the longest meal time prayer ever

we were praying

once

before a meal, her grown

son

took over

the duties,

we bowed our heads

and put our

hands together,

while he went into

a sermon,

thanking God for

the food

we were about to eat,

for each other,

for peace

and prosperity throughout

the land,

praying for the sick

and infirmed,

the homeless,

and the men and women

in prisons,

and then finally

he ended with, and God

please help all

the people in Africa.

i peeked

over at him, and said,

okay.

sure, why not.

the food was cold though

by then.

we need the rain

the man

on tv in front of his maps

tells us

that

we need the rain.

i turn it off and go to work.

but the rest

of the day

i tell people

in casual conversation

that

we need the rain.

people say it to me.

all day

i hear the phrase

we need the rain.

we look up at the sky

together,

at the cloudless

horizon.

and then it does,

at last,

come down

and you say, well we needed

the rain,

we all nod

and agree, we needed

the rain,

but now the bridge

is out.

shears are in the shed

as i stare

at her sexy dress,

the dressed she slipped

out of late

last night,

a ball

of bright

red satin fabric

puddled on the bedroom

floor,

i reach over

to touch her shoulder,

but she isn't

there.

i hear the lawn mower

going in the front

yard

and peek out the window.

she's in my robe

and slippers

mowing the lawn.

i smell coffee brewing

in the air.

scrambled eggs

and toast.

i think i'm falling in love.

don't forget

to trim

the bushes, i yell out

the window.

blowing her a kiss.

shears are in the shed.

better living through chemistry

hopped up on 20 mg

of prednisone

for a three-day stretch

i felt ten years younger.

i felt like

i could almost go down

the stairs

without holding

onto the railing.

suddenly i could breathe

again,

i could smell and taste

food.

life was wonderful

once more.

i could even smell

that perfume you were

wearing.

my vision cleared,

i could hear

every word you

whispered into my ear.

everything seemed to be

just hunky dory

once more.

i immediately called

my physician

when the pills ran out.

can you get me some more,

doc? or do i have

to call my connection

in India.

i may start playing

basketball again.

who are these people?

he's leading

in the polls, no, she is in five

states,

now he is.

wait a minute,

she is

by five points with

a three

point margin

of error.

they're up,

they're down.

they're all over the place.

who are these people being

polled.

not me,

not you, not anyone

i've ever met or

known.

no one has called

me up

or texted

or emailed ever

and asked me who i'm

voting for.

but i did get a survey

to fill

out from Dunkin Donuts.

leaving the party early

as you

leave the party early, earlier

each time,

it seems,

the thought comes to you

that more

than two thirds of

the world is younger than

you are.

it frightens you

to some degree, but gives

you comfort too

in a strange

enduring way.

so many have passed on,

that you

loved, or unloved.

and as you look into the sky

of new snow,

you go on

with collar up

and still a youthful spring

to your step.

she seems a tad unhinged, but great teeth

the vice

president has great teeth,

i'm jealous

of her teeth, i have

to avert my

eyes when

she cackles as she's

prone to do

into the klieg lights.

the shine hurts my retinas

and blinds me

for a moment or two.

i wish i had giant

bright white

chicklet teeth

like she does, but we

had to use

baking soda

for toothpaste when

we were kids.

Colgate was too expensive.

as i said,

i love her teeth,

but will i vote for her,

probably not.

she seems a tad unhinged

at times

when talking

about unburdening

the past,

or something about

the passage of time,

or some malarky.

little Bobby had the mumps

there was a kid,

Bobby Bates,

in the seventh grade that i used

to write

excuses for 

when he missed

days of school.

skipping, as many kids did

to go drink

beer and choke

on cigarettes

at the local park.

he told his leather jacket

friends about

my skills

and before long

business boomed.

i wrote doctor's notes,

notes from

his parents,

his aunt,

his uncle.

bobby had the measles,

bobby had to go

to a funeral,

bobby's dog died, etc.

i had wonderful cursive

handwriting learned in

Catholic school

which made me quite

popular

in homeroom.

i charged ten cents per

excuse.

all handwritten with

perfect punctuation

and spelling.

by my senior year i was

driving a brand new

ford mustang,

red 

with white leather interior.

animal heaven

the little

kid

with tears in his eyes,

asks me

if dogs

go to heaven when

they die? do they

have souls

like we do?

i don't know

i tell him. but maybe.

i'm not sure,

but if you love someone,

a person,

or an animal

i'm sure God will

make provisions

for that love

to continue.

but where will they

poop

if they go to heaven?

is there dirt

and grass up

there?

what about cats?

my friend Jimmy

has a pet snake.

a pink boa constrictor.

will it go to heaven too

when it dies?

hold on, let me get 

your mother.

Verizon is the devil

i sit down

with the phone bill

and go through it line by line.

trying to figure out

why one

phone costs so much.

the list is long as i sit

with a cup

of coffee and read.

universal service

charge,

regulatory charge,

administrative charge,

gross receipts

surcharge

local business license

charge

economic adjustment

charge.

usage and purchase

charge. Messaging

charge,

long distance charge,

data, texting and video

charge.

and then the fees begin.

the 911 fee,

the state fee

the communications sales

tax fee,

the state sales tax

fee,

the county fee,

the northern Virginia

state tax fee.

the Verizon cloud coverage fee,

the mobile protection

fee.

i just want to talk

on the phone not wrap my

life around it.

if the devil

is in the details,

then Verizon is the devil.

a foreign language

i need the closed

captioning

function

on the tv.

i don't understand what anyone

is saying

anymore.

the president,

the vp,

the politicians.

they talk so fast

in garbled

words, with no

thoughts seeming to

connect.

i keep trying to listen

harder,

leaning towards

the tv,

but it sounds like a

language i haven't learned

yet.

the five layer cake

she brought

her five-layer cake, not three

or four,

but five

layers

to the county fair.

she was famous

for her cake.

tall and round, 

meticulously iced,

carefully

carried from

her car

to the picnic table

at the fairgrounds.

would it win the prize

again this year?

would the blue ribbon

once more

be pinned to her

gown?

hopefully,

because that's what

she lived for.

ex-wife number two, or was it three?

my ex-wife

used to use a white board

and a pointer

to nag me.

she'd set up

a podium

and clip a microphone

to her blouse.

she'd make diagrams of where

my shoes

were left,

or the rings

on the coffee table from

a mug i left behind.

she'd hold up pictures

of the bathroom,

the seat up,

beard follicles

in the sink.

she'd point to the kitchen

on the board

and describe

the trash that wasn't taken

out to the curb,

or the Chinese food containers

sitting in the fridge

for two weeks.

i believe, she'd say showing

the photographs

of the soles of

my shoes, that

those are your muddy

footprints on

the hallway floor.

she missed her calling.

she easily

could have been a CEO,

or a chairman

of the board.

going to DEFCON one

the government,

through secret surveillance,

two tin cans connected

by string,

overhears

the kremlin talking about

the elections

here in the states.

now that sleepy joe

is stepping down,

they're scrambling,

mystified and wondering

what to do

if the orange man

wins.

he's bonkers, Nikita,

says,

the dude is dodging

bullets

like a character

out of a clint Eastwood movie.

but what about the cackling

vp?

Demitri asks.

she's a nut.

i can't understand

a word she says,

reminds me of that woman

we put in

the gulag last year

for her high-pitched

laughter.

she may be a witch.

ever see the way her eyes

roll up

into her head

when she starts talking

in circles

about unburdening

the past.

jiminy crickets.

i'm more scared of her than

any of them.

maybe we should put the missiles

on red alert.

thank you Andy Goldberg

i've won

once more

the publisher's clearinghouse

prize

for 5 point two million

dollars

and a brand new

pearl white

Mercedes Benz.

not to mention

an additional five thousand

dollars a week

for life.

all i need to do is buy two

green dot money back

scratch

gift cards

for five hundred dollars each

and give

the numbers

to my prize manager,

Andy Goldberg

from Kingston Jamaica.

at last my ship

has come in.

it has to be real, right?

i'm heading down to dollar

general now

with my check book in

hand

to buy the cards.

thank you Mr. Goldberg,

thank you.

what lies beyond this?

it's hard

for athletes to quit.

the boxer,

the pitcher. weakened

by age,

the vision blurred,

no longer swift.

it's hard

for

politicians, for musicians.

for actors.

it's hard to leave

the stage,

to end a career.

it all goes by so quickly,

why stop? 

the idea brings fear.

so let's go on, 

let's stumble forward,

let's keep it rolling

for one more year.

another episode on the next door report

the video

is blurred, in black and white

in the dead

of night.

3 pm.

it's raining,

the images are fuzzy

of two

men breaking into a car.

it's all picked

up on

a ring camera

attached to the front door.

but they're masked,

wearing hoodies

and dark clothes.

they don't care

as they drive away, turning

on the radio,

rolling down

the windows,

enjoying the cool

the night air.

they even wave

out the window as they

head off

for breakfast somewhere.

the maple app

funny

how the brain wants something

you haven't had

in a while.

mine is stuck

on the taste of maple,

whether

in liquid form,

or mixed into the batter

of a pastry.

an icing perhaps

dripped along the hood

of a donut,

or bear claw.

i want it.

i salivate for it.

i begin to think through the options

of acquiring

this maple

desire

into my mouth.

i need an app for that

on my phone.

the crash on the other side

as i

drive by the accident on the other side

of the road

in a slow crawl,

looking as everyone

does

at a disaster,

my first thought

is i'm glad

it's not me or you,

injured, or crushed in the debris

of trucks and cars

piled onto

one another like kid toys.

the blue lights

are everywhere

on this sunlit Sunday

morning.

it's early

in the crash but traffic

is backed for miles and miles,

as far as the eye

can see.

in the blink of an eye

we're all so close

to death and mourning.

get off my lawn!

as we walk

by the White House,

we see the old man

in the window, with a hammer

and nails.

he's putting up

wooden planks

on the windows,

on the doors.

there are guard dogs

in the yard.

i see his wife with a cauldron

of boiling oil

on the roof top.

a quiver of arrows

on her back.

there's the son with his

pea shooter,

and homemade sling shot.

they've poured water

around the house

and filled the swamp

with alligators

and snakes.

they've painted on the front wall

in big bold

letters,

we're not leaving,

you can't force us out,

now get off my lawn.

what are you doing today?

I'm in Lisbon,

she writes,

I'm in Florence, i'm in Rome.

i'm in Santorini,

in Berlin,

i'm in Tokyo.

what are you doing,

she asks,

sending me a photo

of her bronzed legs

and martini glass.

what are you up to?

i'm at the mall i tell

her for the sale

at Nordstrom's Rack,

shoes and hats. i might

go to a movie

after i eat my pretzel

and a drink from

orange Julius.

the next high wave

you're

ankle deep in the cold

ocean.

feet

sinking

into the rough dark

sand,

do you go further?

knees, then

waist,

or do you give it all

up

and just dive

into the next high wave?

ashes falling

it looks like

snow.

or feathers falling, but

it's ash,

ashes from

the fire,

from the woods in

the distance.

the flames are out,

the damage done,

but the ashes,

white and grey fall

as if from

wings

shaken from above.

eating an orange on a park bench

i see the old

man

on the bench. he's there everyday

about this time.

today

he's peeling

an orange

as the sun goes down.

he's careful

with it, using a small knife

removed from

his jacket.

slowly he edges

around

the orange, until the peel

is off.

then with small bites,

he eats it, paying

no mind to anyone or anything

around.

i sense though, that

whatever was

his past,

it's never gone.

mea culpa

i take the time

to write a letter, 

a handwritten letter,

mind you.

not something i punched

out on a keyboard

in three minutes.

it's a letter

of apology,

of remorse and regret,

a letter that tries

to make amends,

for what was done,

what was said.

it's a Mea culpa note.

i say i'm sorry in ten

different ways.

but in the end,

i don't feel it, so i ball it

up, and toss

it towards the can,

but my aim is off and it

tumbles

sideways, where the

cat will find

it later

and toss it around.

take pirates for instance

behave.

we're told from an early age.

do this

do that.

walk the straight and narrow

line.

go to school.

be good,

make your bed.

eat

your vegetables.

work hard,

and save.

but not everyone takes

this path

as they

travel down cemetery

road

to the grave.

take pirates for instance,

or politicians.

money

there is an arrogance

that comes

with money.

real money, generational money.

it frees

you from looking

at the price

of nearly everything.

the rich are different.

not better,

not wiser necessarily,

but different.

having f you money

dissipates

the fear and nonsense

of what the world

puts upon you.

it frees you of your color,

your faith,

your age,

your gender.

money will give you 

all the things the poor

desire,

even friends.

with money you'll be

forgiven,

with money you'll

make amends.

a different beauty

the beauty

of youth differs from

the beauty

of old age.

the eyes, the heart,

the soul

radiates and shines

in every

wrinkle, every smile

saved.

every tear

come down.

it's a better beauty.

live long

enough and it will

be found.

under the shady tree on a Saturday afternoon

we had no

choice but to work on our cars

back in the seventies.

they were always

breaking down.

mostly fords and chevys.

we changed the oil,

the water

pumps, the oil pumps,

we installed new shocks,

new brake pads,

we put in new spark plugs

and set the points

with the edge

of a matchbook cover.

we had a toolbox full

of wrenches

and screw drivers.

we didn't need a manual,

we just knew

what to do.

we'd put our ear to engine

and listen

to what was wrong.

we were

young grease monkeys

out under a shady

tree on a Saturday afternoon.

now i don't know where

the latch is

to pop the hood.

the shuttle bus from Marymount

i used

to love to dance.

hit the clubs with my friends

back

in the day

in Georgetown,

with a beer bottle in hand,

shaking

it on

the dance floor

to the Sanford Towson

Band.

randomly

asking a girl to dance

who just got off the shuttle

bus

from Marymount.

not you?

how about you, or you?

any takers

here?

it was a random roll

of the dice,

hoping for someone

that wanted to play,

a girlfriend

for the night.

the sugarplum speeches

there's something about

a plethora

of long

political speeches

that has the same effect

on you

as an Ambien

pill.

before long, you yawn,

you stretch,

you look over to the stairs

that lead up

to the bedroom, and your

awaiting bed.

maybe one more cliche,

one more

promise, one more line

about the rosy

future ahead, and then

you stagger up,

groggy but happy

with sugarplums

dancing in your head.

get ready for the light

there's always

tomorrow,

right?

of course there is.

although

you might not be a part

of it.

so get your house

in order.

some tomorrows

never come,

so get ready for the light.

and many other lazy things

were down to this now.

texting

happy

birthday. 

happy Halloween,

happy whatever day it may be.

forget the hallmark

card,

the gift in the mail,

the phone

call,

or letter.

it's just the clicking

of keys.

and crossing the greeting

off your

list of many other

lazy things.

there it is

it takes

one bullet to change the world.

not books,

not words,

not speeches,

or sermons.

just

one

one sick man

on a roof. 

and with

one pull of the trigger,

there it is,

the world is forever

different,

poof.

a long ways from home

for just a few

short

years

we lived outside of Barcelona

in a place

called Castle de Fels.

my mother

learned how

to make the best

paella i've ever eaten.

still true to this day.

Franco

was still in power, and

the memories

of a civil war

were still fresh in the minds

of elders.

the ice truck brought

blocks of

ice to us,

which we chipped with

pointed knives.

we kicked a ball

for hours

in the field.

we learned the language,

and spent long

sunlit days

on the sand against

the green water of

the Mediterranean Sea.

sacks of leather wine

were on the table

at every meal,

and we hid when

the gypsies came

around, robed in black,

their wagons

pulled by dark horses

along

the cobblestones.

we watched as the keeper

of the house

would collect the new

born kittens

in a burlap sack, to take

them to the sea,

to drown.

a cat like that

i could

live with a cat like that.

green eyes

and black.

friendly, personable,

but giving you

space,

never quite under

your feet

though quick to find

your lap

when you take a seat.

and best of all,

never does she 

scratch.

i could live

with a cat like

that.

we need distractions

we need distractions

these days,

perhaps we always

have. we need

games,

mindless

numbing things to take our

mind

off the world

at large.

we need a stiff drink.

we need to shop for things

we don't need

anymore.

we need a beach trip.

a movie,

a good book to get lost in.

we need to make

love more.

we need the indulgence

of ice-cream

and cake. 

we need to take a deep

walk into

the woods.

we need silly friends.

dogs and cats.

we need a nap.

the boss of me

i'm late again.

but not

really.

it's my own business. so if i want

to read

the paper,

dilly dally around

and drink

coffee this morning, so what.

fire me.

which isn't going to happen,

because i like me.

i'm in charge here.

sort of.

TLC won't fix this

the machinery

is creaking,

groaning,

it's old, rusted, seen better

days,

no matter how

much oil

and grease you apply,

the screams tell you

that it won't last long.

tlc won't fix this.

giving her flowers

and chocolates

won't work either.

becoming snoop dog

the second

you become Sherlock

Holmes

or Columbo, or even

Snoop dog
in a marriage or relationship,

it's over.

but when

so many breadcrumbs are

left behind

for you to follow 

you can't help but follow

them.

every closet gets opened,

every drawer

gets pulled,

every bed is looked under,

as you find

more and more.

your gut 

has more neurons in it,

than your actual brain does.

listen to the gut,

follow it

and end the pain.

give her a swift boot out,

then change the locks

on the door.

how to ruin a business and a country

i have an idea,

she tells me.

let's not hire the best anymore,

the brightest

the most effective

and well

qualified.

we need some new faces

around here

let's diversify.

throw away

all the requirements.

height weight,

age

gender, color, religion.

let's have every

country

and race represented.

let's see how that works

out. it's time.

we need one of every kind.

a hundred and one in the shade

as we stretch out

on front porch swing,

dressed in white,

in the sweltering heat,

i feel like

Burl Ives

in an old movie.

black and white.

i start talking with a southern

drawl,

as we sip our

lemonade.

she fans herself with a

magazine, and whispers

to herself,

oh my God.

she truly believes

she could have been a movie

star.

we're lazy

and hot.

we're two peas in a pod

melting in the July

sun.

we can't even muster

an ounce

of energy to swat a fly,

or get up.

hearing the different drum

we stop

for the line of ducks,

ducklings

following their

mother across

the road

to the pond.

off they go,

one after the other,

except

for one,

who waddles in another

direction

away from mom.

there's always

at least one

listening

to a different drum.

the spoiled child

when he was

small,

birthdays were a holiday.

a mountain

of gifts and cards

came from

everywhere,

near and far.

grandparents, friends,

uncles

and aunts.

the special cake,

the confetti,

the music.

a day long party.

every wish was granted.

no gift on his list

not given.

maybe we took it too

far.

gave him too much.

because now he never

writes,

he never calls.

i'll take one tomato, please

what's the deal

with the farmers market?

is it the tomatoes,

the peaches,

the melons.

lettuce, maybe.

all free of DDT,

or Roundup,

or maybe it's the apple

cider freshly

squeezed by Marge

from Front Royal and beyond.

there's pastries

too,

pies of all kinds,

peach, lemon,

mince meat

and rhubarb. oh, look

there's

coffee and asparagus.

and

a long line

at the sausage stand

with a man

in a bloodied white apron

making change.

there must be something

here for me,

something

here for you.

how about a tomato?

they look so red, so round.

so easy to change everything

it's always

the bullied boy, the quiet

kid,

the outcast,

the misfit

that ends up crawling

onto a roof

to change

history.

the absent parents

glued

to the tv,

never asking, where

you going son?

no friends, no love

interest.

just a basement full of

video games,

twisted dreams

and guns.

in lieu of working

it's sleepy

time when the speeches drone

on into the late

night.

and the counter

speeches

from the other side.

the commentators

fact checking

what's wrong,

what's right.

it's the machinery

of politics,

cranking out

another promise,

another vow,

another pledge to fight.

what would any of them

do, if they had

to get a real

job

and wake up at the crack

of dawn

to punch a clock?

i need hotel sheets

i wouldn't label

it as insomnia, or worry,

or even

strong concern, to give

a reason

for not being able to sleep

last night.

it's not the ruminations

of love

gone wrong, or the mistakes made

in the past

concerning

so many things.

no, it's none of that.

i think it's these sheets

i'm lying on.

the thread count is way

too low

for my sensitive skin.

last nights snowfall

nobody likes

old snow.

the grey sludge melting

down

the sewer,

ankle deep

as it fills your shoe.

no one likes the drip

of pointed

icicles

in the morning.

the crackle of ice on

the windshield.

the smear of it all.

the thrill 

is gone of last nights

snowfall.

beauty is fleeting in

this cold

world of ours.

sponge Bob square pants

for some reason,

the actors

feel it necessary to stand on a soapbox

and proclaim

their opinions,

their holier than thou

take on the planet.

one week

they're cartoon

characters

in a movie, and the next

thing you know

they have all the answers

about politics

and climate change.

don't you know who i am?

they scream.

i'm Batman, i'm Barbie,

I'm the godfather,

i'm sponge

Bob square pants.

listen up and obey me.

divine intervention?

so much of life

is about

inches.

millimeters. small turns

of the head,

unconscious movements

of the body

that keeps

us alive.

is it divine intervention,

is it destiny

or fate,

or luck, pure luck

that saves us from hate?

a bucket of ice water

i set out a bucket of ice

water

for the squirrels,

the big fat one, who runs

the show

hops off the fence

and gives me the thumbs up,

he crawls in

and floats on his back,

a few skinny

squirrels dip their toes

in beside him.

he pays them no mind.

it's hot out.

i call him little 
Soprano.

the next life

it's a different life

now

than it was before. and

before that

it was a different life

then, too,

who you were, where

you worked, who

you knew,

the bed you slept in.

even the clothes you wore

were different.

a new set of friends

appeared.

and what lies ahead?

what's the next life

going to look like?

will anyone you know

be there?

will you still recognize

your face

in the mirror?

on the road

i travel

light. it's how i roll.

it's how

i go.

a small bag with a few

items,

maybe one

change of

clothes.

a toothbrush, a book,

a map.

a charger for

my phone.

i'm no king of the road,

but i know

what i need and

what i don't.

i know

what items

to stow.

the blue eyed Jesus

some need

the blue-eyed Jesus,

the one

holding a lamb,

the spirit going up

into the sky

in clean linen.

they don't want the blood,

the nails,

the cross.

the crown of thorns.

they want the resurrected

man

not the crucified

body,

or the cost.

the new age babble

the farmer,

rugged and tired,

holds a shovel up to the neighbor

next door

who owns

the apple orchard

and who has been

reading

Echart Tolle's books.

you have to live

in the moment,

he tells the farmer,

forget the past,

now is what matters,

the present is everything.

the farmer

looks out over the field

that he needs

to plow,

he sees the work he's

done, and what

he has to do.

he hopes

the sky is full of rain.

he tells the apple orchard

man he has

ten seconds to get off

his land.

does she too remember?

i fall asleep in the feathered

memory

of the girl

next door,

holding my hand and

delivering

gently a first

kiss upon

my blushed cheek.

i wonder where she

is today,

does she too remember

the moment

that hasn't faded

away?

who is the queen bee?

when you see

a gaggle of girls, or women

out and about,

in groups

as they like to do

like geese in a pond.

you look at them and try

to determine

which one is the queen

bee. who's in charge

of where to go,

where to eat?

is it the pretty one,

the plain one,

the large abrasive one,

or the shy one,

quiet and reserved.

my bet's on her.

when the ink runs out

how can this pen be out

of ink so soon?

it's only ten years old

resting on my desk.

i've used it daily

to write checks, to take

notes, to underline words

in a book,

to scribble and doodle

strange thoughts

and things.

how can it let me down now?

when i need to write

this important number down?

one more cup of coffee

is it too late

in the day

for a nap, you ask.

how will you sleep tonight

if you lie

down now

with the sun

still out?

the moon will awaken you

at three.

here.

let's go for a walk.

let's talk,

how about one more

cup of coffee.

the gentle roar of shells

she brings back

saltwater taffy from

the beach

and a white empty

shell

she found lying

on the shore.

pink and pretty

full of sunlight.

i'll hold the cup of the sea

up to my

ear

and listen to all the love

she whispers,

slipping 

out of the gentle

roar.

the long cold swim

the pull

of the ocean,

draws you in.

the rise

and fall of endless waves,

the cool

wash of salt, the globe

of blue

above you.

arm after arm, legs

kicking.

swim deep, swim long,

and return

refreshed,

ready to go on.

the dogs are barking

the world

is full of barking dogs

this morning.

i can hear them

in every yard

throughout the neighborhood,

scratching at the dirt.

the howls are

across the town,

down the streets into

the city. up the alleys.

i hear them barking

across the rivers,

the lakes,

the oceans.

the dogs are barking,

they know something is up.

don't ask.

no need to,

for we can feel it

in the air.

succumbing to the morphine drip

when my mother

was sick

with dementia, she stared

blindly

as if into some light,

or darkness

we couldn't see.

she opened her

wordless mouth

and listened, but didn't

hear or say a word.

she had no response

to questions

like did you have lunch today.

she walked

in small steps holding

invisible rails,

taking whatever hand

there was to steady her gait.

she didn't blink,

she smiled a lot.

but she wasn't there, not

really.

she went from that to five

years later,

curled in a ball in hospice.

the morphine drip

taking her slowly

to another place.

what seems far away is always near

that clicking

noise you hear are people,

tuning out,

dropping out,

turning off the blather,

the twisted news,

the cheers

and tears.

saying enough is enough,

stuffing cotton

into their ears.

the dead

are dead, their silence

has begun

already, what seems

far away

is always near.

1968 all over again

maybe it is 1968 again.

maybe nothing

has changed,

or learned.

we haven't made a single

step forward

in anything.

the wheel hasn't spun

an inch.

the angry, the sick, 

the mentally disturbed

want the bullet

to be the answer

to everything.

votes are useless, just

excuses to riot

and burn.

the story of adam and eve

someone near and dear

to you gives you

an apple,

your new friend,

the possible love of your

life, so

you look at it and don't ask

where it came

from,

or who convinced her to take

a bite.

you just say, okay,

thanks, you give it rub

with your fig leaf,

then chomp down on

the sweet 

freshly plucked fruit.

little do you know that the devil

in the shape

of serpent

is behind it all and that this

would be the beginning

of the end

for all mankind.

it's the first of many of your

never ending,

who's fault is it,

fights.

guests from out of town

a delivery car

pulls up out front.

it's early, seven a.m. .

there's a light on top of the car

in the shape

of an eclair.

a man gets out carrying a

tray styled box

of donuts.

maybe twenty-four in all.

he sets that on the neighbor's

porch

with a bag of donut holes.

then he lugs

a gallon jug of coffee

up the steps and knocks

on the door.

i believe the neighbor

has guests from

out of town this week.

the license plate

says Illinois.

they're getting the royal

treatment.

her nickname was cheese

someone posts

on Facebook the death of a high school

classmate.

after a long

battle with her illness,

Joleene Buttermilk,

succumbed

late last night. we'll all

remember

her charm and goodwill.

her love of cats,

and dogs.

and the flowers she made

out of silk.

her nickname was Cheese.

i scratch my head,

Joleene Buttermilk?

then i go to her profile page.

oh yeah,

her. i remember now.

freckles with curly red hair.

she sat behind me in French

class,

always kicking my chair.

getting off to a good start

it's raining again,

she tells

me,

staring out the window.

but we need it,

right?

i suppose so, i tell her.

i mean

we can't grow

our crops 

without rain. there'd be

no harvesting

in the fall.

what?

she says.

what are you talking about?

we don't have a farm.

she shakes her head

and leaves the room.

we're off to a good start

this morning.

give me more of nothing

there are no

shortages of words when

it comes to

politicians,

theologians, teachers

and internet

influencers.

it's an onslaught

of gibberish for the most

part.

designed to align you

with their way

of thinking.

we are living in a click

bait world

with no divining rod,

no road map,

no true way to

navigate the stars.

a sip here, a bite,

a nibble,

chew and swallow,

but hunger comes back

to you

in a few short minutes.

she may have been cheating on me

it all falls apart when

she starts

to tell me the story,

a true story, she says, hitting

my arm,

as she tells me

about how she was

abducted by aliens a few

months ago

when she was on vacation in

South Beach

with her friend Amber.

we were doing tequila shots

with a group

of frat boys from North Carolina

at this tiki bar

when suddenly

everything went black and

i woke up

in a spaceship

with these creatures staring

at me.

they had big eyes,

and long arms

she says.

and they had a language

unlike ours.

a high-pitched squeaky sound,

like minnie

and mickey mouse,

as if they were filled with helium.

they made me take my

clothes off.

i was wearing my orange

bikini and stiletto heels, at the time

with a beach towel wrapped

around me,

the one you bought me

for my birthday.

i look her as she wipes

what may be a tear from her

eyes.

and then what? i ask.

they made me lie

down on a gurney of some sort

then they started to probe me

with weird instruments.

she squeezes my hand. it was

very scary

i'm experiencing PTSD now

as it talk about it.

i passed out, and the next

thing i know,

i'm back in the hotel,

asleep, with house keeping

knocking on the door.

i swear to you it's true, she says.

pointing at her swollen

belly.

it's been nine weeks now.

honest, i wouldn't make this up.

you have to believe me.

really? okay, what's Amber's number?

it's hard not to be human

you know

they can't be all good,

you wish

that was true

as you listen

to the squeaky clean

priest or preacher.

but deep inside,

you know that they are just

like you.

with desires,

lusts and needs, with ego.

always fighting their

instincts,

tamping down

their appetites

as they preach the good news.

you try not

to believe that they're

human, full of sin,

like you, but it's true.

the Broadmoor Hotel in 1970

the Broadmoor hotel

was on

the boardwalk

facing the ocean.

five dollars a night.

no screens on the windows,

no air conditioning,

no sheets on the beds

with thin mattresses,

stained and striped.

five dollars a night.

the air was alive

with flies.

the bathroom was down

the hall, that we shared

with a blind man

who begged on the boardwalk.

we ate fried chicken

from buckets and threw

the bones on the floor.

at night we'd hear

the blind man playing his

banjo, and singing

songs.

three nights there was way

too long.

it burned down a few years

later. little effort

was made to put the fire out,

but there's a five star

hotel there now.

a wordless departure

she told me one

morning,

after making love, that

she had lupus.

she lit a cigarette

and leaned back

on the pillow

with her long legs

exposed.

don't worry about it,

she said.

it's not your problem,

it's mine.

we took a shower,

we dressed,

we ate breakfast and drank

coffee.

i told her that 

Flannery O'Conner

had that, but

she refused to talk about it.

two weeks later

without even a farewell,

she moved.

always looking back

my mother

was a shutterbug

with her small kodak camera.

when she finally expired

after five

years of a long illness

she left behind

volumes

of photographs, some

in albums,

some in boxes.

some dated with names

on the back.

the edges of many crimped

with her sewing scissors.

it warmed her to save

the world

she loved,

with family and home

in tact. they were stacked

beneath the coffee table,

in closets,

in the attic.

a record of time moving

swiftly.

she saved as many yesterdays

she could.

always

ignoring the future,

always looking back.

unnamed sources

who are these

unnamed sources, these off

the record

people

who give you

the inside scoop,

telling you the truth,

at last?

who are these whistle blowers

who don't

want to be known,

who have

their names redacted on

the official

forms?

why did it take so long

for them to spill

the beans, for them to act?

the future is now

in the future,

you won't carry money,

or cards,

or checks.

you'll put your eye

up against

the scanner

and the invisible brain

of technology

will do the rest.

we won't have to think,

or leave the house

much.

we won't need a husband

or a wife,

to have sex.

there will be no need

to talk,

because everyone will know

our thoughts

before we say them.

food will be injected

into our necks.

books will

enter our ears without

reading.

everything will be known,

nothing

will be unlearned.

the world will be at peace

as everyone will

have everything they need.

only a miracle

can save us from this fate.

they're already at work

you sigh

as you see up ahead the man

in an orange

vest holding up a stop sign.

traffic is backed up

in all directions.

the striped barrels

are everywhere.

tractors,

and plows.

in slow motion the men

with their shovels

move about,

tossing dirt and rock 

to the side of the road.

gravity seems to be heavier

on them.

they're in no hurry,

they've punched the clock.

they're already at work,

just seven hours

left to go.

now they comb his hair

with this diagnosis,

he's past

politics. 

past worrying about things

he has no

control over.

now it's about

getting down

the stairs after sitting

in a tub

of warm water

until it's cold.

will the son be there,

the daughters,

the ex-wife

with her guilt

now combing his

thinning hair.

he knows what this

is all about,

but doesn't care.

i want something

i want something.

i long

for it.

i really do. it feels like

it's near,

not too far

out of reach. i can almost

feel it in

my hand,

taste it in my mouth.

i want something.

i want it badly.

it'll put a bow on the whole deal.

i think it's right around

the corner,

but i just wish i knew

what it was.

why can't i throw out that bottle of ranch dressing?

at some point

i will reach into the refrigerator

door

and throw

away

that bottle of ranch dressing.

once used.

i'll toss

out those old

soggy asparagus stalks

and onions

gone bad.

maybe that ketchup bottle

too,

the one with a quarter inch

of sauce

at the bottom.

and what about the freezer.

what the hell

is going on up there?

all those unmarked

and permanently frozen

bags of food.

an existential threat to democracy

you hear

this phrase a lot lately from

politicians

on both sides of the aisle.

it's a handy

catchphrase

when a microphone

is stuck into

their faces by

persistent newsmen

bemoaning

the rise or fall of the next

anointed presidential

king.

if he or she is elected,

they scream,

it represents

an existential threat to democracy.

whatever that means.

but they are certain that

the world as we know it

will end.

you have to love the craziness

of it all.

the hyperventilating

hyperboles.

it takes your mind

off this heat

wave we're having.

i think it's due time

for another pina colada

and to jump into the pool

again.

you aren't one of them

beware

of those who monogram

their towels.

their

shirts and linen.

their cups

and saucers.

beware of the yearly

family photos

sent in the mail.

the oil

painting of the clan

above the mantle.

beware of Biff and Missy,

dressed in white

at the tennis court,

they want to

kill you.

you aren't one of them.

you've gone way too far

once you

have the nice car,

the Benz,

or Porsche,

or the penthouse view,

once you feel the hotel

sheets

upon your skin

at the Waldorf, or

nibble on caviar,

or sip on French

wine

as you stretch your body out

on a white beach,

at some exotic locale,

it's hard

to go back.

what used to be

seems impossible.

you've gone way too far.

before the next new day begins

it's the roof

where we go to in the city,

at the end

of the day

when the heat has finally

died down

we have our chairs up there,

we take our

drinks

and stare out across

the canyons

of buildings.

we can see all the way

to the Hudson,

to the bay,

to the ocean.

the stars will come out

at some point.

we'll take each other's hand.

we may even

kiss, before going back

down to our

apartment

and make love, before the

next new day

begins.

the fertility dance

my mother smoked

cigarettes

for a while.

pall malls in the red packet/

seven kids and a wayward

husband will

do that to you.

but she didn't drink.

which was a good thing.

one glass of

wine and she was dancing

around the room

like a gypsy

doing a fertility dance.

another baby was to follow.

sometimes she'd blow smoke

rings out of her

mouth to amuse us.

but then she quit

smoking,

she had no choice once

the husband left

and the money ran out.

the lost doll

it's a girl's

doll, plastic with unclosing

blue eyes

that washes up

on the shore.

an arm

is missing, a leg too.

the clothing is torn

as if 

a castaway.

but the wiry

hair is all there.

the grin

on the baby's face

holds no concern.

the fat

cheeks still fat.

it's heavy with water
and what

looks like a small crab

nestled

in the belly of the pinkish

hard skin.

there's so much to wonder

about now.

who's doll,

and in what ocean,

off what boat did some

little girl

drop it in. i think i'll

leave it for now.

not so carefree and brave afterall

i understand

shyness,

the inability to stand in front

of people

you don't know

and make a speech.

the dry throat,

the mumbling of words,

the sweat

and fear of something

you can't quite explain.

what's the worst that can

happen though?

maybe it's being

found out,

being exposed as being

not the person

you claim to be.

confident and clever,

brave

and carefree.

yes, things are that bad

are things

really that bad? haven't

we always

had some plague of some

sort

wiping out

the weakest of us?

the mushroom cloud

hanging

over our heads with

some tyrants finger

on the button.

hasn't the earth always

been 

nearly destroyed by a passing

asteroid,

by volcanoes, by floods,

by fire

and ice?

come over here and sit

next to me

and

try not to think about

it too much.

the sun is out, we have coffee.

birds are chirping.

it's nice.

morning joe

do they have

pillow talk, do they discuss

the fate

of the world

when he returns

from his fourth trip to the bathroom?

do they wake

up and smell the coffee,

as he puts on his slippers

and wipes

the sand from his eyes

and asks

what day is this?

does she help

him into the shower,

securing the bathmat down,

so that he doesn't slip.

and helps

him with the nozzles

for the water?

too hot, too cold? she asks.

don't forget,

today is that NATO meeting

at ten.

the leaders

from Europe.

France, Germany, 

and the others will all be there.

i wrote down all

their names.

i'll leave you a list.

keep it sharpened

i haven't used

the long yellow number two

pencil

in ages.

it sits in the little trough

on the desk

holding pens

and coins,

what nots,

paper clips,

but i keep it sharpened.

you never

know when you might need

it next.

i admit it, i'm annoying

i love

irony and sarcasm.

cryptic

words.

sly innuendoes.

though it annoys others,

and makes

them not want

to be around me.

the fact

that i lived on a street

called

Pleasure Cove Court

for the worst

ten years of my

life somehow amuses me,

or that i married

someone

with the license plate

peace at home

with rosary

beads hung

from her rearview mirror

while sleeping

with another man,

is rich with ironic overtones.

you can't make

this stuff.

reality is so much more

interesting

than fiction.

the hours are full of it.

the magic of red wine

there is that subtle

feeling

of wisdom,

smart words

and thoughts

seem to flow out

from under

that warm glow of

red wine.

you're suddenly a poet

and a philosopher.

all seems right

with the world.

the glass

tilted just so.

you savor the rich

pinot noir, as you

converse in the candlelight.

angelic music

falls from above.

you even reach over

to take her hand

in yours.

it feels magical,

the start of something

wonderful

until your nose starts

running

and the sneezing begins.

just one night

for the sake

of the marriage, for the child,

for peace

and good will,

i checked into a motel

on route one

to get away for a while.

three days, three nights

away from

home, as if that would

solve everything.

and as i lay there

on the stiff mattress,

the first night, listening

to the man coughing

next door, through

the thin walls, smelling

the cigarette smoke

through the vents.

his television on. i stared

at the walls.

the painting of George

Washington crossing

the Delaware.

poorly painted, poorly

drawn.

i packed up and went home.

the hell with it all.

court date

i see that the unruly

kid next

door,

full of pins and needles,

tattoos and scars

has cut his hair, and is wearing

a new suit.

cheap, but still

a suit

with a clean white

shirt

and a tie, though

with boots unpolished.

court date has arrived,

his mother looks tired

and exhausted

as she gets

in the car to drive.

the thrill is gone

three

days later, someone,

nearby

is still setting off fireworks

in the middle of the night.

the last

i'm sure

of a pile they hauled up

from north

Carolina

in the trunk of their car.

the patriotism that they

show

is admirable.

scholars,

i'm sure of the declaration

of independence

and constitution.

but i need some sleep,

the thrill is gone.

pull the lever and ignore the smell

it's the middle vote,

the undecided

independent voters that

the left and right

worry about.

how can we get them

on board

and vote for our guy?

so it's time to kiss some

babies,

hug a few old ladies,

go sing in a church,

wave whatever flag you carry,

go to an army base,

and a pride march,

buy a vegan raisin muffin

at a bake sale.

please, vote for our man,

just pull the lever

and ignore the smell.

how to sell a house

whatever changes

or improvements you do to a house,

the next

owner

will gut it

and change everything.

the new this,

the new that.

sod in the yard.

rose bushes and flowers.

a baked loaf

of bread in the oven.

no.

it doesn't matter much.

just paint the walls,

do the floors

and hire someone to do

a deep clean.

hammer a sign into the yard

and walk away.

revisiting the pear tree

occasionally

i'm at the light next to the house

we painted

in 1977.

John and I.

seems like forever and yet

like yesterday

as well.

the pear tree is still 

in the yard.

full of fat green fruit.

reaching from

our ladders

we ate so many pears

off that tree

that we got sick and missed

the next day of work.

no pay.

i haven't had a pear

since then,

and neither has John

who recently

passed away.

fifty cents a pair

we'd sit

on the back porch

and polish the old man's shoes.

fifty cents a pair.

heavy black

and brown shoes.

a pair of dress whites

that he wore

with his navy uniform.

we'd open up the kit

and get to it

with our brushes 

and rags,

the oils in tin cans,

buffing the leather

in small circles,

then holding them up

to the sunlight

when the shine

was just right,

at last.

most come back

there is an urge

when one retires, this sudden

persistent

nagging feeling

that one should move.

go south,

go west, go anywhere but

stay here

where you've made

a home.

so you do,

but then quickly return,

after missing

all that you've

become used to.

sit down and bleed

it's okay

to be broken, he once said,

it's how the light

gets in.

E. H.

said a lot of things

i admire

and believe,

especially the one about

how to write.

all you have to do

is sit down

at a typewriter

and bleed.

the day at hand

there are nights

when

you can't sleep, you lie there

and stare

into the shadows,

at the dim red eyes

of the clock.

at the slow twist

of the fan.

you adjust the pillow,

you roll from side

to side.

nothing's wrong.

or is there, you wonder.

pondering

the past and

the day

at hand.

ninety minutes of your life you'll never get back

you get stuck

on a bad movie, lured in

by the three

star review.

but it's too late to stop.

you've already

invested

twenty minutes into the so

called

suspenseful

thriller starring a woman,

blonde and

leggy of course,

wearing her daisy duke

shorts.

lost in the woods with two

nefarious

hill men

after her for reasons

one can figure

out by their bearded

and drooling

mouths.

there's blood, of course,

guns and knives,

a dead cell phone,

twisted ankles,

nights curled up

under a log in the cold

mountain air.

throw in a bad sheriff,

a meth lab

and one sympathetic

outlaw,

and there it is.

that's the plot.

thank God for the fast forward

button

on the remote.

fresh fish daily, let us pray

it's a dive,

but it's what you expected when you pulled

into the gravel

lot nestled between an oriental rug store

and an oversized

green dumpster with

the lid off.

a crab place,

a fish emporium,

Seafood,

the sign

blinks, several letters gone dark.

flounder,

sea bass,

clams and oysters.

crabs, all you can eat

brought out on trays, carried

by young maidens

from southern Maryland.

Pimlico, Salisbury,

Cambridge.

large sheets of rough

construction

paper is laid out on the wooden

tables,

chairs from

a bingo joint no longer

in existence,

are pulled up tight to ketchup

bottles,

vinegar and bent

cutlery. pliers and mallets.

it's a dive place,

but it's what you expected

when you walked

in and felt the warm

breeze of a fan

pushing the summer air

filled with fish,

forward

to a shut door.

fresh fish daily the chalkboard

says,

let us pray.

date night in the city

let's go into the city

tonight,

she says, putting on her favorite

little black dress.

okay.

i tell her,

you check your weather

app

and i'll check the crime

report.

slight chance

of rain, she says, but we

can bring

an umbrella.

hmm, i say staring at my

phone.

northeast and northwest

has had a slew

of carjackings,

assaults

and robberies.

southwest is on fire

with some

sort of protest.

what about southeast, she says.

there's this little

Italian

restaurant near the police

station.

they have an eggplant

dish to die for.

you can put your club

on the wheel,

and we both have pepper

spray. 

so okay, i tell her.

sounds good,

let me call ahead.

the fly swatter

i see a chain

link fence around a long

dirt yard

and i think of home.

i see a broken

window,

a dog going in and out

of the shredded

screen door,

the clunking

of a big black

fan

cooling the steamy

rooms

and i think

of home.

i see the tin foil on

the antennae

of the black and white

tv,

and i think of home.

i smell fried chicken

in the pan,

i hear babies crying

and i think

of home.

i see a fly swatter

hanging on

a nail

on the kitchen wall

and i think of home.

it's a warm

and strangely cozy

feeling,

a feeling i don't mind

at all.

a book to fall asleep to

i stare

at all the books on the shelves.

do i need

a new one,

something to sink

my teeth into,

or should i go back and reread

what was read?

a new story

would be a nice.

a beach read

perhaps.

something easy and light.

something

i can dog ear

a page

and come back to 

once the nap

is over.

shark leg bites

the sharks

are hungry this summer.

it's a feeding frenzy at the local

beaches,

but it's hot

and people want to go into

the water

to cool off.

they weigh the options.

cooling off

and getting a leg bitten

off,

or buying an umbrella

and sitting out

on the sand,

pouring a cold bottle

of water

over their heads.

decisions, decisions.

a beautiful relationship

it's Amazon Prime deal day,

so i go online

and order a humanoid

robotic

machine

made

to look like Heidi Klum

from

back in her runway

days.

completely assembled.

she or it

even has the distinctive

German

accent.

nice touch

and she has almost

imperceptible

human

girl parts.

i just need an assistant

around the house.

light cleaning,

laundry,

a few meals during

the week.

someone to walk the dog.

i could show her/it how

to use the coffee

machine

and put cream cheese on

a toasted bagel.

maybe we could go out

once in a while

to the movies

or dinner.

which would be cheaper

than most

dates, seeing that she doesn't

eat or drink.

just a new lithium battery

once in a while.

i'd get the nag free

model.

the one that wouldn't talk

while you're

watching tv,

or sleeping.

there would be no issues

with her

hogging the bathroom

or using

up all the hot water,

because

she's not human

and water might short

out her electrical circuitry.

there'd be no talk about going

to the grand

canyon,

or to the Madi Gras,

or to Norstrom Rack

for a shoe sale. plus,

there'd be no mother-in-law

wanting to move in,

or kids in trouble

needing money

or another stint in rehab.

but i'd respect her of course.

and call her whatever

pronoun

she'd like me to use.

this could be the start 

of a beautiful relationship.

going duck hunting

my neighbor

is going duck hunting today.

he spent all last

week in the woods

building a blind

so that he can

hide himself.

he has

on his camouflage

outfit,

hat and mask,

gloves, boots.

a knife at his side

and a duck whistle in

his mouth.

he's carrying out his long

barrel

weapons,

canteens full of water,

a cooler

of sandwiches.

he puts his dogs

in back of his truck, then

kisses his wife

goodbye,

she wishes him luck.

tells him

to be careful with

those mean

old ducks. don't let

them bite you.

i want to yell out the window

and tell him

that Safeway sells duck

meat now.

but figure what's the point.

using her freeze gun

the dermatologist

runs

wild with her

freeze gun, blasting little

blemishes

off my

skin,

arms and face first.

roll over she says, take

your shirt

off, your pants

your socks and fruit

of the looms

and let's begin.

do you mind putting some

music on,

i tell her and maybe

fixing me a gin

and tonic.

i think you're rushing

things.

she's not amused.

painting the kitchen orange

i tell her.

you're going to get tired of orange.

don't paint

the whole

kitchen orange,

or lime green.

maybe one wall, if that.

imagine

wearing

an orange sweater every day

for years on end.

after a few weeks,

you'll hate the color orange.

how about a nice

soft white

for the walls, then

put a picture up of oranges

and limes.

maybe put some fruit

in a bowl.

some colorful magnets

on your refrigerator.

try that.

you snooze, you lose

i go through

the lost and found drawer

in my house.

it's full of rings,

jewelry,

bracelets, necklaces,

watches,

religious pins

and bangles.

sunglasses too,

fountain pens and bottles

of old perfume.

make up kits

and hairbrushes,

and even a pair of red

stiletto heels,

hardly used.

funny how no one

ever comes back

to claim things.

i have six umbrellas

sitting by the front door.

i bag it all and take it

down to the pawn

shop.

you snooze, you lose.

how to pay off a house

where in the heck

have you

been, my barista, Bubby, says

to me

when i show up

to buy a cup

of joe.

Grande americano,

i tell him.

room for cream

and one sweet and low.

i remember he says.

so where have you been?

well, i tell him.

i've been saving money.

i figured at five bucks

a cup, times thirty days

in a month, times twelve

months in a year,

times ten years.

instead of coming in here

and paying all that money

i can make coffee at home

and pay off my house

early.

not to mention buying

a scone

and a newspaper every day

too.

oh, we don't sell newspapers

anymore, he says.

but we do have a new

mango

four shot, soy, espresso

with whipped cream

and caramel, it's a

milk shake styled

latte for the summer

with coconut shavings

on top.

the kids are crazy about it.

nine bucks.

the tantrum riots

young

people like to burn things,

wreck

things,

turn cars over when

they don't get their way.

they set the city

on fire.

when

the election is not to their

liking.

when their vote has

no sway.

like babies

they throw a tantrum,

march

and scream, 

their faces turning red

or blue.

it's always been this way.

paying respects

they leave

things

at the marker, the tombstone,

the grave

when paying

respects

on some birthday,

or holiday.

flowers

and pints of brandy.

pictures,

mementoes of some

sort.

but rarely, if ever,

do hands reach

to take them

or reciprocate.

i'd rather forget all about that

strange

how our memories

vary

from person to person.

your brothers

and sisters have completely

different

memories

than you have about growing up.

even friends

diverge

in the stories they recall

when you

were all there in

the same moment.

taking in the same breath 

of air.

funny how

we forget, or choose

to forget

what once was there.

don't drink the water until six tonight

don't drink

the water

the news man says.

it's gone

bad.

it's toxic.

there might be lead in it.

chemicals

from the train

spill.

the nuke plant is leaking

plutonium.

acid rain

has topped off

the reservoir.

don't drink it, don't

take a bath in it,

don't swim.

don't brush your teeth

with it.

don't give any to your pets,

or water

your plants.

but by six tonight

all will

be well.

Judy finds her dream boat

Judy sends

me a photo of her in Las Vegas

standing in the middle

of a fountain.

she's drunk

and says she's

about to get married

to some dude she

met yesterday at a roulette

wheel.

she's been there for two days.

i've never been this much

in love,

she writes.

Omar is my soul mate.

the one and only.

my dream come true.

she sends me a picture

of her hand.

look at the ring he gave me.

i enlarge the photo.

it looks like the pop

top of a beer can.

i ask her,

where her shoes are?

and why is her

dress on

backwards.

i want you to be my

best man,

she says.

can you get here by tonight?

ignore the man behind the curtain

he's old.

okay.

he's had two brain operations.

he stumbles

and falls,

he can't put words

together

and loses his train

of thought.

he's a grandfather.

there's no shame

in any

of this.

the only shame is that

everyone around

him pretends

that all is well.

talking to him like a child.

taking

his hand

so he doesn't fall.

it's elder abuse by 

his handlers and

his loved ones.

and for

what.

for what cause?

oh no, the sky is falling again

people

are scared.

shivering, crying, trembling

with fear.

oh no,

if he's elected again,

he'll reign

like a king.

he'll make us do things

we don't

want to do.

what will it be,

singing the national anthem,

mandatory bathing?

what now.

even the supreme court

is on his

side.

run and hide.

it's the end.

we're all going to die

if we don't

kneel and obey

him.

the sky is falling,

the end is near.

where's

my tonic and gin?

summertime and the living is queasy

they used to call it

summertime.

a long hot stretch in

the middle of the year.

they wrote songs about it.

back of my neck

getting dirty and gritty,

the living is easy,

catfish are jumping, etc.

now it's a heat advisory

is in effect.

please,

don't go out.

hydrate yourself.

which i think means drink

water if you get

thirsty.

if you're old, stay in.

if you're young

or middle aged, stay in.

if you're a little bitty baby,

don't crawl out

into the yard

away from your playpen.

no walking, no biking,

no swimming.

make sure your dog and cat

have sunscreen

on and wear a hat.

please be careful

out there.

find a tub of ice water

and get in.

hunker down, only three

more months until

fall again.

they shoot horses, don't they?

they shoot horses

don't they?

as the movie

title says,

starring Jane Fonda

and Gig

Young,

a film about the depression

and marathon

dancing

for pay.

a brutally sad affair.

with not

a happy ending.

i can't help thinking

of that movie,

after watching

the presidential debate.

now that's interesting

the neighbor

is banging against the shared wall.

i thought

at first that it

was a headboard,

but no,

they aren't that kind of neighbors.

at least in my

addled mind.

the woman

is a librarian,

and the guy drives a 

Good Humor

truck selling ice-cream.

i think he's trying to

hang a picture of

some sort

in the bedroom,

or maybe a mirror,

but the woman must keep

telling him, no.

an inch left.

six inches down. maybe a little

to the right.

how about this other wall.

and then,

the ceiling.

i may have been wrong about

them,

after all.

the paddle and the cross

the nuns,

those damn nuns, 

monitoring

the playground,

in black

and white.

tall and

rounded penguins

standing there

like shadows,

with a paddle in hand,

the crucifix

hanging from

their necks.

it was very disconcerting,

and contradictory.

the paddle

and the cross.

i still haven't quite gotten

over it.

when Ernie reported a UFO

we were playing

kickball

in the street one summer night,

before

the sun went down,

when a green streak

of light flashed across the sky.

we yelled and screamed,

and looked at each other

with amazement. did you see

that? oh my God.

it's an invasion.

Ernie, was the first one in

my mother's house

calling the FBI

to report an alien spacecraft

in the sky.

they took his name

and number, and told him

that they'd be back in touch

soon. thank you for calling,

they told him.

we all went back out

to stare up into the now

full sky of stars,

waiting for another space

ship to arrive.

then our mothers called us

in to go to bed.

that summer Ernie and his

family moved.

never to be seen from again.

sorry to see you go

she sends

me a note, 

a text message actually,

because who really

sends notes anymore?

that would involve,

a pen and a small piece

of paper, which would

have to be folded

over and handed to you,

or slid into your mail

slot on the door.

regardless.

i get the text.

she tells me she can no longer

follow me on

my so called blog slash poetry

site.

i've offended her with

my ramblings,

my off center observations,

often leaning

right.

i can no longer be a part

of your literary

mishmash, posing

as poetry. i'm done, she says.

i've unfollowed you.

she signs her name, but

i still have no clue who

she is.

Robin, Jane, Sally Mae?

is that you.

Beatrice?

oh well. it's a shame.

shark week feeding frenzy

it's shark week,

at last,

and the sharks are happy,

finally

these primordial predators

are getting

some attention this summer.

they've

brushed their teeth,

flossed,

and used whiteners.

they've even

buffed their

fins

to nice sharp point.

they're ready for their closeup,

let the eating

begin.

boardwalk buffet

aficionados, 

waddle forward, come on,

and jump on in.

no one drowned that week

we begged our father

to pull

over and get us ice cream.

he was driving

us to the beach in his 58

chevy impala.

all five kids,

and our mother in the front

seat reading

a photoplay

magazine,

smoking a cigarette,

and ignoring us.

finally he stopped and we all

got out.

being yelled at so as not

step onto

the highway

as cars sped by at ninety

miles an hour.

we each got a cone of

ice cream

then sat in the shade at a

picnic table

while my father went back

to the car

and had a conversation

with my mother who refused

to get out.

she lowered her sunglasses

and just stared at him.

i think she even

blew smoke rings into his face.

then one by one, we all

used the bathroom around back,

before getting into

the car

and moving on.

it was a long week at the beach,

but no one drowned.

you have a very good point there, kind sir

we walk

on eggshells with our political,

or religious

beliefs.

we want to be liked,

to be loved,

we want people to be our

friends,

at least on the surface.

why can't we all just get along,

a great street

philosopher once said.

we curb our

words,

nod politely as if we see

both sides of things.

agreeing to disagree.

then when we leave

we sigh

with relief

shake our heads and say

to ourselves,

yikes,

what dope he or she is.

geeze Marie.

how much to park here in this open space?

i've never parked my car

in Washington D.C.

whether in

northwest,

or Southeast,

without getting a parking ticket.

never.

whether in a low crime

area or the hood,

the signs on the street

are extra wide and extra long

in order to write

the endless instructions on.

the verbiage is indiscernible.

grammar is not used.

nearly every sentence

begins with the word, If.

if Tuesday,

if Sunday.

if it's after 9 pm on a holiday.

if you aren't a resident,

if you are

a resident.

if it's the second Thursday

of the month,

or if it's snowing.

if it's raining, or windy.

if you have a disability

or have ever been convicted

of a crime.

i usually leave a blank

check under the wiper,

with a note telling the meter

lady or man to just fill it out.

independence day suburban style

it's the annual

4th of July pool party.

the driveway is packed

with cars.

hot dogs are on the grill.

burgers

and sausages.

the watermelon is

in the cooler.

Marge made her potato salad.

Jenny

brought a cake,

two cakes actually, with a

frosted fireworks display on top.

kids are running wild.

screaming

madly.

the dogs are out.

Amber is wearing her flag

bikini

and smoking a cigarette

while on her phone.

Journey is on

the stereo, speakers

set about.

the hose is nearby just in

case the house

catches fire when the roman

candles explode.

bandages and Neosporin

are on the window

sill.

sparklers are set fire

and waved about.

big Jim is doing a cannonball

off the diving board.

it never gets old.

putting on the Ritz

i go down to the fancy dan

men's

warehouse

for formal clothing to buy

a tuxedo.

jet black

with a white shirt.

they do some

quick measurements,

then ask me what the occasion

is.

wedding?

party, some glamorous

event

at an embassy or the Kennedy

center?

are you giving a speech

somewhere

in Sweden?

nah,

i say. sometimes i just

want to put

a tuxedo on

and walk about.

shopping, strolling around

the lake,

taking the trash to the curb

on Monday mornings.

that sort of thing.

but hey,

maybe put a carnation 

in the lapel, okay?

if you have any and

a cane and a top hat would

be nice too,

do you have any of those

high gloss shoes?

put a pair of them

in the bag.

size ten please.

she leans way left

she leans

way left, i have a foot

in the right,

but straddle

the middle as best

i can.

i feel that crime is

a problem,

homelessness,

immigration and inflation.

the whole woke culture

is running wild

with blue hair

and gender dysphoria.

while she

feels the president

should get

another term,

he's done an excellent

job,

she exclaims.

just think what he can do

with four more

years.

he may be senile

and incoherent, but deep

inside he's

a really good man.

engine company 42

as kids

we used to hang out at the firehouse.

we'd watch

the trucks

go out,

the men slide down

the pole

in their heavy hats and coats,

gloves

and boots.

the siren would scream

and they

would drop

their chicken legs

and sandwiches

and hop to it.

coming back an hour later

with ashes

on their face.

then they'd go back to eating,

as if nothing

happened.

having donuts and coffee

for dessert.

captain of the cheerleaders

i can still

fit into my cheerleader outfit

that i wore

in high school,

she tells me,

jumping around

with her

frayed pom poms

from back in

the day.

dust and confetti

flying in the air.

i just found it hanging

in the closet.

okay, i tell her. prove it.

put it on,

then do a cartwheel.

a cartwheel?

she says.

yes, or a headstand.

okay, she says. maybe tonight,

when you get

home from work.

great.

i'll be home early,

i tell her.

a ponytail would be nice

too.

thank God for plastic

thank God

for plastic. what would we do

without it?

the world would

literally fall apart

without it.

i look around the room

and there's

nothing that doesn't

have a plastic part

to it.

yes,

whales are choking on empty

water jugs,

seals

and seagulls,

are full of it.

but hey, it's survival of

the fittest.

maybe they have to figure

it out

at some point,

right?

maybe the animal world

needs to have

a talk about the dangers

of plastic

and not try to digest

a peanut butter jar

or an empty

Starbucks cup

floating in the ocean.,

or one of those necessary

plastic stirrers.

don't get up

the old boxer

wants one more fight, one

more

night of hearing

his name called

in the ring.

he wants what he used

have.

the glory of it all.

the crowd shouting his name.

he wants

another knockout,

another win.

but no one

wins against father time.

in the end we

all hear the countdown

as we lie there

in a stupor,

seven, eight, nine...

the truth will prevail?

at times

it may appear as if the cards

are marked,

the dice loaded,

the butcher

has his thumb on

the scale,

but it isn't so.

not always, at least.

perhaps in the end

the truth will win out,

the good

in people will

prevail. i hope

that's true, because

i love these kinds

of fairytales. 

as you drive by

for years you've

seen the old

clapboard white house,

a Sears house,

no less,

with a garden and an old

woman

out there in

her flowered dress, tending

to corn

and berries, peppers

and tomatoes.

her hair

tied back into a knot.

but this year.

the ground is flat, 

a dry patch of

weed filled dirt.

did she die?

the house appears cold

and dark now.

boarded up.

not a light on, no smoke

from the chimney.

it's a surprise, but it shouldn't

be, as you

drive by.

maybe it doesn't matter

will it make

a difference if you stay home

and don't vote?

will

things change or stay

the same

if you do?

it's hard to not take on

the blase

attitude of,

who cares.

what's the point,

you wonder,

as you lie down to sleep

and turn off

the news.

light the fuse

it's a bad

word, but it's the word

you've used

over time.

trapped.

trapped in a bad job,

a bad

marriage, a bad deal,

a bad situation

with no solution

in sight.

the clamp

of claws 

are around your ankle.

you've stepped

into and can't get out.

thankfully,

you have your trusty

matches

and sticks of dynamite

waiting

in your pouch.

the favorite cup

how the rim

of the cup became chipped,

i have no clue.

it's only me

here,

pouring coffee or hot

water

into it, after

boiling on the stove.

how many sips

are there

in a glass cup?

my favorite, no less.

my initial

on the side.

when is over, when

does it

say enough?

thinking less of it

will i remember

the bite,

the nip

of arm

or leg, the pain

of heart

as a loved one

betrays.

of course i will.

i may

think less of it,

but

the scar is there

whenever

i need it to be made

more aware.

all in good time

if you put

your ear to the ground

you'll

hear

the world

going neither

fast

or slow around.

these seasons haven't

changed

much over the years

and neither have

you,

despite joy,

despite fear.

just as soon as summer

approaches,

it too will

be gone,

and winter will appear.