i refuse to eat that

there was a time

when i would

gracefully

praise the spoon of 

lima beans

ladled onto

my plate. i'd smile.

I'd eat.

i was a compromising

soul,

easy to get along

with,

no quarrel with

others, just accepting

what the world

would bring,

keeping the peace.

but things have

changed.

there are many things now

that i refuse to eat.

becoming alone

it feels normal,

natural

to recede

in later years, to become

more and more

reclusive.

no longer needing

or wanting

what the world

aggressively

gives.

the neon

is too loud, the music,

bland

and without

meaning.

why answer

the door, or pick up

the ringing phone.

you're apt to stay put

rather

than drive to eat

or drink,

to gather with friends.

it becomes lovely,

this singular space

you've carved

out,

embracing the quiet

of being

alone.

but be kind too

don't let the world

steal

your

sense of humor,

your

sarcasm and delight

in poking

fun

at nearly everything

sacred.

keep jabbing at the left,

at the right.

be amused

for as long as you can.

but be

kind

too.

early morning darkness

it's a nine a.m.

darkness.

almost night and the day

has just

begun.

not a glimmer

of light

but for the lamp

post.

continuing

its duty of last night.

the sun

a foreign object

once

in the sky, now

taking

a long awaited 

vacation.

bundle up.

wrap tight.

here and then gone

i didn't know

she was

gone.

dear Rose.

strange. strange how

eleven years

ago,

seems like yesterday.

her wired

arms

and legs, her brilliant

shock

of hair.

her lake blue eyes.

the energy and smile

of a thousand

lights.

gone?

impossible.

here,

and then gone.

today.

the texting diagnosis

there's something going

around.

maybe

it's covid.

maybe it's just a low

grade

fever that will pass.

a head cold.

is your throat sore?

body aches?

maybe it's

the black plague,

or

the avian flu.

maybe it's some new

bug

from China,

or Timbuktu.

have you had your

shots

this year.

pneumonia,

shingles,  tetanus,

or for

a variety of flus.

or

maybe

it's gluten.

what did you eat last night?

around and around the world

you need to travel

more,

people tell you after they

come back

from a trip

overseas.

we just love to go to new

places,

places that we've never been.

have you ever been to 

Istanbul,

or Kingston?

they ask, pulling out

their phone to show you

a fish

they caught,

or a rug they bought

when in Turkey.

You'd love

Portugal, or Berlin,

what about,

Sweden or London?

they show you their

passport,

full of stamps.

their refrigerator magnets

stuck to the door.

i stare at their luggage,

still packed.

we're leaving for Argentina

on Monday,

would you be a prince

and watch our tabby

once more?

a four aspirin morning

it's a strange

throbbing

pain

in your head.

you didn't drink last

night,

or eat anything unusual.

you had no

contact with

what's her name,

so why

the headache,

why the pain?

is it the news again?

where's 

the bag of ice?

rolling the dice for another year

we gamble

on the stock market,

when is it time to pull out

and cash in,

buy a house,

or a villa

on some far away island

or in the south

of France.

when should

we step away from the table

and take a chance?

today,

tomorrow.

soon?

or should we roll the dice

for another

year?

a fan of pigs

some of us collect things.

we buy,

or hunt down

artifacts

of great value, or of

no value.

knickknacks of some sort.

we just like possessing,

a hundred and twenty-seven 

porcelain pigs.

of all sizes,

in all shades of pink.

handmade, kiln baked,

glass

and stone.

there they are.

large and small.

on the kitchen sill.

on the mantle.

on the nightstand,

where you

wake to see them

in all their

flea market glory.

you're a fan of pigs.

God bless you.

the single bed in a rented room

going

backwards is painful.

the

one room

rented,

a plant on the sill.

a single

bed

on an old rusted frame.

a suitcase

unpacked

holding everything.

the landlord

one floor

below

counting

your money.

it's a far fall from

the mansion

on the hill.

the suite at the top.

the Mercedes Benz.

sleep

is a wish

and is not your friend.

under the back door

i find your note

slipped

under the back door.

folded thrice,

neatly,

as you are prone

to do.

the back

door, of course,

i'd expect nothing less

than stealth

out of you.

unsigned, but clearly

your handiwork,

line by line.

i know how you cross

your t's

and dot your i's.

there is little i don't

know about

you, but it's fading,

fading slowly.

but all in good time.

the bird on the plank

even the clock maker,

at his

work bench, repairing

the dials

and hands,

the machinery of

these boxes,

reworking

their inner life,

even he can't explain

the passage

of time.

the movement of seconds

into minutes,

the bells, the chimes,

the bird

on a plank

at each new hour

crowing loudly.

even he is baffled

by it all.

this you will treasure

i will leave

you something, he tells me,

short

of breath, in a quiet

way,

his hand on my hand.

not riches,

not gold or silver.

or some item that the world

holds dear.

no.

it's nothing like that,

it's

how we talked together,

the memory

of our laughter,

the love

of two men, brothers

in arms.

friends.

this you will treasure,

and remember

forever.

one size fits all

i want everything

to fit.

one size

fits all.

one charger for every

phone, one cup

that fits

into every cup

holder.

one size battery,

stretch pants and

stretch shoes.

one set of wires that

connects

to everything.

let's simplify, lets

coordinate our efforts

and end

the confusion.

what comes next has already happened

it's a small

condominium on the ocean,

a mistake

of sorts,

a time share

bought when love was

in the air.

the sun was out.

it's

nestled somewhere

between floors

of the once white, but

now weather beaten

building.

it shows its age,

but we all do.

the wind

is in our face as we look

at the turmoil

of a sloppy ocean

going black at night.

the sand is

brown, and dirty.

littered with trash.

the seagulls, 

have tightened

up their wings,

strapped them to their

chests..

we say nothing.

for what is there to say

on this final visit together.

what comes next

has already

happened.

hunger pangs

i try to remember

real hunger.

the weakness

from lack of food,

lack of nutrition,

that pang

in the stomach,

the limp arms and legs

that refuse

to move.

i try to remember hunger

like that,

but i can't.

it was a different kind

of hunger

when with you.

i do remember that.

when you meet a cup of crazy

i'm not a doctor

not

a psychiatrist,

or a psychologist, or even

a therapist.

however,

i know a cup of crazy

when i run

into one.

i hear it in their voice,

see it in their eyes,

see it in

how they stand,

or use their

hands when

they talk.

it's how they text,

or call you on the phone.

the tone

of voice.

i can smell it on them,

like a shoe

that's stepped through

a field of

well fed cows.

my spider senses tingles

from head

to my toes.

when they show you,

who they are, believe

them.

run forest run.

she bought a yellow vase

it started

with a small vase found

at a flea

market. a porcelain

piece

for a five dollars, marked

down from eight.

it was yellow.

a bright

canary yellow.

she set it on the sill

in the kitchen

and put some daffodils

in it.

the next

day

there were curtains

on

the window. a pale

shade

of yellow.

then the rug beneath

the table

became yellow.

when i came home

from work,

she showed

me a paint

chart

and told me that she

wanted the walls

a different color.

yellow of course.

so i did.

soon, her dress was yellow

her hair

too.

there were bananas

in a bowl

on the table.

sticks of butter were

left out on the counter.

she started drinking egg nogg,

and eating

yellow peppers

for dinner.

no more fea markets for her.

this is a very bad idea, Mimi

my new love

interest, Mimi,

wants to go to a nudist

camp

for vacation.

i look at her as i sip

my coffee,

and say,

what?

what did you say?

i think we should experiment,

think outside

the box

and jazz our life

up a little,

let's go to a nudist camp

this summer.

there's one in Pennsylvania,

called,

Naked Lunch.

it looks like fun.

my mind is suddenly filled

with the image

of William S. Burroughs.

with clothes on,

thank God.

what about bugs, i say to her.

sunburn.

i see a hygiene problem

and besides that

are we in good enough shape

to be strolling

around in the buff?

no one cares,

she says.

there's fat people, skinny

people there.

no one cares.

but what's the point?

it's just being free and part

of nature.

we'd be like Adam and Eve,

before

they ate the apple.

what about we start slow,

i tell her,

maybe a topless beach

in Miami?

i really don't want to be

Buck naked in front 

Of strangers.

i'm quite shy like that.

the grocery clerk at Kroger's

i could see

that the grocery clerk was

in deep thought

as she moved

my groceries along

the belt,

neatly

packing things

into bags.

she wasn't there.

there was a long

snake

tattooed up her

arm,

slithering to her neck.

where was she? what was

her plan

for life?

was this it?

was this the end of the road?

the beginning?

or a bus stop along the way

until things

got right.

she handed me

my change,

my receipt, never once

looking

into my eyes.

i would have known more,

if she had.

a summer morning

as we stood

in the warm water

of the Potomac River,

ankle deep,

casting out towards

the Wilson Bridge

and the Blue Plains Sewage

Treatment Center,

next to the Naval

Research Center, we

could see the Washington

Monument

in the fog of a summer

morning.

1966.

dead fish were everywhere.

the world was changing,

but we were still

young,

unbothered by nearly

everything,

just wanting to cast out

into the river,

and fish.

remember this

remember

this, i tell myself as

i sit

on the back

porch

with a pink sun rise

sifting

through the trees

of an azure

sky.

remember this beauty.

save it

to memory.

it will save your

life

at some point

in time.

the fall of everything

the death

of society is having no

man

in the house.

no father

or mother around much.

the absent parent

is killing

the country.

there is rarely

a family anymore.

kids are wild in the street

with no

remorse,

no conscience,

no one telling them, to be

good,

go to school

go to church.

work

and be home by ten.

there's no one

checking

in on them

at their beside when

children.

twelve months of hell

i could handle

the silent treatment

for days at a time

by the ex wife.

that was

no problem.

and the no dinners

or lunches,

or going out to the movies,

or to the beach

or a day

trip to anywhere.

i got used to

being ignored and alone.

the tv censored.

i could handle all of that,

but cutting

me off from

sex for five months was

pushing things

too far.

i hadn't been that lonely

and frustrated

since my freshman 

year in high school.

i have no comment on that at this time

if i was president.

the only

thing i'd ever say

after the long

campaign

and at last in office,

would be,

no comment.

anything

they'd ask me, all i'd say

would be,

no comment.

i'd keep them in the dark

about everything.

i wouldn't even

tell my wife

what i was thinking.

i'd keep the media

running around like chickens

with their heads

cut off.

how could i go wrong

with no policy

spoken on anything.

it would be gold Jerry,

gold.

everyone on both sides

would be happy

and unhappy

at the same time.

Andy Kaufman would be

proud of me.

no vacancy here

the smartest thing

i did last year

was getting

rid of the bed in the guest room.

ooops.

my bad,

it's gone.

but you know what?

there's a nice

hotel

right up the road,

a mere stone throw

away.

here's the number,

i think their vacancy

sign is on.

just stop and go home

whether

a bike ride or a walk,

or run,

or drive,

or a relationship

that's falling

apart.

there's a point of boredom

that overcomes

you.

you've seen these streets

before,

this path,

these trees,

a hundred times.

maybe you go on

a little further,

another

mile

or half mile, but at

some point,

you stop and just go home.

sitting next to the ex president

i remember sitting next

to the ex

president on the plane,

on the way to

the island.

he looked anxious,

happy,

rubbing his hands together,

staring out

the window.

he kept yelling out, are

we there yet?

are we almost there?

his flip flops

were tapping

on the floor

and his face was all red.

he wasn't wearing

a shirt and had on a bathing

suit with

a towel around

his shoulders.

he couldn't sit still.

my friend Lisa was with

me. she was in a master

class for full body

acupuncture and studying

to be a massage therapist

at NYU.

i was her guest.

i whispered to Lisa,

whatever you do when we

get there,

don't put on that black beret

in your bag, okay?

please, no beret.

banging erasers against the school wall

the teacher,

thought it was some sort of punishment,

sending us

out into the cold

to bang chalk out of

the erasers

against the school wall.

but Jimmy and I

liked it.

Jimmy would smoke

his cigarettes,

and sit down

on the cold ground and watch

me as i banged

each eraser over and over

again

against the red brick

wall near

the incinerator,

releasing clouds

of chalk dust into

the air, and into

my nose.

we were both very happy

and red eyed

by the time we went back in.

sleepy in fact,

and no longer, 

any trouble to the rest

of the class.

winter storm Stanley is on the way

they're naming

winter storms now.

jimmy and Fred,

Billie jean,

and sally Mae.

boy and girl names, and

some

that can go either way.

it used to be just

hurricanes

that were given a name,

but winter storms have

feelings too.

why should they be left

out of the fun?

next it will be strong winds,

and cold fronts,

rain storms,

tornados,

and sleet.

typhon 

Debbie, or earthquake Ernie,

why not?

let's not leave anyone

out, let's embrace

our weather,

and have a giant group

hug.

swinging as hard as you can

no matter

how hard you struck the wiffle

ball

with the plastic

bat

it only went about

five feet in the air

and then

came to a dead stop

in the grass.

some days are exactly

like that.

flying to the infamous island

as the list of names begin

to trickle out

of all those men

and women,

that visited the infamous island,

known for it's debauchery,

you begin to hear

the reasons,

the excuses of those that

frequented the place,

and why they were friends

with

the Lord of the Flies.

it was business, they say.

politics,

i'm his lawyer, his car mechanic,

his chef,

his friend, his accountant.

i was writing a book,

we were brainstorming,

it was another sweet sixteen

birthday party.

i got on the wrong plane.

it wasn't me.

it was just lunch.

we played cards all night.

it was a fishing expedition.

we were bird

watching.

he owed me money.

it was his annual cheerleading

outfit contest

for college scholarships.

we played charades all night.

really, that's it all was.

lost and found

i make

the mistake of asking her

if she

left

her reading glasses

on the nightstand

beside

the bed.

or her diamond

earrings,

or her silk stockings,

which i find

curled together

on the floor.

are any of these things

yours?

i ask, cautiously.

big mistake.

i'm sorry, what's your name, again

some people

never forget a face,

or a name.

they can

place someone ten

years later

and remember who

they are.

i'm more of a three

second guy.

once

i turn my head and

go get another

shrimp

cocktail,

my mind goes blank

on everyone

i just met.

an hour later and i'm

in a room full

of strangers again.

responding to her leg photo

she sent me

a picture of her leg once.

just one

leg.

bare and pale.

stretched out

across a bed.

i think it was her leg,

but it could

have been anyone's leg.

it had the thigh,

the knee,

the ankle,

the foot,

toes.

your basic leg with

no shoe on.

i didn't know how to respond.

so i sent her a picture

of my arm.

i haven't heard back yet.

i'm very very sorry

i start the new year

off by

apologizing

to people i may have offended.

it's a generic

card,

laminated.

it says.

i'm sorry if i've hurt you.

please

forgive me,

and let's move on.

i print off a few dozen,

but quickly

run out.

by nightfall i've got a

multitude of phone calls,

from people telling

me that they didn't

get theirs yet.

i go back to the printer,

it's going to be

a long night ahead.

becoming the maestro

the ophthalmologist

tells

me that after this procedure

of releasing

gas

trapped behind my new

lens,

the old one covered

in a web

of a cataract,

that i'll begin

to see some new floaters.

he wasn't just whistling

dixie

about that.

i'm seeing unidentified

flying objects

all day.

i'm swatting flies away

that aren't even

there.

a flock of bees.

birds.

i'm Leonard Bernstein

with my hands

now,

flying around in the air.

trapped like a rat

your fingerprints

are all

over this.

your footprints

are in the mud,

we have you on camera,

we have

witnesses,

voicemails,

and phone calls.

we have your phone,

your computer.

black and white photos

of you

creeping about.

we have written

testimony from a few

ex wives.

even your mother has

given you up.

so what do you say?

come clean,

and tell us where you

were

last night?

my apologies to E.B. White

my grammar

skills

are weak, pathetic at best.

i couldn't diagram

a sentence

with a penicil poised

to stab me

in the eye.

my punctuation

is laughable,

spelling

atrocious at times.

but i push

onward

despite myself, despite

all the books i've read

and all the English

classes i sat through

doodling

or pulling

on the girl's hair

in front of me, hoping

one day

she would be mine.

a few brief moments

there are moments,

brief

moments where one believes

that happiness,

true,

real happiness

is attainable.

it might be in that moment

when your in someone's

arms, and she in

yours, after making love.

it might be in that moment,

of sweet exhaustion

and satisfying pleasure,

that you briefly, for a few

fleeting seconds believe

with all your heart and soul

that you are there.

that you've arrived,

despite all else that came

before you.

an inch of snow

the weather girl

on tv

is all excited about the possibility

of a snow

storm

this weekend.

she's hopping around

the set in front of

the big

map

and using her pointer,

indicating

the cold front moving in.

we haven't had

any snow for years she says,

clapping

her hands together.

lighting up

the screen

with her brilliant smile.

i've never seen

someone so excited about

an inch

of snow before.

i think she's from

Brazil, or Chile

or somewhere below

the line.

projecting my feelings onto others

i open

the desk drawer to say hello

to the box

of number

two pencils that have

been sitting in there

for at least ten

years.

they lie beside the rubber

eraser

and the little red plastic

sharpener

that's never been used.

they look lonely

and sad, all of them,

but it could just be

me projecting my own

feelings onto

others and inanimate

objects.

maybe my therapist

is right about me.

keeping the peace at home

i try

to avoid confrontations.

arguing,

fighting,

disagreements.

i like to keep the peace.

i like to keep

the room

calm and quiet,

reasonably

content and comfortable.

this is why i stay

away from most

of my family,

visiting my mother,

for brief hour or

two on

Sunday.

adopting a new kitty cat

i go down to the cat shelter

to adopt a cat.

something house trained,

maybe a year

or two old, at the most.

but not a kitten.

a little cat who's been

fixed, and has

its claws removed

so that she can't tear

up my leather couch or

my 660 count percale

Egyptian cotton sheets.

something that doesn't

meow too much, or has

digestive issues.

they show me an orange

tabby with green eyes.

she reminds me of an old

girlfriend, Sally, from back

in the 1980's.

a big boned girl, but cute.

i'll take her, i say.

but there's paper work

and they ask me what my

intentions are for the cat.

i tell them, i have no intentions.

maybe i'll pet her once

in a while, but beyond that,

i don't know.

maybe i'll get a fake mouse

on a string and

drag that around

to play with her.

hmm, they say.

we need to see your living

space.

will she be left alone all day?

are there other people

in the house, other animals?

we need to know

where you work, and if you've

ever been convicted of a crime.

what's your credit rating,

and are you taking any sort

of medications?

i look at the cat, still locked

up in the cage,

content and curled in a warm

ball of fur.

ummm, do you guys deal in

goldfish by the way,

is there possibly a little fish

here i can adopt?

something small

so that it doesn't jump around

too much or leap

out of the bowl.

i couldn't handle finding it

flopping around

on the floor

when i get home from work.

or stiff and lifeless.

i've got a bowl at home i can

use. i keep my change

in it on top

of the refrigerator.

what would be your intentions

with this fish,

if allowed to adopt one?

they ask.

is your car gas or electric?

i see my friend

Betty sitting on her front porch

putting

Vaseline

on her scraped knees

and elbows.

then wrapping bandages around

them.

there's an egg sized

bruise on her forehead

and a tooth is chipped.

what happened to you, i ask her.

did you get back with

Harry again?

no, no, she says. never.

i was out on the 110 protesting

big oil companies,

lying in the road,

when some angry

motorists dragged us off

the road and threw us down

an embankment.

dang, i tell her. 

i banged my head

against an old washing machine

rusting in the storm drain.

geeze.

can i drive you to the doctor?

you should have

yourself checked out.

maybe, she says, trying to

stand up.

i feel really dizzy and i'm

spitting up blood. okay, okay.

but,

is your car gas or electric?

when relatives go off their meds during the holidays

her father,

often in the wind,

wild eyed and unshaven shows up

for the holiday

festivities.

dinner is served

it's peaceful for a little while,

until he looks

at his daughter

across the table

and shakes his head.

why are you eating like that,

he says.

you're eating like a settler.

which makes everyone

say, huh?

a settler?

yes, a barbarian settler,

a chicken leg in one

hand and a biscuit

in the other hand,

slurping down

your drink. never taking

the time

to chew or wipe your

mouth.

it's how the settlers ate

when they crossed the Rio Grande

in covered wagons

being chased by Indians.

anyone for more

gravy? his ex-wife smiles

and says,

holding up a gravy

bowl in the shape of a

silver turkey.

everyone has an issue

that's it,

he tells me, holding up,

a flank steak,

then a rib roast.

do you see

the price tag on this?

that's it,

i'm not voting for him again.

i won't stand

for these outrageous

prices

on meat.

he's crossed the line

with me.

i don't care about

the wars

and immigration,

abortion,

racism,

transgenders,

and all that other crap.

my issue

is red meat.

he's not getting my vote

this time around

and that's that.

already broken

as she sleeps,

splayed

out on the bed, her red hair

aflame

in the morning sun.

i look at her

dress on

the floor

in a pile, a puddle of

green fabric

with sparkles,

her new years eve

dress,

with matching heels,

and a tiara

of some sort.

our resolutions

already

broken.

closing up shop

childless

and unmarried, siblings

all in

the wind,

friends in the ground,

or dispersed

to some foreign land,

i look

for someone

or something to leave

all the dough

to. a worthy charity, perhaps.

everything must go,

because

the business of living

has ended,

the store is closed.

the house,

the savings, the 401k,

the cars,

the clothes and books.

the coin collection

and shoes.

drop me a line if you

need a buck or two,

between the hours

of 9 am

and two i'll be holding

interviews.

sign here and here and here

there's always

some paperwork to fill out.

your entire

life

is filled with documents

put before you

that you have to initial,

or sign,

or check off as being

right.

from birth to death

and all

that falls in-between

is written down on some

piece of paper.

proving your

existence.

a stack of you piles up,

and yet

there are days and nights

when you

feel invisible

and without a life.

no experience necessary

back in the day,

the job

search involved

a newspaper

spread out across your

mother's

dining room table.

and an ink pen

with which you

circled each employment

opportunity.

underlining the words

no experience

necessary.

at seventeen, what 

possible thing

were you good at, or

even capable of doing.

being a wise guy

smart aleck got

you nowhere

back then,

except for pushing brooms,

mowing lawns

and pumping gas.

slaving in the kitchen

she surprised me

by making

jello. i hadn't had jello

since

i was ten years old.

she even

jazzed it up,

by putting fruit cocktail

in it,

then spraying

the top with whipped cream.

i spilled the bag

of burgers and fries onto

the table and announced,

dinner is served,

she smiled, and not

to be outdone,

said

i made dessert.

visiting day on Sunday

i take

the long ride 

into the hills to go visit

an inmate

in the state

asylum.

i hear she's better now.

she's weaving

baskets

and has taken up knitting.

it's not so bad

there.

three squares per day.

a fenced in yard

to grow

vegetables,

a recreation area

to stretch

her legs

and arms in the sun

when there is one.

she reads

and watches television,

plays the piano

on special

occasions.

at last

it's home for her now.

something she never had.

which makes

me happy.

too good to be true

was coke

in a glass bottle really

just a dime?

a phone call too?

was gas

twenty-nine cents

per gallon?

a ticket to a movie

a mere

half dollar?

was water free?

was there really

just one phone in the house

plugged into

the kitchen wall.

did mothers stay

home.

did father's wear suits

and hats,

on weekends

mow the lawn?

did we once pray

in school

then say the pledge

allegiance

to the flag?

it seems

like a dream, a dream

from

a long ago age.

stop with the water, please

you want

your waiter to be attentive,

to be

nice, but

not too nice.

not too friendly.

talking slowly,

but not too softly.

of course you want to hear

about

the specials,

but you don't want a song

and dance

routine, or

to know what they might

prefer,

or what school

they went to, or

how they got here.

you don't need your

water to be topped off after

every sip,

or to bring

your entree out before

the salads

are finished.

just bring the bread, no need

to ask.

and butter.

oh, and we'll need sharp

knives

for the steaks,

these butter knives won't do.

gluing their hands to the road

traffic

was backed up across

the city,

for miles,

as the oil protesters

glued

themselves

to the road in front

of us,

wearing their orange

vests

and holding their signs.

but it was

a nice day.

i rolled down the window

and turned up

the radio.

i had my coffee and

daily news.

i was in no rush to get

to the office

anyway.

it's hard going back to

work

after the long holidays.

i pushed the seat

back

and took off my shoes,

then watched the mayhem

ensue.

i fondly

remembered being that young

and stupid.

the brain

cells not quite fully

developed.

ah, sweet youth.

new years eve

we decide

to both eat onions

and garlic

as we sip 

on our third

mai tai.

we're on the same page

now

in case

shenanigans

arrive.

in case kissing ensues.

but first

we have to get through

this meal

of Chinese

food.

pay the bill

and carry out our little

white boxes,

which will steam

the windows

of our car.

looking under the old hood

not unlike

a claims adjuster, the good

doctor

looks me over

for dents and bruises,

rust.

he lifts the hood

for an inspection,

kicks

the tires,

checks

the mileage

on the odometer,

pulls the dipstick

out

and wipes it

with a rag.

he connects me to the diagnostic

machine

in the corner.

making note

of the numbers.

it's obvious that i haven't

been garage kept,

despite

my clean and shiny

appearance.

you're good

for a few more years

he says, with a smile.

but stay in the right

lane,

and start using a better

gas,

premium

or high test.

you still have some

miles.

a girl in uniform

i used to have

a thing

for women in uniform.

put an apron

on a girl,

and i would melt.

i'd give her my heart

and soul.

i'd be in the diner

every day,

ordering

the special

and drinking coffee,

leaving

her an enormous tip.

but it never worked out.

she always took

off that pink

dress and black

apron

as soon as she got home.

it just wasn't the same.

sausage links on the side

as i microwave

the last

slice of the rib roast

from Christmas

dinner.

i say to myself.

i'll never

ever again

eat meat.

i'm done with this

carnivore

thing.

of course this isn't

true.

in the morning

i lay out

five strips of bacon

in the pan,

and scramble some eggs,

with sausage

links on the side.

a traditional Christmas Eve

there was one

Christmas eve

where my father threw my

mother

into the Christmas

tree

after she questioned

him about

the scratches

on his face

and the lipstick

on his neck.

he reeked of Seagram's 7. 

fortunately

she landed

on her side and didn't

crush

the model airplane

wrapped

in red paper

with  a ribbon,

that had

my name on it.

the train set also survived,

as well

as the Barbie doll

for my sister, and the dog

bone

for Rex.

after he cut the phone cord

in the kitchen, he stormed  out.

we came running

down the stairs 

to help her up.

she shook it off, straightened

the tree out,

redistributing the angel

hair and tinsel,

then shooed us

back to bed,

saying, Santa Claus won't

come

until you are all fast

asleep.

now scoot.

the next day we all signed

the cast

on her broken arm.

how big is the trunk of your car?

where are you from,

she asks me,

looking at me over the edge

of her pink

cosmopolitan.

her lips

and blush, and dress

the same color

why?

i ask her.

just trying to place your

accent.

a little New York

with a mix

of Philly.

Jersey, maybe?

was your father in the mob?

you sort of talk 

like that.

or maybe you were

connected.

i watch her sip and sip,

as she waits for

an answer.

her assorted rings clanging

against

the stem of her glass.

so? she says.

why? i ask again.

i need a favor, she says.

my ex

is giving me trouble.

i was hoping you could help

me out.

how big is the trunk 

of your car?

some carnivorous information

i could

use some juicy gossip

to start the new year with.

a gem,

a nice

sweet jelly roll

of a secret

whispered into my hot ear,

something

to take a bite

into.

a birth,

a death, a liaison of

some sort,

an adulterous

affair,

an x-ray

to view, perhaps

some dirt on kin folk,

or neighbors.

i need a piece of meat

i can chew.

things wear out

i stare at the hole

in the floorboard

rug

of the new car,

and think to myself

what someone said to me 

once.

you're so hard on things.

and i am.

i wear things out

i wear people out.

relationships. love,

marriages.

my coat with the elbows

thread bare,

the soles

of shoes skinned down

to the last layer.

the mattress

in my bed, curved to my

weight

edges frayed.

the light bulb no longer

coming on

with a twist

of my hand, the shade

no longer

giving shade with

a broken

string.

the train wreck

it's never

a train full of marshmallows

that goes

off the rails. or

car loads of  pistachio peanuts,

or ice cream,

turning over

on some curve of track.

it's always

chemicals that

ooze and steam

into an orange fog,

that slurp

into the rivers

and streams

making all the animals

grow three

eyes and

lose all the hair on

their backs.

those old fashion days

i'm emojied

out,

the tips of my fingers,

are calloused

and sore

from all the images

and

short

blurbs i've been

sending

out.

a cascade of well

worn

cliches.

kisses and smiles,

a plethora

of

inane greetings,

lacking

feeling,

or meaning, just

casual,

and lazy waves.

i do miss those old

fashion

phone call days.

turning the next page

does it feel like

a new

year

with a whole new

set of days,

not really. do i feel lucky

and secure

after eating

twelve grapes

at midnight and a spoon

full of black eyed peas,

nah.

but that's fine.

that's okay.

the grey, the blah,

the wind

and flurries

kind of reflects the current

state of mind.

but spring

will appear as it always

does.

right on time.

what's in and what's out

i make

my what's in and what's

out

culinary list

for the new year.

kale

is out.

kale is out

forever.

so is spinach and most

fish

including

sardines and trout.

lobster

is back in business.

a rib roast is in,

again.

so are steaks,

and 

mashed potatoes,

or au gratin.

i'm giving up sauerkraut,

although

it was

never in.

i may bring back French

toast,

but it's on the fence.

all donuts are out,

except for

the occasional

cruller,

and a bagel toasted

with cream

cheese, or butter.

bacon

is gold, as always.

but no longer will i eat

Oreos.

a half sleep

it's a half sleep.

a weary

wash

of fatigue, tying you still

to the days

problems.

a churning

of thoughts.

a toss and turn

affair,

what's on your mind

won't let go.

the night

is long, while the morning

arrives

too soon.

the end of year evaluation

i call my

therapist up for an end

of year

evaluation

and tune up, not unlike

when

i take my

car in to the shop.

i tell her i'm having

a mid

life crisis.

which makes her laugh.

that would make

you a hundred

and forty

then, when you die, she says.

give or take,

i tell her.

i just need to vent a little.

talk about

my mother again.

i'm not sure if she even loved

me.

sometimes she'd forget

my birthday.

stop, she says, save it.

i'm in the middle

of stuffing olives

with cream cheese and

making punch.

okay, okay.

so when?

i have an hour open

on New Years Eve.

but bring a bottle

of champagne

and a party hat, okay?

the Dick Clark Times Square

show starts

at 7.

and if you could be a prince

and pick up

some onion dip on your way

over.

that would be nice.

cancelling the wedding

i get the call to come quick,

my friend

Lizzy,

is out on the ledge of her building

threatening to jump.

i get there,

and try to talk her down.

hey, hey, i say to her.

what are you doing out there?

come on in.

come on down.

it can't be that bad, can it?

what's going on?

Harry asked me to marry him,

she says.

holding her hand out,

showing me the ring.

i just don't think i can do it.

and there's only

one way out, which is to jump.

oh, come on, i tell her.

just say no. call it off.

i can't, she says. 

i bought the dress, ordered

the wedding cake,

and sent out over a hundred

invitations. the bridesmaids

have already rented their

peach colored dresses.

a three tier cake is being made

as we speak,

and Harry has already booked

a flight to Rome for our honeymoon.

i don't even love him.

i was drunk and confused when

i said yes.

you know how i get when i'm

drinking tequila.

geeze Marie, i tell her.

look, it's only three floors up,

go ahead and jump, but try and hit

those hedges over there.

deflect the landing a little,

you might just break and arm

or a leg and get scraped up,

but you'll be in the hospital

for awhile, and get out of this

mess your in.

hold on for a little while

longer, i'll go down

and throw some of your

couch pillows around to soften

the landing in case

you miss the bushes.

try and roll when you hit

the ground, okay?

the Christmas gin and tonic

her father

gave me a jug of Gordon's

Gin

for Christmas

one year.

i think he wanted me

to do the drinking

that he no

longer could, with the bad

liver and all.

he was a good

man

when laughing

when the wife and the daughters

weren't around.

when he could be

himself.

no longer depressed

about life,

stuck in his house,

no longer

having to curb the words

that came out

of his mouth.

live and let live

i take

a few minutes out of the day

to rake leaves

in the small

back yard.

critters and birds

start jumping

in the commotion.

i push and pull

the autumn

haul into a pile

in the corner,

where,

i suppose they'll

decompose

i'm all about the earth

these days.

nature and what have you.

live and let

live i think, except

for snakes,

which i take

a hoe to.

leaving on a jet plane

she's going

to Spain

for a few months,

to run

with the bulls,

he's going to Costa Rica

for a year,

to fish

and drink,

and get old.

She's going to London,

to live

her life,

to read,

and eat, to be a wife.

i'm going

up to Wal-Mart

to purchase a giant

bag of orange

marshmallow peanuts,

and to get

batteries,

four double A's

for my

flashlight.

a half loaf

half

is less than whole,

but sometimes

a half

of loaf

of love is enough

to fill

you in 

the moment,

and keep you wanting

more.

chicken again?

chicken again?

was a common phrase when

growing up.

despite how poor

we were,

there seemed to be a lot

of chickens

around.

we took turns

saying it,

chicken again, mom?

seven children,

seven days in the week.

it drove

my mother crazy, which

was a short

drive to begin with.

the harmonica player

when it comes

down

to sitting on your front

porch

all day,

playing your harmonica

badly,

and whittling

wood,

it's time.

your life has pretty much

come to

an unsuccessful end.

unless of course

you're selling

your

wooden spoons

and forks at the local

flea market.

if that's the case, press

on.

you've got that going

for you.

the short history of early man

early man,

built from a skull fragment

the size of a nickel,

was found

somewhere

in Africa

a hundred or two hundred

years ago, he, or she,

or possibly them,

had a large forehead.

very large,

with  a prominent nose,

and enormous eye 

sockets.

from the fragment of bone,

they recreated

a whole

person.

he wasn't well read

they said,

no schooling, no witticisms

were found

carved onto

cave walls.

he may have been married,

with children,

but was he happy?

they aren't sure.

life was hard back then,

no transportation

to speak of,

no coffee breaks, no television

to wile away

the hours.

clothes were hand made

out of 

wooly mammoths skins,

and they used aloe

leaves for diapers.

not to mention that

fire

was non existent, which

resulted

in a lot of shivering and head

colds,

especially with the large

foreheads,

indicating enormous

sinus cavities.

the cardinal at the window

the cardinal

at the window surprises

me with

his tapping, his flapping

of cherry

red wings

against my pane.

he's trying

hard to get my attention,

and at last

has it.

stubborn as i am,

i sit

and wait and watch it,

again and again.

i understand.

things must change.

the sound of crickets

i pick up

the house phone to see if

there's a dial tone.

there is.

i check my cell phone,

it's charged

and working.

so what's up?

i go to the door and look

up and down

the street,

no one.

crickets.

i feel like

something's going on

and i'm not

in on it.

bring your lunch

i see my activist friend,

Wanda, who recently changed

her name to Hope,

sitting on her front porch,

spraying

Bactine onto her bare knees,

and squeezing

out globs

of Neosporin.

she's scraped and bleeding

all over.

elbows and chin.

cuts and bruises

are everywhere.

yo, i say to her.

what's up. oh my God,

what happened to you?

oh, i'm okay.

i'm fine.

just got a little banged up

yesterday

when we closed route

95 heading south

for six hours.

about a hundred of us

sat and laid down in the road

in protest.

we're trying to end the war,

stop Big Oil,

and support

transgenders.

oh, i see. interesting.

we're going down to the

white house today,

to chain ourselves to the fence,

and pour

red paint everywhere.

red paint?

yeah, it represents blood.

so what's your cause today?

we're not sure

yet, but we'll come up with

something.

do you want to come?

i look at my watch, ummm,

there's a really good game on today

at noon

and i have a load of clothes

in the washer right now.

plus i'm so far

behind on all of my New Yorker

magazines.

can i take a rain check on that?

sure, sure.

do you have any sandwich

baggies, by the way.

i ran out and i really want

to bring a lunch.

oh, and some mustard,

not the yellow stuff, but the

grey Poupon?

i'll check.

she hasn't changed

in a rare

moment of chivalrous

endeavor

i attempt to help

an old lady

across the street.

she's wheeling

her grocery

cart behind her.

she hits me with her handbag

and screams

let go of me.

i know what you want,

you men

are all the same.

Men!

i look into her eyes,

she's about

my age,

she's someone i used

dance with,

and date.

we once went to Las Vegas.

she hasn't changed.

a final round before dark

it's a beautiful field.

green slopes,

manicured lawns,

a paved path

that winds

between the oak trees

beyond

the iron gates.

there's flowers there too.

it's quiet

and stately,

i imagine a fairway

and a green,

a club house

off the first tee,

but there are no sand traps

here,

just stones,

tilted and aged,

inscribed with dates

and names,

with coins left behind,

imprints

of knees that knelt

to pray.

left behind crackers

my 
god, these crackers

are so

dry

and stale.

a half sleeve

of pale salted squares.

i have crumbs all over me.

who left them here?

who's trying

to kill me?

not even

a swath

of peanut butter

or jelly

can save them.

i'm choking

on the soft

hard crumbles,

jagged

going down.

i'm gagging.

let me call you back

later.

that is

if i'm still around.

surviving the big bang

we're we on the same

page?

aligned

next to each other in

the Dewey decimal system,

were we even

in the same book,

in the same

library,

on the same shelf,

in the same state,

in the same city,

on the same

continent,

on the same planet

in the same

solar system

in the same universe,

hell no.

alcohol and sex

will often confuse you,

causing

regrettable decisions.

the alimony negotiation

after catching

the ex

cheating and sleeping

with Carlos,

my son's karate teacher,

i filed for divorce

and then

i negotiated

the alimony down to two years,

making the audacious

claim

that she was capable of

work,

since she was

only 32 years old and had

a degree in

marketing.

it was a bitter fight.

she wanted

alimony for life, and half

of everything

i every made, and would

make until

the end of time.

this made

the judge laugh and laugh

and laugh.

he finally slapped

his gavel down 

and said no dice, 

but nice try Jezebel.

one of a kind

it's from

the Ming Dynasty, she tells

me as I

take a look

at the blue and white vase

on a pedestal

in the hallway,

beneath

the quality print

of a Monet.

it's one of a kind,

she says

in a whisper.

later on the way

to the rest room,

i pick it up

and turn it over.

it says

Home Goods,

from

Bloomfield, Indiana.

i say nothing, 

but go on red alert

for what might

come next.

the blood stream

early on,

in the formative years,

after

so many Sundays of mass,

so many

Saturdays

of catechism,

the idea of heaven

and hell,

sin

and punishment,

confession,

was forever in my

bloodstream.

there was no turning

back.

and now, at this age,

reciting

the prayers

of childhood.

i'm still unsure as to

where i'm going,

lying awake in bed,

praying,

with hands still clasped.

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.