jimmy and sally

it's a bad

time to have an argument

when

you're in the middle

of making love,

but when

she called me jimmy

and not

my real name, i questioned

her.

no, no, she said.

i didn't say jimmy,

i said,

it's supposed to be windy

out today.

windy.

we should really take the umbrella

down off the deck.

i distinctly heard

you moan the name jimmy

when i bit your neck,

i tell her.

no, no, she said. i said windy.

so, while we're in the middle

of hot romantic

love you're thinking

about the wind?

about damage to the porch

umbrella?

kiss me, she said.

let's not talk about it anymore,

okay? let's move on.

my leg is starting to cramp,

plus i have a

hair appointment at noon.

okay,

Sally.

lamenting a lack of dinosaurs

people lament

the extinction of animals,

bugs

reptiles

and what not.

the sea is losing fish,

the sky

is losing birds.

they wonder if we're not

next.

are we on borrowed

time

like the brontosaurus,

like T-rex?

will we go the way of

the do doo bird

at some point?

probably is my best

guess.

when the lake evaporates

when the lake

retreats

from the long hot summer,

the year long

drought,

everything

that was thrown

into it

comes up for air.

cars and bikes,

bodies

are everywhere.

disposable things

and lives,

guns and knives, microwave

ovens.

even refrigerators

have somehow

been tossed

into the muck.

i look for you, but

you're not there,

somehow you got out,

you survived.

the jackhammer blues

the power

is out,

the water too,

they're digging in the street

again.

a dozen

men

in orange vests

and white

hats

are standing with

their shovels

about to begin.

the machinery purrs

beside

the cracked road.

it's a days work

for them,

thankful,

grateful for the watermain

break,

the power lines

being snapped

in a violent storm

last night.

whereas

i feel differently

about it

pouring bottles

of spring water upon

myself

for a shower

by candlelight.

do you have any references?

i'm amused

when people ask for references.

having been

in business for thirty-five years.

should i give

them the good ones,

or the bad ones,

the ones where paint spilled,

where the wallpaper

curled off the walls?

should i give them the number

of the job

where the ladder

fell, or the fire

started, or how

i flooded the hall?

i choose the happy people,

which are most of

the jobs, the ones

i got paid on, i give out

those numbers

for them to call.

where did everyone go?

where did everyone go?

the old

school,

the old friends

from the old neighborhood.

the lovers,

relatives?

where are they

now.

which state have they

flown to?

which country,

which city

are they resigned to live

out their days in?

which cemetery should

i visit to see

their names

on gravestones?

the daily crime report

there's the weather

report on the news channel,

giving wind

and rain predictions,

changes in

the temperature,

and then

there's the crime

report

which gives you

an update on where

to go

in the city.

what blocks are having

the most

carjackings,

murders,

assaults and robberies.

they use

red dots

for severe crime areas,

yellow

for moderate,

and green for all clear

at the moment, but

things could

change, so be prepared

and have

on your running shoes

when visiting.

a veritable grouch

when she

drove the car,

i was nervous.

when

she was

in bed,

i was nervous.

at the table,

on the couch, i was a bundle

of anxiety.

i was walking

perpetually on eggshells,

afraid

to open

my mouth.

how did this happen

that i ended

up with

someone i didn't

even like?

a veritable grouch.

water lilies

with time

on my hands, 

waiting for the phone to ring,

for my ship

to come in, 

i open the box,

the large puzzle box

of a Monet painting.

two by three feet.

it's another water lily number.

apparently

he had a thing

for water lilies. 

i wonder if he had to fight

of the mosquitos

when doing his paintings.

flies and bugs,

ants. bees.

there's a lot of bluish

and greenish

tiles.

yellow and pinks.

i start with some edges.

it's ten o'clock

in the morning, but by noon,

i've started to drink.

each piece

looks the same.

my eyes blur and a headache

starts to come on.

this is torture, madness.

i sweep it all up

into the box.

maybe tomorrow i'll

start again, but

i doubt it.

a failure to communicate

i read

the results of my CT scan.

i have

no idea

what they say.

i have no clue what opacified

means,

or polypoids.

just tell me doc

how much

longer do i have to live,

and if so,

will i eventually

be able to breathe again?

paper and pen

we still

need paper and pens,

pencils,

don't we?

please tell me that

these

have not disappeared

not yet.

i won't

surrender.

i won't keep notes

in my

phone,

my laptop,

i need a pad, a clean

white

sheet and a good

ink pen

on my desk.

a spiral notebook

is best.

i stop and look back

i can't help myself.

i look back

despite

all urges to keep walking.

no.

i turn

and stop

and look back.

but why?

what is there left to see,

what is there

left

to know?

i pause and take a long

last look.

what is it?

regret, remorse?

i just can't

seem to let go.

leaving it all behind

we had

to sit for a while.

catch

our breath, get our bearings.

this death

was new.

and now there were things

that had to

be done

with so much left behind.

books

and pictures, clothes

and shoes.

all of it.

a lifetime of things.

all very old,

all very used.

even the keys from his

pocket,

the ring on his finger,

each

had to be removed.

caught up in some wind

it's a field

of apparitions,

ghosts.

light wisps of people

i've

known.

now gone.

caught in some wind

that comes

along.

i can still them though,

the shapes

of them,

hear their

voices,

their laughter.

sometimes i can even

feel their

hands

in mine.

the brown bag lunch

we brown

bagged it to school.

our names

scribbled on the bag.

we lugged our tuna

sandwiches,

peanut butter, or cold

slabs

of bologna

with a swipe of French's

mustard

on wonder bread.

to the bus stop.

occasionally there'd

be egg salad

sandwiches

which we had

to remember not

to put on the heating

vents

in the classroom.

maybe a cookie

or two,

an apple.

milk was 2 cents in

a small

carton. a straw too.

sometimes there'd be

a note tucked

inside the bag.

say grace before lunch,

love you.

the campus hunger strike

the hunger

strike

seems to be the most

peculiar strike

of all.

making demands

or else

we're not going to eat

anymore

despite our

parents paying for a meal

plan.

we're going to skip

breakfast

lunch and dinner

and never put another

quarter into

the vending machines

for peanut butter

crackers and ho-hos

unless you

stop the war immediately

and meet

our extensive

list of requests

and demands.

not another morsel

of food will go into

our mouths

until

you grant us all our

wishes.

and if that doesn't work

or get your

attention,

we will hold our breath

until we turn

blue, or the cows

come home.

the handy man

there was always

a guy

in the neighborhood,

a husband

or brother, an uncle

maybe,

that could fix anything.

a handsome,

charming fellow

who was crafty and smart.

ours was Joe.

he'd come over with

his tool bag

while the husbands

were at work.

he'd fix the washer, the dryer,

then

take a look at the furnace,

he'd figure out

why

your lights were flickering.

toilet running,

no problem,

he'd be on the kitchen

floor

with his head

under the sink

turning a wrench with his

muscular forearms

while the lady of the house

made him

coffee and muffins.

tv on the fritz, joe

had that too.

squeaky headboard

rattling

against the bedroom wall,

Joe could tighten

things up for you.

ten years later there were

a lot of children

in the neighborhood

that looked

exactly like Joe.

the cat is pleased with herself

when

one dog barks,

they all bark.

the whole street is full of windows

with dogs

barking.

it's a wild

fire of barking,

down

the block

into the next neighborhood,

and beyond.

the cat

is pleased with herself

as she

struts along.

hot dog

sometimes

it's best to stay dumb,

stupid,

if you may.

ignorance

being a sort of bliss

we can

live with.

why i looked up

how a hot dog

is made

is beyond me.

the ingredients being

a strange mix

of chemicals

and processed

meats

swept up into a skin

sweater.

it's ruined things for

the upcoming

holiday.

perhaps

just one slathered

in mustard and relish

this year

won't kill me.

the weight of you

in a moment

of clarity,

an epiphany of sorts,

i decide

to drop the weight

to the floor,

unstrap

it from my back,

my heart,

my mind.

no more do i need

to carry

you around

like before.

that kind of house is gone now

they tore

down the old house.

the rambler

built

in the 50's, the Eisenhower

Nixon

style house.

the brick and siding house

with a chimney

and a patio.

the conservative

black

and white tv house,

the mannered

house,

the apron

the tie, the square house

before

the music died

house.

the garden party house,

the martini lunch

house.

the church on Sunday

morning house.

the three kids

and a dog

house.

mom and dad, a chevy

in the driveway

house.

the manicured lawn

and rose bushes

house.

a grill in the yard,

a flag on the pole,

Christmas lights strung up

for the holidays.

that house.

it's gone now.

is my turn now?

i feel a tiny

hope 

for humanity when the traffic

lights

go out

and everyone is

on their own,

on their

best behavior.

no one is in a rush,

everyone

being cautious, allowing

each a turn

at crossing the intersection.

making their turns

to the left

and right.

signals flashing,

lights on,

a wave, a nod, 

everyone being polite.

like in the old

days.

leaving the plant behind

for years

i possessed a plant,

a nameless

species

with giant leaves

that reminded me

of Paraguay, or some

distant land.

a gift from an old girlfriend

who

felt i needed something

in my little apartment

other than

a couch

a tv,

table and chairs.

beer cans.

it stood in the corner

for years,

turning various shades of

brown

as i forgot to water it.

people

would use it as an ashtray,

or a small

waste basket. cigarette

butts

filled the bottom,

young men being

the boys

they are.

did the plant mind the music,

the visitors

who came and went

at all hours, who knows.

but she survived

despite all odds.

at last i moved, but didn't

take it with

me.

i set it in the trash room,

nearby.

say everything or nothing

there are many

unsaid

words

that never reach an

ear.

getting older

can go

either way.

either you say everything

that's

on your mind

not worrying about who

hears,

or you say nothing

at all.

it's all been said before,

so who

cares?

making eye contact with a stranger on the path

i accidentally

made eye contact with someone on the path

the other day.

it was all blue

skies with a nice breeze,

a pleasant walk to the lake.

i nodded to a woman

and said,

good morning.

she screamed

and ran,

tripping and falling,

ripping her yoga pants,

then got back up and sprinted

away.

i said, hey, hey, i'm

sorry.

i shouldn't have run after her,

but i wanted to

tell her that i was new

in the area,

and didn't know it was wrong

to say hello

to people, strangers, when

walking

through the woods.

she had

pepper spray

and knew tai kwon do,

a newly minted yellow belt,

i presume.

she took a stance and made

a loud screeching

bird like noise.

she held the pepper spray

in the air

and warned me not to get

any closer.

thankfully i was able

to get away,

dashing into the woods

and circling

back home.

boxing lessons for pedestrians in NYC

it's a thing now

in the city

of Gotham,

to be walking down the street

and have

someone

walk up

and punch you in the face.

a simple

act of violence

for no reason.

makes no difference

if you're a man or a woman,

or if your

minding your own

business,

going to work,

to church,

just taking a walk in the park,

you may be punched at

any given moment.

i remember when

pigeons or wild taxi

drivers were

the main

problems in the city, or

panhandlers

in Times Square.

but now the sucker punch

is also

on the list.

it's best to

keep your head on a swivel,

duck and move,

slide

side to side. jab, jab,

stay light on your feet.

make use of the rope a dope

strategy, ala Ali

in the rumble in the jungle.

solving problems in the walk up

i tell the landlord

that

there are mice in the floorboards.

he calls

the super.

Max, who comes

over with

a flashlight and a hammer,

and a hunk

of cheddar

cheese.

one by one he takes care

of the mice.

anything else, he says

while i'm here?

yeah,

the radiator is making

noise at night.

he goes over and taps

it a few times.

okay, that should do it.

there you go.

sleep tight.

a therapeutical goldmine

you hear

the word trauma a lot these days.

post traumatic

or otherwise.

seems

everyone

has it.

it's the new

plague upon the world.

victimhood.

my mother,

my father, my husband,

my wife,

my significant other.

they all did

a number on me.

my job too.

my boss.

my landlord, my country,

my school.

a bird just flew close

to me.

someone mistook me

for a girl or a boy

when i'm

neither.

i'm so traumatized.

no seems able to just suck

it up

and move on anymore.

we need therapy

and

hugs, validation for

the trauma

we're going through and

can't get

rid of.

it's who we are.

a victim.

when your phone catches fire

i read

the small print.

it's complicated.

it's strange

and full of words no

one uses.

four pages worth

of

iron

clad statements

of liability,

and responsibility,

a formula

of payment

versus money down.

six months,

twelve

months. three years.

it's a spinning top

of babble

minus the music.

more data?

more minutes, an extra line?

insurance?

you just want out.

what can you do but sign

on the dotted

line.

your phone caught

fire

and now you need

a new one.

the Etcher Sketch

was there

a meeting at some point.

God

and His advisers,

angels perhaps

in deciding what

creatures would roam

the earth?

dinosaurs apparently

were a bad idea.

like the 

Etcher Sketch

pad

He seems to have

given the world 

a good shake 

and erased them off the face

of the earth.

but i have a few questions

to ask.

about such

things as snakes

and slugs, and

the Dodoo bird.

why here one day

and gone

the next?

makes me nervous.

we agree to agree on everything

early

on in the game.

we agree to agree on everything.

but with

time

and entanglement

and the

noose getting tighter,

we go

a different way,

the mask slips

and who

we really are begins

the see

the light of day.

i realize that

you forced yourself

to laugh

at my jokes,

and despite

not liking it,

i ate your cooking

anyway.

starting a new business

i have an idea

of how i can make money,

she tells me,

suddenly sitting up in bed,

and shaking

my shoulder.

it's three a.m.

i'm going to start a cupcake

business.

are you in?

what?

will you help me with my

new business.

you know how delicious

my cupcakes are,

everyone raves

about them.

are you in?

yes or no?

no.

is it a bad idea?

yes. do you know how

may cupcakes

you'd have to make everyday

for the rest

of your life

to make a profit.

a lot.

maybe ten million.

the world is not starving

for cupcakes.

now go back to sleep.

hardly one star now

it used

to be the plot

that put you in your seat

at the bijou.

the characters, the story.

whether mystery

or romance,

high drama of some sort.

all of it

on the big screen.

the writing bringing it

all together

with masterful strokes

of a pen,

but now

it's comic book heroes

and villains,

monsters and special

effects.

repeat and rinse

again and again.

the frayed red carpet

the meanness

took

the pretty out of her,

out of him

too.

funny how that works.

beauty

throwing

down

the red carpet, until

both are worn

and thin.

maybe karma 

really is a thing.

i'm not sure yet

i slip

uneasily into slippers,

and

a robe,

should i get a pipe

too

and do

retirement like

in the books,

with long

days

at late rising, taking

up golf,

pickleball

and such?

will i at last write the book?

is it time to celebrate

or mourn?

i'm not sure yet.

the blue stain of joy

the kid

with the snow cone

dripping

on his clean white

shirt, has

bit the pointed

bottom

off the cup.

the blue

goo

of syrup and melting

ice

goes

anywhere

and everywhere all

at once.

the mother smiles,

and sighs

but knows that

joy is fleeting,

ephemeral,

and

worthy of shirts

no longer being

white.

never is my guess

the radical

left

the radical

right

the silent majority,

a fine

mix

of polarizing crazy.

a hot

stew

of fear

and loathing,

ignorance and faux

bliss.

oh,

how will it ever end?

never

is my guess.

the world is now too loud

it's a plunger of sorts,

a swirling

hot water

irrigation system, not

unlike

what Roto-Rooter might

use on a

clogged

toilet.

but this one is in your

ear canal.

seems there's a lot of sweet

potatoes

down there,

affecting your hearing.

both ears.

it's relatively painless

as it all washes

out,

but then you can hear 

everything everyone is saying.

each dumb

word coming out

of their mouth.

the world is suddenly 

too loud.

the catch and release policy

the new

policy is to catch and release

the criminals.

the prisons

are overcrowded.

there's

no more room

in cell block H.

there's not enough therapists

and social

workers to help

them onto the narrow path.

crime has become an easy

endeavor

to make a buck.

steal, rob, assault,

shoot em up.

you're never

locked away.

at least not for long.

a slap on the wrist

and out you go, with a 

warning to please, please,

we love you,

now try to obey.

checking the new box scores

i used to check

the baseball box scores

first thing

in the morning when i

retrieved the paper

from the bushes

near the porch.

how many hits did Mantle

get,

how many strikeouts

for Kofax,

or Whitey Ford.

who's in first place

with the Senators in last,

but now, i check the pollen

count,

the weather,

then turn the page

to see who has 

died, what caused it,

and at what age.

so far so soon

was it yesterday

the boy

was waiting

for the school bus,

then on his bike

going down

the street.

the toddler

with training wheels,

no more.

his kite in the air,

the ball

at his feet.

so far so soon

i think,

as i see him driving

his car.

already grown,

already

about to leave.

what should we be scared of next?

what are we not

scared of?

what new thing, what new

invention,

what online

presence

makes us pee in our pants

with fear.

the interest rates,

inflation,

the campus

chaos,

the wars far

and near.

what new scare will keep

us worried

and under our beds?

AI is next,

another virus perhaps,

put it up there with

sugar

and tobacco,

crime.

room for both

there are friends

that you tend to go into

deep

conversations with,

philosophical

and moral

discussions about the world

at the large.

life and death,

love

and regrets.

you fall back into chairs

and drink

and talk long

into the night

solving nothing, but getting

somewhere.

and then there are friends

that want

to discuss the score

of last night's game,

the ref's call,

the play made,

who won or lost,

how the weather affected

it all.

there's room for both

i suppose.

those cushions have to go

it's the domino

effect.

buy a new lamp for the small

table

in the corner

and the next thing you know,

you're shopping

for a new rug,

you're selecting paint

to complement

the shade,

and drapes,

art to hang on the wall.

what about a few

green plants?

the coffee table could

use a new

decorative plate,

and those old cushions

on the couch.

they definitely have to

go.

wallet in the back pocket

is my

phone secure, my

computer,

my assortment of laptops

and i pads?

is everything locked

down and safe,

all my accounts

and credit cards,

my social security

and Medicare

numbers?

is everything tucked

away

from prying eyes?

i hope so.

but i do miss the days

when i tapped

my back pocket to see

if my wallet

was still there.

they all came knocking

they all

came

knocking when my mother

was officially

divorced.

the fireman,

the milkman, the delivery

men.

they didn't care

about the seven children,

they just

saw the silhouette of her,

this Italian woman,

with long

black hair,

blessed

with curves

standing at the door.

reluctant acceptance

why measure,

why

take out the tape,

the spoon,

the glass cup

with markings.

why keep

track of anything?

the years

and days,

money, weight.

your height.

why are we so obsessed

with numbers?

telling us

we're losers,

or that we're great.

just wing it and stop

worrying.

make the most of it,

whether poor

or rich, giant

or small,

tubby or light.

give me a la dee da

and quit

whining.

why is there no sun anymore?

it will stop raining,

won't it?

the clouds will clear

and the sun

will

reappear in the blue

sky, right?

you do

remember the sun

don't you?

i do, but

vaguely. my memory

of it is

a large warm ball

of yellowish

white light.

who can we blame this

on?

purposely quiet

say

little and people

think

you're wise,

smart,

a thinker.

someone full of thought.

which may or may

not be true, but

talk too much and they

see right

through you,

all the way to the 

bottom

and back to the top.

finding the missing link

they find

a tiny shard of bone

deep

in a cave

in France

and decide that this is

the missing

link

between

ape and man.

this is the first real

indication

of thought and intelligence.

they think

it's his ring finger,

but there's no ring

attached.

going to the gym again

i'm going

to the gym today.

not to work out, but to just

walk up there

and around

the building,

then back home.

a good three miles.

i'll wave to the people

on treadmills

and bikes,

as they stare out the window

at the sunshine

and people walking

by.

let's play 18 today

when i'm playing golf, 

she says,

i don't think

about the world,

the news,

the whole catastrophe

of war

and famine,

crime and disease.

i think

about the bunker up

ahead,

the sand trap and

which iron to use.

i can get a birdie

if i reach the green

in three, she believes.

let's play 18 today, okay.

but it won't surprise you

little surprises you

these days.

campus revolutions.

ice bergs melting

into the sea.

sink holes

opening up on a road,

and the dead bird

my cat brought

home

and laid at my feet.

we are capable of bad

things,

but good things too.

you can't imagine what

will come next.

but it won't surprise

you.

the new bucket list

there are things

you will never do, things

you amusingly

put on your fad like bucket

list.

Kilimanjaro is out of the question,

as is swimming

the English channel.

you will not

be famous, or rich, you will

not live in a villa

in Florence.

nor will you marry a super

model

named Heidi,

or lose that last ten pounds

of belly fat.

no, the new list involves

taking a walk

around the lake with a

stale

bag of bread to feed the ducks,

then coming

home to take a nap.

okay, maybe we went a little too far

i'd love to be a fly

on the wall

of the tunnels dug deep

beneath the earth

and listen

to the terrorist commanders

talking

while they hide in

the sewers

below the day care center.

debating one another

about their

crazy blood lust

decisions

to murder, behead people,

kidnap, burn children

alive,

and rape.

jeez, i'm having second thoughts now,

one says,

wiping dried hummus off his face.

maybe we shouldn't

have started this war.

maybe we went

a little too far,

don't you think?

we should have thought

this through

a little more.

it's been six months

of nothing but us getting

bombed and running

in retreat.

this place is rubble now.

and what knucklehead had the idea

to film it all for the world

to see?

pass me some crackers

and peanut butter,

would you, i'm starving.

what day this is? what week?

my phone is dead.

i can't wait to take a shower

and get out

of this place.

anyone know where we

can get a white flag?

please raise your hand

if anyone here

has a clean white pillowcase,

or a reasonable pair of boxer shorts,

or a sheet?

a fly and his friends

i could chase

this fly

around all day as he

darts

between

the lamp shade,

the lights,

the curtains,

bouncing himself

off the screen

to the window.

i'm exhausted by him.

his endless

energy,

the constant buzz

of his wings.

i open the door to

give him

a way out, but in

comes more of his

friends.

Sunday morning bagels

it's Sunday morning.

i can tell

not because of the church

bells, but

because everyone is wearing

sweatpants,

or yoga

pants,

and flip flops

and crocs.

there's a hundred

people

in the bagel shop, the line

is out the door.

bags

of loaded bagels

are carried out.

weighted down with eggs

and bacon,

swabs of cream cheese.

there are dogs,

and more dogs

waiting for their owners.

some with scarves around

their furry necks.

it's a fashionable boulevard

besides

William and Sonoma

and Warby's.

Lulu Lemon.

across the street we'll get

a cup

of gourmet coffee.

it's the best. but sadly

no one sells the paper

anymore.

warning her next victim

i remember

paying alimony and child support

to the second wife

and not being

happy about it.

she never worked

and day in her life and

she was the one cheating

and sleeping

around,

spending money

like water,

but the judge and the lawyers

and the law

said, so what.

they cut everything in half.

savings,

investments,

equity in the house,

cars,

children,

and the dog.

the dog still has a scar

around his belly

where we had to saw

him in half.

to this day he runs when

i try to pet him.

i see where she's going through

another divorce.

i want to call

the poor fellow and

warn him

about how she taps the phones

and quickly

runs to the ATM.

the kiln ashtray

i remember making

my mother

an ashtray

for Mother's Day, she was

a pall mall

smoker,

two packs a day.

it was in the 7th grade

where we

had access to a ten thousand

degree

metal box called a kiln.

i constructed what looked

like a cave

fireplace

with a chimney at the top

for the smoke

to come out.

the front had an opening

where

the ashes would go,

or where the cigarette

could rest as she fed 

another baby with a bottle

of formula.

embarrassed to no end,

she quit smoking that day.

but thanked

me for the gift anyway.

my father

still uses it.

fast forward this movie

it's a bad movie,

two handfuls of popcorn

in

and i'm already

hitting the fast forward

button.

faster and faster

until at last i've

reached the end.

some books are like that

too, but instead

i stop reading and throw

them across

the room.

the night is long

it's a cold

night.

the bed

is a raft

in the north Atlantic.

your dreams

are sails

that pull you towards

dawn.

the moon is nothing

but a stone.

you shiver

and stare at the ocean

below you,

so much

that you still don't know.

you're adrift,

going nowhere,

the night

is long.

who are these people?

there's a family

reunion

planned next month

somewhere

in New Jersey.

my mother's side

of the family.

each name ending in a vowel.

six Johnnys will

be there,

a few Joes and Stephens,

Leonard and Dolores,

of course,

Marie and Lena,

not to mention Sal,

and Enrico.

all the cousins will be there.

siblings,

aunts and uncles.

they've done

a group

text messaging thing.

pictures

are thrown in.

jokes are made,

who's coming, who

can't make it?

who will put away the grudge

for one evening?

is there free parking?

what's on the menu?

Uncle Francesco inquires

about his special

dietary needs.

who are these people?

the drop in visits

nice of you

to stop, but i wish you would

have called

ahead.

i don't like

surprises,

the drop in visits.

as you

can see by my clothes.

boxer shorts

and t-shirt,

no socks.

do you mind waiting out

here on the porch

for a while?

and by the way, what

do you want?

and i didn't catch

your name.

why even start a war?

do we have to pick sides?

are we

obligated to carry one flag

or the other,

can't we see

the middle ground,

see both sides a little.

or are we that stuck

in our views of the world.

opinionated beyond

change?

apparently so.

nobody likes war,

although

some like to start them

and blame

the other side.

Joe and Mabel's Crab House

the sign

says Fresh Fish

and crabs

daily.

let's hope so.

the newspaper covered

picnic tables

are alarming

though.

the cracker barrels

used as stools.

why are there bowls

of vinegar

on the table,

ketchup bottles galore,

pliers and hammers,

dental tools?

bright yellow boxes

of Old Bay seasoning.

what are these stiff 

fried crunchy

things

in baskets making us full.

hush puppies,

they say,

which reminds so much

of my

grade school

shoes.

and the beer, dear Lord,

the beer

keeps coming.

happiness

on a Saturday.

it's their turn soon

our batteries

are low.

the charge is slipping

away.

how we

walk

is slow.

the young don't understand

our ways.

we're

disappearing

as fast

as they made us.

beyond

middle age.

our wisdom and learning

will

be a part of the past,

it's their

turn

to make mistakes.

a single slice of her cake

what is it that you want,

not need,

but want.

which desire will satisfy you,

make you

at long last content.

is it money,

or fame,

a bigger house?

what thing that the world

offers

will please you

to no end?

maybe a slice of your

mother's chocolate

cake. if she was

still around to bake one.

maybe that will end all

longings,

maybe that will suffice.

i can't stay long

it's a hard day

for

people who hate their mothers,

who never

got along with

them.

who cringe at their nagging,

their lack

of cooking skills,

or tender

care,

absent of a single attribute

that most

mothers have.

it's tough to buy

a card

for them,

to smile and kiss them on

the cheek

and pretend

that you love them,

as you give them flowers.

the lime green house

the lime

green house on the corner

gets looks

from passerby's,

oh my,

they exclaim.

what were they thinking?

what a strange

color for the entire

house.

what are they trying

to tell us?

is it a cry for help or

was it just

left over

paint

half price at the paint

store,

on the floor, no longer

on the shelf.

all the pretty green bottles

i research

what vitamins to take, then buy

a bottle.

this one

for hair loss,

this one for memory,

this one for inflammation,

this one

for clarity of mind,

and this one

to get the blood flowing

in a certain

direction.

after a week or so,

i forget what they're all

for and stop

taking them.

but they look nice on

the kitchen window

shelf.

nine decades in

even at this age,

wisdom escapes him. forgiveness

still

is elusive.

grudges are held.

even now,

nine decades into this life,

he's still

alone with himself

needing pleasure,

needing to be held.

but giving little in return.

this ship will never

turn around,

just sink

and lie there on some

dark

ocean shelf.

on the other side

i could

hear weeping, sadness.

there were

whispers made,

flowers were brought in.

people had to be

consoled.

there was music playing.

one by one,

they came up to peer

in, to see me lying there.

to catch a glimpse

of what death

resembled.

but i gave them nothing

i stayed still

in my fine suit, my tie

and ironed shirt.

wonderful things

were said about me,

over doing it,

while others

remained silent.

then someone put a rose

upon my chest.

but still i  didn't move.

i didn't let on that everything

was fine.

even better than that,

i had arrived.

oh my God, i can't find my phone

have you

seen my phone? she asks me,

as she searches

under the bed.

she's frantic.

worried, she's tossing the sheets

off,

throwing pillows

into the air.

i can't find my phone,

she says.

have you seen it?

her eyes are bugging out,

her face

is pale.

she runs into the bathroom,

then down

the stairs,

she goes out to her car,

empties the garbage

can,

i can't find it, she screams.

everything,

everything,

my life is in there.

finally, i take it out

of my pocket and hand

it to her.

it's only been lost

for five minutes, i tell her,

but

you've had

twenty-four text messages,

three calls

and thirteen emails.

being grateful

what isn't taken

for granted?

these hands for instance.

covered in

paint and grease, cuts

and scrapes.

old man hands.

my father's hands.

curled hard

from work.

they do so much for me

and others,

though i hardly

give them a thank you

by the end

of the day.

letting the boat list

the sailor

needs wind to get across the bay.

he needs

to know

his boat,

the rigging, the sails,

the rudder.

but he's tired of this

and lets

it all drift

and drift

some days are like that.

we just want

to let go

of the wheel

and let it all list.

the enormous room

the room

is empty.

it's a canyon

of sorts,

minus

cacti and tumbleweeds,

coyote

and vultures

circling. but

it's a large expanse

of nothing but

darkness

in the corners.

vague light

from the windows.

the absence

of you makes it

more

quiet and needy.

without you,

there's only the echo

of my own

voice.

i'll fill it soon.

a few hundred grand down the drain

i see my neighbor

scraping

the ivy league sticker off

the bumper

of his car.

he went there, his wife did

as well.

both proud alumni

and successful,

and now his

daughter is there too.

well she used to be,

she's now

expelled

for vandalizing

the campus,

using hate speech,

and terrorizing Jews.

she'll be home soon.

he asks me if i have anything

to help remove

the glue.

take a break and get some air

i see you

at the top of the stairs,

crying.

head in hands.

it's Tuesday.

your body

trembles.

i excuse myself as i walk 

by you.

what is there

to say

again, this time.

take a break

from your

self-inflicted troubles

maybe,

and get some air.

riches to rags and back again

rags to riches

and riches

to rags and back again.

success

is fleeting, as is poverty

if you

work and save,

and 

keep a clean nose

and walk the narrow path.

tragedies occur, for

sure,

health and accidents.

fate gets

in the way of many

trying,

but for the most part

it's up to you

to change things,

to turn your life around.

we were fish in the summer

we were

fish

in the summer.

sun burned

and awash with chlorine.

scrapes

on our knees and elbows

from the high

dive,

the low dive,

the rope in the middle.

our eyes, red and bleary.

but we

loved it.

diving for coins in

the deep end.

swimming from side

to side

underwater.

running and being yelled

at by the lifeguard

in her chair.

despite her demands,

most of us

loved her and believed

one day

we would marry

that goddess with a whistle,

the cream

on her nose,

the brown of her skin,

the blonde

hair flowing down.

what human being

had legs that long?

how we wanted for August

to drag on.

we were fish in the summer.

our making love schedule

in the early

days

we were rabbits.

was there a time of day

or night

when we wouldn't get

busy

with making love?

did it matter

if it was in the car,

in an alley,

an empty stairwell

in a parking

garage?

bathrooms were not

out of the question either

with a good lock on the door,

or on a picnic blanket in

the secluded hollow

of trees.

two three times,

maybe four

if we weren't exhausted

and sore.

ah, they were energetic

and sweaty

times. we were limber then,

extremely flexible.

where there's a will, there's

a way.

i think Churchill said that.

but now,

we're more selective,

we schedule

in a session.

we arrange our days,

we plan

our nights.

we say things like Tuesday

night is

good for me, you?

we try to get on with

it before

face the nation comes

on in the morning,

or before midnight

after the dog has been walked

and the trash

taken to the curb.

yes, we're

slowing down, but in

truth,

it's better now.

still life gone bad

she liked to paint still life.

but not

golden apples,

or fresh strawberries,

ripe

bananas,

green grapes catching

sunlight.

no,

she like the rotted fruit,

the brown spot

found,

the flies

buzzing over

blackened peaches.

oranges gone

rancid, berries

gone sour.

i couldn't help but fall

in love,

with someone like that.

sleeping well in spite of everything

i like the unworried look

in some

old people's eyes.

a look of peace

and contentment,

nothing phases them anymore.

little raises

their blood pressure.

they've seen it all.

a few world wars,

terrorism,

chaos and what not.

crime and divorce,

poverty

and bad health.

they've been there

and done that.

you can't rattle them.

they know that all of this

insanity is normal,

and will pass,

before it's time for more.

they seem amused by

it all.

not losing a minute of sleep

over a world

gone wild.

making the home presentable

as children

we were given the task

of cleaning up

after mom

and dad

battled into the late

night hours.

engaging in a full blown

domestic war.

one sister was in charge

of sweeping

up the glass,

while i rubbed the blood

off the walls.

a brother, nailed

the screen door back on,

while

another

hid the whiskey bottles.

we turned the chairs

back over,

we put the knives

and forks

back into the drawer,

scooped

up cold chicken bones,

and peas from

the floor.

we had to make the place

presentable before

the welfare

department came knocking

at the door.

the hunger strike on campus

you can't help

but laugh a little as the protestor

cries for help,

saying that

she's starving and near

death

because she skipped her 

snack between

meals while

screaming

about death

to others.

no snickers bar for her,

no bagel,

or bag of chips,

no ice cream or latte

from Starbucks,

no peanut butter chocolate

granola bar.

dinner is nearly an hour

away.

but she's doing her

part.

poor thing is wasting away.

she's faint and can barely

move her

lips.

the next new leaf

there are

many acts to each play,

each life,

there's a second

chance,

a third,

a fourth if need be

over time.

eventually all is either

forgotten

or forgiven

and life moves

on.

once more

we turn over 

the next new leaf.

we're all cats with

many lives.

in on the game

is the thumb on

the edge of every butcher's

scale?

cheating the weight.

is the world

rigged.

is there a huckster

on every

corner,

a thief, a scammer

in every 

call you take.

is nothing on the up

and up.

is anyone not in on

the game?

sometimes it feels

that way.

the common life

it's easy to rise,

to wake

up and do what you've always

done.

your mouth opens

for food

and drink,

your clothes go on.

you have a routine,

a common

life to follow.

today

will be much like the day

before.

be thankful

for that.

the prosperity teacher healing

my allergies to tree pollen

have gotten so

bad that i place my hand on

the television

and ask the televangelist

preacher

to heal me.

i watch intently as i sneeze

and blow my nose.

he says that for a thousand

dollars

i can be free of this ailment

or any other ailment

the devil has cast upon me.

begone, he says to someone

on the screen, slapping

an old lady's head,

telling her to rise from

her wheelchair and toss

aside those crutches.

someone wheels her away,

as she seems

to be unconscious.

he suggests using

a credit or a debit card,

but will take checks too,

or an envelope full of cash

slipped under his mansion

door in Palm Springs.

i write a check and send it

off with a note.

writing the words,

allergy to tree pollen.

please heal me. thanks.

i'm waiting patiently

as i open another box

of Kleenex, and spray

more antihistamines

up my nose.

i'll do or say anything to get your vote

it's nearing election time.

both

sides of the mouth

are wide open.

the flip flops begin.

what was the truth is now

a lie,

and what was a lie

is now truth.

the spin is in.

tell me what you want

to hear.

i'll say and do nearly

anything

for your vote.

we need to win.

let's save this country

together.

and please ignore the last

four years

and what i said

an hour ago.

maybe tomorrow will be different

i miss the bus.

it's raining, but i keep walking.

i have no

umbrella.

before long i am soaking

wet.

my shoes have filled

with water.

my hair is matted

on my head,

my arms are heavy,

my legs are cold

and slow down,

but i keep walking. 

i start coughing

as i lean into

the wind,

but i need to get to where i

need to go.

isn't that what people

tell you to do?

keep going, don't give up.

don't surrender.

maybe tomorrow will

be different.

they are running

they are running.

i see them

in the park, around the block,

down

the paths

and streets.

circling, doing laps

into the dark.

they are going somewhere.

they need to run.

they need

to look at their watches

and pick up the pace.

they need to ignore

the pain,

the weather.

others in their way.

they need to toss aside

the idea

of aging.

they are running, running,

most unsure of

to where, or

what from.

time for a diaper change

the babies are crying.

i can hear

them

on the campus not far down

the road.

they're hungry

and tired,

they need a change of

clothes.

their voices are hoarse

from begging,

from whining.

demanding things they

can never have.

uneducated despite

being in ivy league schools.

and now it's raining,

and they're cold.

Medusa hair

in high humidity

her

bright red hair takes on a life

of its own.

the curls

take on more curls.

it's a bloom,

it's a bouquet of flowers

and vines,

thickets and bramble.

it brings Medusa

to my mind.

the devil's work, i'm sure

it's the devil's work,

i'm sure of

that.

getting stuck on thoughts

about you

or her, or him,

or someone

else that has gotten under

my skin.

dark ruminations.

i am a dog

with a bone with these

thoughts,

unable to cast them aside,

and move on.

something i haven't been told

a best friend

is gone,

so is another friend.

another.

a lover,

a parent, people

are disappearing

from

the world.

i feel like there is 

something

more to this,

something i haven't

been told.

more came to do the same

it was a lower middle

class

neighborhood, with average

children,

average

men and women.

factory workers,

hair stylists

and secretaries. blue

collar folk.

two cars,

a dog, a cat.

and a yard

captured by a chain link

fence.

duplexes

stuck together

with a flat tar roof.

everyone waved

and barbequed on the weekend.

they shoveled

snow together.

some went to church

on Sundays.

they borrowed things

from one

another.

became friends.

the women gossiped

while

hanging their wet clothes

on the line out back.

the men

bowled

on Friday nights.

wearing shirts

like Marlon Brando.

some moved in the later

years, went south.

some died

in their homes.

eventually they were

all gone.

but more people came

to do the same. why not?

leave the moon alone

i want the moon

of my

youth, the milk glow of it,

the poetry

of its face,

it's dark side.

i want the footprints

erased,

i want the junk removed,

the surface

cleaned and swept

free of

earthly debris.

please, leave the moon alone,

it's never hurt

anyone.

missing one another is never equal

as the train

pulls away from the station.

i see you

out the window,

standing on

the platform with

tears in your eyes,

hand

raised.

disappearing slowly

from view.

your blue coat

a dot now.

a blur.

a mirage.

i go back to my book.

missing one another

is never equal.

on the return trip things

will have

to change.

no change tomorrow

the window

is clear

with the green outside,

the red

bird on wing.

your life is up for grabs.

tomorrow

a mystery.

but what else is new?

has there

been a day

or an hour gone by that

you haven't

felt this way?

i see no change tomorrow

or the next

day.

compulsions

he had a thing

with cleanliness, washing his hands,

a dozen times

a day.

i'd see him over the sink,

with soap

and a scrub brush,

the hot water steaming,

fogging

the room.

slowly, he worked at his.

fingers and palm,

the nails and

knuckles, all the way

up to his wrist.

it was like a surgeon

before

the scalpel cuts in.

i always wondered what sins

he was trying to

wash away and push down

the drain.

i'm not really here

you can be somewhere,

physically

in the room,

in a seat, and yet,

not be there.

you're going through

the motions

of being there. you're polite,

and nice,

you shake hands

and make small talk, 

but

you aren't really there.

you're elsewhere.

you wonder if your smile

gives you away.

strange to feel this way

most of the time.

that's what friends are for apparently

because she belongs

to the country club,

friends and relatives

appear out of nowhere

and think they

belong too.

when are we eating in

the restaurant, drinking

beer in the pub?

they have a happy hour

that we'd love

to go to.

can we play a round of

golf and use

the pool, the gym?

can you take us there

again?

weekends are best for us.

please get us a tee time,

we love you, you're the best.

and don't forget parking

passes, that's a must.

maybe it's time to take down the tree

because

the trees are green again,

we go on.

we part

ways with winter,

gladly.

we put the heavy

coats

away, the boots and gloves.

the scarves.

and at last

we take down

the Christmas tree.

lights, then ornaments

packed.

May seems

like a good time for that.

the new tenant

the room

begs for light, for a chair,

a rug

centered in the middle.

it talks to you

as you stand

there in the emptiness

of walls

and hard floor.

it asks

you to make it

yours.

to bring it life. who

lived here

before won't mind.

they're curious too

as to what

this space could be.

sometimes you may hear

them

walking

around at night.

Saturday Heaven

it was always a double feature

at the Atlantic Theater

next to the Rexall Store

on Atlantic Street in southeast DC.

cartoons and previews too.

there was an enormous

burgundy curtain that was

slowly pulled open

as the show began and the

lights went down.

we had popcorn and candy,

sodas as we settled in.

we'd spend the entire

Saturday in those hard

seats with the air condition 

blowing down.

it was heaven.

nothing quite like it

has ever been found.

heading to Florida

everyone

it seems of a certain age

is moving

to Florida.

collecting

their pay and heading south.

cashing in.

i see them packing

their cars,

their trucks

and vans. loading things

onto the roof.

the kids are grown,

the dogs

have died.

now it's our time they

say with

a weary smile.

golf clubs and fishing

poles hang

out the window

as they take off, 

but they don't get far,

they have to stop 

to pee

before the second mile.

tilt, game over

what's bothersome

about

catching someone in a lie,

is not that

they lied,

but that now you will

never believe a

word they say anymore.

there's no going

back. tilt, game over.

leave none

the exterminator

asks me

if i want all the rats

taken care

of,

each and every one

that's

been chewing up

the wires,

causing chaos

and fires,

do you want them all

gone?

yes, i tell him, of course.

leave none.

killing the bee

the bee,

after striking it with a large

book,

the latest

biography of Sylvia Plath,

called

The Red Comet,

struggles to stay

alive,

to take flight.

the anger is apparent

as the wings

flex and stinger

protrudes out.

the irony of it all does

not escape me.

seeing that Otto Plath,

was a beekeeper

for most of his life.

again i drop the book

down upon

the bee.

swiftness

is better than lying

there in

misery.

ants in their pants

as the pool opens,

i look over

at the blue squared

concrete pond

surrounded

by a chain link fence

and barbed

wire.

maybe this is the year

i finally go in.

take a dip,

go for a pleasant swim

in the neighborhood

pool

but then i see

the line of children,

dancing

with ants in their pants,

at the door,

and i cringe. i know

what children do

once they touch water.

there's a cricket in the house

there's a cricket

in house,

listen,

hear that? 

he's rubbing his little

green legs

together

as he hops about.

what is that, music,

morse code.

is he trying to tell

us something?

is he hungry, thirsty.

maybe i should

put a bowl of water

out,

a sandwich

with some chips

and a pickle.

dear Abby again

sobbing, she tells me

the story

of her ex-boyfriend, their six

year

relationship.

he was cheating the whole

time,

she tells me.

lying to me with a straight

face.

how can i ever move

on with my life.

i wake up every morning

with him

on my mind.

drinking doesn't help,

therapy

is a waste of time.

please, you've gone through

this a lot,

can you give me any

advice on how to move on?

delete, block, and no contact,

i tell her.

take back your life.

have a bonfire in the back yard.

burn everything

that they gave you.

then be thankful

you came out the other side.

the portrait painter

do people

sit for portraits anymore.

presidents

and big wheels,

dictators,

and movie stars?

are there people dressed

up and holding

the pose

just so,

being still so that the artist

can capture

the essence of who 

they are,

or who they're

pretending to be?

or is it just the phone now.

click

and before sending,

edit

to clean up the wrinkles

and bags

under the eyes.

maybe do some reverse

aging with AI.

peeling off some Benjamins

i click

the dials of the safe

and pull

open the door.

i need

some money,

some paper money, some

hard cash

in my pocket.

i peel a few Benjamins

from the stack.

i feel like buying

something

frivolous today,

something

i don't need, but want

just for the hell

of it.

i'm open to suggestions.

but by the end

of the day i'm

opening the safe again

to put it back.

there's nothing i want,

something

i'd never thought i'd say.

finding the strange world

what magic

these

bugs were, these fireflies

on the hands

of children,

unafraid.

slow winged

and easy to catch.

captured

in mason jars

with perforated lids.

what a strange world

it was

to be discovered

back then

and still is.

the woman in the French bikini

while tanning

himself in the backyard,

stretched

out on a plastic lawn chair,

cradling

a cold beer

in his hand.

i cautiously asked my

father if he'd

like to play

catch.

he squinted at me in the blazing

sun, 

and said, what?

it's a little hot for that,

isn't it?

maybe later, okay.

then i looked over at the yard

beside ours,

and saw

the woman

in a French bikini putting

coconut oil on.

sure dad, i said.

sure.

banging pots and pans together

he sends

me his poems.

i cringe, i can barely get through

the first ten,

two hundred

more to go.

if he was a musician,

this would be the equivalent

of banging pots

and pans

together

and calling it music.

how do i tell him this?

how do i break

his heart,

when all his friends

tell him it's gold.

the inheritance

my mother

would hide money in books,

under

plant pots.

mad money,

rainy day money.

sometimes she'd dig

a hole

in her garden

and put a box full

of tens and twenties

beneath the dirt.

maybe she thought it

would grow.

my sister took a shovel

out there after

she died,

digging the whole

yard up,

searching desperately

for her inheritance.

in rain and snow, and hail

the old mailman

is gone.

retired?

maybe. transferred

to the back room,

his feet and back no longer

strong enough

to carry his bag,

and complete his route?

perhaps.

did i know his name?

no.

did he have a wife

and children,

did he live nearby?

i have no idea.

but i saw him nearly

everyday,

in rain and snow.

always pleasant, always

a tip of the hat

and casual

wave.

sometimes i see the ghost

of him

coming up the street,

leaving his truck

at the top of the hill,

his mustache wet

with sleet.

his body all in grey.

now go flip that burger

jobs are hard to find.

good paying

jobs.

no matter how smart

you are,

how bright, 

no matter which school

you went to.

being expelled

and arrested,

might make

things even a little

bit harder.

was it worth it?

baying and marching

like sheep

all day, all night,

being a

brainwashed masked

marauder?

did it end the war,

bring back

the dead,

release any hostages?

cause more love

and less hate,

no, not really.

now go flip that burger.

in the dark

in the dark,

silk

feels good, your skin,

your hair

against my shoulder.

your

lips against mine.

the air

is cool,

the sheets warm.

in the dark,

there's nothing more

that i need,

just you.

it's too early for the likes of you

some people

are fun their whole lives.

the moment

they wake up,

they're funny and bright,

ready

to tackle

the day with goodwill

and cheer.

they hardly need a sip

of coffee,

and they're off

to the races.

there's never a cloudy

day with them,

positivity oozes from

their pores.

i don't like

these people.

you don't look your age

it's nice

to get a compliment.

such as

you don't look your age, or

you're

very smart,

have you ever thought

of being

on Jeopardy?

where did you get those

muscles,

and oh my God,

this soup

you made is divine.

but at some point

you become suspicious

and wonder

what they really want.

the old friend drawer

there is the big drawer

in the kitchen

full of useful,

but rarely used things,

rubber bands

and nails,

screws and strands

of cut string.

there's glue of course,

and matches,

small tools for glasses,

a compass,

a watch,

a ring.

a few old friends are

tucked away inside,

as well.

the sky is never blue

you can't argue with a fool.

an unread

and uneducated

person

will never change

his mind.

they have no use

for reason, for logic,

for truth.

save your breath,

and move on,

to them the sky is

never blue.

the loves that choose you

even

the rotted apple,

with

the soft

brown spot, turned

away,

can fool

you

in the summer

sun.

bite carefully

the loves

that choose you.

fixing the world with a hot cup of cocoa

as the world

goes to hell in a handbasket,

you shrug

and turn the tv off,

then go to the kitchen

to make

a nice hot cup of cocoa.

you top it off with an

enormous swirl of

whipped cream,

then grab

a few cookies

from the bin.

with an old book

in hand, you go

to the porch

and stretch your legs

out in the sun.

oh well, you think,

what a shame.

the coin jar online

finally

i enter the current

century

and sign up for online banking.

now

i check

my retirement plan,

stocks and bonds,

my

checking 

and saving accounts

with the click

of about ten

buttons

on my keyboard,

including passwords.

i look at the latest tallies.

the losses

and gains.

the interest.

most of it money

that i'll never

spend.

it's like the old coin

jar at the foot

of the bed.

filling slowly, and to

what end.

bright yellow rain coats

as a kid

we had rain gear

stuffed in back

of the hall closet.

rain

coats and hats,

galoshes,

umbrellas, rubber

boots,

a whole assortment

of bright yellow

rubberized

clothing to keep

us dry

as we went off to

school.

we never seemed to grow

out of it.

did we find the biggest

puddle

to step in,

yes, of course we did.

when we were young

dry mouthed

and hung

over, i look over at my

new lover,

Jeniffer? maybe,

as she sleeps.

i stare at the strange

room,

i see my clothes

on the floor,

my watch

and keys on the nightstand,

one shoe.

i tap her on the arm

and ask her,

how do i get to the beltway

from here.

she says, go down

New Hampshire Avenue,

and you'll

see the signs,

thanks i tell her.

umm, okay, well. 

have a nice day,

call me, she whispers,

yeah, sure.

i give her a friendly tap

on the shoulder,

then i gather my belongings

and slip out the door.

going to Happy Nails next time

as i lean

awkwardly on the chair,

the light

placed

just so, so that i can see

what i'm

doing, i painfully twist

my foot closer

to trim the nails.

with tools and buffing stick

in hand,

i go to work,

like a welder in a factory.

dear lord, i'm turning

into tree bark,

or a tortoise shell,

it seems.

the callouses, the jagged

edges, hardened,

and now the blood

dripping to the floor.

the metal lock box under the bed

who doesn't

have a metal box tucked

away

somewhere, locked

tight

by combination.

stored

in a closet,

or cellar, or tucked

beneath a bed

with secrets stashed

within.

there might be a stack

of money 

in there, gold coins,

a will perhaps,

stocks and bonds,

a pistol,

certificates of importance,

letters

received or not sent.

there are pictures too.

mementos.

touchstones, if you may.

sadly though,

there's nothing saved

regarding you.

mystic dan by a nose

as the horses

round

the track at a blazing

pace with

the little men

on their backs in

pink and yellow

silks,

blues

and greens, like wildflowers

in a field,

whipping with

frenzy

their steed.

we sip our mint

juleps

and have a good old

time.

placing our bets.

what a glorious day

it is as we

observe

all the painted ladies,

in their new

and audacious hats.

like a prairie fire, it dies

like a prairie

fire,

eventually it goes out,

the flames die.

people

go home,

get on with their lives,

it was

fun for a while,

a short

few months of yelling

and screaming,

wasting

precious time,

but solving

nothing, while in the air,

the ashes swirl,

the fire

extinguished.

ah, the stories they

will tell their

children about how

once upon a time,

they saved

a cruel cruel world.

everyone thinks they're Abraham Zapruder now

everyone

is Abraham Zapruder

now.

phones up

recording their own

angle

of history. memorializing

their own take on

whatever

is going on,

whether floods, or in

flame,

riots

or murder.

protests.

death and decay.

everyone thinks that they're

recording

the most important

moment

of their short lives,

taking digital aim

with their Samsung phones.

but few actually

read books

about the past.

they're living in the now,

and who's

to blame?

find another savior

don't tell me your

secrets,

your inner longings

and desires,

don't 

make me your

confessor,

your priest in the booth

listening

as you list your

sins one after

the other,

i'm not the one to trust

with things

like that,

or forgive you.

what goes into my ears

eventually

comes out of my mouth.

please, find another

savior. 

coffee snobs

does your

coffee define you?

perhaps.

are you straight up

with no

nonsense,

taking it black, or 

with just

a dash

of sugar and a dollop

of cream,

or do you need soy

milk,

skim,

do you need a double

latte,

vanilla,

with cinnamon?

are you the person in line,

taking your

time

deciding

on what size.

do you say things like,

i want an 

extreme white mocha, or a

Trenta iced coffee,

or a venti soy green tea

latte, a hundred and eighty

degrees,

no foam?

if so,

back of the line.

is there a place like this

is there

a small town to retreat to?

a village,

a glen

of sorts

to fall

back on, and escape.

is there

a place

untouched by the madness,

a place

where the people

are calm

and full

of manners and grace.

goodwill

towards others.

is there a place

like this

left on this earth, or

is it too late.

i let out a sigh and said Next

i let the dog

jump

off the bed once

using my

back

as a stepstool.

his nails

dug into my skin,

ripping

open a long scratch

that bled

in the shower.

a day

later the wife looked

at it

and asked me

who she was.

who was i sleeping with?

i'll be sleeping in the other

room, she said,

until you confess

and i know the truth,

and even then, i think

it's over.

she slammed the door

and left.

i looked

at the dog

at the foot of the bed,

shrugging

his shoulders then burrowing

under

the covers

to curl into a warm ball.

oh well, i sighed.

next.

i'll get to it one day soon

the weather

and age,

has taken it's toll on the white

fence,

the gate,

the hinges rusted,

the latch

no longer latching,

people

and pets come and go as

they wish.

even the mailman

with his boot pushes

through

to come up to the steps.

one day,

one sunny day,

not too hot or cold,

or breezy,

i'll carry the tools out

to the fence

and work on it.

i'll straighten out

the post,

replace the rotted wood,

and tighten the screws

in the latch, but

not today, mind you,

or even tomorrow, but

one day,

one day soon, for

now i'll sit here on

the porch and read,

relax.

Wednesday was Spaghetti

as if to gain

control of some sort,

as her life unraveled

as a single

mother with

seven kids,

my mother

designated

certain days of the week

with the same meal.

creating a set menu.

spaghetti

on Wednesday,

fish sticks on Friday,

chicken

and mashed potatoes

on Sunday.

the rest of the week

involved

wonder bread

and either peanut butter

and jelly,

or bologna

with American cheese

and mustard.

grown men weeping

i watch

at the old folks home

for soldiers,

grown men

crying,

sitting in wheelchairs,

weeping

as they watch on television

the burning

of the American flag,

and the rising

of another

country's flag

on American soil.

the lives lost,

the battles for freedom,

the saving

of democracy,

the rows and rows

of white tombstones

at Arlington,

and around the world

marking heroic deaths,

and for what?

for this?

children playing at

terrorists.

a day without being brainwashed

let's go a day

without watching the news,

or reading

the paper,

or looking at our phones.

let's see if

we can make it through

a full

twenty-four hours

of not being

brainwashed

by some side of the aisle.

let's give it

a try,

let's pretend that the world

is still a wonderful

place to be in

and find that inner child.

a nest of blue eggs

the small

brown nest, of sticks

and stems,

grass

and long strands

of sea oats,

is at last full of sky

blue eggs.

i can see it all unfold

from my window.

and below,

roped around

the tree,

moving slowly, but

with intent

is a black snake

about to eat.

is it true love or not

there are clues

that inform you, if it's love or not.

do you

feel nervous,

and anxious

when around them,

do you

feel sick and have to go

to the bathroom?

are you afraid to speak up

when

they're in the room.

have you stopped

having sex,

or eating

meals together, or doing

anything but arguing.

are you searching

their drawers, or computers,

or phones,

for clues of betrayal?

do you hate them?

if so it's probably time

to get them out

of your life,

and change the locks on

the doors.

the carnival is free now, look out the window

as children

we used

to go to the carnival or to

the circus

to see the freaks.

the bearded

lady,

the illustrated man,

or the hunger

artist,

down to bare bones.

there was

the half man,

half woman, 

confused about what

they are

when born, and over

there,

someone being shot

out of a cannon, oh look,

someone's head

is in a lion's mouth.

and that girl,

look at all

the safety pins in

her eyebrows.

you had to pay to get in

to the carnival back then,

but now,

it's all free,

just look out your

window

and down to the mob

parading

on the street.

i'll have another cup please

she made

the best morning coffee 

in the world.

freshly brewed

with beans

and filtered as hot

water

poured over

the new grounds.

no tea,

no earl grey, or lemon

sassafras

like the others,

no Folgers instant,

or Joe Dimaggio's

mister coffee.

no skim milk,

but real cream.

she was the real deal

with her coffee.

and don't get me started

on her pastries.

no grown ups in the room

the sadly

misinformed mob of ingrates,

students,

activists,

off campus agitators,

and dumb bells

of all sorts

invade

the campus,

they put a dress on George

Washington.

then paint

the name

of a terrorist group on

his face,

a group that murdered,

tortured and raped,

and took

hostages while they

hid under schools and hospitals.

they burn

this countrys flag,

then raise the one of hate.

no police,

no parents,

no adults in the room are brave

enough

to speak or step forward

to stop this.

the asylum is now run

by the inmates.

they talk at night

do books

on the shelf know who

they lean

against?

Darwin

and Billy Graham.

Freud

and Didion.

Bukowski.

Plath and Salinger.

Chekov

and Mickey Spillane.

do they have a clue

as to who

they share the room

or floor with?

do they talk

into the night, all these

poets

and writers,

self-help gurus,

psychologists and chefs?

what lively

conservations they must

have when the lights

go out,

and i stumble off to bed.

dog love

the dog's

cold wet nose,

is nice.

you can see the joy

in their eyes.

the health

of youth in the springing

about

when you arrive.

the lap

of tongue,

the wag of tail.

the bark,

so short of life they

have

you wish that none

of them,

would ever

die.

a postcard in the mail

delight

is rare these days,

but it can

appear in the form

of a sweet

kiss,

or a kind word from

anyone.

a long distance

call from

a friend.

a post card in the mail.

the gentle

touch of a hand,

the smile

and the politeness 

of others.

a shared book,

or thought.

a day without an

argument,

or chaos.

savor them. 

these rare gems,

when they come 

your way.

just wasting time

after being arrested

and released,

exhausted

from rioting, i see the young

man,

college age,

reading a book

on

the graffiti painted

steps

to the library.

his signs are

on the ground,

his mask off,

the kerchief in the wind.

it's no fun

anymore, he says.

i just want to go to school

get a degree,

find a girl,

and get on

with my life.

this has been all a waste of my

precious time.

keeping the trains on time

i like

to see the men

at work.

the garbage men,

the landscapers,

the store

keepers

opening their doors

at 5 a.m.

i like to see women

at work.

hands on the wheel.

factory workers.

steam fitters.

electricians.

street cleaners.

they keep the world going,

they keep

the trains

on time,

and seek no glory

for doing so.

selling out

it felt like a soft

wriggling fish in my hand.

as the protester,

all of thirty-two,

forever in school,

wearing a mask,

reached out, asking me

to join him

in the march for freedom.

he was foaming

at the mouth,

his eyes wild with revolution.

he wanted me to help him

save the world.

i told him, i had

to go to work, to which

he laughed and said,

you've sold out,

haven't you?

yeah, pretty much so.

keeping the power on

when the collection

officer

would call our home,

and my mother

wasn't there,

we'd take turns faking

a deep voice

and tell them that the money

was on the way,

the check is in

the mail,

please, wait a few more

days,

and keep the power on.

she was covering all her bases

she was part

new age,

part Buddhist, part Catholic

and a vegan

to boot.

she was into things

like

crystals

and Ouija boards,

astrology

and seances and yet went

to church every

Sunday,

taking communion.

sometimes

i'd see her

in the back yard

doing yoga

wearing an orange robe,

staring at the clouds.

she told me she was into

tantric sex,

one night.

delaying pleasure.

she'd been delaying me for

about nine months 

now.

after she was gone

there wasn't enough

sage in the store

to burn

and cleanse my house.

too early?

it's a mistake

at this age to start buying

Christmas

cards or gifts

ahead of time.

there are too many months

ahead

before it arrives

and everyone you know

is very old,

and about to die.

the keys to everything

strange

to find a stranger's set of keys

on the trail.

house,

car, what

else are among

the silver

chain, the fobs, the ring?

will their

life go on

without these things,

or will it end

when they

can no longer turn

the locks

that start their days.

maybe they're not

far up ahead,

searching

with head in hands.

let's see.

circling the lake one last time

i need a new

lake

to walk around. this

one is

cluttered

with yesterdays.

fond

and cold memories.

every

season i've found

it welcoming,

but no more.

enough.

enough with this 

old trail.

i need a new path

to the waterfall.

everything must go

once i'm done

with

a relationship, or it's done

with me

i purge

like crazy.

it's napalm season

all over

again.

i scour the earth which

includes

every closet and drawer

for the smallest

of memory

attached

to who came before.

nothing is worthy in keeping.

clothes,

or books,

rings, cards

and letters, emails

and texts,

not even her recipe

for chocolate chip

cookies

survives the fire.

what's with the chickens

i can't help

but chuckle with bemusement

when i see

a few chickens

running around

a fenced in yard

in the city.

they seem so out of place,

so fat and alive,

so feathery white

and clucking like

they do,

pecking at the ground

for bugs and seed.

there used to be a scar right there, but i can find it anymore

i know

she hates when i talk about my

ex's.

rambling on

about

who did what,

and how crazy they were,

but i give

her credit for not

rolling her eyes

and saying oh boy,

here we go again.

finally though,

i've picked the scabs

and old wounds

so often

on my skin

that i no longer can find

where they

begin and end.

there's light in the dark

not everything

is poetic

in nature, but if you twist

it hard

enough,

bruise it,

turn it inside out,

shake it down

and kill it,

you can find something

to write

and agonize about.