cry me a river

some people never cry.

others

shed tears

at a sappy soap commercial

on tv,

or the one

where they show

dogs

in cages with

enlarged eyes

and fleas.

it takes a lot for some

to cry.

death,

disease, financial

failure.

for others it could just

be allergy

season,

the tree pollen,

a heavy yellow dusting

on everything.

that would be me.

sunrise fishing

in the late

60's

before Lady Bird Johnson

began

to beautify

the city and clean up the Potomac

River.

we used

to catch fish.

sick fish. scabbed and slow,

with glazed eyes.

the light waves

would wash

the dead perch and herring at our

feet,

catfish

and carp.

but we wanted a live one

to reel in

and release.

it took all day

no matter how fat and juicy

the blood worms were.

Candy pays a visit

i go around

to the back door

and press my face

against the window.

i catch my father

in full embrace

with his newest

love. his latest flame,

who goes by the name

of Candy.

he's 96, she's a mere child

at 87.

if they were

at the drive-in,

security would be telling

them leave.

i rub my hand against

the fogged

window.

thankfully they don't

see me,

because they're old

and can't see, plus

they can't hear very well

anymore.

i tip toe back to around

to the front door

and ring the bell, but

i'm not sure if i'll ever

be able to unsee

what i have seen.

she's heard it all before, God's wife

it's wonderous

work,

meticulous

fine art,

his carvings of geese

and duck,

lions

and deer.

the room is full of them.

he shows

me around the room,

and picks

up each piece

telling me in detail 

the inspiration that helped

him create

from a block of wood,

this near

living thing.

step by step

he relives his creations.

i give him all the wows

he rightly

deserves, while

in the other room, his wife

shakes her head,

and says, oh my,

here we go again.

when we were less afraid

we all

need a hand, 

a human hand,

a touch,

a hug,

a kiss, a word

of encouragement.

we need a little love

to get through

the day.

we need affection,

just as we did

when we were

young

and less afraid.

baby talk

it's good to have

a hobby.

she says,

join something.

a club,

take up golf or swimming,

or badminton,

what about pickleball?

i sigh.

you need to make some new

friends.

what about

fishing?

do you like to fish?

gardening?

i sit up on the couch and ask

her

why are you talking to me

like a baby.

because you're

behaving like one, she says.

now man up,

and get out of here.

you're not dead yet, hell,

you're not even

old.

quit your whining and i'll

see you back in here,

in two weeks.

Tuesday, Five thirty.

take some candy from the dish

by the door,

and be happy.

can I get an Amen?

no matter

how bad their singing voices,

people

still like to sing loudly

in church.

they are letting the Lord

know

they're here.

bellowing at the rafters.

the woman next to me,

is wailing away

like Aretha Franklin,

shaking like

a pinata smacked

with a holy stick,

and the man in front of me

sounds like

Tennessee Ernie Ford

singing big bad John.

i try to keep the beat

with my hand

tapping on the hymnal,

just mouthing the words.

but i get a lot of smirks.

i think He knows i'm here,

but just barely.

everything must go

i see

the wedding ring

for sale

in the neighborhood

newsletter.

papers included.

the dress too,

and a brand new

toaster oven

and a mixer.

both a peacock blue.

still in the boxes,

never used.

everything must go.

it seems.

even me,

though dented

and scratched,

well used.

we need a reset on this planet

they don't

teach parallel parking anymore.

or spelling,

or math,

or manners,

or cursive writing.

being late is okay.

being dumb

is okay too.

why pick up a book

and read

when there's google?

being confused is normal,

am i a man,

or a woman?

or maybe both,

why choose?

the long night in Baltimore

i got lost going

to Baltimore,

for our third date.

she lived somewhere near

Fells Point,

but i missed the exit,

i took a wrong turn

and couldn't find 

the street she lived on.

i was late.

when  i finally found her house,

a row house

in the hood, where the front

looked like the back,

my dinner, a six dollar

orange slab of salmon 

was still on the table,

curled at the ends like

fish does when it goes bad.

the string beans were cold.

the bread stale

and she was at the end of

a bottle of Chardonay

and watching

the Jersey Housewives,

with the sound way up.

two old cats were in her lap.

she was mad.

she pointed at the table,

and said, go ahead and eat.

i slaved all day in the kitchen

for you, and you're late.

two hours late.

we're not having sex tonight

either, she said.

so don't even go there.

i made Jello too.

it's in the fridge, help yourself.

cool whip is in

the ice box, although you

don't deserve it.

when we meet again

i'll see you

round the bend. in the future.

someday,

somewhere,

we'll meet again.

rest assured, 

it's not over, not done,

not finished.

there's still more to

come.

more of us yet to be

played out.

we might be old by then.

but we will,

i promise you this.

we'll meet again.

promises we can't keep

as we stand

in line

at Duck Donuts,

freezing in the wind

and rain,

drooling.

she says to me, 

look into my eyes and

hear this, after these

three donuts i'm about

to crush into my mouth,

i'm seriously

going on a diet.

i swear to 
God on a stack of Bibles

and Oprah,

that this will be the last

time you'll ever

see me taking a bite out

of a maple covered

chocolate

glazed donut

filled with a buttery

cream cheese, hot out

of the oven.

i'm done after this.

how about you?

ummm. nah.

i can't make such

a ridiculous promise.

i used to be able to visit or call them

i miss the dead,

old friends, too many

to name

and number.

i really do.

there's an empty space

where they once

stood beside me.

i'm sincere about this.

they

are still on my mind.

they are in my phone,

they are listed on a notepad

in a drawer.

they are everywhere

and nowhere

all at once.

i used to know exactly

where they were

and how to reach them,

how to hear their voices

or visit them,

but those days are over.

they're gone.

the long reign of Ernie

in his

compression socks,

and black

beret,

his aviator sunglasses

tilted on

his scarred nose,

he sits,

still a king

in his lazy boy lounge

chair,

remote in hand.

crackers

and cheese on the tv

tray.

a bottle of Ensure

between

his knees.

children,

now old, at his

beck and call.

the king lives on.

the rust of you

the rust,

the orange bites in the metal,

invasive

and unrelenting

is in

your sleep, in

your hands.

the tremble

and blur of rot.

you want to do something

about it 

but can't.

no scraping, no sanding,

no blow torch

will remove

it from

the girders that hold you up.

you will

topple one day,

as all things do.

dumb and smart together

it's the slippage

of time.

the quick breeze of days

going by

and by,

turning into years,

that eases

the memory of bad times.

maybe they

weren't so bad

after all you mistakenly

think

and pick up

the phone

to pick up where you left

off.

funny how smart

and dumb we are at the same

time.

why things never really change

the reason,

i figured out, while lying

on my

back,

changing the oil

in my old car,

the reason nothing in life

ever changes,

that no lessons are

ever learned,

is because the wise men

and women

who have learned

so much,

grow old,

then die.

and then we have to start

all over again

with babies..

i want it now

you need

to be patient if you seek

to grow

anything.

from seed to stalk.

from calf

to cow.

it takes time.

some of us have it,

while others

like me,

want it now.

on the plate

ready to be cut with

fork and knife.

the ties that bind

the ropes

and chains are loose,

or tight.

the silk

ties,

the twine,

even threads,

but the bindings

of our

possessions,

our loves,

our likes

save us from

fright.

all of it keeps us here.

keeps us

from fleeing

these lives.

her love of ketchup

i watched her

making

a grid pattern on her scrambled

eggs

using a bottle

of ketchup, which ran

out, so she asked

the waiter

for another bottle.

she looked at me

and said, what?

nothing, i said. nothing

at all.

just watching you.

i like ketchup, she said.

i can see that,

i told her.

did this end our relationship,

no, not right away,

but in the end

it didn't help.

i leave her to it

the bird

on the sill, peering in.

a grey

brown dove

of some sort

with fluttering wings,

and dots

of black.

she prances along

pecking at the glass.

we stare 

at each other,

but don't speak.

what words would 

we say

to one another?

none that i can think of.

so i leave her to it.

work awaits.

mental illness is a pandemic

life is hard.

of course it is.

wake up and go to work.

but some

people make it even harder

by gluing or chaining themselves

to the highway

and blocking traffic,

clogging bridges and tunnels.

keeping us from our jobs,

our children,

our doctors, our important

meetings that keep life going.

what's wrong with these people?

mental illness is truly

a pandemic now.

whatever cause they

are protesting, for or against,

what they're doing is having

the opposite effect.

we hate these people and their

selfish, ignorant behavior.

throw them over the bridge

into the river.

let them sink or swim.

drag them to jail and glue

them all together in a big

pile of stupidity, like pigs

in a pen.

trouble at home

the electrician,

with his orange bag

of tools,

and booties

on his shoes

takes to the task at

hand

without hardly a

word.

i want to ask him

if there's trouble at

home, but i don't.

he has that look though,

that long distant

stare as he quickly

removes a switch plate

from the wall.

he presses on, wanting

me out of the way.

full service auto

just because

he calls himself a car mechanic

doesn't mean

he knows

transmissions,

and brakes,

diesel engines

and electric cars.

sometimes he learns on

the job

when you tow it in.

not unlike doctors

and lawyers,

they fake it until

they make it.

sit right down, the therapist

is in.

a little off the top

a little off

the top,

and the sides, i used

to say.

leave a little

to comb,

to brush back.

now i just say,

everything goes,

take it all

with a very sharp shave.

i give up, you win

i give

up on the pollen.

the fine silt of yellow dust

that

covers the earth

and invades

my nose

and throat

making

me itch and swallow.

i surrender and lie there

with a box of

kleenex.

just take me, i say out

loud

to the trees

and fields,

sneezing,

wheezing.

blowing my nose

like a fog horn

at sea.

i give up, you win.

elbow to elbow at the bar

sitting at the bar can

be hazardous.

you want to eat and drink

in relative

peace.

but then

the guy and his wife

sitting

next to you, asks how

the beef is?

he wants to shake your

hand and ask

you where you're from.

come here often?

he says.

his wife smiles

and tells you  that you

familiar.

he wants to buy you a drink

as the conversation

goes on.

he has a dog, three kids

and was in the Navy once.

where did you get that shirt,

she asks,

as the food comes.

you tell her.

J.C Pennys.

then hold up your steak knife,

and say please.

enough.

can we eat in silence until

we're done?

our mug shots

as

i flip  through the high

school

year

book. it seems that

we all looked so clean cut.

almost innocent.

boys with

hair parted

on the sides

the sheen of brylcreme

catching the light.

the girls with tall

loafs of hair

sprayed hard,

most appearing demur

and shy.

we looked

serious

and older than we were.

black and white.

just children,

but already

imitating our elders,

getting ready

for the roles we were

about to play

in life.

the rising tide of her

i find

her toothbrush on the sink.

her lipstick.

her shoes

are under the bed.

she's left a dress

on a hanger

on the door.

she's turned her book

over

on the chair

where last read.

the plants are watered,

the dog fed.

i see packets of green

tea

where coffee used

to be.

slowly i'm losing control

of this house.

staring into space

it's rare

to see a person just looking

out a window

these days.

doing nothing

but staring out,

deep in thought,

elbows on

the still,

eyes towards clouds, or

the street below.

it's hard to find

a face

calm

and relaxed just taking

in the view.

everyone is busy now,

with

themselves,

their lives, their phones.

not a moment

of peace.

Hopper would have

a hard time

finding

subjects these days

to put on canvas.

somewhere in there is you

the photo

albums

are no answer. 

they only add

more mystery

to what

life

went on.

what deception, or truth

lay

between

the pages of rarely

viewed

but yellow tinged

pictures.

how neatly though

they

are taped and glued

upon

the black

paper between hard

covers.

labeled with names and dates.

somewhere in there

is me.

somewhere

in there

is you.

there's a new war on, but we're at the beach

we catch

a glimpse of the new war

starting

while

in the pool,

kicking our legs gently

in the steamy

echo of blue

tiled walls.

we're the only ones

there,

a tv is on

in the corner.

the screen blurred.

it literally is the fog of war.

but we're on

vacation.

will it ruin our breakfast?

or dinner.

our walk

along the beach

gathering shells and letting

the cool wash of ocean

lap our feet?

no.

we'll rent bikes in the late

afternoon,

and travel miles and miles

across the hard sand

of winter, and worry

little about war.

the last slow dance

he seems to be aging

in reverse,

the mind sound,

the hearing

better.

his feet move

to the music, though

he's sitting down.

just his eyes are a problem.

but he feels

his way 

about the world. he laughs,

he jokes.

he eats

and sleeps, he even makes

love

when given

the chance.

what is there not to like

about 96?

call me Larry of Arabia

i have sand

in my eyes, my underwear,

my outerwear,

my shoes

and socks.

sand is between my toes,

crusted in

the cavern of my ear.

my eyes are full of it.

i can feel it

grind against my teeth,

as we walk along

the shore.

the wind

beating us with the sting

of sand

blown hard

without restraint.

i feel like Lawerence of Arabia,

but without the white sheets

and braided 

headband.

no camel either.

twenty percent before taxes?

who to tip

and how much. fifteen percent?

twenty?

was the service good?

the doorman,

the cab driver,

the waiter,

the maître di?

the man handing you a towel

at the spa,

the clerk

carrying your groceries

to your car.

what about the sky cap,

the Amtrak

fellow

with his red hat?

the elevator

operator,

who gets the money,

the gift

at Christmas, do we need

to know their

lives, their names,

do we need to

get involved, or do we just

throw money

into the air and let the world

scramble for it.

i don't know anymore.

filling the void within

as i push

the cart through America.

the gleaming

false notion that all is well.

i see the colorful

fruit,

the milks and ale.

the breads stacked high,

the candy

and artichokes.

the cakes

and pies.

i push and push, but 

there's nothing that i want

or desire.

i'm not satisfied with any

of this.

not this red meat, this fish,

this poultry.

this bag of salt or sugar.

too much. too much of a good

thing or a bad thing

always fails.

it's something deeper

within, something lacking

that's making us

eat like this.

making us more and more

unwell.

nine pregnancies

after nine

pregnancies, did my mother and father,

sit down

and say to each other.

can we stop now?

do we have enough children

yet?

probably not.

her being Catholic

with the penalty of hell

if she used birth control.

and him

being the wild animal that he

was.

johnny Appleseed,

sailing the high seas

of women.

clandestine coffee clutch

i see my therapist

talking to my lawyer, my

accountant,

and my doctor, plus two

ex-wives.

they are gathered around

a table at

the coffee shop,

whispering amongst themselves.

but when they see me,

they stop, and smile.

they wave, as i pass by.

i feel at times that there's

a lot going on in this world

that i have no clue about.

lost but rarely found

the world is full

of lost

gloves, just one, rarely

two.

umbrellas,

hats and scarves.

occasionally a book

left on

the train, or bus.

sunglasses

litter the land,

phones

and bags.

we live in an age of lost,

but rarely

found.

bourbon blues

whiskey

is in, i hear. the brown

bug juice

is hip now.

the dark

stuff.

it's no longer vodka

or gin.

the youngsters want

something

aged.

scotch or rye.

Canadian Club,

or Jack Daniels.

the strong batch,

the stuff

that put my father into

AA 

time and time again.

going haywire

there's a bad connection

somewhere

along

the way. from switch to light.

the circuitry

has

lost its way,

gone haywire, one might

say.

a flip of the switch

confirms

it as the light flickers

like a carnival

without the music or fun.

what do electricians charge

these days?

the mulligan

it would be

nice

to be someone else once

in a while.

to rip off

the old face, the old body

and be new

once more,

with a different name.

a different life.

a fresh start, a change.

everything would be

new again,

but without the mistakes

you've made.

you have a flat tire

do you say something.

or keep

it to yourself?

we're all walking on eggshells

these days,

afraid of what

a crazy person might do

if you point out to them

through your window

that their tire is nearly

out of air, and sitting

on the rim.

do they have a gun,

a knife, will they blame

this all on you, then get

out of their car

with clenched fists,

ready to fight?

best to drive on, and be

thankful it isn't you.

i remember your muffins

i was at the farmers market

the other day, and bought

a muffin.

a cinnamon muffin

with

brown sugar

sprinkled on top.

i looked around

but you weren't there, but

after one bite i knew that

it was your muffin.

the soft crumble of it all.

i'd know your muffins

anywhere,

in the dark, in the cold.

on a raft in the middle

of the ocean,

in a storm.

i'll always remember the first

bite of the first muffin

you baked for me.

the taste, the smell,

the goodness of it, being you.

i'll remember it for the rest

of my life.

the corn fields of Iowa

what about Montana,

or Iowa.

the Midwest, i suggest to her

as we pack

our bags

in a hurry, the house sold.

the money

pulled

from the bank.

let's lose ourselves in

a corn field,

or a cold dark

stream

where we can fly fish all

day,

and dream.

i tell her. grab the cat,

the dog,

and pull the door,

i'll start the car, let's go.

don't forget your wide

brimmed hat.

baking love

as i knead

this dough, hands in the batter,

i roll.

over and over

goes the flour,

the warm water,

the salt,

the yeast

and sugar. i think about you.

how soft

you were,

how kind and gentle,

how you

rose

in the oven of our

love.

baked and delicious,

a morning slice

with butter.

ocean front room?

i take

three minutes to pack up for the beach.

shorts, towel, socks and shirts.

money.

a three day

trip.

two nights,

four hundred miles.

is the ocean still there?

the sand,

the gulls.

the boardwalk?

what's changed since

last summer.

is there all you can eat

at Captain Bob's.

Pocahontas Pancakes,

Jimmy's Kebabs?

is there

ice cream?

of course to all that, but

will the room be ocean front,

or facing the rear,

and the distant bay

a line of

air conditioners

grinding out cool air

for our stay.

I want to see the light

i open the box.

what could be easier than

installing

an overhead

light in the hallway

that's been

flickering on and off for

weeks.

the instructions

say in bold black letters.

easy to follow

instructions.

all of the ant like print

is in four languages.

there's a globe,

a fixture,

screws and bolts, wires.

orange twisty things,

all of them tucked away

in a plastic bag.

i get out my flashlight,

my ladder,

my tools and magnifying

glass, then turn

off the power,

and cross myself.

four hours later i have

taken the lord's name

in vain

a  dozen times.

i know they say,

open your eyes and see the light,

but right now i'm in

a very doubtful stage.

making war harder

what if

big business stopped making

guns

and tanks, fighter jets,

bullets and bombs.

what if they decided to end

the madness and

shut down the factories

of death,

and got into farming instead.

we'd be back to sticks

and stones,

bows and arrows

to kill each other, but

then maybe wars wouldn't

last as long.

a roll of the dice

what is it

about Las Vegas that makes people

go there

to get married?

the glitz of it all,

the bottomless bottles

of gin.

the facades

of wealth, the sound of coins

falling from

the little trap

doors.

the sex, the lights,

the bare legs,

the lips

and hair, the spin of the roulette

wheel while watching

dying stars at the Stardust

Hotel.

the roll of the dice.

what is it with the little

chapel

that weakens our soul

to say i do,

that, yes, we just met last night,

but let's not worry

about tomorrow, that

will arrive

all too soon.

what parents used to teach

math is good,

English, biology, history.

but we need a common sense

class too

when in grade school.

how to look both

ways before crossing,

how to turn

off your phone when

there's a human being talking

to you.

we need to learn how

to scramble eggs,

and change a tire.

balance a check book.

turn the oven on,

and turn it off. we need

to learn how to do laundry.

to wash, and dry,

then fold.

we need to eat with our

mouths closed.

we need a year of charm

school,

on how to behave,

how to be honest and polite,

how to respect your elders

before you too grow old.

have a lollipop, it's free

the government,

because

it's election season, is giving

away free money.

they are wiping

away tuitions,

giving gift cards and hotel

rooms

to illegal immigrants.

nine robberies

and two

stabbings, no problem, here's

your get out of jail

free card.

be a good boy now and don't

do any more

car hijackings until

after November.

you need reparation money?

five million. sure,

no problem.

drugs are no longer

illegal. here's a nice park

for you to go shoot up in,

but remember,

all of you, don't forget who

did this for you,

and vote for me.

i'm your daddy.

here, have a lollipop.

it's free.

twisted empathy

so easy

to twist your ankle

on the wet

grass, stepping into a shallow

spot

unseen.

it turns and you go

down.

you let out a scream.

it swells.

you put ice on it.

you elevate it.

you have it x-rayed.

people call to see

if you're okay.

they bring you

sweets,

cakes and pies,

soups.

sandwiches that they made.

they want to stop

by during the day

to help you

with things.

to see if you need anything.

they show you love

and empathy.

which makes me think

why didn't

i twist my ankles sooner.

what's the rush

what i like

about birds is that they find

their own

lane

to fly in, and don't tail

gate each other.

there's no honking

of their beaks,

no yelling,

or berating each other,

no flipping of wing

if one is too slow,

or too fast,

or wobbles all over the place.

they're well behaved

these birds

i've observed.

they all seem happy to travel

at their own

sweet pace.

bitter fruits

we'd like to think

that we

are beyond such petty ways,

jealousy

and envy.

greed

and lust.

but we all succumb

at some point.

we're human.

we're frail,

and we will all

take a bite

of that

forbidden fruit,

though bitter,

from time to time.

rosebud

will we

each have a Rosebud

moment

when the time to close

your eyes

one last time

arrives?

will there be some

childhood

toy, some thing

that gave you joy

throughout

your life?

is there a possession

of some sort

that you've

saved

and hidden from the world

making it safe

that will make you smile

and cling

to its thought

as your breath slips

away

into night.

you'd eat anything if starving

if hungry enough,

starving,

in a prison, or lost in

the jungle

for weeks on end,

you'd eat anything.

just to survive

you'd be eating bugs

and raw fish,

snakes

and birds, pulling

the feathers off, making

a meal of squirrels

and mice.

you'd even eat your

mother's split pea

soup, if it came down

to it

and you were on

your last leg, about

to expire.

jars of dirt

i don't look at a map

and put

pins in it,

saying to someone,

that's where i'm going

next.

but Sally does.

she's been everywhere

and if you

have three spare hours

she'll tell you

all about it

and show you the pictures.

she keeps jars of labeled

dirt on her shelf,

sand and water,

pebbles, even,

of all the countries she's

been to.

Russia, Thailand,

Egypt

and France.

Timbuktu.

when i get home, i shake

my shoes,

slapping them

together,

from where i've been,

then vacuum.

the unfunny

some need

to see the prat fall,

the paint

spill,

the gouge in the eye,

or sinking into

a thinly ice pond.

they need to see

slapstick

humor

to get their jollies,

to laugh

and be happy.

not you though,

or me.

it's why we get along

and rarely

disagree.

just one stupid invention is all we need

as kids,

we used to sit around

on the porch stoop, 

exhausted from

playing ball

all day,

drinking sodas,

and pulling on our caps

while we pondered

our future.

if only we could invent

one thing,

we'd say.

one stupid thing, like

the pet rock,

or the chia pet,

or the slinky, or the

hoola hoop,

we'd be billionaires.

something along the lines of

play dough,

roller skates, or dice.

but we had nothing.

it felt like everything

under the sun

had been invented.

so we turned our attention

to Jenny and her

little sister,

Cat,

who were looking out

the window

across the street making

faces at us.

pigtails and freckles

were in then.

celebrity sighting

it's hard not to look

at a celebrity

when passing one on the street,

or seeing one

sitting at a table across

the room,

we stare, we squint

and say things like,

she's not all that, or he's

a lot shorter than

i imagined.

they've had a lot of work

done haven't they?

should we go over and

introduce ourselves,

get an autograph, maybe?

although i hate the movies

he makes.

the same old plot with every

one of them.

and isn't she a bit too old

for the likes of him?

i wouldn't let my daughter

run around in a dress

that short, showing

so much cleavage.

celebrities, pfffft? 

they get away with murder,

don't they?

come on, let's go say hi.

things we can handle

we like to reduce

things

down to a reasonable size.

turning

a small catastrophe

into something we can handle.

it was a minor

earthquake,

a dusting of snow.

a short downfall of rain.

the heartbreak

was small, he'll get over

by noon.

it's just a cold.

nothing to worry about here,

relax.

the big ones will

come soon.

pull the loose threads

she had a lot of loose threads.

but i ignored them.

for the most part,

or snipped them away

with a sharp

pair of scissors,

not wanting to pull

on them.

i didn't want to see who she

really was once

the whole cloak unraveled.

lesson learned.

pull early and often, i suggest.

get it over with.

what you see

is what you get.

there's no moral here

there isn't always

a moral

to every story, sometimes

stuff happens

for no reason at all.

there's no lesson learned,

no wisdom

gained.

it just happened.

this awful thing,

and now you have to get

the dent out of your

car, or life,

and start again.

where's the Mrs.?

for some reason,

some bird decided to pick my gutter

off the second

floor to be his

home.

all day he's flying

in twigs

and leaves, dried brush

building, working hard.

fluttering his wings and giving

off sighs of exasperation.

he's a noisy fellow.

getting the nest ready

for the wife and family.

and where's the Mrs.

out shopping probably.

the miracle of the sun

miraculously

the sun

came back out after

it left for the night.

it was pitch black outside

for hours.

but nobody

panicked,

no news team

was on the scene 

reporting about how

the temperature

dropped

and we had to turn

our lights on.

it was way more than

just four minutes,

which was the length

of time in darkness

for the solar eclipse,

but it seemed to be no

big whoop to anyone.

smaller thinking at the think tank

my neighbor belongs

to a non-profit think tank

in the city.

it seems like a great job,

he doesn't go to work

until ten a.m. and he gets

home by two.

he has a nice house, a nice

car, a lawn service

and i see that there are

four delivered newspaper

on his front porch.

i ask him if there are any

openings down at the think

tank. he looks at me,

and says. hmmm,

then takes the pipe out of his

mouth and brushes

his beard with his hand.

i tell him, look, i can think

just as good as the next

guy. give me a subject.

any subject and i can

think about it for hours.

if someone cuts me off on

the highway, i think about that

for days.

i'm a dog with a bone when

it comes to thinking

about stuff like that.

it's not like that, he says.

we're trying to solve

the worlds problems.

like what?

well, crime and war,

homelessness, the climate.

big issues. the rising ocean.

artificial intelligence

and the future of life on this planet.

but maybe that's the reason

nothing is getting done,

i tell him.

we need to think about the

little issues. i could be that guy.

i could think about pot holes

in the street and why

it takes so long to get them

fixed, or how come it costs

so much for coffee now.

and why don't they use the words

small, medium and large

when you order.

umm, okay, i'll think about it,

he says. and i'll let you know.

great, i tell him.

i'm going to the store now 

to see if i can find any

button down sweaters

with patches on the elbows.

everybody knows

i see him

coming up the street, so i quickly

cross over

and dip my head

down so that i'm unseen.

but he does.

he yells out my name

and comes over to greet me.

he wants to talk

politics,

race and religion,

immigration,

the homeless.

money and disease.

he wants me to believe

what he believes.

he puts his soap

box on the ground

and hops aboard.

i can't get away from him

fast enough.

he asks me who i'm voting

for, i smile and say

nothing.

just we'll see. we'll see.

what's another few billion

we've forgotten

that there's nothing up there,

but rocks.

even after having made

six or seven

trips to the surface

of the moon.

somehow

we've lost our minds,

and don't remember

all those trips

bringing back nothing

but stones.

so, let's go again.

no need to spend money

here, we're good shape,

just look around

at how everyone is happy

and everyone

has a home and a bowl

of soup,

a bone.

he's happy when i come home

i'm wearing

my scone sweater today.

the one 

that captures all the crumbs

of the hardened

maple pastry

that snows

upon me when i nibble

at the edges

and take a bite.

i'll shake it out later

when i'm done.

it's my dogs

favorite piece of

clothing. he's happy

when i come home.

thank you for your cheap labor

how is it

that nearly everything is made

in China

these days.

turn it over and there 

it is,

the stamp of a far away

country staring

at us in the face.

the dishes,

the computer,

the clothes, the trinkets

and gizmos

we use every day.

shoes,

lamps

and stoves.

all wonderful things, 

but

how much are they paying

these little

slave kids

to keep us

in ribbons and bows?

bring back the old west

in the old west,

if you tried to steal a man's

horse or cow,

or wife,

or robbed a bank,

you got a bullet in you

immediately,

or you were hung

quickly from

the nearest tree

after a quick but efficient

trial.

justice was served

on a silver platter,

making everyone a little

more civil and courteous

to each other.

we need a new sheriff

in town.

more trees.

conversation with a turtle

as ponder the old

green turtle

sunning himself on

a log

in the lake,

tossing him a piece

of bread

as i sit on the bench.

i try not

to look at the crepe skin

on my

arm,

or leg, but there it is.

grandpa

has arrived.

i look at the freckles,

the dots

and blemishes.

the strange

barnacles

that have attached themselves

to me

over time.

i stare at the turtle

and his

neck, his piercing eyes,

and whisper

i understand

the shell now. 

he smiles and nods

his little head.

i used to be a fun guy, really

i tell her,

holding her hand. you might

not believe this

but i used to be fun.

i used to like

to do things, go places,

enjoy life

in all its strange and wonderous

ways.

i'd be the first one on

the rollercoaster,

or to jump

out of a plane,

or to suggest Indian food

for dinner.

she looks at me,

and pulls her hand away.

really? she says.

so what happened?

where should i start, i tell

her.

Donna, Stacy,

or Dianne?

don't look at the eclipse Moe

i try to tell

my seeing eye dog, Moe,

not to look

at the solar eclipse,

but does he listen,

no.

he's incorrigible ,that dog,

so now we have

another

dog, two actually, one for

me and one

for him.

keeping one eye open

it's not a crime,

a mortal

sin,

her leaving the milk out

overnight on

the counter.

it's not worthy

of an argument,

or in filing for

an early divorce,

but maybe it's a portent

of things to come.

a callousness

of some sort

in knowing what's right

or what's wrong.

but it all adds up, so

i'll sleep with one eye

open

from now on.

the slippery floor

we are all trying

to get in

or get out of something.

we're pulling

on doors, opening windows.

crawling

running,

limping towards where

we want to be.

sometimes

we never know if we're

coming or going.

the floor is often

so slippery.

just one book

who knew?

who knew these things would come

to pass?

what Nostradamus

type

character

predicted this.

what soothe or sayer

saw it all

in his or her

crystal ball

from the outset.

the way we live, who we

are,

the shape that the world

is in

from start to finish,

how it all ends.

what book

holds the answers that we

seek?

just one.

i believe.

so far, i haven't heard back

i write a letter

to the IRS and address it to

whom it may

concern.

i hope you're happy now!

and that you're

enjoying

my ten thousand dollar

check again.

i'm thinking about migrating

out of this country,

and maybe

heading to

Spain or France, maybe

Costa Rica.

someplace

where they don't rob

me with a fountain pen.

you'll miss me then, won't

you?

so far i haven't heard back.

the confessional booth

my friend Jimmy,

feeling glum and

in a confessional mood,

tells me that

there was a bad

stretch of time in his history

when

he woke up with fast women,

most nameless,

and drank

too many martinis,

danced the night away

until the soles

of his shoes broke.

it was a rollercoaster

ride of hangovers

and fragile hearts and visits

to the free clinic

for a healing dose.

i'm not proud of those days,

he told me,

but in truth they were

a lot of fun.

each night a mystery,

the mystery solved, and then

doing it all over

again. i sort of miss looking 

for my pants 

in the early morning fog

of a strange house,

and clicking on my key fob

to find my car.

tap, spring, sparkling or hose?

having grown

up on

warm hose water from Mr. Green's

back yard,

the long

black hose wound tightly

and neat

against his brick home,

and line of

gorgeous roses, i'm taken aback

by the waiter's offer

of tap,

or spring, or sparkling.

asking me which one he

should bring.

such a luxury these days

to have choice

and not have

to run the hose for five minutes

to get the bugs

and snakes out,

and to cool it down.

PCH in Kingston Jamaica

of course,

it's a weekly thing, winning

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes

award.

five point five million and a pearl

white Mercedes Benz.

Mr. David Sayers

calls me

everyday to convince me

delivery

is coming soon, all i need to do

is purchase him

a five hundred dollar

Vanilla Gift card

from Safeway

to register my claim.

i tell him that i love his

Jamaican accent, that he denies

he has.

he's a Christian, he tells me.

a pastor

with a large flock

of followers,

and that the Lord has blessed

me with this money

today.

after a few weeks or so of

wasting

his time and mine, we become

friends.

i look forward to his calls,

and hearing

the chickens

and roosters, the farm yard

where he lives,

on the other end.

marry into money

i read where

five million should be enough to retire

on.

that should

do it

so that you never have to worry

again

about food, shelter, the necessities

of life.

i think i need to live

a few hundred years

more to get there,

or find a wealthy wife.

the benefit of old age

he gets away

with murder, not literal murder,

but public

displays

of anger because he's

old

and crotchety.

there is no filter anymore.

he's paid his dues.

close the damn

door he shouts in the restaurant,

do you mind

moving over,

i have to sit down too,

he says on the bus.

he says what he wants,

not to himself,

but so everyone can hear.

he doesn't care, he's plum out

of niceties.

there is no fear.

the price of business

it's the price of doing

business

i tell myself, as i write a check

and then another,

whittling down

the account to bare bones.

the unexpected is bound

to happen at some point.

it's what the rainy funds

are for, and yet. 

it still stings as i write

another check before

closing the desk drawer.

the straight road

give me the straight road,

the boring

stretch of highway.

the smooth pavement

of black top

through the fields.

let it go on forever with no

curves, no turns, no detours

to navigate.

keep the mountains

in the distance.

give me the road of

no drama, just maybe a

stop along the way

to eat and drink.

that will suffice.

we were never friends, she tells me

i forget

that she's having a hip replaced

and a week goes by.

she texts me and tells

me to never

contact her again.

we're not friends, we never

were friends,

you obviously don't care about me.

no card, no flowers, no

best wishes

no emoji prayer hands.

nothing.

i stare at my calendar

on my desk.

i see a dentist appointment,

and a visit to the vet

for my cat.

i see no mention

of her hip replacement.

i have to figure out how to

use my phone at some

point to remind of things

like this.

Stand by Your Man

there was a dive

bar

around the corner, called Moe's.

breakfast all day.

the specialty was

creamed beef

on toast.

there was the same

fat woman

behind the bar, standing

at the gridle

for nearly thirty years.

who Moe was no one ever knew.

the juke box

played music. five plays

for a quarter.

mostly country. 

songs by men named Earl,

or Dwight,

or Buddy,

or women with names

like Loretta

or Tammy.

somehow there was no

observenance

of the smoking code.

the place was blue with it.

it was an older crowd 

at the end

when they shuttered the place.

tears were shed,

rats were let

out the back after being

fumigated.

the floor washed of

blood stains.

urine stains.

a few teeth too.

beer and whiskey spills.

the toilets

at last were fixed and flushed.

love was made

and lost in that old bar

on those slippery booths.

lives were spent.

marriages occurred,

divorces

celebrated,

and now,

there's nowhere to go, 

but home.

suddenly

it's a dry cleaners with a bright

white sign.

overnight for a shirt

and pair of pants, pressed

and steamed clean.

twelve dollars.

Lucky's it's called.

cracking a few eggs

to show

us what ants we really are

mother

nature

throws us an earthquake

or Sunami,

or a cyclone

once in a while.

she cracks open the ground

shakes up

the buildings,

swallows whole

some lives,

some cars. and then says,

ha.

there you go.

she can be a bitch when

she wants to,

she's not all sunshine

and lollipops

all the time.

the retirement community over 60

the lawns are perfect.

manicured,

trimmed, and emerald

green.

it's as beautiful as any

cemetery i've ever seen.

there are two fountains

in a circle

of stone

embracing water.

the clubhouse is grand,

it sits in the middle with

French doors

and gables.

did it somehow slide

down from Alps

and end up here

in Dumfries Virginia?

to the left is the Olympic pool,

to the right

are the courts for pickleball.

twelve in all.

reserve early. don't be late.

the golden

haired ladies, bejeweled

in white

shorts and dresses,

with their hair and nails

done are aglow in a light

sweat,

and silvered men

with richly tanned

bellies run gently from

the side to side with paddles.

it's not over, not yet.

so what's the deal with her always being late

is she purposely late?

again.

is this

some sort of message, some

weird

psychological

game

of cat and mouse?

is she being passive aggressive,

sending me

signals

between the lines?

is she narcissistic,

wasting

my time?

a sociopath? or am i reading

too many

personality

disorder books again,

and not realizing

that getting dressed

and putting on makeup

just takes

a lot of time?

chasing money

the awkward

call is

when someone forgets to pay

you,

and you have to text

or email, or

get them on the phone

after a few weeks

have gone by.

would

you go into a store

with a cart

full of groceries

and not pay,

would you sit in a restaurant

eat a meal,

have a drink or two,

and then say oops,

i don't have

my check book or money

with me?

and yet

when someone works in

your house

for two weeks, it's okay

to let it slide, to let

the worker chase 

his money.

it's raining again?

i go for a short

visit

to Portland. it's raining.

it's cold

and damp.

the homeless are everywhere.

fragile

tents and cardboard

houses line

the boulevard.

jobs are scarce.

crime is rampant.

the sky

is a grey wet

rag

dragged across

a dirty floor.

there is no sun, no light.

it's a permanent solar

eclipse.

i see him

sitting in his chair

in front of his college

degree,

rolling a joint.

he's weeping.

i put my hand on his shoulder,

and tell him.

i get it.

i see why you're depressed.

the first job, stop whining

the first job

was always the worst job.

the one with

the lowest pay,

the one where you bent

over backwards

to get things done

to please the boss.

waiting tables,

mowing lawns,

painting house, 

washing cars, or

sweeping floors. but

it was a job.

minimum wage.

a few bucks trimmed

down by taxes and fica

and whatever the hell

else there was.

you didn't go on strike,

you didn't protest

about the hours, about breaks,

the hardships of it all.

the indignity of it all.

no, you kept quiet

and worked and was

grateful for your pay

at the end of two weeks.

and you saved.

sweeteners

the real

thing isn't working anymore,

so we seek

the artificial

life,

the artificial sweetener,

plant meat,

AI.

the recorded voice.

we absorb the fake

news,

the lip sync,

the implants

and plugs, the skin 

stretched and smoothed.

we can't handle

the truth.

no need to worry yet

it's good to crave,

to want,

to lust,

to desire.

to be hungry

and thirsty,

to want to fill

all your human appetites.

it means you are alive

and well.

all things

are clicking together.

be worried

when it all stops.

it's just not the same

i'm happiest

when i'm

alone

or asleep, she tells me.

i'm content

with my life,

but what

about when you're

with me,

i ask her.

well, she says.

i'm happy then too,

but it's not the same.

distant worlds in light

where

is all this dust from.

these tiny particles, like stars

afloat

in the air,

alive

in the sunlight.

i'm breathing them in

right now,

exhaling them.

worlds of

dust

galaxies of foreign

life,

alive in this single ray

of light.

my lungs are full

of distant

worlds

and yet, i seem to be

alright.

give me real milk

i don't want the latest thing,

the newest fad,

the hip

fresh way

of doing things.

give me the old, the used,

the forgotten.

something high

off the back shelf.

give me the stamp

and envelope,

the land line phone,

the clerk at the bank,

the soda fountain,

the pay phone,

give me books,

newspapers,

the milkman,

the clothesline and

the pledge of allegiance

and our father

before class.

give me the chalkboard,

the paddle,

the dunce hat.

give me real meat

and milk from

a cow, not

some plant,

not some almond crap.

give me all 

of that.

helping out the sketch artist after being robbed

the police

ask me in to try and identify

the thief

who stole my watch, my

phone, and

my wedding ring.

snatched it right off my hand.

to which i replied

to the thief,

you're doing me a favor, my friend.

this made him smile before letting out

a hearty laugh as he ran off.

but the police sit me down

and ask me

to describe the man 

while the sketch artist tries

to convey on paper the image

i remember.

he had blue eyes. i start off.

blue, not like the ocean

or a robin's egg.

but more azure,

deep and mysterious, like

maybe how

the lake looks before

a storm. a summer squall.

the artist shakes her head

and says, okay, go on.

they were kind eyes, i tell her.

and when he smiled

and laughed, they lit up.

full of mischief, i might add.

his face was long, perhaps a

Norwegian bone structure,

with a high forehead, giving

me a sense of intelligence.

and his chin had a dimple,

not too deep, but just a soft poke

by God's finger.

if he hadn't taken up a life of crime,

i think he could

have modeled for Calvin Klein

undergarments in Vogue.

go on, go on. jeez.

was he black man, a white man?

no, no, his ethnicity was beyond

my comprehension. he was everyman

in my minds eye.

however,  i'd say he was well tanned,

perhaps a little burned

on his nose where he should have

applied a better zinc cream,

but sadly he smelled

much like a cheap brand of coconut oil

that i've come across

while slumming at beaches

on the eastern shore.

Ocean City, for example.

oh my God, the sketch artist says.

was he

tall, short, fat, skinny?

what color was his hair?

come on, give me something.

i don't know about the hair, he was

wearing a nice

dark cotton hoodie, with the strings

tied in a bow under his chin.

but i'd say he was medium in stature,

and i could tell he was fit by the way

he ran off in a very nice sprint.

his gait was very athletic. his arms

swung effortlessly from side to side

as he disappeared into the night.

he had a certain, how shall i say,

a je ne sais quois

about him,

stylish without trying,

and when he looked back, and gave

me that smile again,

i noticed how white and healthy

his teeth were. almost blinding

in the dim glow of street lamps

that lined the boulevard.

i don't believe he ever had a cavity

in his life.

okay, we're done here.

you can leave.

and by the way, you're never

getting your stuff back.

and what have we here?

the woman in line

at the grocery

store looks me up and down

with curious

interest,

not of the romantic kind,

but one of what

have we here.

me covered in paint

from boot

to hat,

dust and debris,

drywall mud,

a thumb bleeding.

caulking on my sleeve.

you have paint on your face,

she says,

hold still, then takes her hand

and with a nail

flicks off a speckle of

dried flat white

paint

away from my eye,

then another off my cheek..

there you go, she says.

now you're fine.

the mood we're in

so much

is the mood we're in, 

the side

of the bed

we get up on.

the gloom

of rain, or the smile

of sun,

so much of what we

do and think

relies upon

where we are in heart

and head,

when taking

that first step out

the door,

to get things done.

the shoe always fits

sometimes

you put on a pair of pants

or an old

shirt

and you say, what in the ham

sandwich is going

on.

the shirt or trousers are too tight.

you've gained weight

or the clothes

have shrunk

in the wash and then the dryer.

you can't

get them on.

you can't

zip them up or button them.

but with your

shoes,

that never happens. 

lose a hundred pounds or

gain a hundred pounds,

the shoes always

still fit.

after about the age

of twelve, that's it.

more than half the problems

i used to read

the dear Abby column,

trying to understand the problems

other people were

dealing with.

the problems with

children,

jobs,

pets, and neighbors.

wedding

invitations. lying

and cheating.

funerals and coupon

clipping.

all had

interesting issues

that old Abby would

fix with a snappy

line or two, but

mother in laws seemed

to be involved

in most of the letters written in.

i'd say more than half.

which i agree to.

solar eclipse options

we're warned

not to look at the sun during

the solar

eclipse.

it could burn your eyes

out jack.

you'll be blind as

a bat.

but what you can

do is

turn on a light,

take the shade off then

slowly

drag a saucer

in front of it.

there's your eclipse.

got it?

the wire cutters

there seems to be no

law

and order

anymore.

commit a crime and go

to jail

and get out

in a hour or two.

lawyer up.

there are other reasons

why they

arrested you.

you have a boatload

of excuses

as to why you're

the victim,

not the actual victim.

it's your gender, your

color,

your faith,

the way you look.

your blue

hair, your tattooed face

sure you killed someone,

but you didn't

mean it.

so go on your way, have

a nice day.

no wonder people are

crawling

across the desert,

swimming oceans

and cutting barbed wire

to get in.

the snack king

when i worked

in an office

for a few miserable years,

stuck in front of a computer

between two rug like cubicle walls,

i became the snack

king.

i used the bottom big

drawer on the right

to keep my bounty,

locking it up when

i left for the night.

the work, whatever that was

was piled up on the desk

like snow drifts.

some sort of esoteric mess

dealing with telecommunications,

data bases and billing.

whatever.

i had no clue what i was

doing, or why.

for some reason they hired

me. i guess because i interviewed

well and they sensed

some sort of boyish charm.

but with the snack drawer,

i controlled the office.

if somebody wanted nuts, i had nuts.

honey roasted, cashews,

pistachios. i had candy too.

chocolates, licorice,

skittles and gum drops.

i added in

potato chips, granola bars,

and beef jerky for the more

healthy crew.

it was a good living for awhile,

until all my reports

became due.

trifling muses

it's nearly dead,

or close to it, but

its on its last legs, 

on life support.

we're talking poetry here.

no slam

or internet, or performance

poetry, not

nursery rhymes, or

dr. Suess on crack.

we're talking the real stuff.

the cold hard

poetry

of our elders, most now dead.

Larkin

and Strand,

Bishop and Plath,

Lowell

and Berry.

Sexton and Frost,

Carver and all the rest.

they etched their words

into stone,

not trifling muses on

the web.

end of the world food

who bought those frozen

peas,

i do not know.

that bag

of cauliflower,

those shanks of meat,

the unmarked

freezer

bags, full of what?

bread in foil.

fish asleep.

why can't i get rid of these

things.

Armagedón food?

perhaps.

we'll see.

almost home

it's a mile away,

keep going, keep driving.

one more mile

until you're home.

don't stop.

keep going.

you'll be safe and sound

again soon.

behind

the door, asleep

in your room.

don't stop for anything

or anyone.

it's a mile away.

you're tired, but go on,

go on. go on.

you're almost home.

the msg shaker

i used to love

their food, the crispy beef,

the chicken,

the duck,

the rice.

the egg and shrimp rolls

were out of this

world.

the won ton soup was

supreme.

all of it greasy and filling

for an hour or two,

but then someone

got a hold

of the shaker of msg

and now

i can't breathe.

this could be trouble

it's one of those houses

where

you have to take off your shoes

when you come in

and put on

cloth booties

to protect their floors and

rugs.

they give you a mask

to where.

and surgical gloves.

they tell you to hold your

breath

and stay away from the dog.

these are all red flags,

as you proceed to make notes,

on your little

notepad.

reminding yourself to

not take this job.

we'll be right with you

i call,

i write, i leave a message.

but there's

no one in the office.

no human

being

on the phone. press one,

press two,

press three.

we'll get back to you,

or hold on,

you're forty-five minutes

away from

talking to an assistant

in Delhi,

or Bombay.

if it's an emergency

call 911,

if not, 

make a tourniquet

to stop

the bleeding.

day in day out

there's a day

for everything. a peanut butter

day.

mother's day,

father's day.

jelly bean day and soup day.

secretarial day.

there's a day

for children,

a day

for your religion

or sexual orientation

or skin color.

some days have a month,

or a parade.

there's a day for pies,

for cakes,

for being Irish, for

steaks.

there's even a narcissism

day,

which makes more and

more sense.

pillow talk

after we

make love and roll

away

from each other once the afterglow

has dimmed,

and the sweat has dried,

we fall into

a pattern of pillow

talk.

what are you doing today,

i mean later,

when you leave here?

i don't know,

maybe go to the store,

i need some

screws for the back gate,

it's loose again,

and i need some weed killer.

have you seen my

back yard,

jiminy crickets, it's a jungle

out there.

what about you?

what are you up to for the rest

of the day?

not sure,

maybe take a nap,

bake some bread, i think

there's a game

on at three.

i should really do a load

or two of laundry

though.

you want to take a shower first?

sure, i'll save

you some hot water.

Susan's Trans Am

i was nervous

with her behind the wheel

of the car,

an engine that powerful,

more nervous than a cat

in a room

full of rocking chairs.

if she saw a red light up ahead,

she increased her

speed trying

to time the green.

she ate and drank when

she drove,

texted

and sang to songs

on the radio.

she did her make up in

the mirror.

the windows were always

down,

no mater the weather,

rain or snow,

or in the desert with

the wind blowing sand.

sometimes i'd crawl into

the back seat,

and curl up into a fetal

position, take out my rosary

beads and pray.

she laughed at me and made

clucking noises,

as i listened to the police

sirens on the way.

stay awhile

we arrive

in a new town,

not to stay, not to eat or

browse

the general store,

but to get directions out

and gas up

before the storm arrives.

there's a water tower

over there,

a farmhouse,

we see a horse in the field.

the man

checking our oil

and wiping our windsheild

asks us,

what's the hurry.

why don't

you go over to the diner

and get yourself

a meal.

Edna is on the grill today.

so we do.

April 15th

ah, the tax man.

the invisible

man

somewhere in an office.

white shirt

and black tie

with knife in hand.

how hard

it is to send him money

at the end

of each year.

not knowing where

it goes.

to which country,

to which new

fear.

what trivial bill will

i endorse,

where will the dollars

go, so much

unaccounted for.

what joy there is

the immeasurable

joy

of the dog

off his leash

and collar, over the fence

he goes,

looking

back with tongue

and tail

wagging.

free at last, what joy

that is.

believe me,

i know.

all the weeping has been done

it's an old

cemetery. 

one squared off

in a different century,

barred in black iron,

tall oaks split by

a curved road

and grass.

but even the ones

who religiously

visited

the tilted stones

are gone now, 

flowers

are rare, the benches

are empty

near the tombs,

there's no more weeping,

all the weeping

has been done.

Ernie's Deviled Eggs

Ernie used

to bring his famous deviled

eggs

to the Easter Dinner.

three dozen

of them on a silver

tray.

cut in half, yellowed

and red

with sprinkles

of paprika and pepper.

God knows

what was in them,

but they

were quite delicious.

He never went to church

with us though,

being the atheist

that he was, instead

he'd sit back in easy

chair,

wearing his black beret

and sunglasses while

eating his eggs and say,

you'd better hurry up,

you're going to miss

the first act.

making new friends

my coat

is stolen, or given away to someone

else at the end

of the play.

it's freezing out,

and the only thing left

on a hanger

in the coat

room is a long pink 

coat, embroidered

with leopard fur.

it's been there for a few

years,

unclaimed.

it's cold and it's raining out,

so i tell

the clerk, okay,

i guess i'll have to take

that.

i put it on and leave the building.

immediately

i'm surrounded

by a group

of young people

telling me how hip

i am, how brave

to come out like this,

especially at my age.

they want me to be on a float

this weekend

at the LBGQT plus 3 parade.

grudgingly,

i accept.

it's good to be loved though,

and make new friends.

can you hear me now?

it was a mistake

pouring

that over the counter goo into

my ears

to loosen up

and remove six decades

of sweet potato ear wax.

now i can't hear

anything.

i'm underwater,

i'm in outer space,

i'm not quite Helen Keller,

but you get the picture.

it's kind of nice

though, not hearing 

what your saying.

what?

each day a gamble

i question

the words, "good luck

to you".

good luck?

what are you talking about?

am i going

to Las Vegas, or to

Atlantic City, or Monaco?

why do i need luck?

are you telling me 

that in every

moment of life

i need to be rubbing a

rabbit's foot

in order to get through

the day

to be safe and

successful?

forcing me into a barbeque

the neighbors

are complaining about my chickens

in the back yard,

the clucking, not to mention

the mooing

of my cow.

and the snorting of my pig

and her

little baby piglets.

you can't have a barnyard

in this neighborhood,

they tell me.

the board comes around

and threatens me

with fines

and eviction.

i have no choice but to 

have a barbeque next week,

but the complaining neighbors

will not be invited.

the eyebrow convention

i see her bags by the door.

going somewhere? i ask her.

yes, she says.

i'm going up to NYC for a few

days,

for the eyebrow convention

at Madison 
Square Garden.

huh?

i'm thinking about reshaping

my eyebrows.

expert eyebrow ologists from

all over the world

will be there.

do you know you can knock

off two years of

aging, with the right eyebrow

alignment,

and coloring?

no way, i tell her.

so what are you going for?

the Pelosi look of constant

surprise or the Brooke

Sheild look, the one stroke

unibrow?

i'm not sure, i'm thinking 

Marlene Dietrich maybe,

the movie star from the golden

age of Hollywood.

subtle but glamorous.

done with California

we used

to think of California as

a mecca

of sorts.

a place to go

when young,

a long stretch of state

with golden suns,

beaches

with blue water

and warm

sand.

live and let live

we sang

as we drank our carrot

juice

and joined hands.

everyone was healthy,

creative and fun.

we were all dreaming

about going

there,

getting out of the snow,

out of the dark

canyons in the city,

heading west

to have fun

fun fun.

oh my, how things have

changed,

as we pack

the car once more

and head for the east coast 

again.

pay it no mind

you

don't need the big house,

the fancy

car,

the Prada bag

or Gucci

coat.

no need for bling

on your

finger, or toes

or in

your nose.

be smart, be kind,

be good.

and pay the worlds

false

riches

no mind. 

Nehi orange or grape soda

i can still feel

the sting

of the ice-cold water 

on my arm,

from my hand to my

elbow as i dipped

it deep

into the metal bin

at the corner

store, searching

through the watery ice

for a Nehi orange

or grape soda.

ten cents for a 

twelve-ounce pop.

two cents

for returning the bottle.

my lips are still

blue

or orange, at least

in thought.

Dasha in the trenches

i haven't heard

from

Dasha

in Moscow for ages,

months

have gone by.

i wonder if she's in the army

now,

fighting in the war.

or maybe

she's become a spy.

i can see

her in the trenches,

neck deep in mud,

not wanting

any part of this madness,

just trying

to stay alive.

the Easter egg roll

as we slow dance

around

the kitchen in a loving

embrace,

i kiss her neck gently

which makes her

swoon and say,

oh you.

you're so sweet when

you're in the mood.

but then we forget that

the stove

is on as we boil

water for Easter eggs,

and her dress catches fire.

i quickly turn on 

the faucet and fill up

a cup of water, which

i throw onto the flames.

then i tell her to stop,

drop and roll, which 

she does.

then we make love

on the wet rug, full

of ashes, but the dress 

no longer burning.

street cleaning on Tuesday

i have enough

trouble

worrying about my inner

space

to be concerned with outer space.

go to the moon,

go to Mars,

yeah, yeah.

it's interesting

what's out there,

Pluto

and Saturn

and the rest of it.

the Milky Way.

all good and well. but

i need to put

some food on the table

today,

and pay

the rent to my landlord

who's making

my life 

a living hell, then move

my car

to the opposite side 

of the street before

the city tows it away.

a greeting at the door

it's a slender

little thing,

blue green,

this chameleon,

this strange prehistoric

lizard

that greets me at the door

and slips

away without

a word,

or squeak.

all tail it seems.

between the threshold

he disappears,

skinny

enough

to slide between

the metal crease.

to where he goes i don't

know.

one of many,

and more things,

that i have no

clue about.

the sooner the better

what is this nonsense,

this empty

tomb?

we killed him,

didn't we?

who stole the body,

was he really

dead

and escaped

this hollow room?

who rolled the stone

away,

and left a 

printed rag of him?

what soldiers fell asleep

and let him out,

now see what

you've done.

you've given hope to a world

that's still

undone.

when will the second

time,

yet come?

pointless and useless knowledge

as i scroll 

through a myriad

of video shorts,

giving my thumb

a morning workout.

i'm in a trance, a daze,

i'm underwater with

all of this

pointless and useless

knowledge. 

we all need help, 

we all need to be saved.

the other shoe

i'm waiting,

waiting on pins and needles

for the other

shoe to drop.

it's in the air, i can feel

it, i can

hear the stomp

of the boot before it

strikes the ground.

what's taking it so long?'

how much more

suspense can i take?

just it over with it,

and be gone.

so damn quickly

how the hell

did we all get so old,

so quickly?

it was just

yesterday when i was playing

stickball

behind the drugstore

with Henry Sadowski

and Ike Robey.

and where are they

now i might ask.

do they too remember

the strike zone

we spray painted

on the back wall?

the cardboard box

we flattened

to use as home plate?

unlike Dylan i hesitate to go Electric

it took me awhile

to buy

into technology, i even

hesitated

with the electric razor

and toothbrush,

the only reason

i ever got a cell phone

was because i saw a bum

in a dumpster talking

on one as he sifted through

the garbage.

i still have AOL, that's how

long ago it was when

i bought my first computer,

a thing the size of an

old fashioned tv.

so when i look at an 

Electric car, i'm thinking,

no way.

i already have too many

things to plug in and worry

about power. in fact,

i've only got ten percent on

my flip phone now.

white paint all the way down

the faster

and more efficient you were

with a brush

and roller,

the longer you kept your job.

it was a rat tag group

of old and young,

men and women,

teachers and cab drivers,

cooks and bums,

all suffering from

the economy of the early70's.

you did what you

could to earn your daily

crust of bread.

we started from the top

of the new

apartment building

and worked our way down

twenty-one floors

with gallons of white paint

in hand.

i kept my job

the whole way down.

when i drive by that building

today, 

i'm still amazed at how

hard i worked,

and still do, till this day.

Easter Eggs off to church

my mother had us

in dress shirts

and ties,

coats,

polished shoes for Easters.

the girls

were in dresses,

bright yellows

and blues.

we looked like colored

eggs as she

shooed us

off to church with our

envelopes full

of change she made as

a waitress

on the night shift.

behave, she'd say

front the porch and wave,

the wind

pushing her back inside

for forty more

winks on the couch

before we returned.

emotional eating

give me

my eggs

sunny side up, please,

three,

and four strips

of bacon.

toast and hash browns,

a mug

of coffee,

orange juice in a tall

cold glass

and a bear claw.

hungry? the waitress says.

you have

no idea

i tell her.

no idea.

fish eyes

as i walk around

the grocery store with an empty

cart, one

wheel

squealing and pulling

me into

the opposite direction,

i can't find a single thing

i want to eat.

nothing.

i circle and stare at the meat,

the vegetables,

the fruit, the canned

goods,

the breads and cereals.

then i come

to the fish, whole fish

with their eyes

still intact.

why are they staring at me?

there is no such thing as free speech

you have to be

careful

with your words these days.

cautiously

forming your opinions

so as not

to rile anyone up.

you can't

say what you really feel

anymore,

at least not publicly,

and even in

private,

you're walking on eggshells,

free speech

truly does not exists,

but in the quiet

of your mind.

will a good sleep help?

when your

friends

disappear, they move or die

or are no

longer talking

to you for reasons beyond

your comprehension,

it takes

the wind out of your sails

at times.

deflates you.

leaves you with your

head down.

you feel the weight of the world

on your shoulders,

though it isn't.

will a good sleep

help

to revive your spirit?

let's hope so.

it's your turn

they can't all be good days,

can they?

you have

to have

the sour with the sweet,

the bitter

with the joy,

the smile with the frown.

it's just your

turn

this day,

it all comes around.

when the stars go out

when the stars

go out,

the lights appear across

the frosted valley,

down the road

into the city.

light after light is lit.

the world is getting up.

making

coffee,

taking showers,

brushing

their teeth.

toast is popping up.

sleepy souls are

picking the paper off the porch

and yawning,

shaking the children

awake.

dogs are walked.

snow is brushed off the cars.

simple things

that must be hung onto

if we are

to stay sane.

what they forget

when i would read

him

to sleep,

page after page of the same

story,

green eggs and ham,

or curious George

and the man

with the yellow hat,

his eyes would get sleepy

and fold

upon themselves.

i'd try to sneak away,

but he'd grab

my hand and say

don't leave yet, dad, not yet,

just one more,

one more story, please

before you go

to bed.

what you already know

despite the steel

girders,

the pylons,

the span over miles,

the years

it's been traveled

across by a million

cars,

the bridge

goes down.

shocking, but

it's telling you something

you already know

as it sinks

so easily

with one swift blow.

the reluctant horse

they say

change is hard, 

and it is.

it's hard to pull

the reins

on your life and go into

a different direction.

the comfort of home

keeps you there,

the loved ones.

the familiar

keeps you safe,

keeps you warm.

why move, why leave

and start all over

again.

why pull on the reins

of the reluctant horse

once more.

the vegetarian birthday party

for her birthday,

being a vegan and weighing

about 99 pounds,

basically a skeleton in a dress,

she insisted

that everyone go to the vegetarian

restaurant

on Maple street.

thankfully 

it's no longer there, but

is currently occupied

by Five Guys burgers

and fries.

doing gangbuster business

i might add.

it was the worst meal i'd ever

eaten in my life.

fake meat.

beans and rice. lettuce

and kale.

a nightmare of a meal.

stalks of strange plants,

weird concoctions

that all tasted the same.

a green and yellow mush,

going brown.

cardboard and seasoned sawdust.

they'd put a candle in the middle

of a fat avocado

that'd she blow out

after making a wish, then

we'd cut it and

each have a slice.

sometimes i'd sneak in a

pound of teriyaki beef jerky

and stuff it 

in my pants.

stray cats with one life left

was i more

fun

when i was younger, probably so.

i did a lot

of stupid

things, but somehow

survived them

all.

just lucky

i guess. but

i'm more careful now

about who

i kiss,

who i dance with,

where i park

my car, or body on a 

Saturday night. 

i'm a cat with

just one life left,

anymore

i don't stray too far.

finding Jane

she likes

to take risks, 

go on the rollercoaster,

climb

the cliffs,

dive with the sharks,

jump out of planes

and 

wrestle crocodiles

in her underwear,

she's a very

adventurous girl. i call her

jane.

she calls me

scared.

isn't that interesting?

it's a very sharp

knife,

i know this because of the blood

dripping

across the floor.

i hardly felt

the cut, 

the blade being that surgical

and sharp.

it's an interesting

thing to be watching

what's inside

of you spill out

into bright puddles

before you.

there seems to be no end

to it.

hopefully i'll make more.

wearing orange again

i go down

to bail a friend out of jail.

he's behind

on child support payments

once again.

a few grand

this time.

the third or fourth time

around

with this game,

but the judge

wouldn't hear of it anymore.

they cuffed him

and took him

away.

they took his belt

and shoelaces too, and gave

him a bunk

with rubber sheets.

so now it's up to me,

his only

friend

to get him out before

he goes

into the big house for

six months.

some people never learn.

ignoring the red flags

i hear

things about you.

bits

of gossip, secrets whispered

from ear

to ear,

quiet clues

of darkness

as to who you really are,

but i choose

not to believe them,

and will

see how it goes

from here.

that kisses are that good.

passing on your left

you have

to go slow on the bike path

when riding.

they can't hear

you.

the ear buds are in their

ears,

the earphones are

strapped across

their heads.

there are strollers

and dogs,

small children running

back and forth.

there is no right or left

on the path,

just a stream

of people,

meandering like fish.

ringing your bell is

useless, shouting, 'on your

left', goes unheard.

no one seems to care.

it's anarchy

out there.

better wait until

the sun sets.

get under your desks

world war four,

Albert Einstein once said,

will be fought

with sticks

and stones.

that's all that will be

left to kill each other

with.

buckle up.

it's going to be

a bumpy ride.

children, 

when you hear

the sirens,

get under your desks.