the radio that is,

except of course,

Louie Louie.

high top white

the trick was

keeping your high top

white converse

sneakers,

chuck Taylor's white.

keeping them

clean

and new looking

for an entire 

summer

despite all the games

on the playground

and the street,

an occasional fight.

it was a nightly

ritual,

holding them up

to the light

with a scrub brush

and bleach.

then setting them

under your bed

for the next day.

25 per cent tip

my ex called

me out on it once.

she said i tipped more

when the waitress

was young

and attractive.

sexy in a wholesome way.

which was probably true.

i asked my therapist

why this was,

what was wrong with

me that i did this.

and she laughed and told

me that her

husband

and brothers,

and even her father

did that too.

the Chinatown bus

cramped

in the bus, standing up,

hanging onto

the overhead

strap,

i sway back and forth,

back and forth.

elbows and shoulders

against one another.

it's a  metal can

from hell

bouncing down

the New Jersey turnpike.

i long

for a window to be open.

the bus driver

is eating

a bowl of rice and broccoli,

and smoking.

the old have found

their seats,

the young, the pregnant

women.

there's even a crate

of chickens

taking up an entire row.

it's a long way

to Penn Station

from China Town.

but for a round trip

it's only fifty bucks.

we can do this.

it's never my fault

do we need to assign

fault and blame,

to every

mishap that occurs in our life?

the flood,

the fire,

the marriage gone

awry.

the spoiled child,

the untamed

dog.

who's to blame for 

the bad

grade in school, the awful

job,

the fat around

one's belly.

who did this to me?

tell me

who it is, they need to

make things right.

he was a very good dog

the dog

was patient.

he'd sit by the side of the bed,

and look upwards

towards

the noise of us

making love.

sometimes he'd

yawn

and look at his watch,

wondering when

it would all be over.

he'd lie there

curled in a ball with

his brown

eyes wide open.

finally

after a few

loud sighs and

oh my Gods,

he'd hop up and snuggle

between us

in the middle.

he was 

a very good dog.

i like it that way too

she keeps me

on my toes, with her hair

styles.

i never know

for sure

what she'll look like,

curly and frizzy, red

or blonde,

a shade

of marigold

with a streak of blue.

flat and straight,

or parted

to the side,

or gelled.

i'm always amused,

and tell her

always that it looks

just swell.

all the news i need

the weather

report is all i really need

to get

by on.

spare me the new,

the local,

the world, 

the universe beyond

our view.

just tell me if i need

to put a jacket on,

if i need to grab

my umbrella,

gloves? a hat?

give me the weather,

your basic, wet,

cold, or warm,

and then i'm

done.

don't forget to write

i can only

hike about five miles

and then

i have to stop and get a sandwich

and a coffee

somewhere.

same with

biking. five miles

and my butt hurts.

i'm bored out of my mind.

i can't even be on a bus

or a boat,

or in a car

for that long,

let alone walk.

i have no desire to be

Columbus,

or Lewis and Clark.

i'd be in the crowd

at the dock,

waving from the pier

as the Mayflower

took off.

don't forget to write,

i'd yell out,

then head back home

for a pot roast.

hiking the Appalachian Trail

she told me

that she used to hike through

the woods

with her

shirt off.

what? i said. no shirt,

no bra,

nothing?

it was hot, she said,

and there was no one

around

that stretch of the Appalachian

Trail for days

and  miles.

what about bug bites,

or bears,

snakes,

and hillbillies lurking

in the Georgia woods?

i didn't care, she said.

i just wanted to feel

the fresh cool air on my body.

i don't believe

you, i told her. show me.

let's go hiking.

no, she said.

i haven't known you

for that long. plus i was

drinking and doing a lot

of mushrooms

at the time.

the know it all Bubba

so which is it?

i ask

my know it all friend Bubba.

he knows everything

about everything.

so which is the bad

cholesterol

and which is the good

cholesterol?

HDL, LDL?

he laughs

and throws back his head.

taking the cigar

out of his mouth.

they aren't good

or bad.

there is no connection

between heart

disease and high cholesterol.

they've been scamming

us for seventy years

about a low fat diet.

they just want to sell you statins.

which ruin your liver,

and brings on diabetes.

the drug companies

are making a fortune on this baloney.

what you need to worry about

is your blood pressure

and your triglycerides.

colorful tombstones

it was the kind

of neighborhood that never

threw away

their cars

or washing machines,

or refrigerators.

like tombstones

they found their way

into the side yard,

or in the driveway.

all tombstones of a sort

representing

happier times.

when money was flush,

before the third

divorce.

the blue chevy on blocks,

the pink

ice box,

the periwinkle blue

washer

and dryer,

all of them set out to rust.

her dangerous perfume

she won me over

with her

new perfume.

it was called Ocean City.

Maryland.

it had the distinct

scent of boardwalk

fries

and chicken.

cotton candy

and salt water taffy.

i wanted to eat her arms,

her legs,

i wanted 

to put her fingers into

ketchup

and nibble.

and oh, her biscuits,

a drizzle of honey

was in the mix too.

what is a woman? an easy question

it used to be easy

to define

what a woman is, or what

a man is.

it was pretty much

a visual check,

a quick peek down

a pair of trousers,

or a lift of the dress

to determine,

what the deal was

down there.

the x and y chromosome

count

seemed to nail

it down too.

but things have changed.

the world 

and so many troubled

souls have

gone insane.

Code Blue ASAP

we have

become doctors, each

of us

under the spell

of the web,

web md,

and other assorted

sites

to find out what ails

us.

that sudden appearance

of a lump,

the bruise that won't

heal,

that bloody nose,

the fatigue,

the tingling in our

fingers, our toes.

we take our pulse,

check our

glucose monitor,

our blood pressure.

we prick our

fingers for a dot of blood,

we're doctor

Kildare, doctor Zhivago,

doctor Welby and

doctor House,

all rolled into one.

sweeping the room

there is therapy

in

the long broom,

the wooden handle being

pulled,

the swish

of nylon strands

across the dusty room.

cleanliness

being close

to Godliness

as they say, but in 

the end,

not so.

my mind and heart

are both still filled

with trouble.

5 minute cake

it's

early, but we're both up

for a little

monkey business

before work.

why not?

what are we living for

anyway

if we can't have a slice

of cake

once in awhile.

even it only takes

five minutes to devour.

the grizzly bear

i misjudged you.

i underestimated your intelligence,

your cleverness

and sneaky

ways.

i thought you were a dumb

bunny for the longest

times.

a deer in the headlight,

not a grizzly bear

in a cave.

you really fooled me.

and they know that

we go along with it,

we're trusting

people,

one size fits all the sign

says,

never needs ironing.

a lifetime guarantee.

all your daily

nutrients in one

candy bar.

till death do us part.

we want to believe.

what we hear and read.

and they know that.

as the water boils

there

was something about

her sitting

there

on the stool, a potato

in one

hand,

a metal peeler

in the other,

her hands

raw and red

from

doing all the things

that mothers

do,

from sunrise until

bed.

there was something 

serene

about her peeling

and peeling,

one potato after another

as the water came

to a boil.

too hard to be friends

when

young we accept the dopey

friends.

the loud,

the obnoxious, the dumb

the know it alls,

the liars

and losers,

we bend. we're young

too.

we have room in our

lives

for them.

but as time goes on,

you distance

yourself.

you lose their numbers,

you lose touch.

you no longer make

room,

it's too hard

to be friends.

there's something i need to tell you

there often comes a point

in a relationship

when one person,

usually the woman,

bows her head,

and takes your hands

into hers and says

in a quiet voice, there's

something i need to tell you.

it could be nothing

it could be that she has

three cats, or is in debt,

or loves to collect

porcelain elephants.

or it could be that she

says something like,

despite what i've said,

and what my photographs

appear to be,

i'm not a woman beneath

this dress.

Vertigo

as i climb

the stairs that twist and twist

into

the air, up into

the castle tower,

my legs begin to weaken.

at each

port window

i stare out

at the increasing distance

between me

and the earth.

i keep going up

and up

and up, until i reach the

top.

i'm dizzy,

frightened, a wave

of fear comes

over me.

sweat is pouring off

my brow.

it's happened, again,

vertigo,

no different than when i

made my

wedding vows.

15 per cent?

how much

is enough tip, i ask,

as we sit,

not eating the bad meal.

cold,

and stiff in our plates,

inedible.

the meat

like a leather strap,

the potatoes

chilled white lumps.

the roughage

of salad

drenched

in a orange colored

dressing. French?

how much

is enough, i ask.

you decide, she says.

i'll go warm

the car up, there's a

McDonald's nearby.

hold onto your hats

i see his

hat

blow off in the wind.

he chases it

down the boulevard.

as it spins wildly

gaining speed.

it's that kind

of day

today.

that kind of world

this year.

hold onto your hats

my friend.

egg nogg and cookies

the mean woman

in the neighborhood, not

the meanest,

but part of a coven

of witches

that run

the condo board, walks

by with her dog.

she's wearing

Christmas yoga pants

with reindeers

and elves printed all

over them.

she has candy canes

for earrings.

a part of me wants to

yell at her for not

replacing the bush in

front of my house that

died during the summer,

but i resist the temptation.

i'm trying so hard to be

a better person with a new

year approaching.

but still i can't help but

smile when i see her

walking away, thinking

she really needs to lay off

the egg nogg and cookies.

the morning ritual

after retrieving

the newspaper and a jug

of milk from

the front porch,

in my boxer shorts,

i wait for water

to boil

before pouring it over

a sleeve

of coffee grounds,

i do some push ups

on the kitchen floor,

a few sit ups.

i stretch, i yawn, i moan.

like a broken ballerina.

i feel as if might break

in two. i swallow

a few aspirins with

a gulp of sink water,

then turn

on the radio.

it's a commercial

for a senior home.

how do they know?

it's worse than what you think

she worked

deep

into the halls and

corridors

of the government.

in a skiff where

phones weren't allowed.

they looked

into her eyes

to see who she was

before entering

the locked vault door.

it was all top secret,

classified.

i'd ask her what's the state

of the world.

are we good, or what?

and she'd smile.

it's much worse

than anything you could

imagine,

she'd say.

but i can't talk about it.

maybe one day.

but not right now.

your ship is coming

we wait

and we wait,

we wait some more.

we are patient souls.

our ship

will come as promised,

it will,

of course.

not to worry,

not to fret.

be still, it's coming

coming,

it's coming.

soon

you will be at rest.

the love of stew

she knows

my weakness.

i can smell

the pot

of stew

as i come home

from work, beat,

shaking

the snow off of me.

removing my boots.

the meat and potatoes,

the carrots

and onions filling

the house

with warmth

the bread.

a simple thing

it is

to show love.

by food, grateful

to be home,

grateful

to be fed.

with callouses on our knees

even

the yogi curses

when

stubbing his toe.

the priest,

the pope,

the local pastor.

we're all the same

when it comes

to desires

and pain.

bowing to our nature

we wander

to the other side again

and again.

no matter how

hard we've

knelt and prayed.

we're still human

and continue

to make the same

mistakes.

slipping into the fog

partially

awake, i slip into the fog,

the rain

of December.

how deep

the woods are this

early

in the day.

too cold, too wet,

for many.

i take the path

less

traveled this time,

into

the mud and bramble,

down

to where

the thick stream

rolls.

to where the trees

have been

engraved by young

lovers,

who are now

suddenly old.

beginners yoga class

i don't understand

why

you want me

to do this, i tell my yoga

instructor,

Shamika Ghandi formerly,

known as Betty Buttermilk.

why in the ham sandwich

do you want

me to put my ankles

around my head?

i get the praying mantis thing,

and the stretches

and deep breaths, but

i haven't been able

to accomplish this feat

since i was a baby

and my mother was

changing

my diaper.

i need to see you after

class she says.

please still your voice.

you're disturbing

the others.

i murmur a curse word

under my breath then

i try as hard as i can

to place one leg

behind my head,

i hear bones cracking,

and tendons

snapping. i become a human

ball of pain.

i fall into the woman

beside me,

making her scream

and roll against the wall,

bumping her head.

whoops, i tell her, sorry.

so sorry.

would you be a dear and

help me

get out of this?

the new doctor

my new

doctor is young.

he's working on his first mustache

and is wearing

Crocs.

there's a tattoo of

Hippocrates

on his arm,

or is that some new

hipster

that i haven't heard of.

i see it as he asks me to open

wide,

throwing a light

down my

throat, holding back

my tongue

with a wooden spoon.

i have shoes

older than him.

there's not a wrinkle

on his skin.

he smells like fresh flowers

in the spring.

what could he possibly

know that i don't know from

researching

WebMD online?

finding a new religion

i go to the prison

to visit an old friend.

he's doing five to nine on

a bank robbery

that went awry.

he tells me he's religious

now as he puts his

hand up against

the bullet proof glass

that separates us

i put my hand against

his, which makes the guard

laugh for some reason.

so which religion are you

now, I ask him.

Presbyterian? Muslim,

Catholic?

Scientologist?

it depends, he says. i think

i'm all of them at the moment.

i'm covering my bases

on the whole heaven and hell

thing, plus you get your

sentenced reduced

if you attend services.

i could be out by next

Christmas.

so tell me about that new

bank in your neighborhood,

he says. how's the parking?

what's the set up

on the inside?

any guards with weapons?

a trail of blood

i spend the day

cleaning out the large kitchen

drawer

full of knives

and spatulas.

butcher knives,

serrated knives,

steak knives

it appears that i have three

of everything.

cork screws,

potato peelers,

pointed steel skewers,

graters, bottle openers,

meat thermometers, etc.

there's nothing in

this drawer that i haven't

accidentally cut my

hands on at some point

in concocting a gourmet

meal for a dinner guest.

the drawer below that one

is full of band aids

and bandages,

ointments, and an oft

used tourniquet.

small but fierce

we knew

each other in high school.

a small

and scrawny guy, but

he was angry

then, and

he's angry now.

a brawler,

he was, and still is.

always looking for a fight.

God help

the driver in the car

that cuts him

off.

or if someone

looks him in the eye.

his face

was scarred with

old stitches like a hockey

player,

and his wife

seemed to always have

a black

eye and an arm

in a cast.

i didn't ask.

i try to avoid his calls.

five miles in the woods

in her boots

and flannel shirt,

she liked

to hike and camp,

tramp

through the woods.

she knew

all the trees, the brooks,

the hills

and gullies

we might come upon.

she knew

every snake

in the forest, every bear.

she knew

where to step,

where to beware.

she had a compass,

and a whistle,

and a bandana to pull

back her hair.

it was our first

and only date, but

i let her lead the way,

because i had

no clue

what i was doing there.

two people in a car eating Chinese food with chopsticks

i saw them in their,

car, an old car.

it looked like an ancient

police car.

dents were

in the white door.

who were they?

two friends, husband and wife?

strangers

to me.

but what caught my

eye

was the bright red

and green

Christmas sweaters

they had were wearing.

the back seat was full

of wrapped

gifts to the roof.

i got into my car,

beside them, having

finished with my shopping,

but i wanted to know

more.

i could see that

they were eating

Chinese food out of

white boxes with

chopsticks.

their windows were half steamed

from the food.

they seemed hungry,

going at it

without talking. they seemed

to have nothing to say

to each other anymore.

who were they, 

where were they going?

i wanted to know

what's the deal here?

yes, there is something

wrong with me.

tell me what you need

i ask

Lilly, the black cat

that wanders

the neighborhood, how

she's doing?

long time no see, i tell

her as she

slowly

comes across the street.

i sit down on the stoop

and wait for her.

she settles herself

on the step beside me. then

she rubs her head

against my leg, my knee.

i straighten

her tail with a closed

loose fist, this makes

her purr, and stare

at me with those glass

green eyes.

what's going on?

Lilly,

tell me what you need.

we're getting older,

aren't we,

so quickly the years

go by.

it's for the better good

as she

pats the crook

of my arm with

wet gauze,

the scent of alcohol

hanging

in the air,

she

slips the needle gently

into a tapped vein

to pull

our a crimson cloud

of blood,

filling three small

vials.

the glass holding

it all in

the fluorescent

lights, like candy.

i cringe,

but don't look.

it's for the better good

of me,

i tell myself when

subjected to any kind of pain.

let's see

what lies below 

the surface.

just be home before dark

do you

ever forget your first bicycle?

never.

it was

your first method of transportation

getting you

away

from everything.

it was a rocket

ship

to mars,

a train,

a bus, a car. off you'd go,

out and beyond your

street,

your neighborhood,

the world

was suddenly

wide open,

with air in the tires

and your tireless

legs taking you afar.

you were Magellan,

Columbus,

exploring the unknown

world.

you just had to be home

for dinner,

before dark.

big fat babies

we learn

early to negotiate.

as a child

we learn that if we cry

we get

the bottle,

the juice, the candy,

someone will

pick us up

and sing us a lullaby.

our brains

get wired, it's why

we can't wait

in lines,

why we whine and

complain

when things don't

go our way.

we're fat babies now

in a world

of cribs.

leave them where they are

an army

of green vested men

arrive.

it's that time of year

again

for leaf blowing.

armed

to the teeth

with blowers, loud

tubes of air,

gas driven,

pushing

mother nature

into a giant heap

at the end of the road

where

a truck sucks it all

in for transport

somewhere.

no one

owns a rake anymore.

just plugs

for their ears.

anyone out there?

where are the bright,

the young

the moral,

the intellects, the leaders?

how did we

end up with

criminals

in power, old men,

old women.

we need someone

anyone

who can articulate

a thought,

be true to his word,

someone

that believes

in God,

anyone not going to

prison or who isn't 

wearing Depends.

nature finds a way

was it the coldest

winter

in memory, perhaps,

perhaps.

the drifts

were over the cars,

the railroad was closed.

the pipes froze,

the lights went out

as power

lines went down.

people got sick

and died

in their homes with

no way to be rescued.

the young,

the old. and yet

more babies were

conceived

in those three months

than

in the last ten years

together.

nature has a way of

evening things out.

is it okay if we skip tonight?

i knew

i was in trouble when

she said,

that we shouldn't have

sex on our

wedding night.

i think i drank too much

champagne

and ate too much

cake. she said,

besides that,

i'm tired,

it was a long day.

we haven't even opened

all the gifts yet.

i think we got three

toaster ovens

and two microwaves.

we never should have registered

at Best Buy.

is it okay

if i sleep in the other room

tonight?

what other room?

i asked her.

the other room in the hotel,

she said,

i can't sleep with your snoring

so i booked us two 

rooms.

would that be okay?

buyers remorse

we all have it,

a bit of buyers remorse

when

it come to purchases.

we save

the receipts

just in case.

we save the box,

the tracking code,

the label.

the emails, and texts.

we never know if what

we bought will

fit.

will it look the way

we thought it would

in the store,

or online.

she taught me that.

sometimes she never even

opened the box,

but just sent things

back.

focus on the red ribbon

i can hang

twenty rolls of unpasted 

designer wallpaper

on a cathedral

ceiling,

but for the life

me,

i can't wrap a shoe box with

wrapping paper

for Christmas.

it's a hack job with

a lots of tape.

focus on the red ribbon, 

please.

the sweet sound of your muffled voice

it's not so bad

losing

some range in your hearing.

no more

do you hear the persistent

ticking of the clock,

the baby next

door

is just a small cry now.

and when we

argue,

i only catch every other

angry word

you speak.

although, i am worried

about the smoke

alarm going off.

so here's the plan

so here's the plan,

the leader

tells his gang of soldiers

as they're having a pot luck

dinner one night

by candle light

in a cave.

he draws out a map

on a large napkin. Jimmy,

you still have

that tractor with the plow on it?

good, we can

cut the wire there, there and there,

then jump

the border. everyone bring

their tin snips.

once we're in we

randomly kill

a bunch of innocent people,

rape, murder, pillage

and rob,

set fire to their homes,

then we scurry back

with a few hundred of them

and tie them up.

women, babies, children,

old people,

it makes no never mind.

we hold them hostage.

it's our ace in the hole.

then we'll crawl back

into our tunnels

beneath schools and churches,

hospitals, daycare centers,

and playgrounds, where

we store our bombs and missiles,

our ammunition

and guns.

they'll never get us there.

the world is on our side, right?

and remember,

we're freedom fighters, not terrorists.

so who's in?

can i get an Amen?

come on, we can win this thing.

how about a hip hip hooray?

pass me

another hunk of bread, please,

and some cheese.

then we all need some sleep,

it's going to be a busy

day tomorrow.

flapping his wings

he's a snow

bird

now, locking up the house

and heading

south,

Tampa to be exact

to wait

out the winter

up north.

he likes to fish

and play golf,

ride his bike

and walk.

he has a friend there,

he tells me,

with a wink.

in April he returns.

he has a friend

here too,

i imagine.

a box of white lies

i fudged my

age on the dating site once

upon a time.

i made myself 

just two years younger.

i thought

two years made a huge

difference

in finding ms. right.

but she called me

on it.

and said, how could you

lie like that?

why, why, why?

what else are you hiding?

so i asked her, tell me

what color your hair

really is?

what does your face

look like

behind all that makeup.

tell me about your Botox

injections,

your liposuction,

your face job?

your spray on tan?

tell me the truth about

all the men

you're still seeing behind

my back.

let's make it easy,

hand me your phone.

another la dee da day

the irony

of being involved with a

psychopathic

narcissistic person,

is that

when it ends

we're the ones seeking

therapy

and help

for the mental illness

that they

infected us with, but

they continue on,

doing what

crazy people do.

it's just another la dee da

day for them,

as the skip about

their life,

off to

infect someone new.

the Exxon Christmas card

i finally get

the annual

Christmas card from the corner

gas station.

The Exxon Station

where i get my gas

and my cars

inspected.

it's a beautiful card,

long and wide

and when i open it up,

music plays.

Bing Crosby

singing White Christmas.

angels pop up,

and there's

Santa in a sleigh flying

across the star

lit sky.

it's a beautiful card,

so lovely

that I ignore

the grease on the envelope

and coupons

for an oil

change inside.

you too, i tell her

are you

following me on twitter

or X

or whatever it's called now?

she asks

me, as i lie out in the sun

listening

to the birds

doing what birds do

in the woods.

did you see

what i posted yesterday?

you won't believe

how many

hits i got.

my followers

are going crazy

over what i said.

it's chaos.

you should 

really join.

you're missing out on

so much of

what's going on in

the world.

you too, i tell her,

you too.

not going by the book

i prefer the simple

recipe.

the one where i don't have

to measure

and weigh,

or time

anything.

put the book away,

let's

see what we have here.

let our

tasted buds

lead the way.

i'm tired

of going by the book.

where has it

gotten me?

the old school

how easily

we slip into reminiscing

about

the good old days.

the neighborhood,

the street

we grew up on.

the games we played,

the girls

we fell in love with.

the school

we attended.

how safe it is to return

home again.

it warms us,

brings us closer

before the end.

do we still need men

apparently

the world still needs men,

despite

the  trend

that women claim

that we can live

without them,

who will build,

who

will repair

and climb, and dig and

tunnel,

who will be

there when

the lights go out?

who will

stand and fight,

defend.

despite the current

thoughts

of women?

i do believe it will be

mostly men.

per usual.

the crazy kiss

at the party,

under the mistletoe,

when we first met,

she took a bite

out of my

cheek,

feigning a kiss,

ala

Sylvia Plath,

i yelped

placing my hand

on the fresh

wound.

the blood ran down

my face

as she laughed.

it was the beginning

of something,

something strange

and beyond

understanding.

how long

could this possibly last?

surprise snow

to wake

up to snow is a wonder

if there

is nowhere

you need to be

or go.

it's been so long

since

we've had such an

overnight

blanket

of white.

a foot deep at least.

let's sit by the window

for a while

and watch

it come down,

then

we'll put our boots on,

our winter

coats, our gloves,

our hats,

grab

our shovels

and head out.

toss the old

the garbage

heaps up outside our homes.

it's not

just washers

and dryers anymore,

old Ford Pintos.

it's televisions,

fat or flat screens,

and phones, computers,

laptops

and i pads,

most just a few

years old.

7 G

follows 5 G,

another version, new

and improved,

of an

android or apple phone.

it's Christmas

open wide

as they push them all

down

our throats,

convincing us that new

is better,

toss the old.

the progress of man

the progress of man

engaged in war,

is easy to follow.

i think it started with a rock.

a sling shot,

then a bone,

maybe

a stick,

which became an arrow.

then some smarty

pants beat some metal

into a sword

and then

they figured out

how to boil

oil

and pour it down

the castle walls.

they flung fire into

the attacking

mobs.

it wasn't long before

a gun came

about, a handy little

six shooter

nestled in a holster,

then a rifle then a machine

gun.

Nobel invented

dynamite

at some point, which

made it easy to blow up

a lot of people

all at once.

then

a mathematical genius,

or three,

got busy on

their blackboards

and figured out a way

to end it all

with one big crazy bomb.

ah, the progress of man.

who to believe and follow

the world

is chock full of influencers.

men and women

degreed

or not degreed,

proselytizing

their beliefs on religion

and diet,

exercise.

the climate, the wars,

the borders.

their way or the highway.

drink this,

eat this,

pray like i'm praying

if you want

to get to heaven.

save whales,

kill the babies.

electricity or oil, pick

your poison.

it's an industry of chaos

and confusion,

who to believe, who

to follow.

when it's best to figure

it out

on your own.

let your gut be your guide,

not your

phone.

this won't be good

when the bombs

at last

fall, and the earth is scorched,

wasted,

you wonder

how long you'd survive

in that mess.

a week, a month?

but what would be the point,

no coffee shops,

no netflix.

would i still have to walk

my dog

on a leash, or would all 

the rules be

broken?

no electricity or water

to speak of.

we'd be back to rubbing

two sticks together

for fire.

ten minutes for a quarter

let's stop

for the night, i told her as

we pulled

into the roadside motel

off 95, heading

south.

we'd been driving

in the rain for ten hours.

she was already half

asleep.

it was a cheap room,

with a clerk

with one eye at the desk.

he gave us the key

and we went

in, falling

onto the hard bed.

there was a meter next

to it, that made

the bed vibrate. i slid

a quarter in making the mattress

shake like

bacon on a griddle.

this made her wake

up, and put her arms

around me.

okay, she said. but hurry,

i'm nearly dead.

and then she got old

she had

power over men and she knew it.

she clubbed

them with

her curves

and hair, her long

lashes. she

made fools of them,

as they reached

for her

skirt, her womanly wares.

all eyes

fell on her.

it was a game

she never lost.

another man, another notch.

then she got

old.

game over.

inside the fog

a soft

grey fog arrives

in the early morning,

a blur

of half light

before sunrise.

a hollow

of air

to get lost in, 

a strange delight

before coming out

the other side,

the best years

there are defining

moments in one's life, 

a mix of tragedy

and joy,

but then

there are long stretches

of nothing.

years of quietly

going about

your days, your nights.

savor these times.

relish the lack

of noise.

sailors

with her

father at the helm

of the boat,

we parted from the dock

and headed

to Smith Island.

no words,

nothing said, for how

could we

manage a conversation

in the wind

and noise

from the growling

engine as it plowed

the bay.

it was an uneventful voyage,

but the last one.

i could see they were

alike,

her father and her.

impenetrable, eyes

cast on distant shores.

cutting up earth worms

as kids

when we went fishing

in the potomac river

five miles

from where we lived,

we'd get up

early to find worms

in the back yard.

digging them

up under

the wet grass with a spoon

we found

in the kitchen.

the sun would barely

be up.

ten worms was plenty

to last the whole

day.

cutting them into

thirds

with a pen knife,

then

placing them in a

sandwich bag.

we were good at math,

not so much at fishing.