it's good to be loved

it's good

to be loved, to be adored

and

waited upon.

it warms

your heart, the gentle

hand.

the blanket tucked

in around

you,

the pillow fluffed

just so.

it's good to have the hot

tea

at your bedside,

your book,

your open window.

it's good to be loved

and to hear the words

i'll back

in a while, get some rest,

my child.

don't look out the window, just vote

the convention

is a love

fest

of hyperbole and inclusion.

a series of flip

flops

with every speech given.

pay no attention

to the real

unfiltered news.

don't look out your window.

every

race creed

and

votable color

is on the stage, dancing

singing,

juggling

the words that they read.

it's a minstrel show,

a Broadway

event

it's a carnival

of hope

and promise.

all is well

with the world.

ignore the last four years.

crime is down,

inflation is down,

illegal immigration has

been put to

a stop.

please

vote for us again.

keep us

on top.

and yet here i carry

home

a hundred-dollar bag

of groceries,

threading my way

through an angry mob.

awakening

as you

slip in and out of the greyish

fog

of anesthesia,

blinking

in the light, 

inhaling

the rooms air,

you 

realize

that you're still alive

and half

well,

connected to the tubes

and wires

of the infirmary

and blue

garbed

soldiers

of this bright morning.

you say little,

still feeling the scrapes

of the pipes,

the needle

still in the vein,

naked beneath the thin

throw

away gowns they put

you in.

you're alive again.

so another day alive,

begins.

the barbershop on Saturday morning

i miss the barber shop.

the old men

needing shaves, and trims

around their ears,

their noses

and eyebrows,

asleep with their hats

on, waiting

their turn.

the long wall of mirrors.

the enormous vinyl

chairs

that spun around,

with razor straps attached,

the shelf

with old magazines,

Hunting and Fishing,

Motor Trend,

and Bikini Girls,

the water

cooler gurgling

in the corner with

paper cone cups.

i miss the blue jars

full of combs and brushes,

scissors

getting disinfected

before the next

customer.

i miss Ernie,

my barber and his onion

breath,

his garlic and cigarettes

still

in his hands, 

in the creases of

his thick sausage

fingers.

i miss how he massaged

my freshly

shaved neck,

then doused me 

with a cloud of talcum powder

and aqua velvet.

i miss

him telling me how handsome

i looked,

how all the girls in school

must love me.

i miss how he'd unwrap

the oversized apron,

striped blue,

and white,

and snap the clippings

onto the floor,

and how he'd spin me around

at the end to ask me

what i thought.

was everything okay?

of course it was.

the part on the side,

the Bryl creme making

my wave stand up,

like Ricky Nelson, giving

the new cut

a shine.

was a quarter or two tip

for all he did

ever close to being fair?

afloat on the saragossa sea

we like

to complicate our lives.

it's in our nature.

when things are going well,

we think

to ourselves,

pondering,

with finger on our chin,

ala Rodin,

and say things like,

let's get a dog,

or better yet let's have a baby,

or buy a sailboat, or perhaps

maybe a time share

at the shore.

we're in a peaceful place,

a Saragossa Sea of sorts,

a calm

circle of

water where all is well

and we easily

are afloat,

financially and with health.

we don't see

the storms

beyond

the curve of earth,

the dark

clouds over continents

far away.

we smile at each other

and shrug

and say,

why not, okay.

the deep tissue massage

i give Olga a call 

down at the Russian

massage

parlor

in between

the liquor store

and dry cleaners.

it's where the Sears store used

to be. it's where

my mother would

take me for new school

clothes when

i was a kid.

she's sitting in the window

when i arrive

and smoking

a cigarette.

where have you been?

she says,

gruffly.

you think i don't have

bills

to pay

i have three children and

no

husband.

i have dreams and ambition

too, you know.

she takes my coat and leads

me into a dark room

where she says

take off your clothes.

she then clears the table

of dishes

and glasses, and a large

plate of chicken

gone cold.

she throws down a blanket

and says go on,

get up there.

deep tissue today?

yes i tell her, but don't kill me.

okay?

okay, she says, okay,

big baby man.

she flicks her cigarette

to the floor, smashing

it under a red high heel.

no screaming

today, she says. the children

are finally asleep,

okay?

i give them some vodka.

okay, i tell her as her boney

knee digs sharply

into my back.

and cash only.

no more pay pal, Zelle,

or credit cards.

i simplify now.

your tax man kills my

spirit.

yes. i tell her, grimacing

as i hear

a bone crack

in my back.

cash only. okay.

exit stage left

i've never

liked to clap too long

when a performance

ends and they take

their bow.

whether

a musical

or play,

or some sort of on stage

act.

i'm more of a light

tapper

against my knee

or leg.

i don't stand up and scream

or whistle,

or yell out bravo

and encore,

or hold up

a lit match.

even if i loved it.

i just want to go home now.

exit, stage left.

where's my hat?

the human rotisserie chicken

there are nights

when

you can't get to sleep.

you roll over

and over

and over again. 

you are a rotisserie

chicken

never falling completely 

out of it

in your warm bed.

you turn

over the pillows

looking for

cool relief, you

adjust the sheet

the blanket.

you peek at the clock.

you reach

for your phone and

scroll through

nine videos on making

keto cheesecake,

then peruse belly

dancers in Greece,

then one

on the best non-crimping

garden hose,

one that never leaks.

around 3 a.m.

you drift off.

then light comes.

a dress that shade of blue

we visit

the museum, getting out of the rain.

closing

our umbrellas.

and shaking

ourselves

free of wet clothes.

we find

a marble bench to sit on

and stare

at the wall

of paintings.

she points at one,

and says she'd like to have

a dress

that shade

of blue

in the Renoir.

it's not long before

we're

outside again,

in the rain,

walking down 5th avenue.

before the plows come

a blizzard

now and then is a good thing.

a whitening

snow,

waist deep.

something to stop the cars

and trains.

the planes.

something to silence

the rhetoric

for a while.

to quiet the phone,

the tv.

to let us regroup and do

nothing,

but eat and sleep,

make love,

and read.

a quiet respite,

a calm to lie in and

to not talk about

the world at large,

the world

beyond the plows.

friends and fiends

they arrest

the drug dealers, who are actually

doctors,

and local

ne'er-do-wells,

lurking in

the halls of fame

and celebrity, 

enabling

the addict with clandestine

meetings

and dealings.

scratching

his itch,

feeding his veins.

and then death arrives,

as it

nearly always does

to the addict.

it's not a moral issue,

or a spiritual 

thing,

it's the human

body,

the fragile mind

that can't escape the feelings

of joy

that are so lacking

in an everyday life.

it's all about image not substance

it's no longer

about

the issues.

now it's a finger pointing

game.

if you don't vote

for her

it's because of the color

of her skin,

or the fact that she's

a woman,

whatever that is these days.

it's no longer

about intelligence

or past performance.

or the ability

to convey direction.

it's image.

that's all it is.

not substance.

it's about make up

and hair.

friendly lighting,

and the fawning press.

please vote.

we beg of you.

we need to fill this spot

with another

DEI hire,

regardless

that the world is on fire,

that the country

is in duress.

to unburden what has been burdened

i decide

to clean out my closets.

both

literally and figuratively.

it's time

to unburden

what has been burdened

as the well worn

word salad speech

goes.

i swipe away the cobwebs

to get to the

boxes

and boxes

of anxiety

and shoes.

old clothes, old sentiments

and feelings.

from

top to bottom,

the high shelf,

the floor, everything must

go.

thread bare suits,

moth

eaten sweaters, love

strings

torn,

a basket full of her

ancient ruse.

the empty playground

the playground,

is empty

behind

the house, inside the sand

pit,

of slides

and swings.

and beside it,

the old shade tree

is yellow with leaves.

the children are in school

again.

and the ones

that have grown old

are off

to work,

to lives unknown.

but it wasn't that long ago,

when your

own son,

said, Dad, push me higher,

bright and shiny things

the eyes

like shiny things

for some reason.

we're prone

to easily

pick up

the shiny rock or coin,

a sliver

of blue

sea glass washed up

on the shore.

we like

the sheen of things,

the glimmer

of hope,

the brightness

of the new

car,

the new girl,

the new home.

we're children inside,

no

matter old

or how long we survive.

we say things

we say things

we really don't mean.

we say i'll never go back there again.

i'm done with that,

with them,

with her,

with him.

i learned

my lesson, there's

no good

in that town.

i grew up in,

but we don't leave,

we look

back, we look over our

shoulders

with each

breath we take.

it sticks in us.

nothing is left behind,

not really.

we carry it all to our grave.

grow old in love

how we

miss the long nights

with stars

on the back porch, 

the wide

yard

flickering with fireflies.

the children

asleep

as we swing back and forth,

side by side.

saying little.

saying nothing, but holding

hands

as we grow old

in love.

Chairman Mao's pantsuits

it may be just a rumor,

a gag,

or joke

of some sort,

spreading across the land

via the world wide web,

some unproven, unactual

piece of news,

but it does seem

like the VP is wearing

clothes made

by the same tailor

that Chairman

Mao used to use.

look at

the pantsuits, with

the big shoulders,

the wide shirts

and jackets made

of too much

fabric,

the pockets and black buttons.

i can hear

the drumbeats of socialism,

could it be that

the marching

will begin very soon.

we'll think of it as fun

it's packing

that's hard, the luggage

haul,

the train,

the tickets,

the flight

and jet lag.

the passport, the security

check points.

the new land

with a new language.

but we'll take pictures

when we arrive.

we'll lie

in the sun, we'll stretch out.

we'll drink.

we'll eat.

we'll make love

we'll stroll about,

and the end

despite all,

in the end,

we'll think of it

as fun.

small love adds up

small

love is really large love.

the tender

touch,

the scratch where it itches,

unreachable

but by you.

the smile

or kiss,

the easy compliment.

no you go first,

it's yours,

please sit.

the soft finger

pointing

to your ear

where the shaving

cream

still is.

here, let me get it.

a gentle hand 

reaching to remove

from your black sweater

a feathery

piece of lint.

we hardly hear these things

city life

lacks the silence

of the far

lands.

the prairie,

the fields out west

where

nothing lives,

or stands.

the quiet of dust,

the soft

blow

of wind.

the call of a bird.

the city

has little of such

things.

but we like it here.

the clash

of horns, the screams,

the roar

of trains,

the bend of girders,

the welding

of beams,

in fact we hardly hear

these things.

go drink a cup of bleach, she tells me

the crazy

Prozac

woman

finds my number again

and texts me.

i guess she escaped from

the asylum

once more,

chewing the leather straps

off her arms

and wrists.

she's complaining

once more about my so

called poetry,

which i admit,

are not all gems,

but my leanings to 

the conservative side

of things

have upset her

twisted woke brain.

she tells me to go drink a cup

of bleach

and die.

a more than enough vague theat.

my oh my.

quickly i give her number

to the police, the authorities,

the FBI. 

she might lose her job

when they easily track her down,

as they will,

which

would be sad,

but fine.

waiting for your turn

this too is life,

you

say to yourself as you sit

in the waiting

room

at the doctor's office,

waiting your

turn,

waiting for

your number and name

to flash

up on the screen.

you glance around,

not staring,

but still,

how can you not notice

the bandages,

the wounds, the blue bruises,

and feet

without shoes.

how can you not

see the tears and hear

the crying

of the young and old

together.

this too is life 

you say to yourself.

waiting

your turn, for what waits

around

the corner for what's

next.

things were cheap back then

back then

beer was cheap,

milk and eggs,

rent for a one bedroom

apartment was

two hundred

and thirty-five dollars

a month,

utilities included.

gasoline

was 29 cents a gallon.

cigarettes

were nothing

to buy out of a vending

machine.

spare change.

cokes were a dime,

as was

a phone call

from the booth on the corner.

a fried

chicken was three bucks,

with a loaf

of bread and slaw.

a burger

and fries with a large

coke

was less than a dollar.

women of the night charged

12 bucks

for a roll

in the hay, ten for the girl,

two for the room

they were different times,

only real true love

was still hard

to come by.

the rusted push mower

it was a ten

dollar yard, but i settled on

five

and pushed the rusted

mower

across the street to

the house on the corner,

Mr. Brown's duplex,

not far from

our house.  i brought

my rake

and clippers

for the edges near

the fence. which i did first,

pulling weeds along

the way.

it was July.

a very hot July.

the mower didn't so much

as cut

the grass as push it down.

at the end of the day,

i used his hose

to rinse my head

and shirtless back,

and drank

the warm water slowly

going cold.

he came out at last.

he shook his head 

and went back inside,

letting the screen door slam.

he never paid me.

years later,

when i was older,

taller, maybe seventeen

by then,

he drove by our house,

and he waved

to me. 

he strangely smiled.

feeling badly perhaps

for the yard

so many years ago.

the world is full of gifts

of course,

he's not from the IRS,

but he says so.

Andrew Goldberg

is his name.

he sounds young, he has

an accent

of some sort

and is reading from a script.

Jamaican, perhaps,

or one of someone

on a far away island.

he wants to send me money,

to reimburse

me for my overpayment

of a few

thousand dollars.

nine thousand

to be exact.

he just needs my account

numbers,

my age,

my height, my weight,

my address,

my mother's maiden name,

all of my

children's names,

and my social security

number.

it will be a direct deposit,

he says.

i smile

and drink my coffee.

the world is full of gifts.

delightful

what was

i to say, when she held out

the spoon

with her homemade

pea soup,

with a ham bone

in it,

a first try,

and told me

to open my mouth,

to open

wide and swallow.

please tell me what you

think of it,

she said,

be honest.

love was new back then,

with both of us

walking on

broken eggshells.

i had

no choice but to grin

and utter the word,

delightful.

exhaustion

exhaustion is good.

being dead

tired

of it all.

hitting the wall

and no longer

caring

about anything. just letting

the world

go.

letting the problems

fly out the window

like trapped

bats in the attic.

to lie there and wait

for sleep,

which thankfully comes

in a short minute

or two.

narrowing down the addictions

my father's addictions

were sugar,

sex,

gambling,

smoking

and drinking, and yet somehow

he managed

to stave

off death

and live to the age of 95.

the smoking

finally

ended with

money scarce,

so did the drinking, and gambling

because

of his poor eyes.

and now with a new

love interest,

his girlfriend

takes care

of the last two, always

brining him

a freshly baked cake

or pie.

not having no one

it's good

to be loved, to be cared for.

to have

someone

to call, or text,

to say goodnight or

good morning to.

it's a good thing

to have

a person like that in your

life.

it's a lot better

than 

no one.

with places to go

our mourning is selective,

it has

to be.

we can't

cry over every glass

of spilt

milk,

every goldfish

found floating in the bowl.

we can't

feel bad

about every lost soul

in every

war,

down every street. even

those we

know,

sometimes get short shift

of sorrow.

we have things to do.

places to go.

a change in plans

i remember

seeing

her lying there on her

bed,

the iron

on,

the dress

folded just so

where it creased

from the hot press.

the spray bottle of starch

and water

waiting.

her glasses on

as she lie

there

in that last moment

of breath.

almost

ready for work.

just a few more things

to do

before she went.

feed the cat,

water the plants, 

get dressed, lock the door

and go.

sailing into the rocks

the only thing

worse

than a rudderless ship,

with an old

bewildered

captain, asleep

in his

cabin,

is a new

captain

with no experience

at sea,

or on land, or at anything.

we can see.

she's mute

and dumb

as they come as she climbs

aboard

to take the wheel,

grinning and laughing

from ear to ear,

barking orders

to set the sails

and proceed quickly

into the rock lined shore.

the weekly shots

i couldn't tell

if she was

happy or sad, the Botox

injections

seem

to have frozen her face

into

an emotionless

mask.

if i told her that my

dog died,

or related

a funny joke,

there was no change

of expression.

and when we made love,

wiping the sweat

from our brows,

it was up for grabs

whether

the lusty session

was good,

or was it

thoroughly bad.

drinking the Kool aid

the anger

is like

sweat on their brow,

blood red,

the political

pundits

and worshippers,

they see

only one way,

they listen to only one

voice,

their side

or the highway.

there is no middle ground.

no joy,

no peace in

their hearts. they are

the unread,

the uneducated despite

the sheep skins

on their walls.

drinking the Kool aid

of their

beliefs

until it's all gone

and they drown.

the silence is golden strategy

the candidate

is fox smart.

though slightly rabid.

there is already enough

of her crazy talk

and cackling

online to fill an ocean,

so she knows, that if she never gives

another impromptu

interview,

or has a debate

or talks off script, then no

one will

really know

who she is,

or how dumb she is.

maybe they'll forget the last

four years

of incoherent rambling.

silence is golden,

her team

tells her.

let's ride it out.

get in the basement,

let us wrap your head

and mouth

in duct tape,

and then maybe,

just maybe,

we might actually win.

joining the neighborhood book club

i join

the neighborhood book club,

to get a little

intelligent

talk into my life,

tired of talking to my

unresponsive

cat

and goldfish.

i need more.

it's a circle of women,

that make up

the book club,

most in their 60's,

unmarried

and happy about it,

and one

man

with a beard,

that he continually strokes.

everyone

brings a plate of food,

or cookies.

i bring my upside down

pineapple

cake surprise, that i

made from a recipe

i found behind the refrigerator

when the hose

broke

last July.

i suggest that we read

The Red Comet for next week,

the biography

of Sylvia Plath,

which makes

everyone laugh, and the man

to say out loud.

i'm not reading that crap.

the leader calms

everyone down

and says, okay, did we all

finish the last

Harry Potter book, or not?

let's start with  that.

the wall of sound

you had

to turn the dial slowly

on the little

red transistor

radio

to find a station

that was clear enough

to hear.

it lay somewhere between

a world of garbled

static.

like a safe cracker

you held

it up to your ear

and moved

the dial slightly

to the right

then left,

then carefully set it down

on the nightstand

beside your

bed.

the volume

low so as not to wake

up your

brother

on the other side of the room.

then you fell

asleep,

to Motown, to the Beatles,

to the Mersey Beat,

to the Rolling Stones

and Dylan,

to Spector's

wall of sound.

damn the neighbor next door

damn

the neighbor with his new

Mercedes,

his perfect

lawn,

his beautiful

wife

and children.

damn him and his happy

demeanor,

his friendly

wave

and small talk.

his white teeth,

the golf

bag in his car.

damn

his vacations,

his tan,

his head of hair

and broad

shoulders,

his perfectly trained

dog.

i need to move

out of this neighborhood,

the sooner the better.

checking the boxes

we fall

into routine.

filling the day with the usual.

the coffee

and paper,

the dog walk,

the emails.

then off we go.

simple.

clean.

but our minds are off onto

other things.

love,

for instance,

illness,

friends

and family.

finances.

we go through the motions

that makes

us what

we are,

we check the boxes,

as we look

up into the sky,

and stare

out the windows.

we're there, but not there.

it's a long

day

traveling near

and far.

the circus is in town

the circus

is in town, minus

the lions

held back by a chair

and a whip

by a mustachioed man.

there's no elephants

anymore

ridden in by

the sequined girl

high in the saddle.

but 

they still have all

the clowns.

there's no bearded lady

anymore,

no trapeze artists

flying

through the air,

no little people stuffed

into a car,

no starving artist,

down to

bones in

his cage,

or the fat man

smoking

his cigar,

too big to be weighed.

there's no disfigured

fellow

making the children

gasp

with his twisted face,

melted like

a grotesque mask,

there's no Siamese twins

conjoined at the hip,

each head

wearing a hat.

no one gets shot

out of a cannon

anymore.

but there's a few rides,

going soft and slow

around and around,

there's peanuts

and cotton candy too,

a few games,

and a fun

house with mirrors

and a slanted floor.

yes,

the circus is in town,

and they still have all

the clowns.

but it's less fun

now,

mostly a bore.

who do you love?

i struggle

with the will. who gets what?

who do i leave

it all to,

not that there's that much

to leave behind.

though

there's plenty of books,

and forks

and knives.

a car or two.

but it's the adult

thing to do.

to face death with a fountain

pen

and a form you've

printed off

from a law site on

the internet.

but it's come down to this.

who loves me?

who do i love?

that's pretty much all one

needs to know

as you sign

the decree.

it's all strange

it's all strange when you

get right

down to it.

lying

in your room with

the overhead

fan

spinning slowly,

tossing

warm air about you

in the late August

afternoon.

life and death,

love

and hate.

the moon,

the stars, all those fish

in the sea.

what's

it all about,

Alfie? could you please

explain it all

to me?

dancing shoes

i find my old

dancing shoes in back of the closet.

the ones i wore

on the weekends

when

pursuing love

in darkened bars.

they are

still stained

with a splash of pina coladas

and cheap

beer, the laces 

and soles still intact.

i can hear

them clicking

across the dance floors

of the 80's.

i should throw them away,

but i don't.

that would mean giving up.

i put them back.

motherly love

my mother

would turn quickly on my

ex-girlfriends

or wives.

one day she'd be knitting them

a scarf

for Christmas,

putting pictures together

for them

in an album,

or baking them a pie,

and the next day,

after

i told her what was really 

going on,

she'd start cursing,

and sharpening

knives.

throwing the printer out the window

i'm at war

with my printer.

the ink,

the paper slot,

the tray,

there's always something

wrong.

the rattling of it all.

the beeping,

the disconnect from

the mother board.

it spills papers jokingly

onto the floor.

sometimes

at night it waits to hear

me sleeping

then prints off

the document

i tried yesterday at dawn.

when things disappear

i'm amazed

at how

quickly the old buildings

went down

and the new ones

went up.

having not traveled this road

in years,

so much has changed.

the park

is all the gone,

the trees,

the lake.

how do you get rid of a lake?

where do the ducks

go?

the old men

the old women with bags

of bread?

so easily everything

can be

erased.

see you again, soon

see you again,

soon

we say, 

hugging an old friend,

parting ways.

seeing them

off to the train.

standing on the platform

waving

as the cars slowly

pull away.

but life,

as usual gets in the way.

death too.

pour some sugar on me

it's obvious

she's a romance scammer,

skimming

stones across

the lake

of the internet.

she provides me

with an

attractive picture

of her face,

her legs.

she pours sugar on me

with alluring words and vows

of devotion

after

a mere random

text message

or two,

from out of the blue.

but what's the game here?

the short game,

or the long game?

when will

she ask for money, for

a certified

check in the mail.

will she be stuck in an

airport

somewhere in Venezuela?

Paris or Rome,

unable to board

a train

in Kazakhstan

without the proper Deniro.

love

these days a strange, yet

interesting thing.

the head shop at the mall

there was the cool

dude

in the hood

who always had drugs with him.

had rolling papers

and a bong

in the trunk

of his car.

paraphernalia of all kinds.

i got some good stuff,

brother,

he'd say.

Columbian red, or some

such exotic

blend of herbs

from afar.

he worked

at the head

shop

at Iverson Mall.

he wore a beret

and a tie-dyed shirt,

and had a tattoo of a

North Vietnamese

flag

and a peace sign

on his arm.

girls liked him

for some reason.

i saw

him the other day.

he's sells term life insurance now

and drives

a mini-van,

which he puts

his grand kids in.

he's still at the same mall.

don't forget your bathing suit

each

year, each holiday,

or big occasion,

or not, or

every other

month or so, he throws a party

around his

in ground pool

and fires

up the grill with hamburgers

and hot dogs.

his wife makes an upside

down pineapple

cake,

and potato salad,

sticking into it

a large wooden spoon.

he sets his transistor

radio

on the window,

turned out

so that we can hear

the music

or news.

he always tells us to

don't forget

to bring your bathing suit.

and informs us

that just this morning

he's skimmed 

the floating animals,

the dead birds,

and insects from

the pool.

he's lonely out there in

southern Maryland,

Timbuktu.

the symphony of car alarms

no one cares

or pays

much mind to the car alarms

anymore.

they go

off all the time,

robbery,

high jackings,

maybe, or just the collision

of a swarm

of flies.

the wind,

the rain, something like

hail

falling from the sky.

i'll go to the window

and look

out, but only to see if

it's mine.

the poetry reading

i go to the great

library

to a large immense room

with dim

lighting

but good sound to hear

the prolific

poet

read his prose and rhyme.

he's old

now, but still cranking

them out.

a new book

each year it seems.

it's strange

to read in public what

was written

in private

with tears

and blood coming out

and yet he

does it well.

detached from the pain

he put down.

snake crossings

the path

has its occasional

poison

snake

that slithers out

and makes

a slow

crawl

across the hard trail,

usually

copperheads.

taking

their time

to get from

one

soggy piece of land

to the other.

you have

to wait

and not get too close.

you take caution,

stepping back,

and

let them

have their way.

reminds me of someone.

table for one please

it's odd

to get a table for one

in a crowded

restaurant

on a Saturday night.

poor fellow,

they

say,

he couldn't find anyone

for a date.

look at

him over

there

eating his potato

and steak,

taking his time with

his garden

salad,

drinking his wine,

and after dinner coffee

with

his extra-large slice of

chocolate cake.

look at him

over there, so serene

and calm,

enjoying himself with

that happy look

on his face.

the midnight run for snacks

it's raining,

it's foggy, it's a miserable

night

to be out,

but i'm plum out of potato chips.

i'm on my way home

from the 7-11

nibbling from

the bag

when i look

in my rear-view mirror

and see a cop

car with his party lights on.

i pull over

and get out my license

and registration.

i roll down the window

as he approaches with his

enormous flashlight

and hand on his

holster.

do you know why i pulled

you over?

he asks.

because you're lonely, i say.

because

you've been sitting in your

car eating donuts

for hours and drinking

coffee and you

just need a little action?

okay,

step out of the car, he says.

chip? i ask him.

crinkle cuts.

thanks, he says and reaches

in for a handful,

before frisking me down.

my friend Mr. Lincoln

it's a warm

and fuzzy feeling finding

a five

dollar bill

in the dryer.

clean and crisp.

my good friend,

Mr. Lincoln.

it must have fallen

out of some pocket

from

some pair

of pants.

i look in for more,

but

there's only a few

pennies

and nickels

rolling around.

there are no Bemjamins

to be found.

the coconut tree speech

the presidential

candidate

starts talking about falling

out of a coconut

tree,

in the middle

of a speech

about economics

and two

ongoing wars,

and a crime wave.

and

then starts laughing.

she can't stop herself

from

cackling loudly

as if she's been gassed.

she's out of control,

her head

rolling around

on her shoulders,

her eyes watering,

her mouth agape.

a staff member starts

to go over to

her, thinking it might

be a seizure of some sort,

but is stopped, and

says,

it's okay.

she does this every once

in a while.

it's kind of like her thing.

she'll come out of it in a few

minutes.

that third sober day

he was trying

hard

to come off the booze.

awful hard.

he had the shakes,

a cigaretted

shook between

his fingers,

and

he just didn't look good.

green around

the gills

as they say.

he'd been

going to the meetings,

reading

his book

and the good book.

he'd been a good boy

for the entire

weekend,

but then happiness

got in the way

in the form of a paycheck.

and then he

just had to celebrate

that third sober day.

prosperity preacher

i get caught

up

in watching the prosperity

healing

preacher

on tv.

it's late at night

and it's a rerun, a best

of program

where

he heals

thirty-seven people

in thirty-seven

minutes.

at the end of the show

i dial

in and ask

for the healing menu.

inquiring

what each

ailment costs in order

to be free of it.

there's a coupon for

the Jimmy Leg,

and another one for

stuffy

sinuses.

i put my hand on the tv

after sending

in one hundred and 

ninety-nine dollars charged

to my Visa card,

but i'm still waiting

for something to happen.

unfortunately

there's no refunds, but they

did send

me a nice coffee mug

with a picture

of Jesus on it and a giant

dollar bill.

the water rises and falls

the lake

rises and subsides,

flooding

the walkway

and street

from the hard rain.

it holds the sky

in its shiny

outstretched palm.

the birds and fish pay

no attention to

the difference,

they pay

no mind.

it's just us above

water

that seem

to care about such things.

visiting past ghosts

i drive by

the old house i grew up in.

the brick duplex with

a flat tar roof

located in the hood,

not far

from the storm drain

and the bowling alley.

one door

to the front, one door

to the back.

one bathroom at the top

of the stairs

with

an unfinished basement

and a dirt backyard.

there's an Easter wreathe

on the door

and a sign that says

beware of dog.

it looks the same otherwise,

fifty years

later.

i can almost see myself

sitting

on the front porch.

lasagna and garlic bread

who knew

what a carb was forty years ago?

glucose,

or soy,

gluten?

who gave a dang

about processed

foods

or sodas,

or sugar?

white bread or whole wheat.

we just ate food and didn't worry

about it too much.

when the belt got

tight

we ate less

walked or ran more,

did some sit ups

with our feet beneath

the bed.

we didn't have that second

helping

of mashed

potatoes

and a giant slice of cake

for dessert.

now i'm standing in an aisle

at Whole Foods

reading the labels

on cans and

packages, worried about

my blood

pressure and cholesterol,

starving

for lasagna and garlic bread.

updating the selfie for instagram

i blame

this more recent bad selfie

of me

on the lighting,

it's early in

the day,

and i just got out of bed.

i'm not in

a good mood.

i haven't even taken

a shower or

had my first cup of coffee,

but mostly it's the lighting

that's making

me look

less attractive than i used

to be, say

fifteen years ago.

what's up with my eyebrows,

my nose,

my neck?

so maybe i'll wait

until the sun's down,

and i'll stand farther back

this time

before i hit the button

for a new selfie pic.

may i have this dance please

the cold

call

sale is the hardest

sale of all,

the phone

call,

the random knock on the door.

stranger

to stranger.

you have to have

tough skin,

a strong ego

and out of this world 

self-esteem. 

it's like asking a pretty girl

to dance

in a crowded bar,

you give it a shot,

you put out your hand

and

you take a chance.

gambling fever

we head out to lost wages

Nevada

to gamble.

but we find out quickly

that what

you've heard all along

is true.

what happens

in Las Vegas,

stays in Las Vegas.

they're talking about money,

of course,

not anything else.

you bring money,

you leave money.

most of it, if not all.

sometimes

you get married there

because you've been 

drinking too much and

sometimes

you get divorced there too,

all within a 24 hour period.

it's a losing situation

no matter what

when you make the trip

out west

and spin the wheel.

the debate rules and restrictions

the debate is scheduled.

but with rules

and restrictions.

no asking about the border,

or ethnicity,

or previous unfulfilled

promises

like lowering crime

and taxes.

no laughing, no making

fun of,

no pointing fingers,

or saying anything that's

not nice and might hurt

the other person's feelings.

things like,

so you say

mister know it all,

or your mamma

in retaliation.

no going off on tangents to

talk about 

Venn diagrams or yellow

school buses,

or golf.

no chewing gum, or using

notes, or having a lifeline

nearby to call when you get

stuck on a question like

how did you

get your first job?

answers will be kept to ten

concise

words or less,

using the English language,

speaking

in the accent

you grew up with.

your local and national alert system

i get a weather warning

on my phone.

tornados nearby,

the scratchy honk goes

on and on.

take cover.

then a beep for a flood

watch,

then a missing

kid alert,

a lunatic has escaped

from the asylum

alert,

lock your doors.

high winds is the next alert,

a rabid dog

is lurking about

on Main Street.

the beeping

won't stop.

it wasn't that long ago

when

i used to get all of these

messages and alerts

in one phone call from

my mom.

curbing your weirdness

you have

to be careful these days

with being,

too nice, too friendly,

saying hello

to everyone,

and looking at them in the eyes

as you pass by.

you have to curb your

congeniality

a little.

because people will think

you're weird.

which

is true of course,

but why confirm things?

back to nature

no matter

how many times you wander

into the woods

for solace

and a different perspective

on humanity,

you have

to come out the other

side at some point.

your back to nature respite

is over and

that wave

of tranquility

quickly dissipates as

you see that once

more your car has been

broken into

and your phone,

your wallet,

and bag

of Oreos are all gone.

finish your plate

my mother

was always worried that we

might choke

on our food.

on chicken bones,

or something.

slow down, she'd say.

don't talk with your mouth

full.

get your elbows off the table,

and

use your napkin

not the sleeve of

your shirt.

did anyone here say grace?

stop kicking your sister,

and hey,

you already

had two porkchops,

leave one for your little

brother.

eat some bread,

put some butter on it.

there's more

milk in the fridge.

come on finish your plate,

those lima beans won't kill you.

people are starving in,

we know mom,

India.

it was exhausting.

a brief mirage

behind

the joy and sportsmanship,

there's cheating

and lying,

deception,

complaining and whining.

objections.

protests

and denials,

mistakes

and triumphs.

there's congeniality

too,

and love, or something

like love.

the swords

have been stowed away 

for a short while.

the races

are run, the jumps made,

the laps

completed.

the prizes have all been

given out.

it truly is the world

at large.

a mirror of sorts.

a brief,

but needed mirage.

the rock collector

the girl.

no more than four,

shows

me her rock collection

as i paint

the walls

of her room.

pink of course.

her mother calls out to her

and says

leave that man

alone,

and let him work.

but the girl shakes her

head and

whispers no.

one by one she pulls out

a green rock

from her silken bag,

a blue one,

a red rock, a crystal,

and a common ordinary

stone.

she tells me that she

loves rocks.

i tell her, with a tear

in my eye,

smiling.

i know.

how about a few days off

suffering,

of course, is necessary.

why

else would we get on our knees

and pray

for forgiveness

and 

redemption, salvation,

and to put

our cares and worries

at ease.

we need to suffer. we need

pain.

we need

to once again turn over

that new leaf

and start again.

we need to look through

that glass

darkly,

but sometimes, enough

is enough.

and you need a break

a relief

from the mystery.

stuck in the space station

i hear

one astronaut, who's staring out

the window

at earth,

sigh, and say,

i hate this stupid tin can

we're stuck in for

another eight months.

who's running this mickey

mouse

space station?

i'm sick of tang,

and peanut butter crackers.

peeing

and doing number two

in a tube.

yes, we have zero gravity,

but zero

privacy too.

i haven't had

sex

in over a year,

not even by myself.

i can hardly sleep with all

this beeping

going on.

and the place stinks.

there's not a window to be

opened,

and the trash is piling up

by the door.

i'm tired, i'm cranky.

and if someone asks me

one more time

if i'm okay,

i'm putting a crimp

in their oxygen hose,

then putting on my space suit

and going out alone.

a big bowl of popcorn and a stiff drink

popcorn sales

are sky rocketing 

as everyone prepares

for the big debate.

the margarita blenders

are churning,

getting ready for 

the drinking games.

at last we'll hear the candidates

speak

and not hide behind

the noisy

engines and blades of

helicopters.

trucks and planes.

they are sifting through

their thesaurus now,

looking for new words

to string together.

new metaphors

to make a vague point

even vaguer.

they are being schooled

by children half

their age,

the teams using flashcards

to help them

with history and financial

things.

biology and policy when it

comes to

those other countries,

over there, you know, those

other countries.

i can't think of their names.

as the world turns

my friend Kamil

at the bank,

who works the drive-thru

window,

with his turban and amazing

white mustache

that twirls

past his cheeks,

informs me

about the cd rates.

five percent, he says.

you need to come in.

he's wearing

a new tie and a new shirt.

i think he's in

love.

there's a glow about him.

and then

i see Tina, the clerk

at the desk

from Pakistan

come up behind him,

with a plate of cookies.

she smiles,

and touches his arm.

ah ha.

fourth place is still good

i like the almost.

the underdog,

the ones finishing fourth

with no

medal or wreathe,

or flowers.

the seventh

bridesmaid,

the last one picked,

the usher holding the door.

the ones

who almost

made it but didn't.

the runt of the litter,

dropping into obscurity

once more.

the weatherman was right

the weatherman

was right

this time, as the house swirls

high above the ground

in a violent

wind.

i look out the window

at all the things

passing by.

there goes a cow,

a cat,

a dog,

an old friend.

trucks and cars,

and there she is on her

bike,

spinning madly

cackling,

wreaking havoc

with her dark green skin.

come on baby, you can do it

men like to talk

to machinery,

especially their cars.

they say

things like,

come on baby,

you can do it, come on,

as they turn the key

and pump

the gas.

tapping their hand

on the dashboard

while rocking in the seat.

there you go sugar.

i knew you could do it.

there you go.

you're a sweet girl.

yes you are,

i'm going to put premium

into you today,

and give you a

wash and wax

when we get home.

the sentiment is the same

i still have your Christmas card,

the one i signed

yours truly,

no longer using the words

love, or

affectionately yours.

it's lying next to the one

you sent to me, but

it's in the top

drawer

where i keep my stapler

and rubber bands.

a book of stamps,

coupons to the Container Store.

did i forget to send it?

no.

it just never made it from

the desk to the blue

box on the corner.

i wonder if the stamp is

still good, maybe next year

you'll get it

the second time around.

the sentiment will remain

the same, i'm sure.

thirty-nine miles later

it's raining.

there's traffic.

there's

the slow crawl of impatient

drivers.

there's the wipers,

the fog,

the ac on,

the stop and go of it all.

the racket of horns.

i take route

seven from Leesburg,

twenty miles down to gallows,

then on to

236,

to prosperity,

a left on Olley lane,

to Braddock

to Rolling road

then left at last on to

old Keene mill.

only four more miles

to go.

three lights and a left

at Tiverton,

then a right at Orono.,

an open spot,

unbelievable,

home sweet home.

he looked very Canadian, i thought

my grandmother

liked to argue,

she was what people used

to call a pistol.

she liked to take the other side

of everything,

whether politics

or religion.

she was the kind of person

that would

try to order lamb

at a roadside diner.

she loved

Canada

where she grew up and when

i mentioned once

that i thought Lorne Greene

from Bonanza,

looked Canadian,

she said, what do you mean

by that?

why would you say something

like that?

i was only eleven,

but she was somehow

offended by my

benign observation.

the dusk to dawn drive-in

sometimes

we'd actually watch the movie

at the drive-in.

we weren't always

making out in the back seat

steaming

up the windows.

our bodies contorted

like Houdini in a water

box.

of course we'd have

a shrimp roll from the stand,

some popcorn,

maybe a hot dog,

and some fries, with a large

coke.

all of which we'd throw

the remains out

the window

before we left.

leaving the trash on the gravel hills.

but sometimes

we'd actually watch the movie.

all three,

in fact, but rarely

all six

from dusk to dawn.

never making it to the Swedish

films

of topless women

playing volleyball.

the end of summer

i see the neighbor

packing his car for the end of summer

beach trip

with his family.

in go the coolers,

and boogie boards,

the bikes

on the back.

the towels and suitcases.

the pillows,

the books

the snacks.

oh, how i remember it well.

the long road

to the eastern shore,

the six days

and seven nights in a

beach front

hotel.

bringing back the salt

and sand of it all.

our skin toasted brown.

snap shots in the phone.

saltwater taffy and

a netted bag of white 

and pink shells.

body enhancements

she told

me over morning coffee that she

was thinking

about getting

enhancements.

huh? i said, flipping

through the sports page

of the morning news.

i think

i'd be happier with bigger

breasts,

not Dolly Parton

sized, but you know,

maybe a third that size.

something like

a small cantaloupe.

i see women in the locker

room

and most of them

have had 

some work done.

wouldn't you like that?

i look up from the paper,

and shrug,

sure, i guess so.

but maybe get one done,

and see how that works

out for a while.

the festive funeral for Bob

the hall

was packed with friends

and family,

acquaintances,

the music was loud

and festive,

the videos played

on the wall,

pictures were set out.

flowers

and speeches made.

it was a joyous occasion,

this funeral

not for a Roman God,

but Bob,

now Robert,

and then someone

came up

to me

and said, you know,

i never really liked him

that much,

he was kind of

a snob,

a little on the cold side.

colder now,

i surmised.

Amelia's Earring

her lost diamond

earring has become Amelia

Earhart's plane.

no one can find it.

i've tossed

the house,

turned over the mattress,

looked

in the trash,

searched the rooms, 

crawled on my hands

and knees

across the rugs

with a flashlight.

every time she comes over

we search again.

we cover every inch of the

house

she's been in, but

with no luck.

it's a mystery

that will never be solved

and i never

bring up the possibility

of my hoover

vacuum dog.

perusing the farmer's market on a Saturday morning

the only

thing i've ever bought from a 

farmer's market

is a Bear Claw

pastry

and a cup of coffee.

i walk through

and admire the tomatoes,

though,

the peaches and apples,

the stalks of

celery,

beans and home made

cider,

but 

nothing strikes my fancy.

the tri-colored corn

is interesting,

so are the sausage links

hanging in a tent

manned

by Jimmy

in a butcher's apron,

from Front Royal, but i

don't buy any.

i'm pretty much here

for the Bear Claw

and to watch

people

mysteriously buy kale.

getting out of homework

as the sirens

sounded

we'd crawl under our desks

with our books

and lunch boxes

waiting for the all clear,

and then

the teacher, Mrs. Salvatore,

would

release

us to run home to our

parents

who hopefully weren't

burnt up

and vibrating

with radiation.

we'd look up into 

the sky

searching for that mushroom

cloud,

our ears waiting to

hear the boom.

it was exhilarating

in a way,

and exciting that we might

not have to

do our homework

for a while.

and then the movie came out

the book

was really good, i read it twice,

even

underlined

paragraphs

that i liked.

circled ingenious

sentences.

i wore the cover off,

broke

the binding.

i loaned it out.

i got it back and put

it on the top

shelf.

and then the movie

came out

and ruined everything.

does Nicholas Cage

have to be

in every movie?

the war chest

how do they

keep

these wars going

for so long.

do they ever run out of bombs

and drones,

bullets

and missiles?

do they ever go to the war

chest

and say, oops,

we only have three of each

left.

go to the basement

and get the sling shots out

from the big box

marked

medieval,

then sharpen

the bayonets.

i almost don't care

politicians

have worn out their welcome.

it's gone on

too long.

the commercials,

the lies,

the hyperbole.

speech

after boring speech,

rallies,

and word

salads.

i have tears in my eyes.

we're done with it.

just get

it over with

and rip the Band-Aid off.

i almost

don't care

anymore

who wins or loses

at this point, almost,

i said, but

not quite.

the lamp of moonlight

i wouldn't call it insomnia

exactly.

it was more

of an occasional

inability

to fall asleep.

whether it was the lamp 

of moonlight

cutting through

the blinds,

or the person

beside me,

dreaming and moving her

legs,

or the dog, too close

and hot.

or the work tomorrow

or the work

from yesterday.

it wasn't even

money, or age keeping

me up

like it used to do.

i wouldn't call it insomnia

at all,

just a temporary

situation of not sleeping,

a rare delay.

the small harvest

in the late summer,

the last

visit to the shore, to the beach,

and my

father.

he'd have a paper bag

full of string

beans and tomatoes,

peppers,

ready to go.

he'd been growing things

since he was a boy

in Halifax

Nova Scotia,

and now the small squared

yard, fenced

off, to keep the rabbits

at out, kept his green thumb

going.

should have slept in that day

it was raining that day.

dark and dreary.

the day

we went down to get the marriage

license.

it was cold.

windy.

i was hungry,

tired.

she seemed determined though,

needing

a place

to live and money to live

off of

since her married

boyfriend

went back to the wife,

and cut off her

cash flow.

where else was there to go?

i couldn't see

the sticker stuck to the back

of my clothes,

saying sucker.

i think it was fifty bucks

at the little

metal window, where

we both signed the agreement,

and an old woman

named Alma,

stamped 

the piece of paper, and said

good luck

in a foreboding

tone.

that's one sad orange

i pretty much

know

i'll never eat that single orange

sitting on

the shelf

in the refrigerator.

it's bright face

stares back at me every

morning

i open the door and

get cream for coffee.

i've taken it out

several times

and placed it by

the knife drawer.

i've even

taken it to work

several times.

it's traveled miles away

from home

and then put back

on the shelf

when i get home again.

i just can't find the moment,

or have

the right alignment

of taste buds

to cut it into quarters

and eat it.

but i can't throw it away

either.

lacking locquaciousness

doctors are the worst

at explaining

anything.

they do a lot of nodding,

grunting,

typing,

writing things down,

but it's almost

like they aren't there.

they poke around a lot,

take blood,

measure you

for height and weight,

blood pressure

and a variety of other things.

then

they send you the test

results

a few days later,

but never follow up

to discuss what they mean.

that's totally up to you

now, 

to go home and research

the numbers

when you

log onto WebMD.

the magnifying glass

men need

their garage, their basement

or attic

with a work bench

and a good light,

a chair.

they need to escape into

the minutiae

of a hobby of some

sort.

woodworking, old clocks,

perhaps something

that might fly.

they need to get away

from work,

from the kids,

from the wife,

from the weeds in the yard.

they need to hunch over

something

with a magnifying glass

and carefully

try to make their life

right.

the enormous puzzle

i have no patience

for jigsaw

puzzles, ten thousand pieces

scattered

on the table,

each looking exactly

the same

in color and shape.

blue, white, green.

when put together

appearing to be a skyline,

with a mountain

lake.

i sit there and stare at

the table,

scratching

my brain,

pondering, it's pretty much

how i look

at every waking day.

this weather we're having

we rarely say

what we mean, it's better

that way

at times.

to swallow

the words

to keep the peace,

to keep

the friendship going.

why bother,

why argue, why make

your case

as to who's wrong,

who's right.

we move on

and keep it light.

how about this weather

we're having?

when the heart expands

where

do all these toys go?

these dolls

and soldiers,

superhero figures,

bikes

and skates,

jacks and colored chalk.

jump ropes.

where

do they go when

the hands

get too big for them.

when the limbs grow

and the heart

expands,

and love

becomes the most

important

goal.

where do the toys go?

the website designer

i tell her

how long i've been working,

which makes

her laugh,

i haven't even been

on earth that long.

you get used to it,

i tell her.

but if you want my advice,

save your money,

be careful with love,

love can ruin everything.

eat well, sleep well,

and look both

ways before crossing.

and you,

young woman,

what advice do you have

for me?

any tips from the new age?

and then

tell me about this new

website you're

designing for me.

the thirty-two foot ladder

i envisioned retirement

as something

different.

something soft and easy.

a rest home

somewhere on the eastern

shore.

first floor of course,

the ocean a short walk away.

the pool

nearby, new friends playing

cards and drinking.

i never thought i'd be on

this roof,

having climbed

the thirty-two foot ladder

with a bucket of paint

and brush again.

but oh, how i like the view.

leaving nothing on the table

sometimes

we limp into the room.

slow afoot,

exhausted

by the day.

we grab

a chair to hold onto,

the edge

of the table, then

fall

into the sofa.

the sun and blue sky

mocks us.

come out and play, they

say,

come get some fun.

come sweat,

come throw the ball

and run.

come on, get up,

get going.

there's four more hours

in this day.

you're not dead yet.

the clearing

i take a saw

out into the back yard

and start

sawing

the branches of tall bushes.

or are they potential

trees.

maybe they're weeds, 

i don't know.

i should look it up, but

they've outgrown

their welcome,

sagging over the fence.

almost as tall

as the second story window

of my house.

wide and gangly,

but green.

it doesn't take too long

to cut them down

and clear them out

of the yard,

it's strangely satisfying,

but now when i look

out the window

i miss them.

don't drink the water

it's challenging,

diving into the Seine for a swim

event.

the judges

wait for debris and

things

to float by before shooting

off the gun.

one of the swimmers

yells out,

wait wait, what's that?

pointing at what

could be the small

body of a dog,

or pig,

dead and floating,

but he's speaking in Japanese

so he's ignored.

the gun goes off

as he covers his mouth

and nose

and dives in.

medals after all are

everything.

ping pong

i end up

watching an hour of ping pong

on tv.

it's the Olympics,

so you're a loser

if you don't watch it.

it's a Chinese dude and a young

man from

Finland.

they are drenched

in sweat

and look anxious and tired

in their struggle

to the death.

the world seems to be on

hold until this ends.

it's a wild match.

back and forth with furious

volleys. 

the mad clicking

of the paddles against

the ball.

the screaming from

the crowd.

it's actually kind of amazing

how fast they are.

the reflexes.

it's the not

the ping pong

we played

with our friends in

the basement

while we drank beer,

hardly getting the ball

over the sagging net,

with the ball flying

off the table,

and the dog running off with it.

you know what you want

i decide

quickly on the lasagna.

i don't even

look at the menu.

it's all i

ever get.

she tells me that every time

we sit down

in a restaurant.

why don't you try

something different

for once,

she says.

so i change the order,

to todays

fish.

i hate it and end up

eating

off of her plate,

which is lasagna,

of course.

another shovel full of snapshots

what are we

preserving with all these

pictures

stuck

forever in our phones.

documenting

what we eat,

what we wear, where we are

on any given day.

there's me,

there's you, there's Saturday.

we wake

up

and snap another

as if fame and fortune

is one

more click away.

content of character

they can't stop

talking about the race

thing.

it never ends this talk

of the color

of one's skin.

black, white, mixed,

why is it so

important

to so many people?

will it ever end?

it's impossible to 

understand

why it's continually

brought up

and deemed important,

again and again.

didn't someone once say

something about

the content 

of one's character and not

the color of one's skin?

oh right,

they did away with him.

the bank teller

the bank teller,

a young

girl from Siberia tells me

through the garbled

drive thru

speaker

that cd rates are 5 percent

for five months,

with a minimum 

deposit of twenty-five

thousand dollars.

thanks, i tell her.

she gives me a wide

country smile.

her face is pale

as if it's never seen the sun

and

she has blue

eyes that somehow

remind me of cold

snowy fields,

places

i've never been.

i tell her i'll think about it.

you do it anyway

you marry

the wrong girl.

the one you secretly hate,

the one that truly

doesn't appeal to you.

you know it, she knows,

everyone knows it,

but you

go ahead and do it anyway.

you know there

will be hell

to pay.

but you do it anyway.

you give her the ring,

you say, i do,

then spend your life

desperately

trying to get out of it

before it kills you.

slick as a seal

i believe in aerodynamics.

the more

smooth

and slick you are from top

to bottom

the faster you are

whether swimming

or running.

there is no resistance,

as you sprint down the track

or dive into the water.

if i was a runner, or a swimmer

which i'm not, i'd shave every

hair follicle off my body,

tape down my ears,

and cover myself in oil,

becoming slick

as a seal.

i'd wear a skin tight suit made

of silk, making

me extra fast.

and if i never won a medal,

maybe i'd get style points,

at least i'd have that.

when the bolt won't budge

sometimes, no matter how hard

you try to unscrew

a bolt

off of some piece of machinery,

it won't budge.

all the muscle

and curse words

in you

have no shot at unloosening it.

you get the hammer out,

the chisel,

the wrenches.

the rarely used blow torch.

but it's not happening.

so you buy a new lawnmower

for your ten by ten

patch of yard.

life insurance

i suspected

that i was on her hit list

when

she invited the insurance salesman

over for dinner,

one night,

bringing along

his briefcase

holding a fresh

copy of a million dollar

policy,

insuring my life.

i became very

very

suspicious that she was

up to something,

maybe secretly

trying to poison me

despite being

my lovely lovely wife.

from then on i let the dog

taste everything

that was on my plate,

or lick clean

with his eager long tongue,

my fork and knife.

the other side of the family

i don't hear

from

the other side

of the family these days,

not a word.

not a call,

or text,

sisters or brothers.

pretty much nothing

since my

mother died.

it's silence

from the

Maryland side.

i imagine

they're eating crabs

this time

of year

at Robertson's

crab house,

down the road off Indian

head highway.

drinking beer and wine

under sunny skies,

good times.

bobo the pet monkey

it was probably

a bad idea

getting a monkey for a pet.

the constant

shrieking

and swinging from

the chandelier.

the biting and fleas.,

his wanton

lust for bananas.

i suggested

a goldfish.

but she insisted

on bobo.

i was young and in love,

wanting to please

her,

so foolishly

bending to her desires.

a lesson i learned

early on,

and yet repeatedly

did it again

and again, always with

regret.

what will you do after the war?

so what will you do after

the war?

i ask the young man burying

a land mine

in a school yard.

what do you mean? he says.

there is no after,

no before,

we are always at war with them.

they hate us,

we hate them.

it is bad blood for centuries.

but what if the bombing stopped,

what if the killing,

and the slaughter

ended?

what if one side stopped

and said enough?

no, he says,

that would make meaningless

of all the ones that

have died before.

what will they have they died

for if there is

no more killing, no more revenge,

no more war?

but what if, what if it ended.

what would you do with your life?

i don't know, he says,

sharpening his bayonet.

i like to cook,

maybe i would make bread,

i love to bake bread,

maybe i would

have a small cafe

and serve wine.

people could come and read

books and talk.

all day and all night.

maybe we could laugh

and talk about our children.

that would be nice.

sometimes we talk

she sends

me a video of a cat,

i send her

one of a dog.

there's a bird on the sill

i send

her that.

she sends

a picture of the rabbit

in her yard.

i hear the mailman

and take

a picture of him.

his mustache is interesting.

she resends me

a picture

of a rainbow that a

friend took

on some island.

dinner is coming soon,

so i show her

the chicken on

the counter, she sends me

a snapshot

of an apple,

then some celery stalks.

then a video about

cholesterol

and heart attacks.

i send her one that says

the opposite of that.

sometimes

at the end of day,

we might talk.

more flip flops than Wal-Mart

it's amazing

how politicians say one thing

for years,

for decades,

they've run on these issues,

and then,

suddenly,

they say, nope, didn't say

that.

you had me wrong.

i never ever believed

in that.

i was never against fracking,

i closed the border,

i lowered

crime

and never released prisoners

before they did

their time.

i never said defund the police,

or was hesitant

on supporting Israel.

i never suggested raising taxes.

how dare you

even suggest that?

i'm on everybody's side now.

not just the woke

and transgenders.

wasn't the opening of the Olympics

just wonderful?

but we have it on record,

on tape,

on video, in the newspapers.

is this another flip flopping

joke?

oh fiddle dee dee.

come on, come on.

let's move on, ok?

and talk about the passage

of time.

and how we can all become

unburdened

by what has been

burdening us.

let's roll up our sleeves,

put on our pant suits 

and get

down to work. we have

a country, sort of, to save.

how did we survive back then?

remember the snows

we used

to get when we were young.

two or

three feet deep,

drifts

up to the door.

it was before the plows

came through.

the schools were closed.

how did we survive.

we were down to 

to drinking tap water

and licking

the lids of peanut

butter jars.

we had to unfreeze

the frozen meat

frozen for years,

frosted over in the ice box

and open

up all the cans 

of tuna and spam.

the cereal boxes were empty.

no cookies

no chips,

no pop tarts for the toaster.

we ran out of milk and

bread,

eggs and Pepsi.

we were down to eating

old candy

from Halloween

mostly Mary Janes

gone rock hard.

we did things with crackers

and jelly

we had never

done before.

how did we survive?

it was the hardest two

and a half days

of our young lives.

the Japanese Maple

i see the man

in his madras shorts 

and flip flops

watering his yard

before it gets

too hot.

his white belly hangs

over his belt,

and he's smoking a cigar.

slowly

he walks around

extending the long hose

to water

the roses,

the Japanese maple,

the bright green

grass.

i imagine

that he was young once

and none

of this mattered.

life is short.

there's no danger here

you need

stagnation, a dry bone

desert

of day

and time.

an arid place, full of

cacti

and Ghalia monsters,

rattlesnakes

roaming

around.

danger curled in every

rock

made shadow.

you need the long

stretch

of a Georgia Okeefe

sky.

ribbons of pink

and blue,

brown mountains

with threatening clouds.

this all inclusive

beach resort

with palm trees swaying

won't do.

the candy jar by the door

a candy

jar

by the door, where i

set my keys

and wallet down,

next to my sunglasses

and a book

of poems

by Mark Strand,

that i might read later,

is trouble.

having the willpower

of a small

child

i can't help but take

a handful

for my pocket,

then fill it up later

when

i get home.

temptations lie

everywhere

if you allow it.

if i had a car like that

if i had a car like that,

i'd ponder

at the age of ten or eleven

walking

the cold

streets throwing newspapers

onto porches

that lined

my route.

if i had a car like that, how

wonderful that would

be,

and then

it became if i had a girlfriend

like her,

so amazing, so lean,

so pretty,

or a house like the house

like the one

up there on the hill

surrounded by willow trees,

how wonderful

and complete life would be,

and then

one day you have it,

but realize that all of it

means nothing,

if you're still unhappy.

Safeway has Fish

i used to fish.

i used to take my son fishing.

i had the whole

thing

going on,

a tackle box,

a knife,

rods and reels, 

sinkers and bobbers,

hooks

and lines.

blood worms in a box.

for hours

i'd stand at the shoreline

and cast

out over and over again,

until a big fat

catfish or carp, or God forbid

an eel

would take a bite.

and then it hit me.

i don't like fishing.

i don't like cutting up worms

or taking

the hook out of

frenetic fish's mouth.

my shoes would be soggy,

i'd be sunburned and

hungry.

i felt bad for the fish too,

so easily

tricked into biting down

on what they

thought was fish food.

the noisy crickets

i am

annoyed by the printers

announcement

that

it's out of ink or paper.

why can't you

get it yourself

i want to scream out.

the phone with

its data usage

warnings.

the gas light in my car.

the oil light.

the sign on my door

telling me

again that the trash

can't be put out before

sundown.

my dentist,

telling me to floss more,

my 

broker telling

me to save more,

or to buy and sell.

the latest stock. my doctor

telling me to lose

weight,

and stop smoking and drinking

so much.

i need just one person,

one thing

in my life, that says

nothing, they just tell you

politely,

how about a nap?

how dare you have an opinion

i can't read

your so called poetry anymore,

she tells me

in the comment section.

you should stick

to fun stuff,

personal observations,

and stay away from politics.

you are obviously

a  bad person

with your conservative leanings.

how dare you express your

opinions,

and mock and make fun

of people.

it's not funny mister.

so just to let you know,

i'm not a follower anymore.

and i'm only

occasionally going to read

your posts.

i hope others don't quit

too out of protest for

your personal beliefs,

and not so funny jabs

at Kamla. that happy go lucky

genius of an orator.

who is this, i write back?

there's probably a name for this

i over think 

just about everything

in my life.

what i ear, drank.

where i'm going, where

i've been.

what i should wear

how to spend money

or who to visit.

my brain sometimes is like

a monkey

in a banana tree,

hopping from one branch

to another.

undecided or questioning

everything

that is me.

there's probably

a name for this in 

the latest DSM,

but why go there?

the near heart attack

as the nurse

applies these sticky suction

cups

all over my chest

and stomach, she says, i

remember you.

i look at her

and shake my head.

it was seven years ago.

i start to get nervous.

was she

someone i dated, met in

a bar or on some online

dating site.

did we over drink

our martinis and end up

in the parking lot

outside the Pottery Barn

in the back

of her car?

you don't remember, do you?

she says.

sorry, i tell her, but i don't.

i was kind of binge dating

back then.

well you had this same

cardiogram seven years

ago and i filled out your chart.

whew. i say.

you almost gave me a heart

attack.

a call from the beyond

i see there's a message

on my

land line

voice mail.

who leaves messages anymore?

what cave man

or woman

does that? salesmen

and scammers.

no text?

only my mother would call

that line.

but she's long

gone.

and if it's her i best listen

to it.

the cha ching of commerce

it's a hundred

days

before Halloween and yet

the candy is out,

the plastic skeletons,

the spider webs

and masks

are on the shelf.

Christmas can't be far

behind,

can it?

as we lie on the beach

in late July

with a St. Patty's Day

stout.

why not make all the seasons

year round?

beating up women at the Olympics

while the man

posing to be a woman beats

the tar

out of the

woman

in the boxing ring,

the world

spins further out of control.

further and further

sick,

further and further

woke.

Mike Tyson should put

on a wig

and teach

the young man a lesson

about

beating up women.

Door Dash

her kitchen

was well equipped,

the Viking stove,

the subzero fridge,

the cupboards stocked with

every

ingredient one could ever

need.

the spices

all lined up on a rack.

the pots

and pans gleaming, hanging

from the ceiling on

hooks.

the blenders, the processors,

the coffee makers,

the double oven,

the warming rack,

the pristine

microwave.

a shelf of cookbooks.

everything looked perfectly

new.

and would stay that way

forever

as we once more called out

for Chinese food.

survival love

i'm reminded

of Paraguay when i look out

the window

at the green

mist rising

from the water and the woods.

i can almost

feel her

lips against mine,

her body too

as we lie in the tent

on the hillside.

it was survival love

in a strange land,

each needing

each other to survive.

not the always the best kind.

abnormal

i get the blood

work

back.

everything seems to be in the normal

range,

but not

the EKG,

which says

abnormal. which is exactly

what it was

seven years

ago

when going under the knife

so i can

breathe again.

i want to know

more,

but i'm afraid to ask.

please have the defibrillator near by.

thank you.

i know you are but what am I?

i haven't seen this much

acrimony

and anger, accusations and

name calling

since i was in court

getting divorced

from the second wife.

but unlike political campaigns

there is no judge

to calm you down

and settle the claims.

no matter who you're voting for

pretty much nothing

will change your mind.

so let's vote today

and be done with it.

i know you are but what

am i?

rock paper scissors glue,

what bounces off of me

sticks to you.

sigh.

waiting for the end

maybe it's the weather,

the heat,

the humidity, the fires

out west,

the wars

even farther.

maybe the sun is inching

closer and closer

to us.

maybe there's nothing to

be done,

but to coat ourselves

in coconut butter,

and drink

pina coladas

while waiting for the end.