the apocalyptic man buns

you wonder

sometimes, what good the next

generation

will be,

if someone pulls

the plug

on electricity

when the big one drops.

will they know what a hammer

is?

a spade,

a rake,

will they have a clue

about

how to build anything with

their hands,

grow

anything?

will they have the fortitude

to live

off the land?

to kill

or be killed.

how long will they stand there,

stunned,

with their dead

cell phones in their hand?

will they

keep their new pronouns

and on their

childish heads,

their man buns?

the Burger King protests

i see the on the talk

show

a man in a velvet pants

and cape, a crown,

a scepter,

wearing his high

boots.

despite being

draped in jewels

there's a frown on his face.

why are they picking

on me?

he asks,

forlorn and weary.

what have i done to deserve

such a fate?

why do they keep chanting,

no kings,

no kings.

i'm a king, so what. i only

want to make people

happy

with my burgers and fries,

my charcoal

methods of grilling meat,

my three sizes

of soft drinks.

yes.

i'm a king, i'm royalty,

i was born

this way. 

i was born to be a king.

i am one, i admit it.

please, give me a break. 

the same shore

as i lie

here on this beach towel

bought

from

a boardwalk

store,

i listen to my transistor

radio,

red and squared like

a box.

there's the waft

of chicken

and French fries in

the air.

i hear the ocean breaking 

behind me,

the sputter of a small

plane

dragging a banner

across the blue sky.

i'm here again,

as if i've never

left,

the same boy, on the same

shore,

no different than

it was

in 1964.

another day at the office

we used

to stand around the water cooler,

or the Mister Coffee machine,

perpetually

brewing

on the office kitchen

counter.

we gathered in a small

group,

shooting the breeze,

talking sports

and movies,

before we put in our

three hours

of actual work for the day.

there was lunch,

and maybe

a birthday party.

there were

bathroom

breaks, personal calls to

make.

there was flirting with

the new secretary up front.

small talk

in the hall about the weather,

and where

i bought this new tie.

are we going to happy hour

this Friday?

there was sitting

at a desk

in a cubicle,

shuffling papers, and scrolling

things online

ever alert for one of five

bosses to come

walking by.

clock watching

and eating peanut butter

crackers were two

of my favorite

past times.

just another day in LA LA land

i go down

to the seven elven to get

some milk

and bread,

a newspaper,

but the store is on fire.

so i walk

over to the grocery

store,

it's being looted

by an angry

crowd

of masked hooligans.

i decide to go to the park

to sit on

a bench,

and wait things out,

but rubber bullets are flying

everywhere.

just another day

in LA..

i suck on a mint as

i gag on the tear gas

filling

my lungs and mouth.

trying to quit yelp

i call yelp

to tell them that i don't want

to be

on yelp

anymore.

only the angry

Karens

ever

post anything.

things with them are never

quite right.

rarely

do the satisfied take the time.

i tell them that

i don't want my business

on their

site anymore.

take me off.

i want the memory of me gone.

they laugh,

and tell me too late,

you can

never erase the information

you've given us.

another

wife.

a memory stored

it's the wisp

of

the garden

sprinkler that awakens

you

as the sun

comes up.

the slow whisper of water

soaking

the yard,

the yet to be flowers.

it's spring,

it's youth,

it's a memory stored.

again

new.

the glossy centerfold

starving

at seven a.m.,

i stare at the menu

lying flat on the table.

my eyes fixed

on a stack

of pancakes,

with syrup and strawberries

stacked on top,

whipped cream

and butter.

two eggs on the side,

and bacon.

i loosen my belt as the waitress

approaches.

she dabs

at the drool on my lips

with a napkin,

then pats me on the head.

you'll have the number

four,

i see, she says,

pointing

at what i'm staring at.

the glossy

centerfold of breakfast food.

yes. i tell her.

of course.

she was a beauty back then

it's a long

day

on the ladder

chipping

paint

off the wood trim,

wallpaper

off the walls.

it was a beauty back then.

but no

more.

the rain through

the roof,

the weather of time,

the abuse

and lack of care has

taken it's toll.

sadly we all

get old,

some quicker than others,

i'm told.

don't believe what you see here

there is nothing

to see here,

please,

don't believe your lying eyes.

this isn't a riot.

there are no

bricks being thrown,

or fireballs,

or frozen bottles of water.

there are no

no stores being

looted,

no crime.

no fires burning.

please, move on.

don't believe what you see here.

there's nothing

wrong,

nothing going.

sure it's been six nights

and days

of mobs in the streets,

but there's nothing

to worry about.

have a nice day.

peace out,

go get an ice-cream cone.

out of context

i see my

dentist in the promenade

sipping

coffee,

reading  a book

about

root canals and implants,

i stop

and say hello,

but she looks confused.

it's me,

i tell her.

i was just in yesterday

for a cleaning.

i open my mouth

wide

to show her my teeth,

oh, oh,

she says.

hello, i didn't recognize you.

don't forget to floss,

see you

again

in six months.

mush brains

they say

you begin to lose your marbles

in your later

years.

but i think

it's happening earlier these days.

you only

have to turn

on the television

to see

the craziness of the world.

they aren't

waiting

until they're 80 anymore

to have their brains

turning into

mush.

they're already there.

who's your daddy now?

it was a small house

with thin

walls,

thin doors,

you could be walking

by your

parents

bedroom

late at night to use

the bathroom

and hear the symphony

of bed springs,

the wrestling

of love going on.

you could hear

your father's low growl

asking

your mother,

so, who's your daddy now?

what kind of question

was that?

it was confusing.

why would he be asking

her who

her father is?

and she would answer,

you are,

you are.

the four hour battle

we needed dirt,

sticks,

rocks, mud, a large

spoon

to dig with

from the kitchen drawer.

we needed

a small patch

of the yard,

maybe a jug of water

to create

an ocean,

that's it.

maybe a cardboard

box

or two.

a handful of plastic

army

soldiers, with tanks

and trucks,

and the afternoon

flew. 

aligning the soldiers of seasoning

i pull the dining room

chair

into the kitchen

to take a look at the overflowing

cupboards,

to finally organize the dozens

of spices

and what not.

flour and baking powder,

garlic

and red pepper shakers.

packets of dried

yeast.

miniature bottles of vanilla

and maple.

things i've never used, or

ever seemed

to need.

how many pepper shakers

does one

have.

how many bags of sugar,

granulated

and powdered

are on these shelves?

look at all the

small jars of sage and basil,

oregano,

dried bay leaves,

but i'm afraid to throw anything

away

one day,

it could be something i need.

the walking antique

she had

a good eye for antiques,

for art,

for vases

and pieces of China.

she knew

the style,

the era, the various makers

of furniture,

and cutlery.

she knew fabrics,

silks

from lands far away.

silver and wood.

antiques were her thing.

and now she had lived

long enough

to become one.

don't forget your bag of rocks and mask, honey

it used

to be that if you were a bad

person,

a nefarious character

up to no good

or

about to rob

a bank

or someone

you wore a mask to hide

your identity

or perhaps you wore

one to ward

off disease, the cold

or flu,

or in spreading germs,

but times

have changed.

everyone in a riot 

or protest wears one.

don't worry baby

it's the summer

of love

and Molotov

cocktails.

rocks and bricks,

setting cars on fire,

riots

and protests

fighting police,

destroying property

and looting.

and yet,

it's a warm

pleasant

day in southern California.

a good day

for surfing,

for singing

along with the Beach Boys,

Jan and Dean

let's go down

Pacific Coast Highway,

put our

feet in the sand,

the ocean is wide

and blue.

grab your surfboard,

the waves

are waiting,

they're waiting for me

they're waiting for you.

winging it

women

remember things,

like

lipstick

and mints, tissue paper,

umbrellas

and maps,

phone chargers.

walking shoes

and dress shoes.

where as men

leave the house

and wing it

for the rest of the day,

using the men's

room to dab

at the ketchup

on their shirts.

funny bones

there's funny

like

George Carlin

or Rodney Dangerfield funny,

Robin Williams,

and then

there's Bob Hope,

or Milton

Berle.

Jack Benny.

the further you go back

in time

the less

harder it was to make

people laugh.

Tom Jefferson was supposedly

a riot

the way he used

to come up behind

people and pull on their

wig.

cave men doing standup

got a lot of mileage

twirling

animal bones

talking about the echo

in their

caves, called homes.

this won't last long

she points out

that

i have spinach between my

teeth,

then

tells me that my shirt

is misbuttoned,

and that there's toilet

paper

stuck to the bottom

of my shoe.

she points at my fingernails

and asks me

if i'm still biting

them,

and that there's

paint or some kind of goo

stuck

there.

this won't last long.

meeting up with old friends

i almost feel like

i know

these people, having grown

up with them,

they're relatives

and friends

of some sort that influenced

my childhood.

Uncle Ben

and Little Debbie,

Betty Crocker,

Aunt Jemima and Captain

Crunch.

Charlie the Tuna,

Popeye on a spinach can,

Tony the tiger,

Snap, Crackle and Pop,

the Indian girl on the brick

of butter.

when i have them around

me

in the kitchen

i feel safe, i feel at home

again.

they got nothing on Betsy Ross

there's a flag for everything

and everyone

now.

straight or gay,

or somewhere in

between.

patriotic

or not with the flag

upside down.

each country has a flag,

each state

and city.

the Vatican has a flag,

and terrorists too

are proud

to wave their flags.

each brand of sexuality

has a flag.

people love

to wave their

favorite flag, holding it

up high, showing

who they are,

or where they're from.

sometimes

they burn the flags

that they don't like,

dancing in a circle wildly,

just having some fun.

lessons of survival

everyone

should trip and fall

at some point,

slip on the ice,

endure a hangover,

or hit their thumb

with a hammer,

have a small fender bender too,

or be stopped

by the police for

speeding.

a bee sting,

a broken heart as well

can be thrown

into the mix.

most of us need just one

such warning,

some two or three,

to keep us

out of trouble for

the long haul.

the generic brand of Bengay

i rub

an ointment on my sore knees.

it's not

Bengay.

but something similar,

a generic

brand,

without a name.

no Joegay, or Frankgay,

but it has the same ingredients

in it

that Bengay does,

at half the price.

i massage a big dollop

of the goo

around my leg,

my knee, into the joint.

will it work?

of course not, but it smells

minty sweet

and people are giving me

the once over

when i pass by.

the giant donut on the roof in LA

as i watch

the riots and protests on the streets

of LA,

i see the giant

donut

on top of a small building,

half hidden behind

the clouds of smoke

and gas

grenades.

it looks like a plain

donut,

which is fine.

apparently, it's an

establishment

that sells coffee and donuts.

who needs a sign?

it's fabulous.

that's how you

get things done.

put a giant donut on the roof.

and there you

go.

brilliantly done.

and now i want one.

fluctuating weight

i'm not sure which

pair of pants

to put on

today,

as i pinch the skin

around my waist.

i lay them all out on the bed.

my skinny jeans,

my regular,

my athletic jeans, whatever

that means

or the relaxed pair

that i swim in

like a clown

in a parade.

i have them in all sizes

and colors.

i've got every

fluctuation of weight

covered.

joining the Sunday morning choir

my friend Lisa 

asks me if i'd like to join

the church choir.

you have a great

voice, she says.

i think you'd be a great

addition

to our group.

i shrug, i don't know,

i only sound good when

i sing in an empty

room or in the shower.

Motown is my thing too.

Marvin and Al Green,

maybe a little Teddy

or Ray Charles.

although i can do some

early Bob Dylan too.

the old radio on the shelf

i turn the old

radio on,

the one on the shelf.

the radio

with big knobs,

the sides

made of wood.

a bronze mesh screen

emits the sound.

it lights up too.

the amber glow

radiating out

as it warms up to

an old

familiar tune.

it's Frank singing

the summer wind,

followed by B.B. King,

singing the blues.

it's time to stretch out,

and lounge.

the rule of law

everyone

is a lawyer now.

they know

the constitution, the amendments,

they can

state previous cases

that determined

what the law is.

they talk about due

process

and warrants, court

orders

and sanctuary,

they talk about asylum,

and legalities,

appeals,

human rights.

the rule of law,

and yet

they're running around

with their

shirts off

setting things on fire

in the middle

of the night.

an entrepreneurial moment

i drive my food truck

down

to the riot area,

before

the riot starts.

i know these guys and gals

are going

to be hungry

before the night is over,

starting fires,

looting,

and attacking the police.

it's a strenuous

affair.

all that chanting

and painting graffiti

everywhere.

i'm selling all kinds of

nutritious food from

many different countries,

bagels,

and tacos,

pizza from Italy,

curry and rice from India.

bangers and mash

from Ireland.

i'm an all nations food

truck.

i have quarts of milk too,

so that

tear gas can be washed out

of your eyes.

and ice packs for when the

rubber bullets start to fly.

let me order for you, you'll love it

i take

a chance on the Indian dish,

the one she's chosen

just for me,

which i

regret for the next

three days,

with a high fever

and stomach cramps,

curled on the cold

tile of the bathroom floor.

she knocks

gently

on the door the next

morning,

as i lie in a fetal position,

asking if

i'm okay.

if i'm hungry

or would i like

some coffee.

go away, i tell her,

calling her a name

that makes her leave the house,

and slam

the door.

storing up data for the next poem

it's a curse,

in some small way,

always being in observation mode,

never

quite in

the moment,

participating in whatever

situation 

you've been lured into.

reading the room with a fine

tooth comb.

watching,

listening, nodding and smiling,

making small talk

just to get along.

but your radar up,

you're collecting data

that may or may not be used

in a future poem.

finding love in Vegas

we were married

in Vegas

an hour

after meeting in a bar.

i had just

won

an enormous amount

of money

playing blackjack.

but she said

it was the color

of my eyes

that alone persuaded her

that i was the guy.

it wasn't the dollars falling

out of my

pockets.

i called my mother to tell

her the good

news.

she told me that was

how she met

my father.

my divorce was the next

day,

but hers

never arrived.

best keeping quiet

there's a trickle

of blood

easing out from the corner

of my mouth.

you're bleeding,

someone points out.

i know, i know.

there are so many things

i want to say,

but i've been biting

my tongue

nearly every day.

shedding skins on facebook

the trouble

with social media is that when

your relationship

goes sour,

and you break it off,

you have to go through

all your postings

of good times

and erase them, or leave

them there,

for a while at least

until the dust

settles.

you don't want to appear

callous and mean.

that trip to the beach,

that seafood

feast,

that time you went to

the Grand Canyon,

it's all there.

the sunny days of laughter

and fun.

but now what?

how do you erase the last

six months of your life

with someone you used

to love?

if walls could talk

the clerk,

with a club

foot

and wavering

eye,

at the old hotel on Vine,

has seen it

all.

has turned his head

at all.

let it pass.

humanity undignified.

let people be who

they are.

performance art

at it's best.

just pay

the bill,

don't trash the room.

come again,

come again,

real soon.

California Dreaming

come visit the Golden

State, take a trip

to enjoy our beautiful

state, but

come soon, because

for days

the rioters have been busy

burning down

the city.

the city of 
Angels.

we are literally a melting pot now.

what love there is out here,

seems to be gone,

what

joy and kindness,

has disappeared.

but the weather is fabulous,

the food and drinks,

the hospitality.

the ocean

at your door.

pay no mind to

that palm tree

on fire,

the buildings, the cars,

pay no attention to the mobs,

swarming

like vicious

bees

tossing bricks at the police

and passerby's.

so if you're coming

for a vacation,

come soon, hurry,

before it's all gone.

looting starts tomorrow.

neither friendly or unfriendly neighbors

i hardly

knew them. 

they arrived in a blue

car with the word

congratulations

soaped

on the back window.

a pair of tin cans were

tied to the bumper.

then two

babies arrived,

five years, in the making,

strollers,

and tricycles,

a small boy

kicking a ball.

they lived

two doors down, a few

yards

away, linked by a sidewalk

and fence.

and now

a sign, for sale, has gone

up.

the house is empty. no

one is at a window.

just one light has been left on.

but not a wave

goodbye,

not a nice to have known

you,

no forwarding address,

or words

like let's stay in touch.

already i've forgotten

their names,

which may have been

Joe and Barb.

watching the riots with a big bowl of popcorn

what do you feel like

watching

tonight,

i ask my fourth and final wife

as we sit down

on the couch

with a big bowl

of popcorn,

buttered and salted.

i don't know.

i think we've seen every

show there is.

some twice.

what about channel four

or nine,

we haven't watched

those in a long time.

nah.

maybe CNN or Fox?

okay.

we can switch back and forth.

oh look,

there's another riot going on,

with tear gas

and burning cars and 

the waving of terrorist flags.

there's one in New York,

another in

L.A.,

one seems to be about

the war,

and the other about deportations.

the police and national

guard look

geared up and ready

to hand out

some wood shampoos.

this should be interesting.

let's listen and see how

each channel

manipulates the coverage

according

to which side

they're on.

if it gets boring we can watch

MSNBC,

they have an in-depth

special  on the pride parades.

an appropriate Father's day card

for a brief moment

i forget

that he's passed on, 

and stand

at the greeting card

section of the store

looking for a birthday

and Father's Day

card

for my father

who turned 95

last year.

i search for something

that will suit him for this

year.

not too gooey or sweet,

but something

funny and clever,

like he was.

then i stop

and push the grocery cart

forward. it's hard to

move on.

dispersing love

we throw

the word love around like

rice

at a wedding.

tossing it

into the air in conversation,

in small talk

as we sit around.

i love

chocolate,

i love coffee, i love to sleep

in

in the morning, especially

on Sunday

when it's raining out.

i love this song,

the color of your hair,

this dog

of mine.

i love the smell of rain

in the air.

poltergeist in the cellar

the hair

on the back of the dog

rises,

while he

barks

at a corner of the ceiling in

the cellar.

what?

i ask him.

what is it?

there's nothing there.

he dances

around on four

paws,

bouncing, scared.

his teeth bared.

i get a small ladder out

and climb

up to the corner

and swipe my hand around.

see, i tell him,

there's nothing here.

the dog goes

crazy

and dashes out of the room.

then i notice that my

my arm is in a cold 

cold sleeve

of air.

chilled from hand

to elbow,

down to the bone.

our well spent tax dollars

the criminals

are using

frequent flyer miles now.

being transported

from one country

to another, to one prison

to another,

as each

politician weighs in on

what to do

with their favorite criminal's

behavior.

should we imprison

him here,

or there?

our country or his?

does the cell have a view,

how's the food,

the margaritas?

will there be

reading hour and conjugal

visits after

dinner?

where should he do time

for his crime

of human trafficking

and beating his wife?

is there a representative or

senator

willing to take him

home

until congress votes

and decides?

having cold feet

i tell her

that i have cold feet.

she looks

at me,

and says, what? 

are you talking

about us,

are you afraid

to jump in and go further

with this relationship?

what's wrong?

please tell me.

no, no.

i have cold feet, 

it's a circulation thing.

my mother 

had the same thing.

i also have

tinnitus in my ears,

just thought i'd tell you.

taking surveys when i get home

i set aside

a few hours when i get home

from shopping to fill

out all the surveys

i was asked to take after

purchasing,

pants and coffee,

shoes and books,

magazines and lightbulbs,

weed killer from Home

Depot,

and coat hooks.

was i satisfied?

did the clerk treat me

fairly,

was the price right.

would i shop here again,

would i reccomend

this store to friends.

how many stars do you

give this transaction on a scale

of one to ten?

chickens with no names

farmers will tell you

to never

give a name

to the animal you might

eat one day.

don't call that pig

Sam,

or label any of those

chickens

with cute names.

like Gloria, Debbie or Joann.

the horse, or the goat,

or maybe

the cow, though,

is okay.

hey Elsie,

how about a bucket of milk

today?

the girl who got away

do priests

get jealous, are they envious

of the other

priests

for one reason or the other,

such as

their oratory

skills,

or where they went

to school.

do they joke around,

pull pranks,

like short sheeting each

other,

or turning the hot

water off when

in the shower?

do they occasionally

have bad

moods,

feel grumpy all day?

do they ever ponder

about making

love,

and think about the girl

with a ponytail

that got away?

how much do we tip?

how much do we tip?

i ask

her as she sips

on her coffee.

ten percent, fifteen, twenty?

was she polite

and efficient,

prompt with our menu

and salads,

not trying to talk

to us when

our mouths were full,

or when we were in

the middle of a deep

conversation about

going to Mars

or the Moon.

did she introduce herself

and try to become

our best friend,

forever?

did she top off our water

glasses

every ten seconds?

did she give us space,

and yet,

didn't miss a cue when

we dropped a fork

or spoon?

did she try to force dessert

upon us?

was the food any good?

marching in a thong

there was an era

when people used to be proud

of finishing

school,

or a race,

or serving in the military

or police,

proud of the cake

they made,

the grades,

a good deed they had done.

people were proud

of their

accomplishments,

being a good daughter

or son.

proud of their

children,

of their well kept house

and lawn.

pride was a different thing

back then.

it was never about sexuality,

or marching

down the street

in a cherry red thong.

Jenna and Jimmy doing hard time in the jump

i visit Jimmy in the slammer.

he's doing

five to ten for burning up

electric cars

and carving swastikas into

oak trees.

he goes by Jenna now,

smartly transitioning

before the sentencing. 

he's wearing lipstick and has

his hair in braids.

and has on what looks

like a pink push up bra.

he's shaved his legs.

what's up Jimmy?

what's with the Halloween

outfit. have you lost your

marbles?

and what's that smell?

good God, man, you stink

to high heavens.

shhh, you're going to blow

my cover.

call me Jenna. 

and the reason i stink

is because i haven't taken a shower

in three weeks.

as soon as i do,

everyone is going to know

i'm not a girl.

i just couldn't go to a men's

prison, you know.

i wouldn't survive.

but here, i'm star on the volleyball

team, center on the basketball

team, and my boxing record,

is thirteen and O.

but truthfully.

i wish i hadn't done what i did.

i got caught up in the frenzy

of hatred.

stupid i know.

i was mixed up with a bad crowd

of angry blue haired women.

but listen brother,

you have to get me out of here.

do you know how hard it is

being a woman, i mean a real

woman?

i count calories now.

i'm forced to watch the View every day

in the rec room.

do you have any idea what i have

to do to get a single tube

of lipstick in here?

or an ounce of Oil of Olay?

please, i beg of you, my brother,

you have to get me out

of here.

i need a Clarence Darrow,

or a Johnny Cochrane to litigate

for me.

Get me out of here.

is that a nose ring in your nose,

Jimmy? i mean Jenna.

nah, it's like a little clamp thingy

i made from a bed spring.

my roomie, Bertha, showed me how.

family or bite sized

they can

make fruit in any size

now.

vegetables too.

the mad scientists

are at it again.

pick your

favorite,

family or bite sized.

you want

small potatoes, we got them.

small carrots,

baby peas,

personal melons,

that too.

sweeter bananas

and oranges,

pears and grapes,

right off the winter

vines,

no problem.

tell us the shape, the color,

the size

and we'll custom order

what it took

mother nature a million

years to contrive.

assisting the elderly protestors

i set up a lemonade stand

next to

the protesters

on the corner.

i have cold Ensure too,

in coolers,

because many of the protestors

are elderly.

i have energy bars,

and home made

cookies.

sandwiches with the crust

cut off.

tuna and cucumber.

easy to chew

for those with dental issues.

i advise them to pace themselves.

Rome wasn't torn down

in a day.

i suggest going easy

because

the current administration

still has another

1000 or so days.

i give them free throat lozenges,

to ease

their vocal cords,

and help them with a thesaurus

to come up with

new nursery rhyme

chants to say.

i keep a defibrillator on the side

just in case.

working longer into the years

not everyone,

but many

are working longer these days.

refusing to quit

and retire

from their jobs.

i saw a ninety-year old

man

robbing a liquor store just

yesterday.

he can't seem to relax

on a beach,

put his gun,

his mask and his

getaway car away.

from Tampa to tundra

i give in to the weather.

the new

heat of summer, and hit

the switch

on the wall to cool.

the fan

comes alive

with cold air.

i've gone from Tampa

to tundra

with the push of a button.

even the dog

sighs

with relief

as he lies by the vent

with a smile

on his face, asleep.

rotisserie sleep

there is no

shortage of wraps in drawer.

from foil

to plastic,

to paper bags,

to parchment paper.

thick wrapping paper

for things

that will be

frozen in the freezer,

forever more.

i think about it as i wrap

the sheets around

me at night.

for another rotisserie

sleep.

never to be auctioned

i see

the finger painting

taped

to the refrigerator

from

her first born child

at the age

of three.

it's red

and yellow, green.

a mash

of colors

with no meaning.

but it's art.

a priceless piece

of love.

it's a keepsake.

never to be auctioned

off at Sotheby's.

finding rock bottom

you know when

your life

is a complete mess,

when

you've hit rock bottom,

when someone

suggests

that you and your wife

or girlfriend,

or entire family

should go on

the Jerry 
Springer show,

Maury,

or to be in a chair

next to

Dr. Phil

ready to bare all,

to discuss and confess.

the money grab

everyone who knew

has a book

out,

you see them on tv,

on the news

and shows

touting their revelations

about

how they didn't know what

they knew.

they hold back

on the truth.

it's funny and sad

at the same time.

this obvious

charade for the money grab.

split in two

i know

right from wrong. and yet,

i let myself

talk myself into doing

or saying

things i really

wish i hadn't.

the regret is almost immediate.

full of familiar guilt.

it's almost as if

there are two of me.

i'm split.

it's about the baby now

i look out the window

and see

the woman

next door with her baby.

she's sitting

in a lounge chair,

holding a bottle to

the baby's mouth.

she's all about

the baby now.

she's stopped wearing fancy

clothes

and shoes,

stopped getting her hair

done,

or exercising.

i no longer see her out

there with a book

or her computer.

it's about the baby now.

for a while at least.

shopping for a mattress

in a small chair

at a small desk in the back

of the long

narrow store

sits a fat man

who looks at me

when i

come through the door.

there are rows and rows

of mattresses

for sale.

i push down on one,

sit on

another.

the man comes forward,

adjusting his belt

and tells me to go ahead

and lie down.

that's our best seller.

plus it's

on sale.

i lie down and stretch

out,

i sink into the soft cushion

of it,

then fall asleep.

i have a dream about Angela.

when i wake up the man is

still standing there.

i think this is the one,

i tell him.

a news fast

saturated

and sick with news.

i stop.

enough.

i'm more than full.

one day without it won't

hurt me.

one day without

knowing what's going on in

the world

won't kill me.

maybe i'll shoot

for two.

it's mostly fake

or twisted in some

dark way,

anyway.

the construction site

as i sit in the chair

at the dentist office,

with my mouth numbed

with Novocain,

my body turned nearly

upside down,

the dentist and her assistant

are going at it.

taking turns to put their

little hands

in my mouth.

it sounds like a small

construction site

going on in there,

the drilling, the jackhammers.

saws and cranes.

pulleys and trucks

backing up.

i swear i could almost hear

the little men wearing

hard hats, asking to take

a lunch break.

the trophy wife

she used to tell

me

that she was my trophy wife,

spinning around

in her home made

dress

and crocs

her hair done up

like a loaf

of bread.

you are so lucky to have me,

she said.

which made

me laugh.

again i had won fourth place.

the massage house call

it was probably

a bad idea hiring a massage

therapist

from online.

the photo of the masseuse

was quite

alluring though, strong, but sexy

a woman from Ukraine,

so i took

a shot.

i took my clothes off

and wrapped

a towel around me.

i waited for the door bell

to ring, then yelled out,

come on in.

but now as i lie here, with

my hands

tied behind my back and everything

in the house gone,

i see the error of my ways.

did you get my message?

i sent you

a message via 

mental telepathy.

i wonder

if you got it.

i concentrated for an hour

and turned myself

in your direction.

i emptied everything in

my head and

sent to you

what i had to say.

i got a lot off my mind.

hopefully you got

the message,

and that there was no delay,

with nothing lost

along the way.

talked into it

there

has always been a bad influence

in your life.

a bad

boy or girl, telling you

to go ahead

and do something you didn't

want to do.

pushing you

over the edge.

go ahead, they'd say,

what are you chicken?

do it.

and who would want

to be a chicken,

not even chickens want to

be chickens.

the cow jumped over the moon

i tip toe

down the hall to check

on the baby.

she's asleep

in her crib,

swaddled in pink,

the mobile gently moving

above her

head.

she's safe, at least for now.

i suppose she's dreaming,

whatever

babies dream about

with so little to go on.

i'd like to keep her this way,

innocent and

unburdened

by what lies ahead.

i'll rock beside her, staring

at the walls

with the moon

looking down,

straddled by

the black and white cow.

perpetually unhappy and angry people

he's angry,

i can see that. he's been angry

for a long

time,

for as long as i've known him.

he's the guy

in a bar fight,

the road rage guy,

the guy in line at the store,

telling everyone

to hurry up,

he's that guy.

the domestic violence guy,

the protester in the street guy

with a mask

on, holding a sign.

he's battling the police

the system,

the government.

he's been fighting his entire

life.

i ask him why,

why so angry, but i stand back

just in case he takes

a swing.

he shakes his head,

don't you see what's going on here,

he says.

don't you understand

the mess we're in?

not really,  i tell him, 

but quickly backpedaling

to duck his right.

what's left behind

what haven't you

left

behind at some point.

what thing,

what pair of glasses

or watch,

or umbrella haven't you

left on a ledge

or seat.

what money have you lost,

dropped

to the floor,

what time

have you wasted

in the fog,

lost without direction.

who haven't you

called,

what haven't you done

today

that should have been

done?

all of it at what cost?

cutting worms in two

i can't fish anymore,

cutting a worm

in half

and sliding his slimy

body onto a hook.

one minute safe and sound,

soft and wriggly

in the ground and the next

minute

sliced in two,

attached to a sharp

hook and flying through

the air

to parts unknown.

not to mention the fish,

tricked into biting

down.

i can't do it anymore,

the guilt is overwhelming.

when the jokes don't work anymore

the stand up

comedian was having a bad night.

nothing was

working,

all the old jokes fell flat.

he began to cry

and sob

when he said, take my wife,

please.

tears were running down his face.

we weren't sure

if this was part of the act

or not.

so we laughed

which made others laugh.

then

he talked about his wayward

kids,

his unpaid bills,

his drinking problem,

how there were mice in the apartment

where he lived.

finally it was over.

the lights went up

and the spotlight turned off.

we felt bad for him.

the man was crumpled on the stage

in the shadows,

wiping his face

with his sleeve.

then he looked up

at the departing crowd and yelled

out, hey,

i'm here tomorrow too.

two shows.

one at six and one at eight.

take care of your

waitresses, and

don't forget to validate your parking

perfect

we say

the word perfect a lot.

let's meet

at ten.

perfect.

where i live is perfect,

so close

to the train

and airport.

those shoes

and dress

go perfectly together.

my job

is perfect.

the situation

is perfect.

this cup of coffee is perfect.

the weather is perfect

for a picnic.

the trip.

we took

was perfect.

the meal we ate.

all perfect.

will we lie in bed at the end

and say

the life we lived

was perfect.

probably not. but it

might get

a few laughs.

more love please

the dog

has been sitting by my

chair

staring at me a lot these

days.

what?

i ask him.

what now?

more food, another walk?

i reach down to scratch

his head,

rub his ears.

he puts his soft head

onto my leg.

i guess it's love

he wants.

i'm in arrears.

reading the room

i see her in kitchen

chopping

vegetables, carrots and onions,

potatoes.

i hear the furious clicks

and snaps

of the knife against the cutting

board.

she seems mad

at something.

maybe me again.

it's best to leave her alone

in times like these,

especially with a sharp

object in her hand.

which parade to go to

she asks me which

parade am i going to this month.

the one

with soldiers

and American flags,

tanks and gun,

military men and women

marching as one,

proud to have served

their country.

strong and brave.

or the other parade,

the one with

blue hair

and nose rings, rainbow

flags,

and nursery rhymes

chanting

hate. marching

in disarray, a slew of

confused men in dresses,

girls who have changed

their names to Jake.

which one, she asks.

it could determine if we

have another date.

we liked each other a lot

we liked each other

a lot.

so much so that we had three

dates,

then four,

then five.

she could see the frustration

growing

on my face

after hours

of kissing in the car.

i was a bundle of nerves,

wringing my hands

and

tapping my feet

on the floor.

ready to quit and give up.

finally

she asked me over to her

house for dinner.

when she opened the door,

she grabbed my

hand and led me upstairs.

okay, she said.

let's get this over with.

i can't take your

anxiety anymore.

how will i ever win you over?

i rely upon

so many things

that i don't understand

and could never

fix if they broke

down.

they are all

mysteries

sealed

and contained in impenetrable

boxes

of steel and plastic

with screws and glue,

space age compounds.

there's the car, the computer,

the phone.

i would electrify myself

if i pried open the back of my tv.

every machine 

in the house

is beyond me.

what's the point in being

a man anymore

when there's nothing

i can fix 

to make you proud.

pickleball

do you

surrender to it?

this craze,

this so called sport,

a combination

between tennis and badminton,

pickleball.

where you hardly have to

move your feet

and never sweat.

is basketball

over.

football?

running around the track,

lifting weights?

is it time to join

the old folks

with your racket

and white pants?

your folding chair

in the shade.

are you really that close

to the grave?

can't they come up with

a better name?

the doctor's appointment

the young doctor

tells me, as i sit in the chair

in his office,

that he's trying to lose

weight,

get his blood pressure down,

trying to get his 

A1C to a healthy level.

i make out a food pyramid

for him to follow.

less carbs, more protein.

nothing in a box or bag.

i advise him to stop smoking,

get rid of the chips and cokes

and cake,

and to start exercising, walking

during the day,

getting a good nights sleep

is important,

and not staying up

late staring into a screen.

get some sunlight, i tell him.

you look like Casper

the ghost, with that translucent

skin.

okay, okay. he says.

thanks for coming in.

alright i tell him, standing up,

let's check your labs in three

months and see were we are.

okay?

and try to curb your drinking,

i tell him.

i can smell the whiskey on you.

here, here's a mint.

coarse ground black pepper

with a quick

glance

at the seasoning cupboard

i see that i have

five

twist bottles of ground

black pepper,

three opened and two

with the labels

intact.

so i cross that item

off my

shopping list.

the difference a day makes

there are days

when you question everything.

it's not the weather,

or work,

family

or friends that are getting

under your skin,

it's a general malaise.

a weariness

of sorts about the world

at large.

you lie there

and think,

what the hell am doing

with my life?

is this it?

work work work,

save,

get old and die?

but then the next morning

comes around

and you jump out of bed,

throw back

the curtains

to the sun and clear sky.

you go down to the kitchen

to make coffee, and a toasted 

buttered bagel. 

thinking once more, 

it's good to be alive.

the unwanted

i see the blue spin

of party

lights

going round and round

on the cop

car behind me.

his siren

going off like a corral

of bovines

screaming in

the farmyard.

is it me

he wants?

apparently not

as i slide

to the side to pullover.

i wave to him

as he speeds bye.

it would be nice to be

wanted,

at least once.

Joe and Joann

no one

cared that Joe wanted to become 

a girl

and be called

Joann.

people accepted

his new hair style

and clothes,

his lipstick.

his new high pitched

way of talking.

they even helped him

with a run

his hose.

no one paid it much mind

until

he won the pole

vault

competition in girls' sports,

the two-mile run,

the high jump,

the triple jump

and the shot-put toss

then started taking showers,

butt naked,

with girls.

the sunlight church

i'm waiting for the sun

to come

around

from behind the trees,

and when it finally does,

i'll go out there

with my book

and coffee and let the warm

morning light fall 

upon my face.

i'll close my eyes and pray.

it's a church of sorts,

minus the talking,

and impossible parking.

a holy place.

women and war

women like

to slap

when in an argument or fight,

while

men tend

to ball up

their fists and strike

that way.

why is that?

are women

the weaker sex?

hardly,

perhaps just kinder when

it comes

to such things

as war

and fights on the street.

i can't fix everything

i can't

fix everything, i tell her, but

i can try.

i have duct

tape

and glue,

screws and nails, tools.

i have a strong

light on

my work bench

in the garage,

but i have so many projects

going on,

toasters and fans,

cars and bikes,

so i'm sorry, your

heart will have

to wait in line.

memory not unlike an elephant

i'm vague

on names and faces, 

dates and time,

but i remember clearly

each and every word

someone might have said

to insult or hurt me.

even from thirty years ago,

i can recall the conversation

and recite it line by line.

is there room for one more?

just as there are rescue

cats

and dogs,

there are rescue people too.

the downtrodden,

the unlucky,

the lazy

and lost.

the perpetually blue.

they have that puppy dog

look in

their eyes when they

knock at the door

and sigh.

they put their hat out

for help,

or ask if you have room

for one more.

fat man with a cigar

there is something

about a man smoking a cigar

that emboldens him.

the big fat

stogie clenched between his teeth,

like a mobster

or politician, 

a Hollywood king.

his chest goes out,

his belly too as he sits back

in his seat.

he believes he's arrived

at some station in life,

and this is the cherry on top.

a cigar from Havana,

blowing smoke rings

into the crowd,

flicking ashes into the night.

birthday at the diner

the old man,

a regular at the diner,

sits alone

and eats

the same food each visit.

tuna on rye,

a salad,

coffee

and a slice of apple pie.

they know him

by name.

he prefers the back booth

where he can

see everyone,

but few can see him.

today is his birthday.

i see the waitress

arrive with

a cupcake, a single

candle in the middle

that she's already lit.

softly she sings to him

the happy birthday song.

i want to clap,

but i don't.

nonfiction

most of this story

is true.

some

i've embellished, 

but all parts

are real,

i have proof.

pictures mostly and

emails and

text messages once

concealed.

it's a wild tale

of adultery

and felons,

love and regret, passion

and folly.

pain and survival.

it's a made for tv script.

almost too crazy to be

believed,

but i'm so tired,

so weary of it all,

and my mouth hurts

from telling it.

what lay between us

we used

to lie in bed and talk.

arm to arm,

a leg

against leg.

sometimes

we made

love, sometimes we

turned

the tv on

or read.

sometimes the dog

came between us.

pushing us away

from each other.

sometimes

it was other things, 

things that we said.

a days wages

a lucky day

was finding coins in the cup

of a phone

booth,

or scattered on the floor,

or

in the drawer

of a coke machine,

left behind.

empty bottles

along

the river.

2 cents a pop.

a nickel for the larger

kind.

a days wages for a thirteen

year old

those days.

that kind of boy

i step into

the puddle, ankle deep,

then splash

and kick through it.

the street is long and wide

and black

with rain.

i find another puddle

and do the same.

i'm still that

kind of boy.

nothing's changed.

the wrecking ball

we stand

at the fence, watching 

as the wrecking ball

swings wide and hard

at the walls 

of the old school.

throwing

bricks and wood,

steel

into piles soon to be

hauled away.

how quickly

things end.

i can still remember

the halls

of learning.

the chalk boards,

the books

and desks, globes spinning.

the education of it all,

some of it in the classroom,

but most out

behind the gym, 

near the woods at the end

of the field.

under bleachers,

in a bathroom stall.

first kisses,

first feels.

first broken hearts.

none of it seems real

as the wrecking ball

swings hard.

eating light and yet still needing stretch pants

the white

chickens

in the yard next door

are clucking madly,

pecking

wildly

at the tiny bugs on

the ground,

they seem to never

get their fill.

it makes you wonder

how they ever got

so fat and round

on such a diet

of insects.

the Sunday paper coupons

buying an enormous boat,

or a horse,

or a beach house to go along

with your regular

house,

or a sports car

in addition to the Land Rover

means that you are pretty

much set,

no longer cutting out coupons

on a Sunday morning,

or worrying about

the price of eggs,

or paying the electric bill.

a ski trip to the Alps?

sure, why not?

the scissors will never again

see the light of day.

dream on lover boy, she says.

look i found a double

for toilet paper and another one

for bug spray.

failure

it's the failure

of throwing the apple core

towards

the basket

and missing, having it roll

across the floor

after hitting

the rim

that bothers you.

perhaps you've lost it

after all.

telling Becky to get over it

i've reached

the age where i answer the door

in my underwear.

i take the trash

out that way too,

or fetch the mail

in the box.

i don't care anymore.

they're just shorts, no

different than a bathing suit

at the beach or pool.

it's not a Speedo for God's sake.

so get over it, Becky,

mayor of the court,

queen of the condo board.

the over sixty protest

there's a new protest going

on up the block.

remnants from the end the war

crowd back in 69.

did someone forget to lock

the rest home doors?

they chant and yell, hold

up their home-made signs.

they whistle and blow

their horns.

stamp their feet at the cars

driving by.

there's a table under

the shade tree with cookies

and Ensure,

free sunscreen, and prune

juice.

it goes on for nearly an hour

or so, until sometime

reminds them that it's

dinner time.

instant karma

do we ever get

what's coming to us?

they call

it karma.

are we ever punished in this

life

for bad things

that we've done

to others,

or is that in the next life

when we burn

in hell.

having thought about it,

a lot,

i'd rather take my lumps

now.

i'm not good with hot.

the first grade report card

i found in my mother's

attic box

after she died, my first grade

report card.

i read down

the yellowed paper with

the checks beside 

each task i performed.

he colors well,

staying between the lines,

behaves himself.

he knows his alphabet,

he can count 

up to 99,

he's polite and kind,

though shy at times.

he's a good runner,

does well

on the monkey bars,

the swing

and slide.

he is proficient at spelling

for his age.

he eats with his mouth

closed.

is properly dressed,

his hair is always combed.

but i've noticed,

wrote the teacher,

Mrs. Barone,

that he won't leave

the girls alone.

especially the ones with

pigtails.

her daily circle

i see

the black cat,

Lilly,

walking slowly through

the parking lot,

beginning her

daily stroll.

no collar,

in no hurry to do what

she does.

which is what?

sometimes

she'll turn her green

eyes my

way,

and stop.

she'll  let out

a raspy meow

when

i say good morning Lilly.

then she moves on.

the concert pulpit

the show

was fine up until the point

where

the leader of the band

began to make

a political

speech.

going on and on and on

about

what he felt the country

should believe

and do.

preaching from his pulpit

to a stuck

group who came for the music

not this.

some clapped, some booed.

i wondered

as i drove away,

how many of his

old albums, cassettes and cd's

could i sell on e-bay when

i got home.

punch drunk on love

to be punch drunk

on false love

is a dangerous thing.

lost

without a map.

stumbling

in the darkness

of infatuation

and lust,

unable

to walk a straight

line,

or to recite the alphabet.

and the morning

after,

when at last sober,

you wonder

what was i thinking,

vowing never

again to imbibe

in this kind of

drinking.

before the school bus came

we stood

in line

in the hallway, waiting

to use

the bathroom in the morning.

a towel

in hand,

a toothbrush.

a comb.

the girls took too long,

the boys

were in an out.

by the end of the morning

rush,

there was

no hot water left,

the seat left up.

but my mother

sighed

and smiled,

we were gone,

and out of the house.

nothing yet

i'm standing at

the window waiting for the promised

storm.

waiting on the wind.

and rain.

the deluge to begin.

waiting on

the fury of gusts to ravage

the land

to overflow

the stream.

channel seven eight and nine

swore

their lives

on it.

they were on the roof

in their yellow rain

coats,

pointing at some distant

slice of lightning.

they promised.

they warned us to batten

down the hatches,

to get into the cellar,

grab toto

and to call your next

of kin.

get out the candles,

charge your phones now.

get out the limes

and gin.

that can't be me

it's not you in the store window,

the blurred

reflection

as you walk, hurried as usual.

it's not you,

why bother to pause

and take a

longer look.

it will never be you.

keep telling yourself that.

be content, 

though disillusioned

and ignore what's true.

picking blueberries

let's go

pick some fruit, she tells me

one Saturday morning.

i lower

the newspaper

and say,

what?

let's drive out to Berryville

and pick

some blueberries,

or strawberries.

spend the day out in the country.

come on,

there's not a cloud

in sky.

it'll be fun.

i try to get a read on her face

to see if this

will be a problem

if i say no.

but the look in her

eyes says

that there's no way out.

there will be hell to pay.

okay, i tell her.

swallowing a sigh.

let me get dressed, then we

can go.

great she says, i've already

packed the car.

less adventurous

i am

no longer as adventurous

as i used

to be.

i stick with lasagna

on the menu,

steering clear

of clams or snails

to eat.

i buy Japanese

when it

comes to cars.

i go with cotton sheets.

and stay

away from women

in perpetual therapy.

i'm no longer in a hurry,

i drive in

the right lane,

taking the back roads

to enjoy

the scenery.

why even think anymore

no need

to write, or read, or think

anymore.

A.I.

has your back.

it's working overtime

to fill

your day

with creative endeavors.

go back to sleep.

be dumb,

be quiet.

music and art too.

who needs

Da Vinci

or Beethoven,

who needs

Harvard or Yale,

who needs

sixteen years of school?

i think we can make money on this debacle

all the newsmen

are

writing books now, throwing

up their hands

in wonder.

we never knew,

they say.

how could we possibly know

that he

wasn't up to the job

of being president

of the United States

anymore.

our bosses,

despite all the constant

mumbling and stumbling

and falling asleep,

made us say

that he was fine, sharp

as a tack,

fit as a fiddle.

in great shape.

the best he's ever been.

my book will tell you all

about it, 

how blind we were

and complicit in the masquerade.

only thirty-nine, ninety-five

on Amazon,

or at your local bookstore.

a great Father's Day gift.

you'll be amazed

at what we did.

stay tuned for more.

Violet at the deli counter

i ask the young man,

or woman

behind the deli counter to slice

me up

a half a pound

of pastrami.

he has a beard, but is wearing

a dress.

lipstick

and a nose ring.

his blue hair is under

a tight net.

on his arm is a tattoo

that says,

U.S. Navy, with an anchor

on his wrist.

his name tag says, Violet.

i try not to stare,

but i can't help myself.

i see a red bra strap under

his work shirt.

will there be anything else?

he says,

as he hands me

my pastrami.

maybe some coleslaw

i tell him, a medium sized

container, please.

thank you, Violet.

flexible hours

i see the same

man

nearly everyday on the corner.

sign in hand,

a folding chair,

a backpack

and water.

he's doing well it seems,

well fed

and tanned

new clothes,

wearing Michael Jordan shoes.

it's becoming harder

and harder

to feel sorry for him.

he waves

and smiles as i roll

by his office

on the corner.

his job

of doing nothing

seems to be paying well.

the red bulb is blinking

there should be

a red

light installed in the center

of everyone's

forehead,

so that when they tell a lie,

the bulb lights up

and blinks.

there would be no news

reporters then,

no journalists, or politicians, 

no salesmen,

no doctors,

no Facebook friends,

no one

on a dating site.

in time,

the world would glow red.

three days of rain

it's best not to stay

home

too many days in a row.

you begin

to see that the carpet

needs cleaning,

the walls

need paint.

you see the dust,

the mud

tracked

on the tile.

spills on the stove.

maybe it's time to change

that dead

lightbulb

in the hallway.

perhaps pour Drano

down the drain.

what is that dripping noise

i hear?

was that a mouse

scurrying across the kitchen

floor?

hopefully the sun will

come back

tomorrow

before i open

the refrigerator door.

the girl fight outside of a bar

it was a girl

fight,

for reasons unknown,

there was

a lot of screaming and cursing,

hair being

pulled,

scratching, punches

swung

wildly

and missing.

handbags

used as weapons,

clobbering

each other across

the chin.

kicking too with

thrown

shoes.

strangely,

as the crowd gathered,

no one wanted to break it

up.

breakfast at denny's

the older

one gets, not me of course,

but the elderly,

they want

more out of life, they want

to go

live in the Villages

of Florida,

or Margaritaville,

maybe find another love

or two,

a new husband or wife.

they want paradise on

a plate

of grass, golfing and music,

dancing

until morning light.

the pool, the hot tub,

the sauna.

blue skies.

they want the grey out

of their hair,

and to be thin again.

no one wants to grow old,

then die.

they want to make one

last effort

into not going gently into

that good night.

it's no longer the romance

of Breakfast

at Tiffany's, maybe Denny's

will be alright.

the shampoo girl

i fell in love

with the shampoo girl.

her

hands

in the lush

soapy water,

warm

and soft

upon my head.

i could only see

her from

upside down.

but it didn't matter.

now i remember

i forgot

that part of you until

we ran

into each other on the street.

in a few short

minutes

of talking and catching up,

with me hardly

saying a word,

i remembered

why

the years have gone by,

without me looking

you up.

a new kid behind the counter

the boy,

the paint store clerk,

has

his picture on

the wall.

draped with a black

ribbon.

he's smiling, a smile

i've

seen before.

blue eyed

and the hair, my God,

the hair.

the blush

of freckles

on his face.

no hint of the short

life, that short road before

him.

before the pill was taken.

but the world blinks

and moves on.

there's a new

kid now,

behind the counter

of the paint store.

boiling water

i know

this water will eventually boil.

i have

faith in it,

and yet,

by standing here

staring into the cold

pot,

dashed

with salt, i feel the need

to help it

along.

to will it forward.

oh, sugar pie

she had

her sister follow me,

her brother-in-law

download

every stroke of the keyboard

on my

Dell computer,

she searched my pant pockets,

shook out

books,

she lifted

up rugs

and pulled open drawers,

searching

for that one clue

that would put the final

nail into my coffin.

she was endless in her

pursuit, in

justifying the reason

for a divorce.

but it wasn't always that way.

there were days

before

when we took long walks

and held hands.

when we called each other names

like honeybun

and sugar pie.

the thin walls and floors and ceilings

i didn't realize

that the walls were so thin

in my

first apartment

off Brinkley Road.

i didn't know

that everyone

could hear the music

i played,

the loud

conversations with my

friends,

the love i made with

the second or third love of

my life

in the bedroom

or in the kitchen.

i didn't realize how thin

the walls were

until the banging

from next door and below,

from above

on the floor began.

the bottom line

there was a bar

downtown.

a dark place that you had

to go down

a flight of steps

to get into.

it was called The Bottom Line.

there was a black and white

tv in the corner,

always on,

but no one watched or listened,

the volume

turned down.

i don't remember if

there was music.

maybe a jukebox

next to the cigarette machine.

the bartender poured good

drinks

and someone you never saw

made sandwiches

in the back,

there were

French fries and coleslaw too,

and always a bowl

of nuts

within reach.

a bottle of ketchup

and mustard, sat

side by side.

people smoked

back then, the long room

was blue with it.

there were no cell phones.

they talked to each other

as the night went on.

they drank

too much,

came early and left late.

they laughed, they cried.

they were trying

to figure it all out.

sometimes they wrote

names

and numbers on the bathroom

walls

next to the condom

dispenser.

call June for a good time,

or clever thoughts like,

without dreams we are

destined to a life

of mediocrity.

the subway car we lived in

the house

was a subway car

full of children.

it thundered down

an unknown

track.

we jostled one another,

hanging

on to the straps,

bumping

against each other,

fighting for

the chair,

the spot we wanted

by the window,

squeezing

our shoulders together

through each door.

the motion

of those years,

is still with me,

even with all these empty

rooms to live in.

the soup and cold compress

how instinctively

kind

she was.

with the soup and cold

compress

for your

forehead,

reading to you as you

lay in bed.

propping up the pillow

just so.

did she have a choice

with this

love,

or was it built in

by nature,

doing

what all mothers

are prone

to do.

don't settle

in many

ways

you are still running

towards

first base,

the ball struck into

left field,

with a hard crack

of the bat.

maybe you should

go for two

bases,

not settling for one.

or go further,

testing the arm

of the boy

far out in the grass.

go for three, boy, go.

and why not,

why not, keep running,

go all the way,

go home.

four seasons

the metaphor

of seasons, is an easy one

to apply

to our lives.

the tragedy of being

cut down in spring,

the hot

summers

of youth,

where love overflows,

old age and the falling

of leaves,

our hair full of snow.

it's easy

to see how things go

when we take

notice,

no need to read poetry,

or to study Shakespeare,

just look out the window,

look into the mirror.

now you know.

summing each other up

as men,

perhaps as women too,

we measure

the worth

of someone by their

handshake,

whether right

or wrong,

false or true,

we feel the grip or

none,

the softness,

the moist palm,

the vigor of the shake,

are we

holding on

too long, too short?

so much

of what takes place

next

relies upon it.

the daily morning phone call

it's early

but

i take the call 

anyway,

i'm still in bed,

yet

to make the first cup

of coffee.

i've won

8.5 million dollars from

the publisher's clearing house

again.

and another

pearl white

Mercedes Benz.

i listen

to the polite man

from Jamaica

tell me what i need to do

to receive

my prize money and car.

i only need

to buy

one green dot money pak

gift card

for a mere

500 dollars

for the prize patrol to show

up

at my door.

i tell them wonderful.

can't wait to see you.

then i hang up,

and take a long hot shower.

waiting for help to come along

the quick

sand

is not so quick at all

i think

as i step into the soft

parcel

of ground.

as i slowly

slip under,

i wonder why they

call it

quicksand

when it's so slow.

sadly,

i may never

get the answer to this

question

unless helps comes

along.

take the long way around

my knee

tells me the weather.

my shoulder

too.

they each say rain,

a cold

rain

is coming,

take an umbrella,

wear

rubber shoes.

the bridge may be out.

take the long

way

around.

i trust these aches

and pains,

they're rarely wrong.

don't cash until Tuesday

the landlord

is coming up the stairs,

i can hear the heavy

drop of his shoes,

and the long

deep breaths he takes,

stopping

at each landing

of the four

floor walkup.

with work being slow.

the rent is

overdue,

i slip him a check

and a note

half under the door

before he even knocks.

which he finds

when he finally arrives.

i see it disappear

into his hand

as he mumbles thank you.

it's an arrangement

we both

understand.

chewing on beef jerky all day

like a strip of

old beef jerky, unseasoned

and dry,

a long

strap of seared

cowhide,

i chew

on the thought all day

and come

up with no solution.

there is no

answer i can rely on.

only a deep sleep

in a feather bed

might show

me the way.

dear Russia

it's hard

to understand the killing.

the slaughter

of those

of your kind.

the bombs

and drones,

the bullets

and missiles. what the hell

is going on

here,

and why?

how many more souls

need to die?

what's the point of destroying

all the land

and cities,

the towns and farms that

you eventually want

to occupy.

what then?

will new boundaries

on a map

at last

make you satisfied?

Friday was payday

it was a wonderous thing.

this slip

of paper,

a rectangular payment

for work

done

the last week.

manual labor

of some sort.

there it was in your hands.

your very first check

from your first real

job.

you looked

at the bottom

line, the 

dollar amount

and cents

in the box beside

your name,

then read through what

was taken

away.

FICA, state

and local taxes,

Federal taxes,

a strange fee of some kind.

you grumbled with those

around you.

hearing someone say

that the man

was keeping us down.

you shook your head

in agreement,

but just the same,

you folded the check carefully

and placed

it into your wallet,

then took it to the bank

in town.

Best on the Beach

it says

here, best on the beach.

it's right here

in the hotel

magazine.

it's even on the banner

pulled

by the small

plane going by.

it's a list of what's been

voted best

at the beach

since 1985.

we need look no further.

best buns on the beach,

best coffee,

best ribs,

best chicken.

best place to get your oil

changed.

best bank,

best massage parlor,

best pizza,

best hotel

best bar.

best lawyer on the beach,

best optometrist, 

best locksmith,

best beach band,

best boat rental,

best fishing,

best sailing, best all

you can eat.

best margaritas,

best medical clinic,

best animal hospital.

best 7-11 on the beach.

best saltwater taffy.

best crabs,

best sand dunes.

best tree.

here we are

it's impossible

to

reason with the enormity

of

space.

the endless,

bottomless barrel of stars,

of galaxies,

the spin

of it all,

the black emptiness of so much.

and yet

here we are.

until further notice

i retreat

into the cave and lie

down.

i put the sign

up.

closed until further notice.

i lock

the cave door

and set the alarm

for

tomorrow.

i've had enough for

one day.

her collection of sea shells

i admire

your collection of shells.

each

handful

from a different beach,

a different

state

or country.

i like how you've placed

them

on the shelves,

the windowsill so that

everyone

can admire them.

i have nothing bad

to say

about your shells,

white and pink,

some streaked with gold

or blue.

i like the story that

each

shell tells.

sometimes i hold one

up to my

ear,

and listen.

leftovers

it's hard for me

to let go of things.

things that are

no longer of interest

to me.

take

all the frozen

leftovers,

in my freezer,

for example.

better days are coming

i feel that

better

days are coming.

i can feel it in the air.

there's

a general

feeling of lightness,

of good times

up ahead.

things

will improve,

i can almost taste it.

i just know they will,

there's promise

in the days to come,

or maybe

it's just the wine

i'm drinking

with the bottle almost

done.

the wagging tail and the butcher

the butcher,

it seems, has no feelings.

there

is nothing

on his face

that resembles kindness

or hate,

there is just the flat

tone

of his voice

taking

the next number as

he waits for

a customer to point out

which

meat

and what weight.

the blood on his apron

means nothing.

it's work.

he'll go home tonight

to his wife

who loves him.

to his children, but the dog

will be

the most excited,

staring longingly out

the window.

he can hardly wait.

the shaving mirror

you saw

your father do it first,

standing at the bathroom sink,

the mirror fogged

then wiped with

the ball of his fist,

the shaking of the can

before

the lather came out

and was pushed upon his

cheeks, spread

under his nose,

to his chin and ears,

his neck,

and then the slow drag

of a razor,

up and down, across the

softened bristles

of his face.

you saw him do this a hundred

times,

at least.

and now

your son watches you,

standing at your knees.

or is it just today?

i have

nothing against the bug

crawling

up the wall,

but when i was younger

 i'd roll up 

a newspaper

and take him

out.

extinguish his life

without a thought.

but i don't now.

i carefully lift him

towards the window,

where he surprises me

by spreading his wings

to fly away.

have i really changed?

or is it just

today?

something to do before bed

you need

a hobby, my therapist tells me,

as i go

on about

the long days and nights,

the absence

of so many in my life,

through distance

or death.

you need a hobby, she says.

perhaps art,

or golf, or pickleball,

something

to keep your hands and

mind occupied

before bed.

i sigh and stretch out my legs.

you really don't

understand me, do you?

i tell her.

finding home

i've settled in.

i can say that now, after

seventeen

moves

in my life. this is home.

this is where

i should be.

i know where everything

is.

i know the steps

going up or down,

the way the sunlight arrives

through

each window,

in each season.

i know the moon too,

how it hits

the water

in the stream below.

i know the creaks of

each floorboard,

the noises

the plumbing makes.

i know the dust, i know

the stuck doors,

i know the sound of 

the shutters when the wind

comes.

the sound of rain

on the roof.

i know this house more

than

i've ever known a house before.

the three-day weekend

what

gold the three-day weekend

used to be.

what pleasure

there was

in lying in bed

on a Monday

morning,

close to noon,

with the sun coming

through the window.

what a luxury

it used to be

but now, sadly, it isn't

anymore.

the arched shadow and hiss

the cat

arching his back

spooked

by you

coming around the corner.

and you,

scared too

of the arched shadow

and hiss,

letting out

a gasp.

this living alone

is getting

to you.

the quiet husband

the couple,

married for more years than

all three of my

marriages combined,

are sitting

together

at the party.

she talks a lot, while

he keeps quiet.

he's learned

his place

over time. never saying

what's on

his mind,

for doing so

would ruin a month

of nights.

never the horse's fault

she falls

off her horse nearly every year

and breaks

a bone.

an arm,

a leg, her neck.

but she heals

and hops right back on,

it's never

the horse's fault

she says.

it's mine. it's all my

fault,

then she puts another

helmet on her

head.

same old

in time,

there is less and less

that bothers you, riles you up.

you're more

apt

to smile

and laugh.

step back and observe

the parade

going by.

you've been

through what most of them

are going through

and you're done

with it.

it's their turn to try

and change

what can't be changed.

she's absolutely right

she tells me that

my religion,

my faith is a crutch.

my trust

in Christ is

something

i lean upon,

a place i go to when

things

are rough.

a light i run to when

darkness

surrounds me.

i tell her, she's absolutely

right.

step lightly

it's

unavoidable

the violence of this life.

it's in

the art,

the music, the screams

and yells.

it's in

politics, nature,

traffic.

the violence is in

the cancer

lurking

in our cells.

the falling trees,

the thunder,

the floods and fires.

it's a violent world.

murderous

and frightful.

step

lightly as you go

about your day.

i blame technology

i get depressed reading

about how

many people

are depressed

these days.

young and old.

each with their own set

of problems

that are bringing them down,

raining on their

parade.

why are they so cloudy

and disturbed

all day?

it's just a wild guess,

but i blame

technology.

solving the math of you

i can't solve

you.

your problems, your

issues.

you are not a group

of numbers,

an equation

with a right or wrong

answer.

there are many answers

to you.

many solutions,

and unknowns.

if only there was one

answer,

that was true.

Joe's autopen

i buy

an autopen, like the one

used in the white house

for the last four

years.

it signs

all of my checks and bills,

my letters

going out.

important documents.

i no longer read

anything anymore.

i just find the bottom line

and hit the button

and sign.

i use it for ordering things

i don't need,

for divorces

and settlements.

i'll never get carpal

tunnel syndrome

again.

the clearing of birds

the men

come with their long ladder

to remove

the bird nests

in the soffit

of the house.

no more

chirping or flapping

of wings,

no more eggs

and straw,

or droppings raining

down.

i see them on the fence

staring up

at me

through the window.

disappointed in

who i am.

the puddle of your dress on the floor

i like how

you throw your clothes around.

letting them

lie on the floor,

underwear,

robes and gowns,

pants and shorts.

i stare at the puddle of

the yellow

dress you wore

last night,

listening to you as you

sing in the shower.

we're so much

alike.