bug crawling on the wall

i wonder

what's going through the bug's

head

as it crawls

up the wall.

a many legged

thing,

with antennas,

golden brown, with

traces

of red.

it moves

with bursts of speed

like a jacked up

Chevy

in a bad neighborhood.

this way

and that way, it goes.

is there

a plan for today?

like me, i hope so.

i'm waiting for instructions

as i lie here.

her medicine cabinet

i take

a peek into your medicine

cabinet

when i go in

to shower.

carefully i open the squeaky

metal

and glass

door,

to see how crazy you

are.

how sick,

perhaps,

how depressed,

what pills are lined up

on the shelf

that makes you 

who you're

pretending to be.

is there anything i can

catch?

anything that might

kill me?

cry me a river

what

isn't stolen land,

land

won

by war, or lack

of

borders.

migration, 

disease,

or lawyers.

who isn't living on

a plot of dirt

where others

lived before.

there's history

then more history,

until

the time before.

the sky has fallen

the sky

has finally fallen.

there

are pieces everywhere,

in the smoke

and ash.

what was

bound to happen,

has.

what's wrong with these people?

i used

to like the city until the endless

protests

and riots started

and have never

stopped.

it's hard to go out and get

a sandwich

these days

or a cup of coffee.

the tear gas,

the fires,

the protestors and cops.

don't these people

have lives,

have jobs?

have families, or dogs

to walk?

real photos of a dead alien in a government lab in Jersey

i take the bait

and click on the post

labeled

genuine leaked alien photos

in a government lab

in Trenton.

i stare at the blurry

photos

of the extraterrestrial

creature.

it's a long

white slippery looking

thing

that reminds me of

a white sausage

hanging in the window

of a New York deli,

however this thing

has big eyes, and a bald

head,

no pants,

but no genitals either,

thank God.

it looks like someone

stretched

Casper the friendly ghost out,

like silly putty,

filled him

up with air, 

and laid him there.

all floppy arms and legs.

he looks a peace, if

it is a he.

the pronouns have yet to

be decided on.

serenity now

how quiet

this house is now.

how peaceful

and serene,

the empty rooms, no

creaking

of steps,

or radios on, no

television being viewed.

just me,

and at last,

no you.

with cake on their faces

i sip on

the clear glass

of cold water

on this hot summer day,

on the front

stoop.

some children skip

by holding

birthday

balloons,

red, blue and white,

the parents in tow,

i wave.

a dog comes over

to wag

his tail, 

allowing me to pet

him. somebody's 

birthday

has gone by, such

fleeting

time.

acting brave despite

the bang

startled me like a little

girl

in the dark,

a shadow

on the wall,

coward

at heart, i am,

a fragile

kitty

on soft feet,

walking through

life,

afraid of nearly

everything, 

the day and the night,

but

acting

brave, despite.

johnny Appleseed on the high seas

my father

had nine children, that we know of.

but he was

in the navy

and sailed the seven

seas,

and wore a lot of 

Old Spice cologne,

so we suspect

there are a lot more

out there.

maybe a son,

steering a gondola

in Venice,

another

in China

making stir fry,

a daughter in Spain

dancing on a table

snapping her castanets.

each one with his

broad shoulders, his

blue eyes, and curly

blonde hair.

a recipe for dumplings

i take

a break from the riots,

the fires

and looting,

watching

it all on tv,

and switch over to the cooking

channel.

two stocky women in blue

aprons

are making

a beef stew, with potatoes

and carrots,

onions.

celery and peas.

i can almost smell it through

the screen.

i begin to salivate.

quickly i run and get

my pad of paper

and a pen

and begin to scribble down

the recipe.

the dumplings

are the hardest.

i've never been good with

dumplings.

forever war

once of age,

reading

the paper, watching the news,

i can't remember

a single year

gone by

when there wasn't trouble,

chaos and war

in the middle east.

no matter which regime

is in power.

it's endless,

until the end. 

even the Bible will tell

you so.

one more for the road

enough

drink will do many things,

it'll give you

courage

to say the things

you couldn't say,

or make you happy,

silly,

make you want to dance

and laugh,

or it will

darken you,

remind of everything

you threw away,

each golden opportunity,

each chance.

it can make

you angry and sad,

make you tap the bar

for one more,

one more for the road

before it all

ends.

her favorite chair

we found

her

in the big yellow chair

in the corner,

next to the window,

the bird cage,

the telephone.

but she wasn't asleep

this time,

she was somewhere

else,

still smiling

though,

the yarn in her lap,

the long scarf

incomplete, not quite

ready

for Christmas.

the long distance runner

like with

any addiction, there's a price

to pay

at some point.

i used run

three times a week,

five miles

or more

each day. rain or shine.

snow or ice.

and then

there was basketball,

four nights

a week,

pounding the ball on

black tops

for decades,

on broken concrete.

i left nothing

out there, used up every

chance to play,

but now

slowly i dip my legs

into ice water

each night.

running has become

a distant memory.

crowned but not a king

my dentist

refers

to my mouth as Las Vegas.

a slot

machine

coming up all cherries

when she

pulls

the lever on the one arm

bandit,

my eyes spinning

at the cost.

so many crowns and yet

i'm still

not a king.

the Sunday flip of the coin

it was a tough

decision

trying to figure out where to spend

our Sunday in

the city

with the family.

to put a blanket down

and have

a picnic.

should we go to the parade,

where soldiers

are marching,

where

bands are playing,

where the history of our

country is on

display?

the night sky

full of patriotic fireworks?

or should we go to the protest

on the other

side of the fence,

with fires burning,

rocks and

Molotov cocktails

being thrown.

flags on fire, with

men in dresses, and megaphones

cursing in our ears.

not quite fully covered

it's for the house,

the car,

for work,

for health, for the dog,

the cat,

the children,

the roof.

there's extra warranty

on the phone

the dishwasher,

the television,

the computer.

i'm covered from

head to toe.

i'm ready for what

happens next,

the inevitable storm

on the horizon.

my wrist hurts

from writing so many

checks.

even my knees are sore

from prayer.

hooking the clasp

can you help

me with this, please, she

says,

standing at the mirror

in her long

yellow dress,

the clasp slipping through

her fingers

behind her neck.

so i help her.

it's what i'm here for,

i suppose,

nothing more,

nothing less.

nothing left to say

it's beautiful, in some

strange and dark

artistic way,

the bloom of mushroom

clouds

across the world,

like lightning strikes

landing

where they may.

the blossoming of white

and grey

flowers,

then the firestorm,

the unfolding

of humanity.

nothing much is left

in the end.

there's nothing left to say.

creation

to imagine

out of a brick of stone,

of marble

a man

or woman,

the limbs and veins,

the face,

the lips

and eyes,

the strands of hair,

carved

human,

is miraculous to me.

and from

nothing

on day one, even more

so.

former lives collecting dust

i see in the cellar

and in

the attic,

the life i used have,

there against the wall

is the surfboard,

still crusted with sand

and salt,

below that

skis,

and skates,

a football, with hardly

any air left

in it.

there's all the records

i used to play

in boxes,

the leather coat i used

to wear,

the sled,

the fondue pot,

fishing rods

and tackle,

camping equipment

with an inflatable

bed.

a Nikon camera

hanging on a hook.

still friends despite not agreeing on anything

we talk for three

hours,

going back and forth,

sideways,

up and down, 

discussing and debating

the world at large.

we get

nowhere

in changing each other's

opinion about

anything.

but we're still friends

in the end.

which is a miracle

for this age and time.

discontent is on the rise

i go down

to the hen house to gather

eggs for breakfast,

but the chickens

shake their heads

and say no,

not today, not until we

have a bigger yard

to free range,

more seed to eat,

more insects on the ground

to peck at.

they are marching

with little signs,

on strike. no eggs until

we get our way.

the pigs too are unhappy,

they've barricaded

themselves

behind the slop trough,

a sign says, you'll never

get a pork chop out me.

no bacon for you today.

the cows,

the cows are marching

in a circle in the field,

mooing away,

demanding better hay,

and shorter hours.

if you want milk,

go crush some almonds,

or squeeze a soy bean.

no one is happy these days.

the mute button

i activate

the closed caption

scroll on

the tv

screen.

it's either my hearing,

or the mumble

jumble

of the speaker

spewing nonsense

all day.

the mute button has become

my favorite

button on the remote

lately.

the new world order

everyday

is like Christmas morning,

with a new gift

of questionable information

under the tree

to open up.

all wrapped in a ribbon

and bow just for us.

which

post to read,

which news broadcast

to watch,

which podcast

or tweet

to follow,

which protest or war

to indulge in.

it used to be sports,

who got three hits last

night, or

drained a three,

but things have changed,

that's the least

of our worries

in this new world order

of things.

the hospital visit

white

are the walls, the halls,

the sheets,

the doctors

are in white, the curtain

pulled around

the deceased.

nurses hurry by.

gurneys roll by with

bodies.

the smell

of antiseptic fumes 

fill the air.

the voice of some

hospital god

is overhead, giving

orders

making urgent requests.

bells are dinging,

lights

flashing.

there are tears

and people weeping

in the hall,

bent on chairs,

flowers are

everywhere. i'll find

the exit

somewhere.

somewhere.

stuck in the rally downtown

i head downtown

to get a cherry sno-cone,

but get caught up in the protest

rally.

there's a megaphone

in my ear,

repeating the same

nursery chant over and over

again.

i take some Tylenol extra

strength

and plow forward.

there's a bookstore

up ahead,

i want to browse, but there's

a gaggle of blue

haired

women and men with

man buns on their head

blocking the way with signs

and paper mâché

statues

of the president with

a little mustache under

his nose.

it's chaos down here.

it's hilarious.

i'm beginning to see the growing need

for Ozempic and better

mental

health online.

the court makeover ala my fair lady

having never owned a suit

or a pair

of dress shoes,

or a dress shirt, or tie,

or a belt,

his lawyers take measurements

of the prisoner,

then run up to J.C. Penny's

to buy him

appropriate court wear

for the trial.

a barber comes in

to give him a nice haircut,

with a part on the side.

then a makeup artist

from Sephora arrives

with mascara, blush and concealer,

to hide

the scars and tattoos

on his face, the tear drop

under his eyes.

the guns and knives

on his neck.

they use a diction coach 

to help him with his

manner of speaking,

having him repeat phrases

like no your honor, not

guilty. i'm a father, a son,

a brother, a hard worker,

a good husband most of the time

and an all around

good guy.

they tell him to stop using

the word yo,

in every sentence

and to put on a pair of work gloves.

it takes weeks, but by

the time

the gavel is struck,

his lawyers gather around him

and proclaim,

by George, i think

he's got it.

finding cold ground

it's the summer

heat

now,

the full green is here.

the sway

of trees

on a warm breeze.

the still

water of the stream.

and the dog

lying down,

still on his leash,

his belly on the cold

muddy

ground.

so easy that was to figure

out.

the paid protestor

nervously

the young man,

a legal immigrant,

recording himself

on his phone

tells how

he was called up

and asked

to protest on the streets

where the riots

are going on.

he tells

how he has been offered

two hundred dollars

a day,

to throw rocks

and fireworks at the police.

he's been told

where the palette of bricks

will be,

which streets

to cause chaos on.

he could use the money,

but thankfully, he says no.

he loves

his new country.

maybe something a little closer

the telescope

we've sent into space

a decade

ago,

sends back a signal

that hey,

we found something.

it's two trillion light years

away,

but it looks

like there are rocks

on this planet,

just like the ones on

the airless moon.

when it's time to leave

we may have found

a place

to stay.

hip hip hooray.

slide rules and pocket

protectors

fly in the air

in celebration.

climbing the ladder with a lightbulb

i have known

that the light in the hallway,

the one

twenty feet up

is burned out.

months have gone by.

i know.

i know.

but it involves the extension

ladder being

carried in

from the yard

up the steps and then propped

precariously

against

a wall, then climbing up,

with bulb in hand.

i think i can live

in darkness

a little while longer, rather

than the other

way around.

it's just a parade like all the others

it's much

ado

about nothing, as the Shakespearean

quote goes.

a parade,

a protest, the outrage.

countries

around the world have

parades

celebrating

who they are, the good

countries

and the bad, depending

on whose side

you're on.

nearly every president

has marched

tanks

and guns down the road,

proud soldiers

who protect the homeland,

many of which

have died for your freedom.

from

Washington,

to Eisenhower,

to Obama,

to Kennedy and Bush

and now

Trump.

it's just a parade.

get over it.

relax and be thankful.

go home.

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.