the debate before the debate

she wants

a round table,

with flowers

and wants

sunlight coming through

the window.

she

wants an open mike,

with four or five

lifelines

to give her advice.

he says

he doesn't care.

she wants

notes

and an earphone,

and her husband

sitting nearby.

she wants

cookies

and coconut milk. Doritos.

he says a pastrami

sandwich from Katz's

deli

will be fine.

with a pickle of course.

she wants to pick the questions

from the friendly 

left side

and be given

more time when she

can't remember her scripted lines.

there will be no talk

about

the border,

the economy,

inflation or crime.

she wants to help edit

the finished debate

and doesn't want

it televised.

he shakes his head, and sighs.

each to his own fate

no matter

what happens, how the debates

or lack of debates

go.

the interviews,

or conversations around

the water cooler,

(do they even exist anymore?)

it makes no

difference

what either candidate says,

or proclaims,

or what the media shouts

in their Orwellian

biased way.

minds have been

made up,

either by like

or hate.

the facts hardly matter anymore.

everything is

true,

everything is fake.

each to his own

vote, each to his own

deserving fate.

ahh, sugar sugar

i read

the box of cereal

with a long list of ingredients.

chemicals

you've never heard of, but

after oats

and grain,

it's sugar.

same with the bread,

the juices,

the chips

and sauces,

ice-cream.

nearly anything in a bag

box,

jar or bottle

is full of sugar.

sugar is listed first

or second

almost always

on every food manufactured

in this country.

a single

coke has twelve grams

of pure

sugar.

heart disease, cancer,

etc.

are directly related to 

consuming sugar.

60 percent of children

are now

currently

obese

and have some form

of diabetes.

not to mention

the adults waddling around

Walmart

and Duck Donuts.

follow the money

and find

the disease.

Happy Halloween.

the plumber from Newark

i was living in the now

the other day,

yesterday

or the day

before, exploring my Beta

male

mentality,

with low

testosterone,

when i was at a stoplight,

pretzeled into

a yoga

pose,

meditating,

trying to levitate

myself away

from the world that has

its hold,

when the car behind

me honked his

horn

and yelled me when

the light changed.

A plumber from Newark,

waving a wrench,

trying to get to a job.

he told me to get off the road

and go home.

then called me bad names

which hurt

my feelings.

it's so hard

these days being in touch

with oneself,

and 

experiencing one's inner

soul.

i still get upset and cry about it

i couldn't wait to crawl under

the bed

with my three cats

when i got home.

Dear Officer Krupke

no money,

no job,

no skills or ambition,

not your country,

no problem, car loans,

student loans,

mortgages you

can't afford?

healthcare,

step right up. we got this.

tired of being a girl,

or a boy,

we got this.

stand over there and wait

your turn.

the surgeon

and pharmacist will be right

with you.

no drivers license,

no social

security number,

undocumented?

not willing to pay taxes?

criminal record, out on bail,

murderer,

rapist?

no problem,

step right up.

uncle Sam has your back,

we forgive you, we want you.

we'll coddle your children,

feed you,

cloth you,

tuck you in at night

at the Roosevelt Hotel.

abortions,

what a hassle, but it's

not your fault.

step right up.

bad decisions, we got this.

obese

and drunk,

drug addled.

none of it is your fault,

you're a victim of society,

you're misunderstood

and held

back by the shade of your skin,

the curl

of your hair,

the parents you lack.

Dear Officer Krupke take that.

the world is responsible

for f...ing you up.

so come on over the wall,

the fence,

smoke a doobie, have some crack.

let's have a group hug.

just chill and relax.

Uncle Sam has your back.

step right up.

the existential sigh

as i ride

my bike down the long curve

of paved

path,

through the swampy

woods,

heading to the lake,

occasionally

i'll run over

a slow moving

snake.

not on purpose, of course.

but you can't

tell a stick from a copperhead

sometimes.

i imagine

they scream in their own

way

as the tires roll

over them,

but it's more like

a silent cry.

a reptilian moan

of sorts.

an existential sigh.

i try to lift my legs

as i continue

to ride.

we had sticks, we had rocks

as kids

we used to sit around and have

a think

tank

on the porch, while

throwing

rocks

at bottles,

or shooting rubber bands

at each other

from sling shots.

we'd talk about inventing

something.

anything.

if we could just

think of one thing that the world

needs

and wants,

we could be rich

and famous.

something dumb, like the hula hoop,

or the slinky,

or a pet rock

or a cabbage patch

doll.

but we were stuck.

we had sticks.

we had rocks.

the trophy wife

i'm your trophy

wife,

the second wife told me once,

staring

at herself

in the full-length mirror

before going out

on a Friday night.

she spun

around,

and fluffed her hair,

pouting her

lips while

tightening the jawline

of her face.

she squirmed

and squealed,

making her body

curve like

a cat in heat.

yes. you are i told her.

but who knew

they gave

out trophies

for tenth place.

how much is bread?

it used

to be enjoyable, going out to restaurants.

before an 8 ounce

steak cost

seventy dollars.

and a potato

was fifteen with or without

a dollop of butter.

it was fun

getting dressed up

and

having

a meal

cooked for you.

reserving a table,

for your date. the food

seasoned

just right. more than you could

eat,

most times.

the professional waiter,

the linen tablecloth,

the candlelight.

the overhead

music,

everyone so

civil,

so polite.

they gave you time

to chew

your food and talk

before

rushing you out the door.

the 1980s and before,

before apps

and Styrofoam

were very good times

to be alive.

and then it begins to rain

it's been

years, but finally i find the time

to go

visit my

mother's final resting place.

a grassy

slope somewhere

in Bladensburg.

a cemetery

famous for the civil soldiers

and before

that former slaves

emancipated

by old Abe.

no trees,

no markers, no benches,

nothing to find

the spot

where they buried her.

just a rusted fence

leaning

onto itself,

a gateless gate.

i walk around for awhile,

calling out

her name.

hey, mom, where are you?

is there a Marie in the house?

i know you're here

somewhere.

somewhere below this

cold hard

ground.

and then

it begins to rain.

maybe Saturday

a week

after we

got married, she accused me of being

very clingy.

insecure and needy.

i'd come home

from work

and put my arms around

her, missing

her,

kissing her gently

on the cheek

and lips.

we're married now, she'd say.

we're no longer

in the honeymoon

phase.

the game is over.

please, please,

i need some room here.

maybe Saturday.

flexing his muscles

the surgeon

in his blue

gloves and blue mask,

is happy with his work.

numbness,

he asks,

bleeding, soreness.

feeling woozy

and light headed?

throat hurts?

eyes watering and headaches?

good, good, he says.

i think we got it all this time.

he flexes the muscles

in his arms

and chest.

now follow my nine page

set of instructions,

religiously,

we don't want you 

coming back.

i stagger out into the blinding

light of

the hospital,

but first i take a seat

on a bench,

for a short rest.

Lilly in the morning

i set

the saucer of milk on the stoop

for Lilly,

the black cat

from the nearby

neighborhood.

no collar,

no tags,

just her long shaggy self

strolling

the street

and cul de sac.

she sees me and comes

over to say hello.

slithering

her

matted body

between my

calves.

we're not in love,

exactly,

but have a fondness for

one another

that goes

years back.

both being strays of sort.

she takes

one lick from the bowl,

then is on her

way again.

sometimes

if she's in the mood,

she'll even look back.

in search of the dream girl

when young

we spend a lot of time and energy

looking

for the dream girl,

the dream

job, or car, or house.

the dream

vacation.

we want the best for us.

but as time goes on,

we stop such nonsense

and start looking not for

the dream,

but for the one that isn't

a nightmare.

she's due in June

i go down

to the bank to take out cash

to bail

a friend out

of the jump.

he's behind bars again

for nonpayment of child support.

a mere

four or five

thousand

dollars

in arrears. he was

married for one year,

one child,

and now seventeen years later,

he's still dealing

with the financial

and emotional woes

of falling in lust

not love.

he's haggard

when they let him out.

three days

in the can, his belt gone,

his shoelaces

off, and wearing an orange

jumpsuit,

just like all the other men.

but i see he's

made some new friends.

and has a new

tattoo on

his arm,

with the initials of his new

girlfriend.

Amber, a dancer,

downtown.

she's due in June.

six years later

the Jiffy

lube guy remembers me.

where have

you been? he says.

we missed you

and your Honda

car and Toyota truck.

we haven't seen you in a long

time.

synthetic oil?

right?

yes, i tell him. it's a long

story.

he laughs,

women right?

of course, i tell him.

always is.

filters, he asks?

air, cabin?

sure, why not.

rotate the tires?

okay.

we top off the fluids

for free, but you know that,

right?

thanks, i tell him.

there's coffee

and a bathroom in there,

he says,

opening the door

for me.

i sit down in the waiting

room,

picking up

an old people magazine

with Oprah on the front,

then start reading

where i left off

six years ago.

she's finally been able

to keep

the weight off.

eat, eat, look at you, you're so skinny

he tried

to eat healthy, but Mona,

his wife,

would have

none of that.

she loved to bake, to make

cookies

and treats.

she had

sugar and flour,

butter

and all the ingredients

that make

life sweet.

he tried so hard

to lose weight, to get back

in shape.

but no,

here she comes 

in the middle of the day

with another

pineapple upside down

cake.

the neighborhood watchers

i see the neighborhood

gaggle

of geese,

the condo board,

coming up the street with

their pitchforks

and

torches,

walking as one, as ducks

often

do,

making quacking noises,

and small

fowl like peeps.

pointing

at peeling paint and dead

bushes.

cars without stickers,

trash set

out early.

quickly

i close the door and fall

back into the darkness

of the hall.

i never know when they

might be coming

for me.

when we make love

we disagree

on nearly

everything, 

under the sun,

politics,

food,

movies,

music,

culture, the current

trends, etc.

but when we make

love,

we're somehow good

again.

wildfires

as wildfires

do

disease and old age

will take its toll

and thin

the herds,

the trees, scorching

the earth

to make room

for the new,

the next

generation

of flora.

the weak won't survive.

it's nature,

it's the way things

are,

get used to it.

the trial of the century

summoned

for jury duty, i immediately

try to think of ways

to get out of it.

work,

allergies,

travel, or lack of interest.

my sunning hours

in the back yard

are now from ten to twelve

in the morning

because of the upcoming winter

solstice,

plus i don't like eating out

of vending machines

or food trucks

in front of the courthouse for a week.

i have dietary restrictions.

they don't care

so i say, okay,

let's do this. but i want a big

case

i tell the judge.

like the Scopes Monkey Trial,

or OJ, 

Johnny Depp

and Amber Heard, the Rosenbergs,

or

the Lindberg baby, or maybe

Leopold and Loeb.

something fun and juicy.

i want to decide someone's

fate,

to be the right hand

of God

in deciding the future of this

criminal's nefarious

activities.

alleged,

the judge says, alleged criminal.

the defendant is innocent

until proven guilty.

yeah, right, i say. pffft. right.

and by the way,

this is case about jaywalking,

he says.

not murder or kidnapping,

then he asks

me if i'm on any meds,

or if i have regular sessions

with a psychiatrist,

receiving 

shock treatments.

maybe, i tell him.

why? it's sort of none of your

beeswax,

your honor. my medical records

are completely

confidential and sealed

until twenty years after my death.

okay, buddy, he says,

okay,

you're dismissed.

new details on the democratic policies

they are kissing

babies

now.

visiting the old and infirmed.

they are

making

promises

they can't keep.

they want to put a chicken

in every pot.

free money

for a house even

if you

can't afford the payments.

free health

care,

free tuitions,

free abortions

and vasectomies,

free food and hotels

for

the homeless

and illegals crossing

the border.

they want childcare,

and 

social workers

instead of cops.

they want to tear down the wall

and let

the fentanyl flow

across.

they want

to empty the prisons,

and give

them therapy

instead of a cell and a cot.

can't we all get along?

they want to march and

burn the flag,

paint

the statues with blood red

ink.

they want the terrorists to win.

i may have to work until

i'm eighty

to pay for all of this.

is it time already

to vote again?

now i remember why we don't get together

the sky

is so blue today, i say to him

in casual

passing

innocuous chit chat.

he looks

at me and says,

no,

not really.

see those clouds, they're

white

and some are

grey.

the atmosphere

is not really

blue,

but an illusion of many

variable

things

in space and in our

protective

halo

of air.

the sun

and lunar position must

be taken

into consideration

as well.

so you're wrong about that.

okay. well it's

always a pleasure to see you,

i tell him,

staring off into

the distance

as i pull

out my chair. take care.

 

something for you too

i log onto

my Amazon account, and start

perusing,

window shopping.

there must be something

i need,

something i need to buy,

a book

or something

that i haven't read yet.

maybe some fruit and vegetable pills

to perk me up.

some creams

and lotions for

my skin.

stool softeners,

and an ED rescue

product, four for the price

of two.

a new shirt, some shoes,

a new

toaster oven

or computer.

how about a bread machine,

or 

a lava lamp.

how about a new set of

queen

sized sheets made of bamboo?

how about a garlic

press,

a food processor

and one of those pop corn

machines.

or a nine speed

blender, hey,

maybe i'll even find something

for you.

the never ending night

pain

in any measure is hard on you.

small

or large,

grief and sorrow

will take its toll.

age you,

break your heart.

deepen

the furrows of your

brow,

make you

alone.

and yet, who doesn't

go through

it

at some point in your life?

some rise,

some don't. and sadly,

some stay put in the never

ending

night.

California girls

the four

of us,

a rag tag group of teens

from

the other side

of the track,

not even knowing

how

poor we really were,

decided

to go to California.

why not

get out of this neighborhood

of duplexes

with tar

roofs,

the city smoke,

the storm drains, the barbed

wire,

the bowling

alley,

the broken windows of

our youth?

why not flee to the sunny

shores of the west

coast.

to California sunshine,

and girls

girls girls frolicking

on the beaches.

we sang the song

as we drove,

but our Chevy broke down

just outside

of Largo Maryland.

and that was it.

dreams differed.

we hitch hiked home

after

donuts

in a coffee shop we found,

and often wondered,

what if.

she appears to be alone

what is that

purple

and blue, crimson and green

little

slithery

thing

at the threshold

of my door

slipping

through the cracks

of metal and wood.

it appears

to be

a dinosaur

from another age,

shrunken

into

a reasonable size, cute

if not

adorable

in some strange way.

he's quick,

or she is, hard to be sure

without

a magnifying glass.

it appears

to be alone

despite its beauty. but

aren't we all,

sometimes?

we need to update your receiver boxes

it's an early

morning scam call.

i'm on my first

cup of coffee,

walking about the house

dusting

my plants.

all plastic but they look

real

in the early blush

of sunlight.

the man 

is bright and bushy tailed.

excited

with not having

someone hang up

on him

when they hear his Indian

accent.

he wants

to update my 

television receiver boxes,

all nine of them.

my record

of keeping them on the phone

is 53 minutes

and spare change.

game on.

when his mother was out of town with Carlos

i remember

the day

i taught my son how to make

a banana

split on the dining room table

with the big light on.

he was blue

unable to reach his mother who

had mysteriously

disappeared

with a small piece of luggage

for the weekend.

it wasn't the drug store

counter chintzy banana split,

but the real deal.

a long trough of endless goo

with

a whole banana,

three scoops

of ice-cream, mint chip,

rocky road,

and strawberry,

nuts and cherries, chocolate

and whipped

cream,

sprinkles without limits.

i put the knife in his hand

and showed him 

after we peeled the long fruit

how to cut the banana

down the middle making

two slender halves,

setting it aside as

we waited

for the ice-cream

to soften.

getting the spoons out,

shaking vigorously

the can of real whipped cream,

opening the large bag

of walnuts, both dry

and syrupy wet,

to be laid down

accordingly at the end.

crushed pineapple

was held back,

it was only our first lesson

after all

at this feel good task.

we found out later

his mother was out of town,

with Carlos,

of course.

but those were the days

and that night

he slept like a baby

with chocolate stuck to his face.

what else is there to say

the old man,

dying,

slipping away as we all do

at some

point.

settled in his home

with lots

of shade.

deep in the hollow

of

old age.

forty years

and little has changed.

his children

not far,

the ex-wife

in the other room,

on her phone.

no pets

these days.

no strength

to garden

or rake. just the photo

albums

in his lap, as he

turns each page.

but it was a good life

while it

lasted.

what else is there to say?

what to look forward to

i was looking

at the clock and thinking about

what the VP

has often

said rambling

incoherently

in a state of verbal word

salad,

the passage

of time

is important.

we must not underestimate

the passage of time.

it seems like an hour ago

that i just

woke up,

and here it is nearing 

eleven

o'clock.

she's absolutely right.

and now

it's time to unburden

myself

from my shoes

and socks,

my shirt

and pants.

i toss them all to floor

which strangely land

in a circular

Venn diagram.

the unhappy other states

the other states

are angry,

mad,

jealous of the swing states.

they want

more love,

Alaska,

and Texas,

North Dakota.

why is Pennsylvania

getting all

the attention?

Geogia and Arizona?

what about us?

what are we chopped

liver over here

in the middle of the country

and the great northwest?

how about

a little affection

and concern

from you people,

we can flip flop just as good

as the rest

of them,

you mysterious pollsters

taking

numbers on views.

ask us

what we think.

we're Americans too.

we can see each other if we want to

it's clear

water, as we stand here at the edge

of the lake.

we can

see the bend

of golden

fish,

the underwater

greenery.

the silk

of sand and stones

the swirl

of seas,

yet to be.

we can

see the sky too, the clouds

and sun,

our faces,

our legs

our shoes.

we can see each other

in this

deceptively calm

and simple world,

we can see it all,

if we

want to.

the grand illusion

they

fact check the speech.

the long

winded

rally of words,

practiced

deep into the night,

confectionary

thoughts made of

sweet

sugary dreams

and angry

memes.

some is true, some is bleep.

but who cares,

right?

it's all

about power

and inclusion, it's all about

being

free

and democracy,

the grand

illusion.

stopping by the woods

i'm in

a post-surgical state of mind.

thankful

to be alive,

and yet

somehow,

unworried about ever getting

to the other

side.

will Peter

have my paperwork

stamped

and right?

there are still things

to do,

i suppose,

places to go,

people to love

and to be loved by.

more poems

to write.

more food to eat, hours

at night

to sleep.

it was just a short

stop by

the woods

on a snowy

winters night, the horse

and I.

we don't need men

we don't

need men anymore, the politician

says,

pushing her husband

behind her.

we don't need

hunters

and doers.

builders,

shakers and movers.

we don't need

testosterone

laden

men with beards

and bows

and arrows.

men with muscles and vision.

we need

soft men. childlike men

in aprons.

not warriors

or heroes.

we need them at home

changing diapers,

making

soufflés and quiche,

doing laundry,

walking the dogs

and children.

we need them bent and

weak,

repentant

for all that's ever been.

we don't need men.

give me the gas

humor

will save the day.

a laugh,

wit

and sarcasm.

a prat fall, a joke,

a humorous

tale,

a one liner,

a long

drawn out affair

of mirth.

give me

the smile,

the punch line,

the giggle, the guffaw,

the standup routine,

the comedy.

the wink

and nod.

give me the gas.

the laughing gas,

it's too

hard

to go on without it.

we have a lot of balloons

what are the cost

of all

those balloons?

all that confetti

falling from the roof.

people

are hungry, homeless,

needing

medical

attention.

so much is broken that

needs fixing.

but we have balloons.

we have

music,

we have celebrities

kissing

across the room.

we have balloons,

filled with the hot air

of platitudes.

look at the thousands

of them

floating to the floor,

red white

and blue.

it's a silly world at times.

a clown

show

of insufferable

buffoons.

the farmer's almanac

we know

a lot more about the weather

than

we used to.

we're way past

the leg out the door,

the feeling in our bones,

the open

window

and looking off into the distance

for a storm.

our nose

in the air smelling

rain

in the ozone.

we're all

meteorologists

now

with our doppler radar,

our maps

and 

software,

our el Ninos

and long distant forecasts

predicated

on what's come before.

we have

data now.

graphs of trends.

we have temperatures

and barometric

pressures,

we have it seven days a week,

hourly,

by the minute.

and still it's all just talk,

there's nothing that can be

done about it

just as before.

why even try to make things right

give me

quirky,

the unhinged,

give me strange and different.

someone

bent

left and right

at the same

time.

someone who would pose

for a portrait

by Dali.

give

me the basement tapes,

the grainy

film,

the dim light.

the conspiracy theory.

splatters

of paint on the canvas

saying nothing.

just blood and bone.

give me

the abstract and stream

of consciousness.

give

me the wet dream,

the long

night.

the air brushed blonde

with a staple

in her navel.

why even try to make

life right?

the growing crowd

there used

to be one man, or maybe

two.

either or both

with one

leg,

or an arm

missing,

crossed eyed 

and thin

walking the streets

of town,

in used clothes,

but often with

new shoes.

people are very generous

around here

to the ill

of mind.

they have things

to say.

these men, some women.

and they say it loudly

and with

vigor

to their invisible

companions.

veterans of war,

domestic

and abroad,

they are fed, they have

shelter.

they are always around.

it used to be

one or

two, like ghosts,

everywhere and nowhere

at once,

but now it's a growing

crowd.

shedding skins

everyday

we're new. we're born

again.

we shed our skins,

shake

off the dust

and grime

of yesterday,

cleanse

ourselves

from

the endless ravages

of sin.

we put our boots

on.

we go on with our

lives.

with or without love,

we find

daylight,

we find joy, we find

ourselves

in surrender

to a higher power,

to the kindness and compassion

of the Lord

above.

eight miles high

she makes

a spread sheet of my prescriptions.

a grid

with times

and

amounts,

all staggered accordingly

to the doctor's

order.

take this,

sip this,

once in the morning,

once at night,

twice

daily.

they're all in a row

on the round

table in

the dining room.

the paperwork,

the boxes,

the small brown jars

of jagged

little pills,

some white, some blue,

some

shaped like

spacecraft over Nevada.

i'll be

eight miles up in the sky

before noon

on an

a hallucinating binge,

flying

high with a smile on my

face in the medicinal

wind.

the coupon through the door

do i need

a dozen donuts? no.

but i have

this coupon that was

slipped

through

the door this morning.

a dozen

plus one,

and a bear claw to boot.

i see they

have bagels

too

with a schmeer of cream

cheese.

hot coffee and a wedding

cake

to go.

but i'm not that

hungry

anymore.

maybe later this year

after shoveling

the drive in winter

after a long

hard snow.

let's keep it that way

you don't know me,

she says

in a rage.

her eyes red

from crying.

her whole-body trembling

with victim hood.

you don't really know who i am,

or the hell

i've been

through.

you have no idea of the ordeals

i've had to deal with,

do you?

you're oblivious to

my struggles,

the weight i carry on my

back

every day.

you have no clue, do you, 

about who i really am, she says

wagging her finger

in my face.

nope i tell her.

and let's keep

it that way.

the infinitely small clasp

it's an intimate

thing, but

almost an impossible

task

for a woman to ask

you

to unsnap or snap

up

her dress,

or dainty

thing with your large

manly fingers.

zipper

me up, she might say,

or please

get the last

button

at the top,

near my neck.

but it's

so small, the clasp,

lost in

your big hands,

the tiniest of things,

and yet.

you try your best,

because

after all

you're a man and she

trusts

you with this.

it could mean everything.

getting back in the game

i think

i can drive today, i tell myself,

looking

in the mirror

at my swollen

face

and head.

letting

the walls hold me up.

today is the day i get

back behind

the wheel

and go somewhere,

buy

more things i don't need.

in a few

hours

when the remaining haze

of anesthesia wears off,

i'll be back in the game,

i'll be back

out there

getting things

done.

but for now

i just need a short nap

and maybe

an ice pack

on my nose.

the paper and coffee

the cool

air

surprises you as you step

outside

the door, down

the steps

in your

boxer shorts

to retrieve the paper

at the end

of the driveway.

the daily

news,

already

six hours old.

a thin

baton

thrown from a passing

car.

but you like the paper,

the feel

of it in

your hands

as you drink your first

cup of joe.

the ink smudge,

the bold headline,

the minutiae

inside

telling you again what

you already know.

lemmings in Chicago

it's a pep

rally,

a feel-good bonfire

of emotions.

a cult

of one clapping like

seals,

or lemmings

going over the cliff

in droves.

bearded boys

in football jerseys,

there's laughter

and tears

of joy.

rah rah rah.

where are the cheerleaders?

where

are the pom pom

girls,

the cow bells,

the horns

and drums.

there's a lot of hot

air

in the room,

a lot of jumping

around,

but never a single

word

about how,

or a definitive plan

to get

false promises done.

a different education

how could they know

where

we were, what we were doing

some days?

they

were dumb

and busy

with their own lives,

our parents.

how could they know

we were walking

on the ice

at the river,

or exploring abandoned

houses,

killing snakes

or carving our names

into trees

with dull pen knives.

we were

taking

the bus downtown to play

pin ball

machines

and wander the streets,

eating

eggs in diners.

how could

they know the extent of

our skipping

school

and creating a different

education

for ourselves?

far from home

all financed by

the spare change we

found

in our father's drawer.

and at the end of the long

day,

at last home,

sitting at the table for

dinner,

with smiles

on our faces,

but exhausted

they'd ask how was your

day, how was school today?

and we'd answer

just great, just great, thank

you for asking.

norman rockwell upside down cake

at thanksgiving,

around

the table you can sort of see how

the world

has changed

since you were young.

little Jimmy

is now Betty Sue

who goes by them or they,

or kitty cat.

sometimes she

meows

when she wants something,

or her

head scratched.

Frank, 

the artist,

with a spoon

for an earring,

is wearing

the mask of a vulture,

and aunt

Joan

is covered in tattoos

representing

all the state parks

she's visited

in her Winnebago with her

friends

from Yoga camp.

the twins

have glued themselves

together

in protest

for the mistreatment

of rats

in labs testing mascara.

everyone has a podcast

or a YouTube

channel now,

giving up the mainstream

lifestyle

of the old and grey.

it's still

fun though with the turkey,

the mashed

potatoes

and greens

all constructed from

soy and carob.

we hold hands and sing.

it's the best of all holidays,

i do believe.

the fat juicy peach

i see

the woman in the long

coat

stuffing

cans

of cat food into her deep

pockets.

an octogenarian

thief.

she smiles and winks.

for my cat

she says.

i help her with last

can

on the shelf,

high above her reach.

one

more i tell her,

then hand

her from my basket

a fat

juicy peach.

here, i tell her,

no one is looking,

go ahead and eat.

lingering in the twilight zone

when the anesthesia

wears

off,

i'll be back in touch, okay?

i'll

make things

right.

i'll apologize

for what i said the other

night.

i'll even

open the door when

your arrive

with your

tuna casserole,

and mincemeat pie.

just give me time,

some

room to clear my head

and get back

to normal,

my normal, just a mere

foot outside

the twilight zone.

me and the rabbits

the yard

is big enough for tomatoes,

beans

perhaps,

some sort of

healthy

sprouts.

maybe leaf lettuce

in a row,

a grape vine

for the fall.

carrots?

but who would it all

be for.

just me,

and the rabbits?

today tonight

i cup

my good

ear to the whisper,

i lean

in

to listen.

wisdom would be nice,

a small

tea cup

full of wise words.

words 

of love

and hope, words

that don't

divide.

spare me the harsh

world

today,

tonight.

a world of strays

the world

is full of stray animals.

on any

give day

there goes a cat,

or dog

across the highway.

deer

out of the woods,

squirrels

trying to decide which

way to run,

birds on the wire,

mice

in the cellar.

and people

too.

lost and confused.

wandering

the streets.

where to put them,

what to do?

the democratic confection

i try

to watch, 

the sugary sweet convention,

the big fluffy pastry

of wokeness.

i try to be a good citizen

and listen

to both

sides of the story

with my ear to the tv 

to find out what

the policies are.

what the answers are to turn

this ship

around.

crickets. just crickets.

i try hard to

settle my mind.

i sit through a few woke speeches

of the grinning has beens

chanting

that the world is fine.

we need four more years of this

cheap sour wine.

i watch with dismay

at the protests

outside.

democrats for terrorists.

part of me

is filled with disgust,

the other

is filled with sympathy

for the dying.

it's a circle of gibberish,

get an abortion

in a truck,

get a vasectomy next to

hot dog stand.

wear a dress,

wear a hat, wear a mask.

this is the our new and 

demented land.

no answers. just platitudes

and songs, grown men

wearing thongs.

now strike up the band,

let's get this party on

we can make America

worse again.

when the narcissists return

like vampires,

the narcissists rise from their

dirt beds

and come back.

they feign

forgiveness

and remorse, regret,

but they only want

to take your

soul, your blood

by biting into the veins

of your neck.

you hear their

wings at night, fluttering

in the dark,

clapping black

against the full moon,

the grinding of

their sharp teeth and claws

as they try

to fly their way back

into your life,

entering the window

of your room.

it's the wrong number again

it's the wrong number

again,

they've been calling all night.

someone

wants to talk to Sylvia.

i tell them she's busy.

she's putting a cake in

the oven,

she's putting the kids to bed.

she's making

a good home here

for the both of us.

they insist that i put her

on the line.

it's urgent they say.

they ask who i am.

what my relationship

is to Sylvia.

i tell them that she's the love

of my life.

the mother of my children,

my wife.

please, they beg, put her

on the phone.

it's important very very

important.

okay, okay, i tell them,

finally giving in. 

so i call out her name

into the empty house,

down the corridors, into

the darkened rooms,

i call out her name,

Oh Sylvia, Sylivia,

it's for you, but there's

no answer.

eventually they'll hang up.

finding Blue Stone road

the young

people, new in the neighborhood

want the road,

the cut through

to the highway

to the outside world.

they have

new babies,

new cars and homes,

new

marriages.

the cut through would

save minutes,

at least.

but the old folks,

don't want Blue Stone.

Blue

Stone would ruin everything,

they claim.

the trees,

the stream,

where will the deer

and fox go?

where will our grandchildren

play.

the world

is always this way.

given time, things will

change.

the shade tree

the tree,

the lone tree in the small yard

appears

to have given up.

the leaves

have fallen early in pale

colors.

the branches

are grey as the once

thick trunk

bends

towards earth,

a slow bow of surrender,

perhaps.

yes.

the good old tree, the shade

tree

i've watered and

watched

for years,

is giving way for what's next.

who to call just in case

in his

shirt pocket they find his list.

the last

list he wrote.

there are groceries

on it.

milk, bread, etc.

the necessities of life.

and then

there are instructions

as to where

the will is,

which

key fits which lock,

the code to the safe,

details

of insurance

and bank accounts

and lastly

who to call just in case.

in and out of the other side

the dream

is no different than the other

side.

the emotions,

the joy

and fears are all there.

in color,

in black and white.

there are words said,

there

are people you know,

some you

don't know.

it's a journey

into a strange night world

when you close

your weary

eyes

and float.

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.