the endless mind numbing nonanswers

the moderators

ask

the candidate, so, what

will you do,

to bring down inflation

if you are elected to be President?

you have

two minutes.

and away she goes.

as we all know,

when i was a little girl,

we had

nothing,

we were poor, we lived

in a town

where people liked

to work on their lawns.

you know,

cutting the grass, weeding,

trimming

the hedges, if you

had them.

which we didn't, because

as i said we were poor.

we had one tree in our yard

that we used

to climb.

i have wonderful memories

of climbing that tree.

but

we did what we could

to make

ends meet. sometimes bringing

our own lunch

to school.

my sister and i had bunk beds,

can you believe that?

and by the way,

i'm all for small

businesses,

giving them the opportunity

to grow. i want to help

them grow

by giving them money.

i've never had a real job,

or run a business, but

i think we should crank up

the printing presses

at the Treasury Department

all day

and all night,

until everyone has enough money.

work is hard

after all

and some people have

to do it all their lives.

did you know i once worked at

Mcdonald's, i think i did, at least.

but

as we all know. we need

to give people more money.

okay? okay?

umm, the question was what will

you do to bring down inflation,

but okay, your time is up now.

however,

we have another question you for you.

if you were a tree,

what kind of tree would you be.

you have ten minutes.

oh my goodness, she says.

i'm so glad you

asked me that.

as you know, when i was a child

and we

were very poor,

we had one tree in our

back yard.

who doesn't love a tree, right?

what bird doesn't like

a tree,

or a dog,

or a squirrel.

the tree gives you shade

in the summer, and sometimes

there's fruit on it,

or berries of some sort.

i love all trees.

and if i'm elected i'm going

to personally

plant more trees on the 

white house lawn.

thank you again for that question,

and by

the way are you coming over

to the house

this weekend for the party?

it's the government

i see the same

man

on the same corner every day.

he's from

the shelter

up the street.

he's young

and red faced from the sun.

he has a sign

that says

God bless.

and nothing else.

he looks fine,

only his wild

hair

and beard

sort of gives him away.

but he's

well dressed and well fed.

i've given

him money before

rolling

down the window

at the light.

a dollar or two,

but sometimes i don't.

once i asked him how long

can he keep doing

this,

year after year,

and he looked me and said,

it's the government.

i drove on.

you do you, i'll do me

we have

rituals. it's human.

we find comfort in the same,

doing

each

day like we did the day

before.

how we rise

from

one side of the bed

or the other.

the clock

saying what it said

yesterday.

we're aware of

how set

we are in our ways,

but don't care.

you do you, i'll do

me, as the cliche goes.

that seems fair.

the fact checkers

they

are the fact checkers,

the bespectacled

nerds

and smarty pants

who

go through the verbiage

of speeches

and debates,

dicing and slicing

at the words

said.

what's true, what's false.

what a fun

job, to tell others

what's right, what's wrong.

they are the true

poets

of our time.

from a very far distance

from

space, the world looks

perfect.

the blue

white globe slowly

spinning

on its axis

in the enormity of 

nothing else.

a jewel,

a miraculous orb

in the sky

of just twinkling

stars

against the black fabric

of time.

it's how i often think

of you.

distance does strange

things

to the mind.

from Russia with love

Dasha tells me

in a postcard,

that all the men have gone

off to war.

only the weak

and lame

are left behind.

the very young,

the wounded scores.

you should visit me,

she says.

i'm right outside of Moscow.

come before winter,

before we're buried

in snow and ice.

we could make love in

my Subaru under

the Russian moonlight.

plum crazy

i stare

at the bin of plums in

the grocery

store,

blue and purple,

and wonder

when was the last time

i bit into a plum

and had the sweet juices

of summer

roll down my chin.

i pick one up,

i study it

in my hand, turning it

around

and around,

then put it back again.

maybe next

year i'll eat a plum.

we'll see.

the fifteen cent raise

the first year i worked

there,

i got a fifteen-cent raise.

i was happy

for it,

plus i got a Christmas

bonus

of twenty dollars,

and a small

ham from the market.

a few

pounds

of wrapped mapled meat

that i carried

home under my arm.

quickly i tallied up 

the increase in my wages,

then drank

too many glasses of wine

in celebration,

or was it

hidden dismay?

next year was a little less,

twelve cents

more per hour.

the recession

was in full swing.

i believe it was the Carter

years.

their precious feelings

i censor

my words, because

i don't

want to offend anyone.

i don't want to hurt

anyone's

precious childlike feelings.

i curb my

disgust

and dismay at the rude

world. at

the dumbness

of the educated,

the elite academia,

that rule.

but this only

last a half a day,

then i'm back at it,

getting

nasty notes

from places 

both near

and far away.

an early Christmas

it's too early

for 
Christmas, but i put a tree up

just the same.

i know

the needles

will fall

off in November, but i have

that covered

with a can of green

spray paint

i purchased at the hardware

store,

and the scented

candles, that have the smell

of pinecones,

and evergreens.

i keep a small fire extinguisher

nearby

as the tree dies,

and dries out

and becomes a fire

hazard.

i put a smoke alarm

at the top

of the tree,

instead of a star.

my dog and cat both look me,

then at one another,

and whisper.

i think he's losing it.

no, scratch that,

i think he's lost.

the greeter at Walmart

they try to tell you

the story

about the microbe that becomes a cell,

that becomes a fish

and then a bird,

and then a monkey,

and then voila,

a human,

standing on two feet,

someone just like the woman

at Walmart,

greeting you as you enter

for your treats.

it's a good story.

an incredible tale, but very

very hard to believe.

Levofloxacin

i peek inside

my doctor's office as he

spins

the drug

wheel nailed to the wall.

he gives it

a hard spin,

as the nurse stands there

with a chart

ready to write down

what drug the wheel lands

on this time.

finally it stops on Levofloxacin,

a drug often

used to treat the bubonic

plague

and other dreadful

illnesses, or to help

recover

from the inhalation of anthrax.

but i have none of that,

regardless,

he prescribes me 21 pills,

for three weeks

straight.

after taking three,

one each day,

i wake up one morning

and i can't walk.

fifty years of playing every sport

and never

getting injured

seriously, and now with a few

swallowed pills,  i can't walk.

my legs are swollen

and it feels like my tendons

are about to rupture.

i crawl to the bathroom

to vomit

in the toilet.

i'm dazed and confused, more

so than i ever

was in the 1970's.

if i make one wrong move

i may fall and crack

my head open

on the cold tile floor.

i call him up, and mumble,

yo, dude?

he says oops, my bad, let's

try something else.

i hear the wheel

spin, and the nurse say,

can i spin it one time too?

doing time in the big house

he tells me about

the time

he spent in the big house.

scratching

numbers

onto the wall, as the dark

days

crept by.

he tells me about sadness

and depression,

regret

and guilt,

the lines of bars on the wall.

he tells me

how alone

he felt all those years,

sleeping

on the small bed,

the cot,

staying up all night, making

wishes on the stars.

full of suspicion

and fear.

it was a hard

life he tells me.

but i'm never going back,

i'll never get

married again, the words

i do,

are words

you'll never hear.

the gold service program

they offer

the gold standard service,

with it

you get a massage

as you wait,

a glass of wine,

while a three piece

band plays soft music

on a small stage.

there's an all you can

eat buffet

and a beautiful

woman in a silk

gown with long legs,

who

peels you grapes.

then

the silver service,

which offers a massage

chair that vibrates,

and sodas, chips

and dip, a garden salad

with a citrus dressing,

and a remote for the tv

in the corner.

then the bronze service,

the bronze,

gives you a People magazine

from last year,

and a cup

of coffee,

and a chair with a window

view of the parking lot.

the last

one is the tin service

program.

the cheapest of them all,

so i oft for that.

so now,

i'm eating my bag lunch 

brought

from home,

while i stand

in line in the pouring rain,

outside the door,

over a steam grate.

select your victim and send a check

the world

has shrunken to a point

like

never before.

we know

about the child in India,

the wars,

the dogs

in Singapore,

the homeless in

Seattle,

the victims from

each flood,

each tornado. we know

their faces,

their names.

the wrongly incarcerated,

the children,

the babies.

unborn or born.

we're inundated

with the victims that

multiply

with each new biased

report.

and what are we to do 

about it?

very little, but

we feel bad

about doing nothing,

about

shaking our heads

at a world gone wrong.

we're all

guilty as charged, i suppose.

maybe this little offering

in a check,

will help

assuage our guilt

and help us move on.

but doubtful.

getting ready for Milagro

at last,

the house cleaners

have arrived.

i've done

my best to tidy up before them.

taking

lingerie

off the chandelier,

high heels

off the counter,

setting wine bottles

in the trash.

i've shoved all my

secrets into a box

and pushed it under

the bed.

i leave a check

on the counter, and a note

written

in Spanish

telling Milagro to leave

the keys

inside when she's done,

don't put them under

the mat.

sweet minutes

joy

doesn't have to be large.

it can

be small.

it can be this moment

of peace.

sitting

quietly in the yard

saying nothing.

listening.

birds

seem to understand

this

better than we do.

love is all you need, sort of

love is all you need,

she says to me,

spinning

around 

with her hippie dress

and headband

on.

well, yes,

i tell her,

getting dizzy looking

at her spin

across the room,

but having a job is important

too,

and a car,

and food,

and shelter.

pants and shoes.

maybe a toothbrush

and a bar

of soap

plus starting that retirement

savings

program early in

life

at Morgain 
Stanely is important

too.

finding a bush behind the building is easier

bathrooms

are suddenly confusing now

when I'm

out and about

and really have to go.

is that a drawing

of a boy

in a dress or a girl

on the door

with no breasts.

short hair,

no pig tails to give me a clue.

and this one

over there,

are they humans

without genitals?

aliens

from another planet

born

smooth.

i knock gently

and ask,

is anyone in there?

miss, sir, them, they, non-binary

circus person?

it's strange now trying

to figure out

which one

to go into to relieve

myself. and

why are all the seats down?

shape shifters

they are shape shifters.

they

change in the blink of an eye.

their voices,

their beliefs,

it's all smoke and mirrors.

truths are now lies.

forget what they've preached

their entire life.

it's all about the vote

winning you over

to pull the lever

for their side,

it's about power,

about ego.

it's not about me or you,

not ever.

maybe i'll bring Louise

we are

old men at the round table.

shuffling the deck

and tossing small

change into the middle.

we go late into

the night.

no one smokes anymore,

or hardly

drinks.

each beer can has the word lite

written on it.

we have special

dietary needs,

and avoid

the spicy things set out.

Tums are passed

around

the table,

as the pizza arrives.

it's late

nearly ten o'clock with

yawns becoming contagious.

no one wins

the pot, but we agree to

meet again, same

time next week for cards.

maybe

i'll bring Louise.

almost beyond saving

we walk

out into the shallow water.

gingerly

stepping

on the hard

sand.

sinking into the rubble

of eons.

letting the waves

caress

our legs, our waist.

the next wave

into our chins.

we keep going.

we see the sun out there,

we can almost

touch it.

that sinking

orb

of gold.

we keep going until

we're almost

under,

almost beyond saving,

and at last

we hear the whistle blow.

look back

you

have to look back.

you

have to remember

the mistakes

you've made.

you have to rub the scars

on your skin,

your heart,

your arms,

your legs. don't let the past

die.

remember it well.

you'll need it

to survive.

celebrity soap boxes

unless

they are stinking rich,

most celebrities,

actors and singers,

are quiet

on politics. only

the wealthy ones

brave

the possibility of losing

fans

and money.

and those who are

you can't shut up

with their

nursey rhyme

songs,

and rants.

no news is good news

no word

from afar, no postcard

in the mail.

no letter,

or call.

is it still true that

no news

is good news?

i hope so as i turn

the tv

off.

lots of screaming too

the rollercoaster

was the perfect

metaphor

for our relationship.

lots of fast moving

curves and hills,

steep highs

and placid lows.

we strapped ourselves

into the rattling car

on rails

and hung on.

fear and joy

were part of it 

as well,

lots of screaming too.

not always friendly

nearly

everyday i get several new

friend suggestions

on Facebook.

men and women,

young and old.

i go and look them,

their faces,

i try to figure out

who they are.

why would i friend them?

why would

they want to be my

friend?

i'm not always as friendly

as i appear to be.

i ask this to my dog,

who sits

beside me with his

leash in his mouth,

waiting for his walk.

he agrees.

he understands.

i can't walk, my leg is asleep

you've been sitting in

the same

position

for hours, waiting

your turn.

your right leg is folded

over your

left leg.

you doze off,

you wake up and read

a little,

you crane your neck around

to see who's coming,

who's gone.

it's only you now.

soon it will be your turn.

you stretch out

your legs

and shake them,

one has fallen asleep.

it's become a

tingling heavy log.

then they

call you.

debate results

i hear her in the bathroom,

kneeling

over the toilet,

holding her

hair back.

the retching is awful,

i tap on the door

and ask her if she's okay.

no, she says.

no.

promise me you won't let

me watch

the next debate if there is one.

your next set of dreams

you know these streets,

they

still provide

a roadmap

for your dreams, it's where

you walked

where you ran

and wove

your bicycle on

summer days.

it's the corner where you

waited for the 

school bus.

it's the yard where you

and brothers,

your sisters

all played.

going back though is

not the same.

everything being smaller

and less

important, it's always

that way.

you make a note of that

for your next

set of dreams.

your best friend

your best

friend dies, so does your

second best friend,

three

childhood friends

pass on,

and then

it's Lynnie,

and Debbie.

Mary K. in Miami.

Edwina in

Great Falls.

your mother tops the list.

you look

at your phone

and see their faces,

their numbers.

the glow

of them is still there.

you wish that all of them

could be reached.

you wish

that all them were fine.

protected species

i read

about the man in prison

for breaking

a few

Eagle eggs, nestled

in a tree

close

to the pro choice

clinic.

he pleads guilty,

but says,

they weren't quite

born yet.

they weren't Eagles,

but the judge

slams down

his gavel and says,

that may

be true,

but if you had left

them alone,

they were going

to be.

in the early morning rain

you wake

up in a strange room,

with a stranger

you've known for only hours.

it's raining.

of course it is.

the room smells

like smoke and beer.

it's 1979.

you sit up

and look at her, she's sleeping.

you find

your clothes,

change falls out of your

pocket, buttons are missing

from your shirt, but

you don't care.

you find your car keys.

you want to say goodbye,

farewell,

but you can't remember 

her name.

then she awakens,

and rubs her eyes and asks

you

if you're leaving.

will i see you again?

you tell her of course,

of course i will.

you go to the window

to see if your

car is somewhere

out there,

then you ask her,

what's the best way to get

back to the beltway

from here?

the subtle strings of violins

early

in life, with your parents

and childhood friends,

they blow

trumpets

at your arrival,

there is joy

in the room

as you come in,

confetti

falls from the ceiling,

but towards the end, there's

and less

trumpet blowing

and applause,

and more

like the subtle strings

of violins.

his wife's soup and sandwich

for years

on the job, he brought

to work a sandwich

and the soup

that his wife

made for him

the night before.

she kissed him at the door

and waved

as he went off, traveling

down route 50

from Front Royal.

and then one

day,

he forgot it.

forgot the bag

with his name on it.

he left the thermos at home

on the counter.

he looked pained

and distressed,

but we found

a deli nearby

to get him his tomato

soup,

and egg salad sandwich.

he never

forgot his lunch again,

for it just wasn't the same.

the great debate

the great debate

fizzled

into the late-night hour.

well

at least for me,

but i stuck

with it to see if the moderators

would actually

ask

a single fair question

to the 

VP.

why so many

changes

so close to the election?

why not

do all the promises

you make now?

four years,

you've had all the power,

all the tools,

and now you want to bake

a cake? but

she did well, memorizing

her platitudes,

her practiced stare downs,

her condescending facial

expressions

in getting under his skin.

around and around

and around.

no minds were changed.

will the undecided

be fooled

again?

let's go home now

you see it

in their eyes, young couples,

old couples.

how close

they are,

how their desire

for each other is as

obvious as the moon

in the sky.

you can see

and feel the energy

of their love,

the sexual

tension,

and how quickly they

want to be done

with this dating

foreplay

and rush home.

painting without numbers

she found

solace in painting.

not joy,

or happiness, not even

contentment,

but a sort

of quiet resignation,

that

the world in her hand,

by brush

and oils

still can't be made

sense of.

and yet 

the canvases continued

to fill

her room.

we need more fun

as i try to scrape

paint

and caulk off my

hands and face,

i over

hear the women at the round

table

outside

at the coffee shop

at lunch.

it's mostly

talk

about alimony

and child support.

day care,

and spas.

getting their nails done.

their hair,

should we go more blonde?

they may be going

to a spin class 

later after

yoga,

and a cake class at

the community center.

don't forget

the book club

is tonight,

and it's your birthday

month,

so let's do something fun

together.

we need more

fun.

they show you early

if you have

to tell

a child

to behave

at an early age,

over and over

again,

it's already

too late.

the indigo waves

it's a strange

brew,

this dream,

surrounded

by floating

bodies,

not dead, but wordless.

this

black water swirl

of faces

and nameless

names.

but not sinking.

not

struggling,

just riding the indigo

waves

until morning.

here today, gone tomorrow

it's a rental

world.

you think own the house,

the car,

the clothes

you wear,

think again.

it's all gone in the end.

the life you lead,

that briefcase

you swing from your arm,

the food

you eat,

the drinks,

that trip to the beach

in a rental

car.

it's all an ephemeral

state of being.

here today,

gone tomorrow.

take the last pill first

here

take these pills.

you'll feel

better.

three times a day,

you may

get cramps,

and gastronomical issues,

and sweating,

and blurred

vision,

but no longer will

your leg hurt.

and then take some

of these

to help counteract

the side effects of

the other pills.

three per day,

with a full meal,

but not with alcohol

or coffee.

if you start to faint,

or if blood

starts pouring out

of your nose

and ears.

take this last pill.

the big red one.

it's the last one you'll

ever need

to take.

i can't wait to get home

i haven't left the house,

but already

i can't wait to get home.

it's not even

eight a.m.,

and i don't even have

my shoes on

but

i can't wait to take them

off.

soon i tell my feet,

soon.

last minute debate instructions

we hear

them in the back room 

frantically giving

last minute

instructions

before the debate.

remember don't do that laugh

thing that you

do.

that weird cackle,

where your eyes

roll up into your head,

and don't point or 

wag your finger

like a school marm,

or go off on

tangents

about coconuts, or

yellow school buses,

or unburdening

what has

been burdened.

focus.

don't be soft, but don't be

mean either.

flip flop all you want,

don't worry,

people are basically pretty

dumb

and have poor

memories. it's not about

the issues

anyway, it's all about image.

here, let me wipe that

tabasco sauce

off your chin.

come on. you can do this.

straighten up

your pant suit,

down one more glass of wine,

and get out there.

we're in it to win.

petitionary prayer

we all pray.

even if we don't acknowledge

a higher

power.

we pray

at the foot of the goalposts,

for the score

of a

meaningless game.

we pray for

rain,

we pray that the votes

are counted

and that the tally goes our way.

we pray

for crops in the field

to rise and feed us,

we pray we're

wrong,

we pray we're right.

we pray 

at the foot of our bed,

like we learned

as children,

in the darkness of night.

the left hand

the left hand

is not

as good as the right hand,

despite

being attached to the same

body and brain.

it can't throw

a ball as far

or write legibly,

even my own name.

it's a child.

an infant, a poor

back up

when the right hand

goes lame.

but i still love it just

the same.

my doctor without words

my doctor

won't speak to me.

i fear

he's on the spectrum,

smart

and dumb

both at the same time.

words

are hard

to come by despite

being

skilled

with a scalpel,

the diploma

on the wall.

the clean white coat

and blue

gloves.

he can't put information

into words,

the things

you need to hear,

so he

stays mute,

and let's you guess,

let's you

twist in the wind,

he let's you

squirm.

trying to get clean

i scrub

and scrub my hands, 

wringing

them together

under the hot water.

i use

soap and a brush to try

and get

them clean,

pressing hard,

but the dirt and grease

won't budge.

my life,

my sins

are imbedded in the creases

of my skin.

the woman across the street

i see a woman

standing

across the street, staring

at my house.

her hands

are in her coat pockets

as the rain

pours down.

i dim

the lights

and duck down, peering

through

the slats

of my blinds.

she's no one that i know.

no one

from my current

or past life.

maybe she's from the future.

come early

with her

blight.

racoons in the night

like

racoons, the thieves

come out

at night to try doors,

to break

into cars

and rummage through

sheds.

you can see them carrying

things away.

they have

gloves

and hoodies on.

the doorbell ring

cameras

mean nothing to them.

tomorrow

their pictures,

blurred and dark will

be posted

on the neighborhood

watch

but the beat will go

on as

the cops stop by

to shrug

and wish you luck.

employee of the month October

she was

employee of the month,

for the month

of October,

last year.  her picture

was on

the wall. framed

above the counter

so that all could see it.

there was a cheerful

smile

on her face, holding

up her

paper reward.

first month

on the job.

she handed me the key to my

room,

and told

me about the continental breakfast

in the morning.

down

the hall.

she was still pleasant

still

in her uniform,

but it had been a long year.

enough

with the other room

is noisy,

we need more towels,

someone

is smoking, could we change

rooms?

she wouldn't

last

very long.

on the next trip the picture

and her

would both

be gone.

spy versus spy

we do it,

they do it, the whole

world does it,

this

game of espionage.

spy versus spy.

but when

we catch them

with their

hands in our cookie

jar

we throw up our

arms

and say oh my God,

look at how

horrible

these people are.

rinse and repeat

it's not

a laundry mat especially,

or dry cleaners,

or a car

wash,

or public shower

at the beach.

but it'll have to do

for now

in cleaning us of our

sins.

this high mass.

the communion

and homily.

confession

is good

for the soul, 

as is penance.

making us fresh

and ready to go

when it's all over,

pressed and clean,

ready

for another whole week.

six days and seven nights

we take a cruise

to a warmer

climate,

where the water

is clear,

where the sun is up

and the palm

trees

sway in the gentle

wind.

we eat

steaks

and lobsters around

the clock,

we drink.

and sun ourselves

on the veranda of our

cabin.

we're wearing our

monogramed

robes,

and sandals,

we're drinking 

champagne.

we look at each other

and toast the view

blue water,

and ask each other

when we're going to do

this again.

don't believe what you see

are we

worried and concerned?

should we

be?

or is it all fake news,

all

a distorted

spew

of words

from the left,

from the right.

one set of numbers

says this,

the other set

of numbers

says that.

is crime up, or down.

is

inflation low

or high.

is the border closed,

are taxes

on the rise.

who the hell knows

anymore?

i can only see what i see

with my

own

naked eyes.

the most brilliant campaign ever

it's brilliant

this strategy of staying hidden.

of not

speaking. 

of not letting

the voters

know who

she is.

never taking a question,

or answering

a query.

hiding beyond a mask

of false

joy and

hope.

waiting it out, hoping

no one

ever knows

who she really is

before the clock runs out.

it's brilliant

this game she's playing.

asleep while awake

i understand

the pill

poppers, the dope

smokers,

the tapping of a fat

vein

to send

the elixir in. i get it.

i understand

the pain

we're all in. real

or imagined.

whether

food, or drug,

or drink,

it's hard to say no

to bliss.

but we have to if

we want

to live.

your own special hole in the ground

she's not

a very

deep well, this hole i've

dug

into the ground

with my

spade

and shovel.

but it's my hole, my

source

of darkness,

not yours.

go dig your own.

what you don't know

so much

transpires without you

knowing.

sleep

will erase all of that

by morning.

what

happens

on the street with the moon

up,

and the sun

down

is not your concern,

or worry.

you need some rest

from

this world,

after all.

leaking oil

what are

we

if not machines

leaking

oil?

with frayed

wires,

rusty

hinges and broken

bones.

our eyes opening

each

morning

to what?

our hearts beating

without

being told.

what are we

but

flesh

and blood, always

wondering if there

is a soul.

a thousand and one cold calls

businessmen,

salesmen

and women, they learn early

how

to harden

themselves

to the slamming of doors,

and phones

as they present their

goods

and wares.

it doesn't bother

them

a bit.

over time they've learned

that in a thousand

calls,

one,

maybe one

will eventually

let them in, and fold.

enjoy your life

i slowed

my pace and edged off the path

to make

room

for the old man

in a wheel

chair

pushed by a woman

from the nursing

home staff

up on the hill to where

i ran.

he tipped his hat at me

and said,

enjoy your life young man,

enjoy

your life.

it goes fast.

i still hear his words,

twenty years later

as i now

walk

the same path, going

in the same

direction

as he did. downhill,

it's all

downhill from here.

trying to awaken the muse

i tempt

her with charm. i set a drink

out for her.

i bring food

to the table.

i lower the lights,

i make

the room brighter,

i offer

a different chair. i pull the chair

i'm on

closer to the desk,

i tap my pen

against my head, then

open the window.

i let a cool breeze come in.

i rub the stubble

on my chin.

i show her the veins

in my arm,

i flex

the muscle in my calf.

i offer

remorse, regret,

i confess my sins.

i do penance, but still nothing.

what have

i done wrong

to have her ignore me

like this?

patience

it's been two

years

since i last saw Emily.

i bring her

a breakfast

bun

and coffee, so that we

can sit out

back and chat.

i see on her dining room

table

is the puzzle i got

her for Christmas,

five years ago.

the one with boats

on the Chesapeake Bay.

she's making

progress.

a few waves are in place,

part of a boat,

and the clouds

of the same blue

color as the water

are starting

to fill up.

i found a piece that fit

just yesterday,

she tells me.

it was a very good day.

i can't wait to finish this

one and start

the one

showing the Andromeda

Galaxy.

it's a lovely day for a protest

i see my neighbors

loading

up the car.

they have signs and spray

paint,

bolt cutters,

and smoke bombs.

i wave to them.

hey.

what's up.

oh nothing, it's so nice

out we're heading

down to the white house

to protest

today.

oh, really what for?

umm.

she asks her husband,

as he carries out

what looks like a pup tent.

honey, what are

we protesting for today?

umm, he says.

i'm not sure.

but we're ready.

you're welcome to come

with us,

we have plenty of masks

and those

checkerboard

scarves to wear.

we just love this time of

year,

the falling leaves,

the cool crispness and

everything.

we're stopping at the coffee

shop

for pumpkin lattes.

come on.

come with us.

umm. i would, but i have

stuff to do.

this is the day i normally

iron my socks.

the big clothing store

with my fist full

of coupons,

and pretend dollars,

i go into the big

store with cheap clothes,

made

by

child labor in countries

far away

where we don't

have

to think about them

and their

hard young

lives.

i know what's going on,

but i buy

there anyway.

i think of small hands,

sewing

on buttons, bent

over machines,

processing polyester

shirts

and sheets.

the cobblers of school

age

with glue guns,

putting together

winter boots.

everything falling apart

and faded,

or shrunk,

with one

wash or two.

taking her flag down

sleeping

with enemy was not my initial

plan.

to lie

beside her,

a foot away,

but there you are,

and now

that she's in your house,

that has become

occupied land,

you have

to begin

the process of fighting.

a slow,

long war

in the trenches.

bullets will be used

hand

to hand

combat will ensue.

you may have to go

medieval

at times.

but you have no other

choice

but to save your life.

her flag

must come down.

eating poetry

for breakfast

i eat

two poems from Sylvia

Plath,

then top it

off with a couple of rough

ones from

Charles Bukowski.

for lunch,

it's Mark Strand.

a little odd, a little

abstract,

with a side order

of Kerouac.

for dinner i'm planning

on a full

meal of

Philip Larkin,

Charles Simic and David

Ignatow,

with a sweet

dessert 

by Elizabeth Bishop.

midnight snack

has yet to be decided.

not my first rodeo

i never say,

it's not my first rodeo.

i don't know the first thing

about a rodeo,

or how to lasso a cow.

riding a bull?

are you kidding me?

i've never been on a horse,

a donkey yes,

crawling

up to Santorini, but not

a real horse

like Trigger,

or Mr. Ed, or Secretariat.

horses scare me.

with those iron

shoes on their feet, their

big brown questioning

eyes.

have you ever seen the size

of their teeth?

they could bite

your arm off in two seconds.

and they could go wild at any

moment. kicking

you into the next county.

my friend Laurie who loves

horses has more broken

bones in her body than

a cage fighter.

her riding helmet

has dents in it.

pumpkin spice latte

i see

the politician in back

of the coffee shop, he has a hat

on.

sunglasses,

a raincoat with the collar

pulled up.

i know it's him though.

he's sipping

on a pumpkin latte, talking

to himself

and nibbling on a slice

of pumpkin spice cake.

he nervously taps his foot

on the floor.

he's going over

a spread sheet of talking

points,

nodding, and scratching

things out.

adding things in.

circling.

only three more months

of this,

he tells the barista,

then holds his cup up.

hit me again.

the electrical socket

we do

what our parents tell us to do,

or what

not to do.

it's out of love,

and them

not wanting to be inconvenienced

by our early stupidity.

stand,

rise, eat, sleep, we're

mere dolls

in their hands

until the thinking

begins.

then we're out

of control.

why not

put that pair of scissors

in wall

hole.

that's just a start

of a further education.

windy times

the wind

is a disorganized thing.

it reminds

me of myself at times.

blowing

things

around,

paper, and trash,

the lids

of cans,

the umbrella

from the ground.

it pushes us

to and fro, with no care

where anything goes,

and it never

puts anything

back.

the history of scars

she lifted

the hem of her skirt to show

me the scar

on her leg,

a bite

of some sort,

an old wound healed.

then her arm,

where

she was cut with glass,

then

the quarter moon

on her

cheek

from a childhood fall.

it's your turn now,

she said.

but i smiled and said,

no, i don't think so.

it's way too

early for that.

to know the difference

fear

will make you hear

the beat

of your heart

in the cave

of you.

the pounding

drum.

love

will do the same,

sometimes it's hard

to know

the difference.

rusty water from the bathroom spigot

i turn

the water on in the bathroom.

it's brown.

rusty,

it's a disturbing

blood coffee

color pouring out

of the spigot.

i let it run for a while.

nothing changes.

it doesn't clear up.

i turn it off

and ponder my life.

the world.

suddenly

everything gone wrong

feels

connected somehow,

i can even

tie in with the ex-wife.

smuggling Bibles

my brother,

the minister used to smuggle

Bibles

into China

back in the 90's.

but then he'd say

don't tell anyone we're

doing this.

i'd say okay,

and then

tell everyone anyway,

proud

of his fearless faith.

we hope

to get him out of prison

soon.

you have to thank a union member

she repeats

the phrase over and over in an accent

that she

uses when

talking to a particular

crowd

of people.

you have to thank a union

member

she says,

repeatedly in this new

voice.

a preacher,

she's suddenly Jesse Jackson,

Obama,

Rosa Parks,

and Martin Luther King

all wrapped

into one.

but in the next town

she'll

say it differently,

she'll calm

herself down for this

different crowd.

she'll sound

just like George Washington.

but it's politics

after all,

and you do what you can

to get the votes.

between nine and ten in the morning

i find the hours

between

nine and ten in the morning

the best

hours

to sit out back

with the paper or book,

and coffee.

it's when the sun has swung

up and away

from the trees,

and hasn't been shaded

yet by the houses.

it's a narrow,

short alley of warm sunshine

on my face.

and as i sit here, bathing

in the glow,

i think of my father

and how he too loved

the sunlight.

resisting change

as the trees empty

from

the cold rain,

and wind.

i see a few leaves hanging

on for dear

life.

burnt orange,

browned,

yellow,

all of them absent

of green.

but sticking with it,

resisting

the end of life,

resisting change.

good morning, sleep well?

we used to talk a lot.

about

everything and nothing.

we used to wile

away the hours in deep

conversation.

it was beyond

just pillow talk.

religion, politics, books and art.

nothing was off

the table,

nothing was out of bounds.

but now

when we pass each other

in the hall

some days,

it's hard to even

say good morning,

sleep well?

leaving without pants

i don't know

why

exactly, but i'm in a hurry

today.

i'm rushing around,

brushing my

teeth,

a towel

around my waist,

just out

of the shower.

i check my watch,

the clock

on the wall.

the coffee is on.

the dog needs to be walked,

the wife

is on the phone.

i'm impatient

with the toaster, come on,

come on.

i look out the window,

i feel like

i'm missing out on something.

where's my shoes,

my socks,

my coat my hat.

i guess i should put some

pants on.

the green bowl on the counter

at the end

of the day, i stand at the counter

in the kitchen

and empty

my pockets

into the green bowl

on the counter.

the keys, the coins,

the cash,

a wallet,

a note with numbers

written on it.

a stick of gum, a cough

drop.

a folded map.

it's been a long day.

but home

at last.

the absence of you

only in

the quiet room, the empty

room,

to i feel

your presence.

the enormity of you.

it fills

the space,

there is no room for

shadow

or light.

you are everywhere

and nowhere

at the same time.

your absence

is an exhausting place

in my mind.

not now, maybe later

a small

bee of some sort

lands

on my arm.

i look down at him,

and he

looks up

at me,

for a brief moment

his wings

are still,

his body arched

and ready

to sting,

but he changes his

mind

for some reason,

he shrugs

and says, not now,

maybe later,

then zips

away.

the devil is alive and well

they are humans,

chips

on the table, bargaining

chips.

babies,

men and women,

young and old,

held captive

in tunnels

for over a year.

held

under ground

in hell.

flesh and blood.

innocent souls,

doing what they're

told,

at the point of a barrel.

what other proof is

needed

to see that there is evil

in this world.

sadly, it's true,

the devil

is alive and well.

one cup of coffee

it's hard to cut

back

on coffee, one of the few simple

pleasures

of life.

that first cup, black and aromatic,

with a dollop

of cream,

no sugar please.

is one cup

of coffee enough,

to get me up

and going, to get me

out the door,

to start the machine.

her new accents

the politician

goes from state to state

making

promises she'll never keep,

but when she

speaks

she takes on the accent

of the town

or state

and goes into a speech

or tirade

imitating

the sound of language

that her audience

makes.

but do they fall for it,

do they

accept this pandering,

this simplistic ploy,

and look

the other way?

we'll see.

the blue metal box

it was a blue

metal

box that i kept under my bed

that held

my paper route money.

it had a three

digit

combination

lock.

123, so i wouldn't forget.

inside

i kept the cash and coins

from my

collections

and the notes

that kept

track of how much i lent

out

to my mother,

sisters

and brothers.

i still have it,

the box

and the note,

but they still haven't paid

me back. i guess

at some point,

each Christmas,

i need to stop bringing it up.

Friday noir

we sink

into the couch

with popcorn

to watch

the black

and white movie.

the noir

flick,

with men and cigarettes,

suits

and ties, hair

slicked,

hats pulled

tight

to hide their eyes.

the women,

dressed

to the nines.

there's a plot,

and stiff dialogue,

there's old cars

and trains.

alleys

and guns. music

to steer the mood.

fire escapes dropped

down

from

grey buildings

in New York.

it rains.

of course it does.

we believe it all as

the night goes on.

our education system

maybe it started

when kids no longer

said

the Our Father in

the morning, at school,

or stopped

reciting the pledge of allegiance,

standing up

to face the flag,

as it was said over

the P.A. system.

or maybe it was when everyone

became a winner,

there were no losers

anymore.

when it became less about learning

and more

about grades.

participation trophies,

for all.

no dress code,

no discipline, just hugs,

no banging

erasers against

the back of school walls,

or perhaps when spelling

didn't matter,

or cursive writing,

or math.

maybe it was when they 

corralled the kids

in open

rooms, rooms without walls.

or fed

them Adderall,

or when everyone

had a cell phone.

somewhere in there it all

fell apart.

the fear of God and others

as children,

attending St. Thomas More,

across the foot

bridge into

D.C.,

in the early sixties,

we were afraid of God,

but also afraid,

of getting

beat up by the boys

who lived

on that side

of the wire fence,

and storm drains.

they knew

we had money in our

thin envelopes

for mass.

two each, one for each

collection.

but we were quick, we were

fast.

and ran for our lives

as they chased us

in our Sunday best.

chicken dinner

what's it like

to kill

a live chicken i used to ask

my grandmother, Lena,

in south Philly.

what's it like to wring

it's neck,

cut it's head off,

then pluck it clean

of feathers.

and then

drop it into a pot

of boiling water

sprinkled with salt?

i'll show you, she used

to say,

bring that fat

one over here, go catch it.

she won't bite you.

i'll let you

do the honors

with the next one.

salt and pepper shakers

the hippo

salt and pepper shakers

are clever.

bought in Pennsylvania

on some

winding road,

porcelain

pink pigs too

and little brown dogs,

from

Missouri, or was it

down

on the Bayou?

a rooster

and chicken

are over there on the sill.

and here

on the table is

a black and white cat,

both

with tails,

each from London,

or was it Ireland?

it's what a marriage

brings

home

when things

are going well.

the setting of suns

it's beautiful,

actually, in its own way,

in that moment. that brief

and shining

moment

when

the bombs hit

and explode,

from sea to shining sea.

the beauty of the clouds

in mushroom

form,

rising above

the fiery glow.

it's before the ripple

of wind,

the blast of heat

and radiation turning

us into ghosts,

it's before all that,

before

bone and ash

turn to vapor in small suns.

it's quite lovely, this

image

of the end.

the long green shadows

she's gone now, or at least

i assume

that she's 

passed on, no cards or notes

have crossed

the mail

in years.

but i understand her more now,

now that i'm

the age

she was when we

first met thirty years ago.

her way

of sitting still and listening

to every word

i said.

i see the gentleness

in how

she stirred

her tea,

and carried in the tray

of cookies

she made.

there was no hurry

about her.

i can see her books in long

green shadows

of her living room.

lined on the shelves.

the fireplace

unused.

the oil painting above

of someone

she knew, someone she

once loved,

but never spoke of.

often i check the mailbox,

in hoping

that i'm wrong.

getting Joey Heatherton's autograph

i can't remember what

year it was,

but Bob Hope was down on 

the mall,

in Washington, putting on

a show,

in support of President Nixon.

Joey Heatherton was there,

as well as

Lola Falana,

and the Mormon Tabernacle

Choir.

but we were there to protest

the war,

the Vietnam War,

remember that?

we were young, too young

to join or get drafted

yet, but we thought it might

be fun

to join in and march and

chant slogans like one two

three four we don't want

your freaking war.

plus it was a great place to meet

chicks.

i really wanted to hear Bob

Hope and see Joey 

Heatherton, but kept that to

myself,

i loved his deadpan

sense of humor, and timing,

having seen all his On The Road

movies with Bing

Crosby,

and what wasn't there

to love about Joey Heatherton.

she was a regular

on the Dean Martin show.

oh my, those legs.

i wanted her autograph,

having brought a pen

and my autograph book,

and then the cops 

on horseback, started shooting

tear gas cannisters at

us, and chasing us with nightsticks.

all hell broke loose.

so i never got the chance.

the talk at Coney Island

we take

a walk down to Coney Island.

it's early

in the day,

it's cold and damp.

the sea is a grey wash

beyond

the brown sand.

it's October already.

but it's as good as place

as any

to tell her

it's over.

there's no joy in this.

we sit on a bench

facing

the closed roller coaster,

the Ferris wheel.

even the hot dog stands

and shops

are shut down.

it's a blustery day. i button

my coat up to the top

and take

my hand from hers,

and tell her,

that i have something

to say.

she looks at me, and smiles

with a tear in her eye,

and tells

me that this isn't working

out.

i'm in love with

another man, she says,

which breaks my heart.

junior scholastic

the best 

and most unbiased news

paper

in the world, ever,

was the junior

scholastic

newspaper,

given out when we were

kids.

not one word

about politics

or war,

crime, or immigration,

not a single

article

on global warming,

or propaganda

on who

to vote for.

it was good stuff.

cats in trees.

how to carve a pumpkin,

which

park has the best slides

and swings.

when the spider sense tingles

when you

feel

the hunch, the distinct rattle

and hum

of the premonition

do not

slough it off.

take heed,

take note.

put your ear to the ground,

and obey

your inner

voice,

it's never wrong.

we don't need no stinking badges

i 'm about to take

a load of laundry

down to the basement

washing machines,

when

there's a knock at my apartment

door. it's

early in the morning,

on a beautiful fall day

in Aurora, Colorado.

i can see snow up on

the mountain peaks

from my sixth-floor apartment

window.

there are six

armed men

wearing masks,

brandishing arms,

which makes me

assume hunting season

has begun.

it's time to pay your rent,

the one

man says,

but i sent it in last week,

i tell

the gentleman

with a Venezuelan

accent.

i made a note of it in

my checkbook.

i can show you.

we are the property managers

now.

you pay us. cash only.

i look out the window

and see the old manager

hobbling down

the street,

with blood coming out 

of his head.

loose ropes dangle

from

his legs.

do you folks have any identification,

any badges

to prove

who you are?

we don't need no stinking badges,

now pay up,

he says,

showing  me the bandolero

around his chest.

by the way,

now that you boys are in charge

of the building,

i have a toilet that keeps

running,

do any of you have a wrench

with you.

if don't mind coming in

after putting your guns

down and

checking out the commode

off the hallway?

i'm so tired of shaking

the handle.

also, i saw a mouse the other

day.

you know how they like to come

in when

winter arrives.

so if you could send up an

exterminator when

you get back to the office,

i'd greatly

appreciate that too.

facebook is dead grandma

sorry grandma, but Facebook

is dead.

does anyone go on there anymore

to post

pictures

of their vacations,

their

dogs,

their stubbed toes,

their

baked artisan bread?

i never made a new

friend on

there,

or got any work out

of it.

though i did post a picture

of a turtle

once crossing

the road.

a got a thousand likes.

but

nothing of consequence

came about

from being

a part of that voyeuristic

venue. i just got

just a mild form of

stress

when rejecting

an onslaught of mysterious

requests.

who are you, exactly?

we knew each

other in grade school?

did you see my turtle pic?

i go everywhere with it

i feel bad

for my shadow as i drag

it along,

always

with me, never going

where it wants

to go.

never leaving

my side,

forced to be with me.

that long

dark silhouette of mine,

for better

or for worse,

always present,

always

quietly

following me 

from behind.

the lights are bright on Broadway

needing a short

vacation,

tired from working

so hard, i fly into Mexico

City

dressed in a coat and tie,

and a straw hat,

with my new

leather back pack

strapped

to my back,

full of electrolyte water,

and a variety

of snacks.

then i begin my trek to the border

where i will

be welcomed

and given

a loaded credit card and free

transportation

to New York City,

one of my favorite

sanctuary cities,

where i will stay at the Roosevelt

Hotel

at no charge,

meals on the house,

a hot

shower,

a big fluffy bed

and view of the city, i told

them i prefer

the windows that look

up towards the Met

and Central Park.

i have tickets to see

a new rendition of Spam Alot

on Broadway,

and then

tomorrow,

The Lion King.

next month i'll do it again.

thank you Joe.

the black seeds

there were kids

you

grew up with that you knew

eventually

would be in 

trouble.

they would serve

time,

they'd be in the principal's

office,

in therapy,

in counseling.

you could feel the vibration

of their

dark soul.

and would often see what

they would

do with a frog

and a pointed stick.

something was amiss.

the teachers knew,

the other kids knew,

the parents all understood

that this was

a devil child,

a boy to be reckoned with.

a child

up to no good.

notarizing the will at UPS

it's a simple

form

printed off for a mere 55 dollars

paid

with a credit card

online.

the last will and testament,

with my name

printed boldly

at the top.

it's a list of who gets what.

who gets

nada.

who gets

each fork, knife, saucer and cup.

each child

to his or her own

crust of bread.

the young men at the UPS

store,

each get to sign it.

to apply the stamp

and notarize

my document.

strangers from another land,

now 

deciding the fate of my entire

life.

it's all in their hands.

Mondays are different

Wallace stevens

said

in an oft quoted line,

that

the world is sad,

and the people are ugly,

so true, i agree,

but i'd like to add onto

it and and say

it depends so much

on the weather,

and on

which day of the week.

beware of beauty

there is something

beautiful

and savage about a snake

slithering

across the grassy

yard,

the stripes

the colors, red and yellow,

some

green.

the black eyes,

the open

jaw

with dagger teeth,

so pink.

is nature warning us

to beware

of beauty,

of beautiful things,

is that what we're to think?

the stone bird bath

the wind

last night has made a mess

of things.

the umbrella down,

the chairs

toppled,

the tree is nearly stripped

of leaves.

and yet

in the middle of it all

there's a bluebird

in the stone bird bath,

using his

wings to wash, to drink.

he seems

pleased.

the trickle down of the trust fund

there's money

coming

from a trust fund,

a yearly

stipend,

he tells me, i'll have a check

soon,

and then,

i'd like

you to do the work

for me.

it's not much, but it's enough

for the door,

the rail,

the trim.

so schedule me in

this fall.

i'll be flush by then.

city boy

as he looks

out

the enormous plate glass window

at the front

yard

which angles

down to the street,

which angles

down

to the woods, then

highway,

and beyond,

where the fluorescent

lights

of an Exxon station,

and a chicken

out beam brightly

in the early morning

fog.

he wonders how long can

he keep

doing this

for free room and board.

he's a city boy after all.

but

the grass is high from

all the rain. the weeds,

the bushes

and briars

need to be gone.

the dead tree too.

the lawn mower waits

in the garage,

full of gas

and oil. choices have

dwindled away

so, he'll pull the string and get

lost in the muffled

roar.

yoga is a wonderful thing

my neighbor,

the Swedish flight attendant,

who just moved in

likes

to do her yoga

exercises

out back on a mat.

of course

she's in

her yoga pants,

a tight fitting shiny

number

that catches the morning

light just so.

it's around

seven a.m.

when she begins her

poses,

doing deep breathing

exercises first before

putting her hair

into a long blonde

ponytail.

how she stands on her head

like that,

i just don't know.

with the window open

i can hear

all the men who work at home

pulling up

their blinds,

to look out

and drink their morning

joe.

usually around the middle of the second year

i laugh when i'm out and about

and hear

grown men,

men with muscles

and tattoos,

important jobs,

strong virile men talk

about how

they are scared of their wives.

i can't put my

feet up on the coffee table

anymore,

or watch tv

while i eat.

she makes

me take my boots

off when i come in the house.

she wants

to look at my

phone and questions every video

i've looked at and then tells me

about a trip

she's taking

to Costa Rica with her friends.

sometimes she's mad

at me and won't

even tell me why.

i have to sleep in the other

room some nights.

i feel like there are things she's

not telling me,

things she's trying to hide.

if i make one simple mistake

like leaving

the seat

up we won't have sex for a month.

i'm walking on eggshells

all day and all night.

i have to be careful

with every word

that comes out of my mouth.

how about you, they ask me.

ah, distant memories, i tell them, 

but yup,

been there, done that too.

putting on a happy face

animals

do not put on a happy face

when

stuck

in a cage or taken to the vet.

or being

carried out

into the rain

and snow

to do business.

they are not

like us.

they don't care

what you think. when

they feel pain, or stress

they let you

know

in a loud squeal

or cry,

or they try to bite you,

or claw your face,

but we're not

like that.

we put on our happy face,

regardless

of how things are going,

whether

in a bad marriage,

a bad job,

or at the dentist,

or stuck in a tin can

for a year

stranded in outer space.

all is well,

is our mantra.

my doctor Claude Rains

after

about five phone calls

trying

to get a hold of

my doctor

a nurse comes on the phone

and asks

what's wrong.

i go through the list

of ailments

and allergic

reactions to medicine,

headaches

and frequent

trips to the bathroom.

oh, i'm sorry

you're not feeling well, but

the doctor isn't in today,

or tomorrow,

or for the next

three weeks.

and yet i can hear him

in the background,

whispering to the nurse,

tell him,

i'm in another

country. he says,

tell him i'm in Hong Kong.

sir, are you still there?

he'll contact you

when he's back in the country,

but if you feel

like you might die,

please dial

911.

one pancake or two?

we were

having a late breakfast,

when

it struck

me

that we hadn't been to the beach

this year.

she asked

me if i wanted

another pancake,

and i said yes.

more bacon too.

should we go to the beach

this weekend,

i asked her.

why,

she said,

handing me the syrup

and butter.

i don't like the beach.

it's dirty,

it's crowded

and the water looks like

pea soup.

plus it's hot and the wind

never stops

blowing.

oh,

i thought you enjoyed

the beach. i have

pictures of you

under an umbrella

in front of the ocean,

you looked happy

in your little

yellow

sundress

and sunglasses.

i was pretending.

i've done that a lot

in my life, but not anymore.

one pancake,

or two?

two, please.

the back room Holiday Inn interview

and if elected

i promise to do, or at least

think

about all the things

i say

i might do,

once i figure out what

they are

and which

things will get me

the most votes

in November.

but my values have

not changed

one tiny little bit

despite what i've preached

for the last ten

years.

yes, i may be reversing

my stance

on taxes,

on fracking, on putting

illegals

behind bars, building a wall,

extending

welfare

to all, citizens or not,

and free tuitions,

not to mention

a check for 25 k to any

and everyone

who wants to buy a house,

regardless of race, creed

or color,

or criminal status

or ability to make a mortgage

payment.

oh, and did i mention

no taxes on tips,

i just thought of that too.

why aren't French people fat like us?

so why aren't French

people

fat like us,

she says to me, biting down

on a bear claw

then wiping

the glaze from her nose,

washing it all

down with a Mountain Dew.

they eat

fat stuff.

heavy creams and cheeses,

baguettes,

bouillabaisse,

and onion soup?

not to mention creme brulee.

they eat snails

by the handful.

those people love butter.

why aren't they all walking

around

Paris looking

like the Hindenburg,

like everyone is in Springfield?

what's up

with.

beats me i tell her.

me too, she says. maybe

should we get some ice-cream

next?

do you mind rolling

me into the back 

of your truck, my legs keep

sticking

to the vinyl seats up front.

you have a point there

it's better

to stay quiet about yourself

when in

mixed

company,

and not

make a fuss

of life.

steer the conversation

as far away

from health

and money, politics

and religion

as you can.

go numb

in your meditative pose,

run silent, run deep.

smile

and nod, just

benignly agree

to disagree.

getting better all the time

it's okay to change

your mind

when you get older and wiser,

more experienced

at life.

i know that when

i hit 100,

if and when,

by the grace of God,

that i'll look

back

and think what a fool

i was to think

and behave like that

at 99.

cave paintings on the CVS wall

it's new

graffiti on the drugstore

wall.

bold

bright letters in red

and blue,

green

and yellow.

so artistic and beautiful

in its own

childish way.

the faces

drawn,

the genitals of oversized

men and women

depicting

in primitive sketches

the act

of making

love.

it must

have taken a long time

in the dead

of night

to compose such a

masterpiece.

tomorrow they'll power

wash it

gone,

but i'm sure there's more,

there's always

more to come.

February 1970

in the old

days, the 1970s,

on a cold day, a freezing

morning

after a hard snow

and sleet,

many cars

wouldn't start.

there'd be

ice on the windshield

and the motor

would

turn and crank, but to

no avail.

just the whirring

of the starter

trying hard to make

the engine come alive.

the battery

dead.

no heat,

no radio,

no luck.

you got out

of your car,

opened the trunk

and waited for a neighbor

to come

out to help you.

you stood there in

the purple gloom of 

morning

with your open hood

and cables

dangling,

smoking a cigarette

as you leaned against

the ice cold car.

vote for me and get free stuff

i need the votes,

so everything i said yesterday

and the day

before,

and for the previous

twenty years

of my life,

please, ignore that.

i need your vote,

so tell me what you want

and i'll be

for that today, or at least

pretend to,

okay?

i will straddle any

fence,

or go to the other side,

in the blink

and wink of an eye.

we need your votes,

and we'll give you lots

of free stuff too.

hold on

we live

in the constant

movement

of currents. the swift or slow

movement

of air

and water.

politics and war.

we're at the mercy

and pull of

gravity,

the swirl of wind.

we shift our feet in sand,

with hardly

a dry

spot,

or rock to stand on.

all is in flux,

ever changing.

the future is not

what it used 

to be.

he's making a good point here

if you

close the border, then what?

the illegal immigrant

says, as

he's handcuffed

in the back of a squad

car for

killing someone

and kidnapping

an old lady with a cat.

who will cut

your grass, watch your babies,

who will cook

and clean for you.

who will

work in the restaurants

and

build the bridges

and highways.

who will blow all the leaves

away in

your cul de sacs?

you people are stupid,

you can't make

it without us.

you're lazy and dumb.

we are the only

ones to make American

great again.

so if you're smart, you'll

let us all in.

the braille room

it's the drugs,

the water,

the coffee the tea,

the juice,

the watermelon

slice

the size of my arm.

all of it combined

to make

me get up six times

in the middle of the night

to relieve myself,

and not just

a trickle,

but a full racehorse

stream. 

but there's

no need to turn

on the light.

i got this,

i'm Stevie Wonder,

i'm Ray Charles,

I'm Jose Feliciano

and Helen Keller all

wrapped into

one

in the dead of night.

gluing the pot back together

the boy,

a mere four years old, pushes

over

the 4 thousand year

old

pot sitting in the middle

of the museum

lobby.

it's made

of clay

and whatever else

they had

back then. but

what does he know?

he's a mere baby.

it looks cheap,

like something from target,

maybe a lamp

of some sort,

a pot to pee in or drink

from.

something to carry

water

or wine around.

let's put it where it can be

knocked over

by a child

the curator says.

and down it

goes in a cloud of ancient

dirt and dust.

we'll glue it back together

in no time,

he says.

where's the Elmer's?

a day at the beach

we go to the beach,

but it's

off limits for a five mile

stretch.

no walking,

no swimming,

no throwing the ball around,

or walking

your dog

to play catch.

and then you see the luminous

figure

on the beach chair up ahead,

stretched

out under a large umbrella,

with a blue

hat on his head.

he's surrounded by men

in black.

licking

ice-cream cones,

nibbling on caramel popcorn

and water taffy,

and other

beach like snacks.

when the kremlin interviews Putin

safe

in the confines of friendly fire,

of

those on her

side,

she brings along

her teddy

bear

new mate, to sit

beside her,

and smile, and gesticulate

when

the answers go

south in a landslide

of word

salad

with a heap of Ranch Dressing.

so

why now are you

saying

the exact opposite of what

you've been saying

you're entire life,

the bewildered

interviewer asks.

umm, well, ummm, i choose

to defer

that answer to the jolly

gentleman

sitting

next to me.

let him answer that.

Oh Henry

there was this

time,

when in the middle of making wild

passionate

love,

the ex called me Henry.

some guy

she met at her yoga class.

oh

Henry, she said

writhing

in the bed,

which made me laugh

and think

of the O Henry candy bar,

the one wrapped

in white plastic, with

chocolate

nuggets and nuts.

all held together in a creamy

gooey filling.

she took off her mask,

and undid

the ropes

around her ankles and wrists

and said,

why are you laughing?

what's so funny?

can't you ever be serious?

Strangers in the Night

i didn't know

anyone

at the wedding. they didn't

know

me, but somehow the woman

who i was about

the meet for

the first time wrangled

a plate

and a seat for me.

she drove in from Richmond

to sit at the piano

and sing

to the bride and groom,

who happened to be,

Jimmy and Frank.

one being 25 years older

than the other.

two fellows who met at a

club downtown

called the Rodeo.

i put on my best suit,

my best tie

and shirt, my shiniest shoes.

and sat

there eating cake

as my date

sang Strangers in the Night

to me.

as a gift,

she brought me an enormous

chocolate bar

with nuts

from the candy shop she worked

in. sadly,

like so much in life,

it melted in the car.

cinnamon Babka

i take

the flour, the sugar,

the dry

yeast,

the chocolate

and cinnamon,

the old baking

dish

up to the church.

putting them all into

the donation

box.

the next day i see

father

Smith

at the bake sale with

a cinnamon

Babka.

a failure to communicate

smart as whip,

the doctor was

first in his class in

taking

blood and installing stents,

and yet.

communication,

verbal communication

seems to be a problem.

his writing as well,

chicken claw

strokes

of ink, calligraphy

from hell.

there is no

bed side manner, no in the chair

manner,

no follow up

call, or explanation as to why

you're still bleeding

and feel numb.

but he has a lot of diplomas

on his wall.

the soft landing

we all

need a plan B, a plan C.

life

so often

gets in the way

of unrealistic

dreams.

we need a back door,

an open

window,

a rope to swing out

onto,

to retreat

and escape,

a soft landing

away from

the messes we've made.

when they don't leave the nest

in looking back

over the thirty-five years

we often wonder,

did we give

the kid

too much. of course we did.

on top of

all that adoration

and love, we

we were making

up for

all the things we never

got as children. stuff.

did he get

toys, good lord, yes.

clothes and books,

every treat under the sun,

playing every sport,

musical instruments.

every day was Christmas.

did he have a pony,

a bike,

a car.

was tuition paid

for?

cameras and phones.

vacations

and rents paid for.

did we give him too much?

of course we did.

and now we hope

that one day he'll leave

the nest

we feathered for him,

and get a job.

men helping men

she pulled up

in her vintage Mercedes Benz,

something

she won

in the divorce settlement.

the valet opened

her door

and took her keys.

she was wearing a cowboy

hat,

and pearls.

and a fluffy white dress.

yellow

boots of Spanish leather.

we walked

into the steak house together

where she

ordered a martini.

her go to place for online dates.

she then asked me if i was going

to cowboy up

and buy her

a 32 ounce rib eye steak

with all

the trimmings.

the specialty

that week.

i told her no, i'm not a cowboy.

and besides

the kitchen

is closed.

the bartender nodded, true,

that's true, missy,

and winked at me.

when Halloween comes early

i write an email

to the surgeon, telling him

that

i can't come

to the second visit for another

round

of medieval

torture.

of blood and pain,

of screams.

and tears.

i can't participate

in his little

shop of horrors anymore.

with cold instruments,

pointed

and made of steel

slid into my nasal passages,

millimeters

from my brain.

i can no longer enter

his little

well lit hell

and do it again.

so far no response.

taking her vacuum with her

i don't fire

the housekeeper, i tell her,

let's

do every other month,

instead of

every month.

i'm not a pig pen

like i used

to be,

i tell her.

i've grown up.

i'm much neater now.

i no longer have visitors

until the crack of dawn

or eat

cookies in bed.

but there's a language barrier.

she thinks

i'm firing her.

she begins to cry,

she tells me she will miss me.

i try to calm

her down,

but it's too late.

she's already moved on.

taking

her vacuum 

and dust mop with her.

a tight fit

the vest

pocket, the small pocket

in

your jeans.

the tight

square

sewn on

with hardly

room for a finger

or thumb.

what are we doing here?

what's this all

about.

who puts anything

in there

anymore, or ever.

for me it's

been

since the civil war?

the inside story

there's

more to this than we can see.

there's

between

the lines, beneath

the covers.

everything is

an iceberg

floating

mostly

under the sea.

what you think

and see

is a mere glimpse

of reality.

even you.

even me.

the forever tours

we've seen

them our whole lives,

the aging

rock

gods

with guitars and songs,

the long hair and

massive

crowds, with

pretty girls,

and wives. the forever tours.

on their planes

and buses,

the massive crowds,

their faces

familiar from album covers

stacked

at home.

they are the sound track

of our

lives.

giving us music to live by.

to dream with.

we are with them,

side by side.

and now as they get older,

and older, and older,

falling

onstage,

forgetting lines, singing

from wheelchairs,

bent and ravaged by

drugs and drink,

by careless living,

it scares you how brief it

all is.

how rebellious youth 

has turned into

an old

but no longer sweet wine.

pump your brakes

is it

done yet. i yell into the kitchen.

no,

she yells back.

be patient.

another twenty minutes

or so.

what's taking

so long?

i'm starving.

she peeks her head into

the room,

and waves a spatula at me.

it won't bake any faster

if you

keep yelling

at me

and bothering me.

and when

it's done i have to let

it cool

before i ice it.

so pump your brakes.

it's coming. quit whining.

the cake will

be done soon.

think happy thoughts

when someone

tells

me to think of blue skies,

chirping

birds,

kitty cats

and puppy dogs,

and

encourages me

to have good thoughts,

i tell them

to shut up.

you have no idea what

i'm going

through.

so please spare me your

new age

baloney, then i make

a gin and tonic

with a slice

of lime, and

then i hang up.

post op surgery visit

the post op

follow up visit

to the surgery was the most pain

i've ever

experienced in

my life.

and that includes

the pain endured by each

of the last

two wives.

with a thin metal prong

up my nose,

and a camera light

the surgeon found

the bone, the inflamed

tissue,

the nerve ending,

raw from surgery and made

me scream,

made me cry

as he washed

it all out with Lidocaine

and saline

and who knows what.

it made me scream out to my God,

and ask

why He had

forsaken me.

i tried to push him away,

push away his instruments

of torture to the side,

to defend

myself,

but he held his ground,

planting his shoes 

on the bloody floor

and dug deep 

into my nasal passages,

beyond  my

eyebrows

and to where

my brain

was on fire with fear.

i almost blacked out.

i was trembling, crying,

my pulse raced, i was

drenched in my own sweat.

i sat there emotionally

drained. weeping

in a fetal ball.

then he left, but not before

telling me,

okay, that went well.

same time,

next week?