youtube, the new wizard of oz

he tells me that his

son

has dropped out of Harvard.

he says,

why go

to school

when there's YouTube on

his phone.

ask me a question,

ask me

anything, the son told him,

and i'll give you the answer

in three seconds.

why fill up my brain with

useless information,

when its right there

for the asking.

i guess he has a point.

the family

is buying

a new house, a new boat,

and taking

longer vacations now

with no

more tuition.

YouTube is sending him

a certificate,

giving him an honorary

doctorate

for googling.

baby you can drive my car

i have a corvette now,

a sting ray,

she says,

rubbing her hand along

her smooth

skin,

her lineless

cheeks

and forehead,

recently injected with 

a heavy

dose of Botox.

she brushes back

the extensions of her long

blonde hair.

her breasts don't bounce

like they used to,

and 

the visceral fat

has been

drained

from her now slender

waistline.

you'd have to do carbon

dating to

find her real age now.

you've changed i tell her.

i know she says.

but only

on the outside.

the inside is still the same.

do you want to drive

my car?

it's emerald green.

jumping the shark

when my

mother posted a recipe for 

chicken

noodle

soup onto her Facebook page,

with a series

of photos

showing the process,

i kind of figured

that the jig was up.

the venue had jumped

the shark.

she got

about a thousand

likes,

and acquired

more friends

than i'll every have in

a lifetime.

let's lie down on the highway and other moronic ideas

if we lie

down on the highway and block

traffic

making

the lives of others

miserable,

the war will

end,

oil consumption

will disappear,

hunger

will no longer be an issue.

peace will

arrive

by the new year.

if we glue ourselves

to the road,

and join

arms,

marching down Broadway,

chanting loudly a dr. Suess

styled

poem about genocide,

we can make the world

right again,

at least in our eyes.

come join

us and let's shut down

the city,

let's block the road on

route sixty-five.

troubles solved

two drinks,

of scotch on ice

would often be enough,

but three

would 

definitely suffice,

allowing

the epiphany to arrive.

troubles solved,

with elbows

on the bar of a smoke

filled room,

but soon forgotten

in the morning

light.

the big muddy

it used to be,

we'd think, that this too will

blow over,

that things

would settle and some sort

of normalcy

would return. but

it just doesn't feel that way

anymore.

we're neck deep

in the big muddy,

sinking slowly, but

surely

into a bottomless pit

of quicksand.

church mice

poor at first,

church mice eating the crumbs

of wedding

cakes

and rice.

she hung

the curtains in the window,

lace

white,

while i put shelves up

for the books

we were

yet to buy.

was love enough, to go on.

for awhile

it was,

but not for long.

the harbor lights

the water,

an endless horizon

of cold blue,

a plume

of a

distant

moon, the arm of it

on

the bay,

between the harbor lights.

the boats are in

at last.

the beach is clear of

children and tourists,

of lovers

hand in hand,

only the elderly are out,

sleepless,

gouging the sand

with bare feet, 

walking, seeking refuge,

a meaning

to their life.

driven to whiskey on a winter night

it says wireless,

and yet

here i am with a snake

pit of wires

in my lap.

Bluetooth, dear lord,

save me

from this technological

wrath.

i just want

to hear a song,

i want to drop the needle

on the long

play

record, i want to flip

the switch

and turn

my transistor radio on,

i want to hear what i want to hear.

i don't want to

pair anything, or download

software,

or connect

anything to anything

anymore.

i don't want my device

searching the universe,

like Telstar,

for a speaker.

i just want to hear the music

and dance

like in the old days,

once more.

absent of fantasy

no longer

in love with what's sweet,

what's

shiny,

what glimmers in

the light

of day.

no longer persuaded

by whispered

words,

or seductive

eyes, i've moved on

to a healthier

way of living.

a life absent of fantasy,

absent of lies.

we'll talk about my heart tomorrow

it is the book half

read,

turned

on its face, waiting

for you

to read more,

it is

your purse

on the table, open

from when

your hand last entered

for a brush,

or phone,

or lipstick.

it is the cup on the counter,

three sips gone,

the note

on the door.

the cold food

for tomorrow on

the shelf.

it's the soft dent in the pillow

and bed

where you slept.

it's this and more

that defines your absence.

we'll talk about

my heart

tomorrow.

the rain is coming

be patient

the clouds tell you.

thick and dark

in the distance.

we're coming,

we're on our way.

hold on.

sit tight.

get ready.

your prayers are

about to be

answered.

we'll make your

barren land

right.

fame and fortune

sales are down.

people

are not buying the books.

books

that i slaved

over

sitting in my underwear

drinking coffee

before work.

how will i ever make

a buck,

or gain a smidgen

of fame,

this way?

where's my Pulitzer,

my Nobel Prize,

where's the fame and fortune?

maybe it's no ones

cup of tea

after all.

oh well.

next page.

an excusable mix up

as the return line

edges

forward

at the lingerie store,

snaking out the door,

i hold

the light boxes,

and the receipts in my hand.

how could i

get the wrong

sizes again,

i look at the tattered list

of names.

medium

small

and large, Lisa, Donna,

Joanne.

in my mind,

it's an excusable

mix-up 

once more.

a hard snow

the snow

is falling so fast and hard

that it

fills my

footsteps before

i can even look back.

i'll be lost for sure

in these woods.

the dark stones of trees.

i'll freeze to death.

no one knows i'm out here.

no one knows

that i've left.

but i press on just

the same.

i'm half way in, half way

out,

again.

a life half over

the children

in their thirties are still

on

the gravy train,

the government dole,

asleep

in the cellar

of their parent's home,

grad school,

an endless

process

with no job

in site.

no love interest.

the bills paid, the laundry

done,

dinner at six,

the blue

screens alight.

allergic to work,

to ambition,

afraid

of an adult life.

waiting for the trust fund

or will

to kick in

when the old folk

finally die.

all the pretty girls going by

their charms

are visible.

quite visible,

aligned seductively

in a series of curves,

and 

creases,

shapes

held together by

a polyester blend

of new age

tights.

we're suckers for

such charm,

from birth

through the middle years.

all the way

until closing time.

we can't help

ourselves,

even at ninety-one

on the park

bench,

bearded white,

we watch intently

at all the pretty girls

running by.

dill pickles are the reason

disturbing news?

oh really,

do tell,

what news isn't? where

are the cats

stuck

in the tree,

the canary singing,

the bake off

down

the street, where

are the boy scouts,

the girl

scouts, the skaters

on the pond.

the choir of elderly?

show me

the woodpecker

in the tree,

the geese flying south.

where is the oldest man

alive

who ate pickles everyday,

claiming it to be the reason

for his longevity?

give me

some soft ball reports,

so tired of gloom

and misery.

the pancake train

it's hard to shake,

that image,

waking up with pancakes

on your mind.

large round

fluffy

pancakes

with a side order

of sausage links,

dripping in syrup,

fat pads of butter

melting at the top

of the stack.

it's like sex, once on

your mind

settles

on something,

and the match is lit,

it's hard to turn

that train around,

and go back.

eating dead things

i take the dog

into the animal hospital.

again.

credit card in hand.

he's eaten

parts of a dead bird, or squirrel

or some undefinable

animal,

on the edge

of the road.

he's quick with his bite

into the greying

carcass,

no pull on the leash can

stop him.

and now,

there he goes into the back

room,

muzzled, and shaking

with fear for what comes

next.

the blood drawn,

the mouth opened,

feathers and bones

pulled out,

the stomach pumped.

he knows.

he knows.

my love has weakened

for man's

best friend.

alone but not lonely

living alone

has it merits, i think, as

i sit

here in my BVD's,

sipping coffee,

with the window open

and the music

turned up,

just right for my ear.

and those clothes on

the floor,

those dishes

in the sink,

the clutter of newspapers

and shoes

strewn about,

no sweat.

three games on the tube

this 
Sunday,

i need to place my bets.

i hear no voice telling

me,

to get my feet off the coffee

table,

or take your shoes

off before you track mud

on the rug.

and dear, once more,

you left the butter out,

here, wake up,

do you hear me,

you need to go to the store,

i have a list,

i believe the milk

has gone sour.

finding our natural home

it is true.

we, as humans, we get

used to anything.

bring us

heat or cold,

misery,

or turmoil,

and we take it. we

take it

and sometimes hold

on to it.

it's imbedded 

in our childhood

DNA,

we seek it our whole

life,

wanting to replicate

our natural home.

the inheritance

the maid

who

outlasts the elderly

couple,

childless and old,

cleaning

for decades their floors,

making

the beds,

doing the wash.

becoming

the family she never

had,

being there to listen,

and at times

hold.

and now in the end

inheriting

all the things she once

cleaned,

at last lying

in her own crowded

room, at rest,

with no need to work

 anymore.

nothing is lost

nothing

is truly lost.

the keys

will found,

and so will you.

keep looking,

keep searching,

keep at it,

check every drawer

and pant pocket,

look under the bed,

on the counter,

the table.

on the hook that says,

keys

by the door,

oh, there they are.

ten years ago

in midair,

falling, i could see how

harsh

the sky was,

blue and full

of everything,

mere seconds to fall

so far,

nothing

to hold onto, nothing

to grab

to save myself,

from imminent death,

or worse,

only

an angel guiding me

to the ground,

to a soft hard landing

in dirt,

to live on

a little more.

the other cheek

the other cheek

turned

is not so easy, the sting

remains

long after

the strike by an angry

hand, or word.

and yet

we try.

we read a line

that says it's the thing

to do.

to love those who

hurt you,

to forgive,

to be God to some

degree. at times i try

and yet,

at other times

i don't have it

in me.

blessed

blessed

are the cobblers,

the cooks,

the roofers,

the cleaners, the foot

soldiers.

the policemen.

blessed are

the meek,

the kind and merciful,

blessed

are the children,

the hungry,

the poor, the lost,

the lonely.

the weak.

blessed

are the homeless,

the sick,

the infirmed.

the doctors, the ministers,

blessed

are those who walk

the earth

with no intent

to hurt anyone, or

be hurt.

be one of them.

i'll be back soon

i can tell

you're gloomy, she says,

touching my

hand,

as if i might break

into pieces,

as if i'm

a fragile ornament

fallen

from the tree.

it's a nice blue, i tell her.

leave me to it,

i'll back

in a while,

no worries. i'll be back

soon.

the divining rod

with

divining rod,

we seek

the sweet water, the calm,

the spring,

the gurgle of

clarity

rising to our lips.

let's call it love,

and when

we find it

we can hardly speak.

amazed

at what lies 

in front of us,

the well at our feet.

unconditional love

we talk

of love, of love without

restrictions,

or borders,

love beyond

human love, beyond

understanding.

a lofty

idea, a well of wishes

that will never

come true.

forgiveness, forgiveness,

forgiveness.

unconditional love?

i don't think

so.

if hell didn't exist,

perhaps,

but

even God with his sword,

raised high,

can't buy it.

the clearing at the pond

it's a mere

thorn

among hundreds,

but just one,

just a single sharp

prick

against my arm,

then

thumb,

bringing the poetry

of blood,

in crimson drips,

that

makes me both weary

and wary

of the world

we live in.

but still foraging

through

the thickets, the bramble,

looking for

that clearing

at the pond.

dry ice to me now

i see the dead

ghost

of you,

not unlike dry ice,

the wisp

of heat

and cold evaporating

on the ground.

it's all

that's left,

a thin transparent

visage,

of you were and what

you mean

to me now.

feathered friends

your life long

flock

of feathered friends,

whether

fair weather or not,

have flown,

south,

flown north,

east and west as

well,

some, or rather

many have gone

underground or been

turned into ash

floating mysterious

into the air.

at times, you feel

as if you are the lone bird

on the wire.

wondering

where they've all gone,

pondering how quickly

they've taken wing

and disappeared.

a slender bone

it's not

the white bones,

the slender

sticks

of something eaten,

chicken perhaps,

on the back end

of this holiday,

alight in the early

sun

like a candle

by the curb,

that worries me.

it's everything else

that had to take place

to put it there.

the machinery

of the world,

the farms,

the land,

the hunger, the work,

the labor

of countless

souls,

plucking feathers,

and at last into 

someone's

greasy hand.

breakfast could wait

in the morning,

almost

before morning, we'd

step out

onto the cold porch

in our bare

feet and grab

the bottle of milk

and cream

from the metal box

marked Embassy.

there might be eggs too,

and sausage,

a pound of bacon.

juice if

my mother was flush

that week.

pastries if our luck

was good.

we'd peek

into her room,

quietly crawling

into bed

beside her as she slept.

the dog too. we'd

let her dream of a different

life a little longer,

breakfast

could wait.

the party light

it's a long

night

of talking. of circling.

of being

kind to one another,

of avoiding.

of keeping it light

and breezy.

most 

of what is bothering

us

goes untouched.

slights

are ignored, troubles

buried

under the layers and layers

of good will

and drink.

food

and music.

it's the holidays,

why

veer off the road?

it's a yearly thing i tell her

the woman,

frantic

in the parking lot, 

asks me,

what's going on, why

are all the stores closed,

Trader Joe's, Whole Foods,

even the bank

is closed.

i can tell she's not from

around here,

that maybe she

recently arrived

from a different continent.

i tell her,

7-11 is open.

make a left at the light,

and turn into

the lot next to the drycleaners.

she's exasperated.

frantically

looking around.

what's going on here?

why is this?

it's Monday, right?

yeah, it's Monday,

i tell her, but it happens

to be Jesus's

birthday.

you know, savior of the world.

son of God.

Bethlehem, that whole

deal.

virgin birth, three wise men.

the manger.

every year on the 25th,

almost

everything closes

in celebration

for the arrival of the baby

Jesus.

she looks at me, stunned.

really? she says.

what about tomorrow,

will it be over then?

 

the first tree out

i see the first

tree

dragged to the curb,

set upright

still full of tinsel

against

the hydrant.

so soon?

a trail of angel hair

and broken

ornaments

litter the sidewalk.

dry green

needles

carpet the road.

and there it is,

tossed

in the heap of garbage,

a clue to it all,

the mistletoe.

the snipping of vines

word comes

via

the old tattered grape

vine.

trouble

in paradise.

the fruit has spoiled.

love

is broken,

the moving trucks

are at the door.

addresses

will change,

rings will be removed.

Facebook

needs to be tidied up.

divorce

is such a chore.

and it's the holidays

no less.

behind blue eyes

it's rarely enough.

the surface love of things.

the ice

on the pond

in full bloom of sun

and blue

of winter.

we want more

than what

the eye beholds, we want

a depth

unknown.

we want to look further

into the eyes

of a loved one,

see what stirs within

their soul.

woman across the way

i see the woman

across the way, shaking her rug

out

on her porch.

hard throws

against the rail.

even from here

i see how

blue and wet her eyes are.

i see the bloom

of her breath

in the cold air.

i want more for her

than this,

but there's little that

i can do,

though i imagine

the world has tried.

hold on tight

the light

is perfect for this book, this

thick

new book

of poetry,

cracked open

on Christmas morn.

why has it taken so long

to read

deep into

thoughts of Rumi?

where has

this love

been all my life?

from now on, i'll

hold 

him tight.

i'm on my way

i lean into

this wind, hand deeps into

the pockets

of my long coat,

buttoned

to the top, collar up.

i trudge forward,

hat on,

scarf wrapped tightly

around my neck,

eyes down,

i keep going, keep going.

one foot after the other.

this storm

is nothing.

nothing at all.

let the snow fall,

let the wind blow.

i've been there, i've

done this before.

i've always seen the light

at the end

of every

dark tunnel.

just leave the light on,

i'll be there soon.

it won't be long before

i'm at your door.

not what it used to be

it's too warm,

too bright, too unmerry,

this

weather,

this sunlight.

i'm in my shorts and tropical

shirt

with bananas

and coconuts all over

the teal

blue polyester.

my ray bans on tight.

i'm sitting

in the yard wondering

where the snow is

while i eat a slice

of mince meat pie.

where is the wind

and ice,

the sleet of my youth?

where are the plows,

the sand

and salt trucks.

where are the snow bal

fights?

the holidays are not what

they used to

be,

but what is?

intruder in the night

we had an intruder

last

night.

but thankfully the ADT alarm

system

was set off,

the motion detector,

and the ring camera,

the pit bull

went wild.

there was nothing left

of him

in the morning

except some shreds

of a red

burglar outfit,

and stands of white

hair

in the dog's mouth.

we need to close off

the chimney

before next year.

let me get my pants on, hold on

how do i look?

she asks me as she spins

around

in her new red dress

showing just a little

too much leg.

spectacular,

i tell her.

i love the shoes, the whole

outfit.

where are you going?

to the Christmas

party,

the one you said you didn't

want to go to.

i should be home

by midnight.

i look at the short dress,

the low neck of it,

the stiletto heels,

how tight it fits around

her waist.

i smell the perfume on her,

her nails are done

a shiny red.

her hair is blonder than

usual.

she looks absolutely

fabulous.

hold on, hold on, i tell

her,

let me get my pants on.

i'm going with you.

negotiating the Christmas tree

i try to negotiate the tree down

a few bucks

with the guy in the church

parking lot.

but he's not budging.

two hundred dollars

for a five foot

tree, i tell him, really?

the needles are already

dry and falling off.

look buddy, he says,

leaning towards me,

breathing whiskey.

i'll knock of ten bucks

if you keep it to yourself.

the Monsignor is on my

case this year for low sales.

he's looking out from the

vestry right now.

see him,

the red hat, wave.

go on wave and smile.

i turn and wave,

then hand the man 

two one hundred dollar

bills, expecting change.

what, no tip, he says?

what kind of Christmas spirit

is that?

the race to the border before the election

i get a call

from an old worker bee

in Guatemala,

sent back

for legal technicalities.

Francisco.

he's pleasant

on the phone,

much more pleasant

and

energetic than when

he worked

for me,

but he's an honest and good soul.

i'm coming back,

he says.

my family too.

do you have room

for us to stay in,

and work?

we're on our way to the border

now,

hopefully your President wins

again before we get

there, it could take

awhile,

what with the long walk,

the banditos,

and grande crowds.

we've heard a rumor here

that everyone that votes

for him and the lady,

has to take three migrants in.

is that true?

who is this?

i ask. the line is breaking up.

it's me,

me, Francisco.

still on the nice list

the ghosts

of Christmas past arrive

in the mail via

greeting cards

hand signed

saying love,

let's catch up sometime.

you scratch

your head and wonder

why

you're still on someone's

nice list,

when you've been naughty

for a very very

long time.

the gift that keeps giving

there are roads

i avoid, music that i won't

listen to.

there are days

on the calendar

that still fill me with a thimble

of dread,

there are moments,

just standing

in a store,

when

i tremble,

when i feel uneasy

with a mere

glance at the back

of someone's head.

thank you

dear,

for such memories.

but i'd like to regift.

freeing the art from his hands

the famous

confessional poet,

the daddy of the genre

died

in a taxi

of heart failure,

clutching a portrait

of his last

wife

in his frozen grip.

at last free

from pills

and psychiatrists,

asylums.

was she

the love of his life?

who knows, but

they had to break his

arms

to free the art

from his hands.

the year end game

it was around

this time of year, where we'd

gather

for a year ending

game

of touch football.

the cold or snow

made no difference.

Mike,

and Steve, John and Dave.

Gary,

Gino, Jim and Perry,

Breck

and Bill.

Lloyd and Bobby, Ken.

half of them

are gone now, and the other

half are too

old.

but we had our days in sun,

our nights too.

nothing is forgotten.

holiday travels

she asks me

if i'm traveling for the holidays.

yes, i tell her.

same as last year.

my route is as follows.

i go from the bed,

down the stairs

to the kitchen where

coffee is made,

perhaps a light breakfast,

and then i go

to the big easy

chair

to read the newspaper

after i've made

a detour and retrieved it

from the porch.

from there

i go around

the dining room table,

avoiding the pumpkin

pie in a box

that i bought three days ago.

sometimes i'll veer

off into the bathroom

to shower

and shave, i'll take stock

of what i look like

without turning the light on.

but then i'll take the stairs

and head south

towards

the sofa,

where the light is good,

for reading,

or for looking out the window

at birds.

i've picked up the nut

dish along the way and a pint

of eggnog.

i'll rest there

for a few hours, before

heading back

to the kitchen, again avoiding

the pie on the table,

but weakening.

the aim is still true

i crumple up last years list

of my new years

resolutions.

few if any

never quite met.

be kinder.

make new friends.

lose weight.

floss.

stop bothering Betty

with my problems.

read more,

drink less.

go to church or at

least stop

talking bad about it.

my aim is still true as

i toss the ball of paper

and hit dead center into the can.

so where should i begin,

what is it about

me and my life that

i need to improve.

what possible new things

can i start doing to make

me a better man?

again, i'm stumped,

but my aim is still true

as i toss

another crumpled list

across the room.

no place to hide

he had

run out of places to hide

his bottle

of scotch.

she found it under the sink,

on the upper

shelf

of the hall closet,

behind the attic

door,

a chest of drawers

beneath

quilts and dresses

she no

longer wore.

so now,

he sat on a park

bench

as night fell, and drank

it empty

before the long

walk home, 

yet, still wanting

more.

the poem yet written

as i stand

graveside, listening,

and observing

the process

of death, the wails

filling

the air

as tears

fall, as the first shovel

of dirt

covers

the coffin of another

fallen

friend,

i smile

internally, in knowing

that this too

is worthy of a poem

yet written.

embracing ignorance

i feel better

if i don't watch the news.

if i don't

look at my phone,

or answer it.

if i stay out of stores,

if i stay

off the roads.

leaving the television

dark,

the computer too.

i almost feel that everything

is okay,

that the world

is fine and dandy.

such bliss

there is in this ignorance,

that i embrace

with both arms.

the music of words

language

used to be an art.

the world seemed to be full

of richly

emotional souls

like Dylan Thomas,

or Oscar Wilde,

Emerson

and Thoreau.

words were music.

everyone

had a poet inside them,

holding court

at a local pub or

around a dinner table,

to tell a story,

to embellish, or to enrich

the lies

or truths they told.

rare these days

to hear

such lovely written

or spoken prose.

the bird watchers

it's a group

of older men and women,

silver haired,

all

with expensive cameras,

tripods,

their folding

chairs,

their lenses

and back packs full

of sandwiches

for

the cold afternoon

observing nature.

each whispering to the other.

pointing

towards a tree,

or water,

look, look, right over

there,

a beaver, a heron, a red

winged black

bird. and what's that

in the lair?

carefully i tip toe by,

not saying

a word.

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.