loser talk

after a war

ends

and everyone goes home,

if there is one

still there,

the losers sit around

and think

it over.

maybe we should have

done this,

or not done that.

yes, we made a big

mistake

by slaughtering innocent

people

at the concert

attack.

so i guess we deserved

what we got.

which is

our entire country flattened

like a pancake,

but maybe next time

we should

plan things better, maybe

discuss

things further before we

do anything

crazy again like that.

at least we still have all

these snazzy

green headbands to wear

and keep

the sweat out of our eyes

while we're cleaning

up this mess.

build it and bring it

i've done

my time, hard time with

Ikea.

putting together

shelves

and desks,

counter tops

and tables.

chairs even.

i've sweated out the minimalistic

directions

with everything spread

out onto the floor

at midnight,

removing the shade

from the floor

lamp

to see what the hell i was

doing.

i've cursed.

i've thrown things,

i've taken a hammer

to screws

and dials,

the edges of fake wood.

i've stepped on plastic

and metal

casters, lost tiny nails.

i've tightened

things so tight the screws

have come

through the other side

of the boards.

i've flipped things over, taken

it all apart

and started over.

i've done my time with Ikea,

but never again,

no more.

the new has arrived

the new

arrives, the new phone

the new

tv

the new computer

the new

you,

the new me

it's not progress

exactly

it's commerce.

everything new is old

before you

know it.

it's all about the dough

rey mi.

a duffle bag of Hallmark Cards

i like to buy

all of my

Hallmark cards at one time.

Christmas,

New Years, assorted birthday

cards.

each holiday

from Valentine's Day,

to the Fourth of July.

Thanksgiving,

sympathy cards,

sorry for your loss cards,

graduation cards,

congratulations

on the birth of your baby.

happy retirement,

wedding cards,

get well soon cards,

and some blank ones too.

you never

know

what the year might bring.

shopping for a new mattress

i go

into the mattress

store

with my new girlfriend Clarissa,

a dancer

at the Gentlemen's Club

next to the dry

cleaners

and Japanese Steak House.

she's much more

experienced

with mattresses than i am

despite

our forty-seven year

age difference.

but i need a new mattress,

the old one

is sagging,

and the springs are busted.

i bought it three wives ago.

the nine-inch bolts have

come loose from

the scarred

headboard,

which is splintered and charred

from the time it caught fire

because of a pyromaniac

named Marsha.

it's so old there are fondue

stains on it

and dried residue

from a crockpot stew.

she hops

on each mattress, row

after row

in her glittery spandex dress

and go go boots,

which

draws

a crowd at the big window

out front.

the manager of the store opens

a beer

and lights a cigarette,

sitting on his

makeshift desk.

take your time, he says, no

rush here,

then dims the light and puts

on some music.

finally Clarissa announces

in her melodic voice.

this is the one.

she bounces up and down on

it like a trampoline,

then does a cartwheel

to dismount.

it's king-size

with handles and side bars

so that you don't roll off.

charge it, i tell the manager

and throw it onto the roof

of the car.

tomorrow we're going shopping

for a six person Jacuzzis

to put on the deck

in the back yard.

she's invited all her dancing

friends over.

salty dogs on the high seas

was Christopher Columbus

a bad

person?

who knows?

it's just rumors and hearsay

at this point.

stories passed

down by disgruntled lovers,

kings and queens,

sailors grumpy

about the weather and food

on board

the creaky wooden ships.

did he bring

measles to the islands,

venereal diseases,

a bad attitude?

maybe. perhaps.

but that's what sailors do.

you try and sail across the ocean

eating

dried meat

and crackers for six

months,

sleeping next to some guy

who snores

with his peg

leg continually clicking

against a leaky floor.

sure, he was lost, and had

no idea where he was half

the time.

but so am i.

i couldn't get around these

days without

my phone telling where

to go.

he had his finger to the wind,

a rusted sextant

and the stars.

but he got here, so leave

his statues alone.

taking a much needed vacation

a vacation

can

be small, a week, a few

days

at the shore.

sometimes

even

one single hour alone

staring

out the kitchen window

will

do the trick

and help

you go on.

disturbing news to MSNBC

apparently hell

has frozen over, the vast

legacy

media

has actually praised a man

they

daily hate

and abhor.

how dare he bring 

the hostages

home,

bring peace to the middle

east,

we needed that war

to go on,

we don't need

him doing anything good

at all.

we have to keep the hate strong.

early trash talking years

we

were young and dumb,

our trash

talking

wasn't as clever

as we thought it was

when

posing on a street corner

with friends.

your momma

was a phrase

we often

used

when hitting bottom

with slurs

and

observations about

weight

or a pair of eyebrows

that

stretched comically

across a face.

we needed more words,

bigger

and smarter

words to make fun of someone.

we needed

a thesaurus.

college helped

with that.

Amazon guilt

there's

a little guilt when i order

something

small

from Amazon.

the whole carbon footprint

thing.

What would the social warriors say?

do i need this thing

that badly,

this book,

the pot

or pan, this box

of coffee

sleeves

or pair of shoes,

but the guilt slides

quickly

away when things arrive.

i pick

the package up of the porch

and shrug,

waving to the truck driver,

then take

the package inside.

it's Christmas almost

every day.

a saucer of buttermilk

it's a porcelain

plate,

a souvenir saucer

from Italy

that i set on the porch

with

buttermilk

for the stray cat

that wanders

the street.

she's black with

green

eyes

and speaks with a low

cigarette

smoker's growl.

the milk

stripes her mouth,

drips

from her whiskers.

is she happy?

i don't know, but i am.

stuck on earth

we have

no choice but to obey

the law

of gravity.

from birth until death

things

are falling,

skin is sagging, our

legs

getting

heavier to move

across

this rounded earth.

we are glued

to it, unlike those

glorious

birds.

be patient, soon

i position

the rake by the door.

soon,

i tell her, be patient.

a few

more cold nights,

a strong

wind

or two,

a hard cold rain

and we'll be out there,

be patient,

soon.

bargaining chips for evil

the horror

that humans are capable of

is

on the screen

as men

crawl out

from under rocks

and dirt,

held captive

by evil,

deep in tunnels

for years,

the first

light of the first

day

of the rest of their life

hits their eyes

with tears.

at last home into

the arms

of loved ones.

so

what was the point

of all that,

why? it's obvious

that

the devil is alive and well,

very busy

here.

always have a prenup for the third marriage

Jimmy

calls me up on the phone.

he wants

to go have a drink or two or three

at the local pub.

he sounds

depressed, so i say

okay.

he's already at the bar

when i get there,

he's spinning his wedding

ring around

on the lacquered pine

in front of him.

dude, he says as i sit

down beside him. thanks

for coming.

i order a beer

and some pretzels.

i should have listened to you

about the prenup, he moans.

she's taking me

to the cleaners.

half of everything.

cars, furniture, house, retirement

money, stocks, bonds,

everything i've ever worked for,

and she's the one

that's cheating on me. with some

clown from her work.

told you, i tell him, taking

a sip of my beer.

the third marriage you should

always

get a prenup. an iron clad prenup.

the first and second marriages, 

you're too

stupid and in love

to think about things like that,

your little brain

below your belt is doing all 

the decision making.

when the first couple

of marriages go south

you have time to recover

your savings

and all that. you've got some

earning years

ahead of you,

but by the third marriage,

you're doomed without the prenup.

you're almost near

retirement.

at this point you're down to moving

in with three other

sad sack dudes

in an apartment somewhere

sharing a bathroom.

yup,

i'm an idiot, he says, holding

up the band of gold

that he's removed from his finger,

how much

do you think i can get for this? he asks.

hmmm. not sure, maybe

a hundred bucks or so.

maybe less if it's inscribed.

damn he says.

she had me inscribe with 

the love my life, Ethel.

oh well, that's a shame.

hey bar keep, can i get some

mustard

for these pretzels and a menu.

hungry?

i'm treating.

running into your second cousin

i don't

like running into people unexpectedly,

so i keep

my head down,

eyes straight ahead,

i move about

with purpose,

avoiding any eye contact.

i'm never prepared for

chit chat

and small talk, or seldom

in the mood, but without

fail,

there's someone

who yells out, hey, hey.

yo,

what's up, long time

no see?

how's the wife,

the kids,

work,

how's your health?

still living

in the same house?

i'm Joe,

your cousin,

second cousin

on your mother's side,

don't you remember me?

the discipline of a small child

i can't keep

a gallon

of ice-cream in the house,

or a bag

of cookies,

Halloween candy, forget

about it.

i have the discipline

of a child,

or a small

dog left alone

with a bag of trash.

my hand,

against my will, can't stop

grabbing

another bite

until i find

the bottom

of a bag of chips,

or box

of Oreos, until i scrape

the last

scoop of rocky road

from the tub

before me.

resistance is futile.

shaking things off

it's a good cry

you

have, hands on your

face,

sobbing,

your entire body is

part of it,

you shake,

you bend over

and tremble, the nose

runs,

you are a complete 

mess,

sitting in the dark alone,

full of

temporary regret,

and then

you stop.

you shake it off

and go to bed.

tomorrow can't come

soon enough.

that's over, now what

wars

come and go, cities

destroyed

lives lost,

an impossible ruin

of things

left behind,

and the world yawns.

the world

goes on.

what else is new?

turn the page,

move on.

so it's over, really

over?

good,

now what?

a trapped life

the first

pet may be a firefly caught on

a summer

night

in the back yard,

easily

snatched out of the air

and placed

into a mason

jar.

you've trapped a life

for your

own

pleasure, love

can be like that

sometimes.

the peace treaty

i give

the peace treaty about

two

days,

maybe three before the next

shot

is fired,

the next

bomb ignited.

before the next terrorist

attack occurs.

hatred is

in the blood, passed

on from

one generation

to the next

from father to son,

mother

to daughter.

with no end in sight.

and yet,

we hope it holds,

our fingers are crossed,

we pray.

where have all the writers gone, another Batman sequel, really?

when

was the last time you sat

in a movie

theater,

or waited in line to see some

wonderful

film with

no political leanings,

a movie with intelligence

and humor,

sadness

and empathy.

a movie that rang true, 

connecting

you with others

no matter race or religious

belief?

a movie without a car chase,

or monsters,

or gallons of

blood on the screen,

with

guns and dragons and creatures

from outer space.

when was the last time,

you sat in your

seat in the back row

with popcorn and a 

drink

anticipating the curtain

being drawn

and for the movie to begin

as the lights dimmed.

excited to be

watching a movie

that might

change your film

viewing life forever? 

giving you the feeling,

that to this,

i can relate?

it's not over yet

it's an over 55

retirement community

and yet

there's no one here under

the age of 70.

i see them

limping up to the pickle ball

court

in their white tennis

outfits.

head bands on,

wrist bands,

knees wrapped

with copper bandages.

the men and women wearing

enormous

Jackie O 

sunglasses.

they have power drinks and

granola

bars.

some are using walkers,

some are

riding electric

wheelchairs, or those little

rascal

get abouts.

it's a flock of sea gulls

rising

over the hill to the court.

i'm waiting patently

on the bench with my paddle,

waiting for

the games to begin.

ready to keep score.

it's not over yet.

i can resist everything but temptation

it's not going

to be

a good food day when you wake up

thinking about

French Toast.

syrup, butter, the whole deal.

sausage on the side.

this image and longing

is going to be

hard to shake.

should you give in now,

or white knuckle

it through

the day,

until at last, near midnight

you go down to

the kitchen

and heat up

the big frying pan.

as Oscar Wilde once said,

i can resist

everything,

but temptation, especially

when it comes

to French Toast.

street walkers at Hayfield High

when i use

to drop

my son off at his high school

after he'd

miss the bus,

i'd ask him

what the deal was

with all these

street walkers,

ladies of the night,

full grown women

strolling around in micro

mini

skirts

wearing lots of makeup,

with bright

red lips

and high heels.

blondes, brunettes, redheads.

some in fishnet

stockings.

dad, he'd say. those are students,

girl students.

they're my age.

really? geez, Marie.

i thought i'd made a wrong

turn and we

were circling Times Square

in the 70's.

no wonder

you're failing geometry this year,

i get it. how is it possible

to concentrate?

Jiminy Crickets.

well, have

a good day, son.

then he'd hop out 

of the car

in his cut off shorts and t-shirt

with jelly stains

on the front,

and wearing flip flops.

why are you wearing that, come back in the house, now

i'm

not sure why it is,

but for

some strange reason

the bow

tie

seems odd

these days, so does

suspenders

holding

up a pair of pants,

not to mention a vest.

who

wears a vest anymore?

i think it went

out with 

Wyatt Earp

in the old west.

a white belt,

white shoes, Spats?

when you see a politician

with a big

colorful bow tie,

you say to yourself,

what's up

with this dude?

men seem

weird

when they leave the house

looking

like a carnival

barker

or a circus clown,

i think it happens though

because

most of them

don't have wives

to help them get dressed,

or a full

length mirror.

the hot tub party

my friend Jimmy calls me up

and asks me

if i want to go

to a hot tub party

on Joe's deck.

beer and food on him.

hmmm. really? i ask.

what is it 1985 again?

come on man, he says.

Joe's cousin Jill is going to be there.

Jill, the Jill.

she used to be a cheerleader

for the Cowboys

back when Craig Morton

was the quarterback.

yeah, i remember her, but

hasn't she had five kids

since then?

so what?

she's divorced now and on

Ozempic.

her twin daughters are coming too,

they're nineteen

and stars

on Only Fans.

geez, i don't know.

how big is this hot tub?

from what i remember

Joe weighs three hundred

pounds

and is not fond of a bar of soap.

is the tub cleaned on a regular basis?

Bleach and Chlorine?

of course, of course

he found a dead racoon in it

the other day,

but he drained it and cleaned

it all up.

he's got the pump working again

and finally

the jets aren't pumping out

any rust.

so come on.

it'll be fun.

bring a towel, and don't worry

about trunks

or anything.

it should be fun.

oh, and

take some penicillin before hand,

if you have some.

what's up with this light?

we are

a people of impatience.

we want

things fast,

our food,

our line to move,

we want

the screen before us

with no

buffering,

no issues with a silly

wi-fi

or blue tooth connection.

we want our

daily

drivel

now dammit,

not ten seconds from now.

why won't this 

red light ever change to green?

there's no other

cars around.

i've been

here way too long,

almost two minutes.

and what's with this water

in the pot

i'm staring at,

good Lord, will it ever boil?

can the waitress

be any slower?

will the dog ever lift his leg

and pee?

oh no, what do we protest now?

i overhear

some young folk with pink

and blue

hair at Starbuck's

this morning

bemoaning the fact that

there might

finally be peace in the middle east.

what are we

going to do now, 

one guy/girl says.

what are we going to do with

all these signs

we made last night.

the march is at noon today.

i have my mother's

pots and pans

to bang on,

from William and Sonoma

in the car.

what can we protest

instead?

should we go back to climate change

again?

we still have the cops, ICE to harass,

the girl/guy says. 

they don't seem to be going

anywhere.

but it's just not the same.

i have my black and white

checkered board

do rag

on, my army jacket, and i just

started to learn how

to swear and chant in

Arabic.

we don't deserve him

the President brokers

a peace

deal

over the endless war.

there hasn't been peace in the middle

east

since Jesus

walked upon

the water.

but my cousin Lefty,

says,

so what.

big deal. he got lucky.

he's probably

going to put up a hotel

and a casino there.

it's all about money with his guy.

mark my words,

he says.

but, i say to my cousin,

distant

cousin, i might add.

don't you see that this is a wonderful

thing.

the hostages

being released.

no one

killing each other for a few

weeks?

yeah, well. maybe he should stop

calling

Rosie O'Donnell fat,

and saying

that Greta Thunberg needs a

therapist.

and why hasn't he cured cancer yet,

like he promised?

the enormous, big truck thing

the big

truck is a thing.

all shiny

and black,

or red with

big wheels, big cab, big

bed

in the back.

high off the ground

with extra

lights and things.

you can hear the roar

of a big engine

when they step on the gas,

and then

a little guy

crawls out the big door

after taking

ten minutes to park,

using the little

step.

what's going

on here?

what's this all about

in terms

of the evolution of man?

someone needs

to study this.

the play list

it's a garage band

of boomers

that occasionally gets a gig

or two

at Ernie's Crab House,

or at a wedding,

or birthday

party.

they have Proud Mary down,

as well as

Sweet Caroline

and 

The Rolling Stone's,

Paint it Black.

they've been working on some

new material

though.

a little country, a little samba,

a little

bit of Ice Tea,

some old-time rap.

talking to the bar bell

i stare at the bar

bell

sitting on the laundry room floor.

the same

set of weights i've had

since i was twelve

years old.

what?

i say to the barbell. what do you

want?

how many lifts today?

how many presses,

squats,

curls do you need?

yes, i see the dust on you,

the rust,

the dent in the carpet where

you've been sitting

for months.

but i'm a little busy right

now with these socks

i just took out of the dryer,

maybe later, okay?

but you live across the street

we should

do

a zoom call, she suggests.

you know,

catch up.

we haven't

seen each

other in so long.

it would be nice to see

you again.

i look out the window

and see

her walking around in her

house

across the street,

in her pink bathrobe,

talking on the phone.

i can see you now, i tell her.

look out your kitchen

window,

i'm waving.

it's not the same, she says.

go sit

by your computer

and put

me on a zoom call,

or do you do face time?

what about skype?

Adam and Eve

i'm not

sure why i started thinking

about it.

but was

Adam and Eve

created fully formed, or were

they babies,

maybe nine

or ten years old?

teens

with teen issues, or middle

aged

men and women

worried

about laundry, and bills

to pay,

clothes to make

to cover their freshly made

bones

and skin?

i call up father Smith over

at St. Joe's

to ask him

his opinion,

but he's baffled too.

the buzz cut at ten

to save

a few bucks my father

invested

in electric clippers,

the kind he used

on sheep

in Nova Scotia.

he'd line us all up

in the basement,

one by one

clipping our locks.

from the youngest

brother

to the oldest

while the sisters ran

screaming to hide

in a closet.

one red balloon

you

see a red balloon in the sky,

floating

safely

away.

somewhere a child is crying.

but there

will be more

balloons,

more birthdays,

more things to cry about

than this

in each and every day.

life going on as usual

strange

to hear the whistle of a train

crossing

the trestle

through the woods, this late

at night.

people traveling north,

or south,

perhaps asleep

as

the hard

roll of steel caroms

against the tracks

reaching my window,

but strange in a good way.

it's good to know

that for so many of us

life is going on as usual.

the bad reviewer

every yelp

review no matter how many

five or four

stars

a restaurant gets,

has one

or two

one-star reviews

by some disgruntled patron.

the waitress was rude,

the soup

was cold,

the meat too tough to 

even cut

let alone chew.

you see this same person on

the next

review for

an Oscar winning

movie.

it didn't work for me, the plot

was confusing,

the actors phoned it in,

and the popcorn

was stale,

too buttery, and

there was gum on my seat too.

remembering Coney Island

as we

walk along the cold beach

of Coney Island,

the sea a violent wash in

all directions,

we remember

how we met

on the sun-bleached sand,

the boardwalk,

but that was then,

this is

now.

we're still holding hands,

still in

love.

but the world has changed

around us,

the rides

have rusted

and broken down.

nearly everyone has aged

or died.

there's nothing left here to

romanticize.

we don't stay long.

before the first hard snow

my

body says fatten up,

shivering

in the first

cool

breeze of fall. eat and eat

some more.

get heavy

before the storm, before

the ice,

before the first

hard snow.

i obey,

peeling the potatoes,

dicing the carrots,

grilling

the meat for a pot of stew.

my hands

kneeding

the dough on the floured

board.

finding old loves again

as i reached out

the window,

while my car idled beneath

the overhang

of the highway,

a toll booth, on 95,

in the lane for inexact

change,

i handed my twenty dollar

bill to a woman

in uniform.

she had rosy cheeks

and curly

red hair, now dyed,

freckles. a gap between

her teeth.

i looked at her and she

looked at me.

i remembered her from the schoolyard

at St. Thomas More.

when we kissed once

near the stairway to the parish door,

just once,

under the harsh

blue sky,

in the wind of March.

i moved on

before she said a word.

finding heaven at the Rexall Drug Store

a double

scoop of ice-cream was living

large

back then.

sprinkles,

chocolate poured onto

the cone,

oh my God,

so decadent.

but a banana split while

sitting

at the Rexall's Drug

Store counter

was the bomb.

was heaven.

you floated

on air

while sitting and spinning

on the red leather

stool,

especially with five or six

new comic books

in front of you,

yet to be read.

we gotta get out of this place

the B actress,

the failed

comedian, the once beautiful

queen

of the silver

screen,

the talk show

host

with bad

ratings

all announce that they

are leaving

the country for good,

moving away to be far

from

what made

them

rich and famous to some

degree.

good luck

in Ireland, in England,

in France

and Spain.

but never do they go to Africa,

or Gaza

or Pakistan.

find one thing

to do

one thing, and to do it well

will

save your life.

whether

at the drill,

standing in a factory,

painting

a wall, driving a taxi,

making bread long

into the night.

find one

thing

with purpose and it

will save

your life.

yes, it was better

was it

better back then.

did

food taste better, was there

less

crime,

less pills to take

to curb

your anxiety?

was the sky bluer,

the sea

cleaner,

was it clear to you

the path

you should take?

were there

less

crazy people taking

to the street.

yes.

the Portland Donut Shoppe

i made

the accidental,

but brilliant move

a few months back

in opening up a donut

shop

across the street

from the ICE

detention center in Portland.

there have been riots

and demonstrations

going on there for over a hundred days.

non-stop.

i can't make these donuts

fast enough,

and it's not just cops who

love donuts,

it's anarchists too.

who doesn't love a good hot

donut right out

of the oven?

the left, the right, the sane

and deranged?

everyone loves a good donut.

i had to hire family and friends

to help out

with all the donuts we need to make

for the brave patrons

who arrive,

tired and battered, some

bleeding,

some limping, pouring

water

into their red eyeballs.

they line up in droves at the door

and at the drive-thru

hungry as hell.

(we may add breakfast burritos at some point)

if you watch tv,

well certain channels only,

you can see all my customers

with icing and glaze

all over their faces

and gas masks, chocolate, maple,

vanilla,

Boston creme

filling

on their chins and shields,

and for a limited time only,

there are seasonal

pumpkin spice lattes

dripping

off the Billy clubs.

if you zoom in close enough

you can see

between the pepper balls

the donut holes rolling

around on the ground

under all the leather boots.

my sister made those.

we have plans to expand to Chicago

and LA, soon,

and perhaps to a city

near you. stay tuned.

the unregistered nurse

it was our first date,

i met her on

last chance dot com.

a dating site for seniors who

are still

able to walk around.

we met her

on the boulevard,

at the Sunset Grille

for happy

hour,

half price on calamari

and 

pina coladas. 

unlimited pink shrimp

from the gulf of America.

i was in-between jobs,

in-between

wives,

houses,

dogs, knee deep in student loans

from the night

school i was attending, trying

to get a certificate

in auto-mechanics,

but i had my best shirt on.

she was an unregistered

nurse

from Omaha.

somehow the conversation

turned

towards getting

a colonoscopy

at a certain age and flu shots.

she asked me if i had mine

yet.

i told her no.

she said, do you want one?

i have syringes

in my purse,

the extra boost kind,

it covers pneumonia too.

so we went into a stall

in the bathroom

and she gave

me a flu shot on the side of

my bum.

next week i'm going to her house

for raviolis

and x-rays.

happiness is a dog that pees right away

was

i happier when i had a dog?

at times

i was, i guess,

but there

were other times

when it was

raining

or very cold outside

that i resented him.

i held a grudge,

annoyed

as i carried him outside

to a bush

for him to do his business,

telling him,

please, go, just go,

that's a perfect spot

lift your

leg

and go.

he never found a dead

anything

that he

didn't want to eat and swallow.

which would

result in an overnight

stay at the Mayo Clinic

for dogs.

a thousand dollars later

he'd be

back home,

snug as a bug in a rug

hogging

the pillow.

was i happier when i had a dog?

not really.

season of the witch

this song

reminds me of Betty,

i tell my love

as we drive

down the highway

heading to 

the beach

for a three-day getaway.

i'm sick and tired of hearing about

Betty, she tells me,

slamming 

her hand against

the dashboard.

what's up with you and Betty?

aren't you over

her yet?

i turn the radio up

and sing along,

it's Donovan singing

Season of the Witch, one

of my

favorite songs.

look, a Dairy Queen

up ahead,

how about we stop for ice-cream,

i tell her,

which calms her down.

finding your hat

there's something

about

a hat

that defines a person.

the captain's

hat for the boat owner,

the railroad

hat

for the train

fanatic,

the horse lover and his

cowboy hat.

there's the baseball cap

for the sport

minded,

the feather

in a cap for the artist.

then there's the pointed

multicolored dunce

hat

for the protestors

marching to the annoying

drumbeat

of pots and pans.

have i lied to you, yet?

she looked

at me

with all the seriousness of a child

with chocolate

on his mouth and crumbs

on his shirt,

and says to me,

staring into my eyes,

are you asking me

if i'm lying to you?

is that what you're asking?

yes, i say.

well, are you?

hmm, she says. let me think

for a minute.

have i lied to you yet?

of course i have,

yes.

the yoga routine

as i stretch

my

leg, the right one first,

then the

left one with

my hands on the kitchen

sink

for balance.

i wait for water

to boil

to make my first

cup of coffee.

it's my morning yoga

routine.

i turn my head

to the side,

up down back getting

the cricks out,

then shake my arms

around

like a bird

trying to take flight.

the bell

dings.

it's coffee time.

everything is fine and dandy in Portland

on one

channel, the news anchor

says, there's

no problem here.

no riots, no issues, no

crime,

no violence,

no bullets being fired,

or chaos

on the ground,

it's a peaceful demonstration,

while the other channel,

runs the live update

showing

the exact opposite,

showing what's really

going on.

the screen blurred by clouds

of gas.

a penny saved

he had money.

that wasn't a problem.

and yet,

he cut coupons out from the paper,

drove

ten miles out of the way

for the cheapest

gas in town.

he was a clipper

and a saver,

three for the price of one.

he did things

like his mother did back

in North Reading

when he was a child.

vinegar

and a newspaper to clean

the windows.

making the most

out of plastic bags,

stale bread, duct

tape for things broken

and worn.

pennies were saved

in the big

blue jar.

who knew about the million

tucked away

for a rainy day

that he kept safe and sound

in the cellar,

buried

below ground.

i'm on hold, i'm getting old

i'm on

hold, i'm waiting patiently

for the next

available

agent to speak,

but not a robot,

please.

i'm

filing my

nails,

painting a picture

of Leonardo

Da Vinci, i'm

doodling,

sketching ala Picasso,

Don Quixote,

i'm

looking up recipes for cakes.

i'm looking

at frayed

photos in my wallet,

trying to smooth out

a crease

across an ancient face.

i'm perusing

Amazon,

i'm lifting

weights, folding

clothes,

throwing a ball

down the hall

to the dog who refuses

to chase.

i'm on hold.

i'm getting old.

one more Christmas

it's time

to downsize, the old man

tells

his wife.

why have this yard,

this house.

it's too much

now.

he stares at pool.

the trees,

the leaves on the ground.

the garden

full of weeds.

it's time,

he says.

the kids are grown,

we're old.

we're tired.

not yet, she says,

not yet,

one more season, just

one more

Christmas, please.

free speech

i slip,

i let out words i shouldn't

say.

but it's almost

like they

can't stay

in mouth, they want out.

i say

what i really feel,

what i really

mean.

and now

there's a price to pay.

things to be done

a portion

of the morning is spent in bed.

the long

wide

bed.

why get up

and start another day?

it's raining.

it's cold.

but there are things to be done.

so i'm

told.

pumpkin head

i buy a pumpkin,

they're everywhere you look.

orange,

yellow,

multi-colored pumpkins.

big, small,

cute little mini ones.

i feel

obligated somehow

to buy one,

to take one home

and dig

the guts out, carve

a face onto it

and then set it on

the porch

with a lit candle inside.

i pick up

a pumpkin pie too,

then a pumpkin

spice

latte from Starbucks

with pumpkin whipped

cream on top.

i'm chewing pumpkin

flavored gum.

my wife calls me pumpkin head,

i call her

pumpkin back.

As we lie upon the couch

we bite into pumpkin

flavored

cupcakes warm

off the rack.

we are pumpkin people,

without a doubt.

averting the sting

with the swat

of a

rolled up magazine,

we push

the bee

away,

again and again,

but he keeps coming

back.

he needs

desperately the sting

to be

made.

some folks we used 

to know

were exactly like that.

saying bye bye

so much

is about letting go.

of cutting

strings

and ties,

ribbons and bows

of friends

that aren't friends,

in removing

straps and chains.

so much is

about freeing yourself

from others

that are unkind,

from unlearning

what you

thought was right.

so much is snipping

those vines,

and letting

go of

the weight that's holding

you down.

so much is getting up,

and saying. farewell,

so long,

bye bye.

Ethel, the weekend social warrior

i find

her crying on the side of the road,

my social warrior friend,

Ethel. she's

sitting on

a curb.

she looks tired and beaten.

the blue dye

in her hair

is running down her face.

she's holding an upside down American

flag that's

still smoldering.

i hand her a paper

towel

and tell her to dab

her nose,

those nose rings are going to rust

if you don't

dry your face.

can you pour a water bottle

into my eyes,

she asks.

that bear mace

is lethal, i should have brought

my gas mask

i bought at Costco the other day.

i pour some water on the flag too,

dousing the embers.

so how did it go today?

i ask her.

make any progress with whatever

it is you're doing?

yes,

she says, sniffling.

i think we're breaking them.

we're going to win

this war.

can you help me up, i think

i peed my pants.

the hotel review

carefully, i take my time

to fill

out the review

for the hotel.

food, excellent, i mark

a ten.

service,

a ten too.

the bed,

ten.

the dining room, ten

again.

cleanliness, ten.

would you come back again,

ten.

and then,

lighting?

hmm. i give it a five.

the lighting could be better,

i could hardly

read

the book i brought

in the dim light.

what's with the tiny little

fancy modern

lights

at bedside?

the enormous cardboard box

i remember

my mother giving us

a giant cardboard

box

and telling us to go outside

to the yard

and play

for a while.

so we did.

seven hours later, she

called us

in for dinner.

we were exhausted

by the fun

we had.

New York has fallen

why work,

why

struggle, why get up

early

and fight traffic,

grind out

another day at a

thankless job?

why bother

with such things

when

the government can help

us with

everything.

big brother can feed us,

clothe us,

give us healthcare.

why should smart rich

people

have so much money

and nice houses?

let's take it from them.

why have the

police to reign us in?

why have

borders, or rules

and regulations, laws.

jails,

who needs them?

welcome to New York City.

show me where

the bread line

begins.

Ice Ice baby

the Pope

takes a few hours out of his day

to go

bless

a giant ice cube

brought in by some climate

activists

from Helsinki.

there's a blue light under

the melting rock

to add

to the ceremony.

he says a few words

in Latin,

then English, then Italian

with

his hands over

the melting chunk of ice,

then they take

it away.

chipping it up for mocktails

on the veranda.

someone pops

on a Vanilla Ice song,

which gets this party started,

the Pope jumps up,

and all the nuns

begin to sway.

following little Billy Bob on Instagram

after years

and years of loving his son,

my neighbor is

now estranged from little Billy Bob.

he read to him

when he was young,

taught him

how to read

and throw a ball.

showed him how to catch a wave

along the ocean.

he prayed with him.

loved him.

attended all his games

and plays in school.

paid for his tuition.

bought him cars,

and things

to help him get started in life.

shared so much

in conversations. 

he kept his room for when

he came to visit.

there was nothing he wouldn't

do for his son.

but that was then,

he tells me,

not now, we're estranged

for reasons

beyond me.

he doesn't write, never

calls.

never a word or card

in the mail.

i follow him on Instagram,

beats me, what went wrong.

maybe one day

he'll come back around.

more breaking news

i guess

we should worry.

they're telling us to worry

every hour

of every day.

breaking news

breaking news.

the sky is falling, we're

all doomed,

it's the end of the world

as we know it.

democracy

has fallen,

tomorrow we'll all be

in concentration

camps,

chained to our beds,

backs

against a fence.

it's the end of civilization.

oh my. i better run to 

the store

now,

for chips and drinks.

the game

starts at one p.m.

how things used to be

we like

how things used to be.

we say

to each other, remember

when

there wasn't a six lane

highway

across the road

and there were woods

and deer,

we used to take walks

there,

go bird watching.

remember that?

remember the general store,

the old man

who worked there

with his wife,

their five hooligan kids who used

to swing

on the tire all night

setting off fire works.

remember that?

yes, she says.

i do remember that, i never

liked them.

when Billy comes home

there are sirens

blaring

all night, the whirr of copters

in the sky,

searchlights

spreading

in wide swoop

across the rooftops

and yards.

it could be the end of

the world,

or just

my neighbor Billy just escaped

from jail

again

in Portland

and has come home.

spoiled rotten

the trouble

with

going away for a few days

to a nice

resort

in the country, where it's nothing

but peace

and quiet,

good food and greetings

of polite

good mornings,

goodnight,

is that you have to go home again.

after days

of deciding,

shall we have

the lamb chops tonight dear,

with mint jelly,

or the filet mignon?

crepes or eggs Benedict?

you become

spoiled with the

exemplary service 

and French pressed coffee,

delightful drinks and long

walks in the placid

countryside.

but eventually you do have

to go home again

and do laundry,

cut the grass, pay

the bills, reach up

into the cupboard

for a jar of peanut butter

to make dinner.

we can't find the llama

we sign

a waiver saying that we are totally

responsible

if an

animal bites us

while we

visit the farm.

but we can't find any animals.

supposedly

there's a llama

on the property, donkeys,

cows

and bulls,

horses.

we walk for miles though

and see nothing

on the path

through the woods, down

to the stream,

across the field.

we're disappointed,

we were

prepared for the danger

of being bitten,

with our leather gloves on,

but no such luck.

so we eat the carrots and apples

that we brought

with us

then head back to the hotel

room.

a puddle of mail

the mail,

after a week of being gone,

is a puddle

on the floor, nothing.

just

paper,

not a single bill.

not a single notification

of importance,

coupons

and brochures.

notices

of no interest.

you wonder why you

don't just

put a trashcan up

against

the slot in the door.

the Bluestone Wedding

it's the day

before the wedding when we see

the groom

and bride

to be

in their shorts

and sweatshirts,

out for a run, now

at the breakfast table,

nervously drinking coffee.

they look

young.

tired, bewildered by it all.

they look

out window

at the stage, the food arriving,

the guests,

the band,

the rising tents.

the mother, with a wand,

the maestro of it

all

in command.

her voice echoing across

the blue

Virginia hills.

the father sitting on a stone

wall,

writing

another check.

tomorrow it begins.

and not go home

it's an hour away

and two

hundred

years.

the roads are narrow,

pushing

clouds of civil war dust up

as you ride by.

the fields

are wide

and endless, the rolling

hills

and grass, 

a sea of green, fences

of lumber,

trees,

stone houses,

forgotten wells,

abandoned shacks.

it's bliss,

the quiet, the rustling

of leaves,

of birds

on wing.

the bulls,

horses

on the distant

hills.

shadows

in the blue sky of sun.

let's close our

eyes

on this hammock as it sways,

and not go home.

boxers or briefs?

men give

little thought to their underwear.

it's pretty

much boxers

or briefs,

white, grey, black.

or maybe if you live in Europe

some sort

of sling shot

scenario

in red.

whereas women

have drawers of all kinds,

colors, styles,

fabrics.

they have underwear

for special occasions.

underwear they

wear to the doctors,

or to go to the gym in.

undies to dance in.

grandma type underwear.

big white

drawers

like parachutes

that they wear when they

don't feel well.

sexy underwear,

silky and see through,

cotton and polyester,

underwear with days of the week

embroidered

on them.

some have fancy stitching

with intricate designs.

every occasion calls for a certain

type of underwear

with women.

persona non grata

it's hard

to let go of the righteous grudge

that makes

you ghost someone.

you have valid

reasons

with tons

of evidence

to dismiss this person

from your life,

making

them persona non grata,

no longer

fit to be friends.

but then

suddenly you wake up

one morning

and the sun is shining,

and miss them,

you wonder how they are,

so you 

dial them up.

all being forgiven.

never buy monogrammed anything

it's not

easy breaking up with someone

after

years of marriage.

one or the other has to move,

or get the locks

changed.

lawyers are involved.

money spent.

who gets what?

furniture and books,

friends.

bowls and dishes

in the kitchen.

we install

a ring camera on the door.

do we split time with the dog

as well

as the kids?

what about the cars.

what about all these monogrammed

towels and wash cloths?

but there are

pleasant things too, like

no more

holidays with

mother in laws.

hitting the snooze alarm

i look

at the dog lying in his soft

round bed

in the corner.

let's go, i tell him.

up and at em.

time for a walk.

he opens one eye

and sighs.

i know that look

as he 

curls into a tighter

ball of fur.

he's telling me, just

ten more

minutes.

please.

go make yourself a

cup

of coffee,

i was just in the middle

of a dream.

what are you going to wear when we cross the Delaware?

it sounds

strange to even hear the words,

men can

no longer

wear dresses

in the military or

pretend

to be women.

the government will

no longer

pay for

breast implants,

or penis

removals

to soldiers on or

off the field.

Jim cannot become Jen.

what crazy times we

live in now.

how did we get here?

i doubt George Washington

had these

problems with

his men when crossing

the Delaware.

let's see how this day goes

rested

you feel better as you rise

from

bed,

slipping into your

day

clothes,

which are now perpetually

Saturday

clothes.

but it so it goes,

good days

and bad,

life being not a straight

line,

but circles

and zig zags,

unimaginable turns in

the road.

will today be like tomorrow,

we will see

how it goes.

the DEI post office

we talk about

how the mail service is horrible

these days.

mail gets lost,

undelivered,

bills are late, checks

never arrive,

i blurt out, that's what

we get because off

DEI,

lesser competent

people

were hired.

which makes her laugh.

really? she says,

she then tells me we

can no longer be friends

after handing

me the letter that was

for me, but dropped

off in her box

by mistake

by someone with purple

hair.

the cookie jars

it's tempting

to click

on the link,

to take the bait and see

what's on

the other

side of this page,

this

text or email.

a simple push of

the finger,

and there

we are.

stale or sweet, or

bug

filled,

who knows

until we take a bite.

we're like little children

staring

at the cookie jar

when mommy's

not around.

filing jointly again

i call up

my tax lady, Betty, in old

Manassas

Virginia,

and tell her,

i have some bad news, Betty.

i've known

her for 35 years now.

she does my taxes in a little

Cape Cod house

on the side of the road.

oh no,

what? she says. what's the bad news?

i got married again. 

i tell her.

i was smitten

by some financially bankrupt woman

and bit the bullet again.

third time's

the charm, right?

i'll be filing jointly again

this year.

oh no, she screams over the phone.

please, please tell me,

that you didn't do

something that stupid again.

ha ha,

i tell her,

just kidding, a little dark humor

for the Halloween season.

whew, she says,

readjusting the wig that

nearly fell 

off her head.

don't scare me like that anymore.

the evidence in black and white

i have

a black and white photo of my

father's

second family.

they look

fat and happy in the sun,

out in the back

yard of the house

they lived in for ten years.

the kids sort

of look like us,

the seven from the first marriage

to my mom.

and then

that train went off the track too.

and in the end

he said,

none of it ever happened.

they weren't his

children.

but here is the photo.

i have proof.

they look exactly like him.

no one is that crazy

i've never

heard anyone say,

you know what?

i'm dying for some carrots,

or kale,

what i'd like right

now is

a big fat tomato,

or some celery.

would someone

ever say,

i just can't get the thought

of some

chickpeas

out of my mind?

i need some before this

day is done.

i think it's safe to say

that no one

has ever said anything

crazy like that.

when the tubes smolder

we used

to tell my sister,

the smallest

and weakest of us all,

to stand

near

the tv

and hold the aluminum

covered

antenna

just so.

then kick the side to get

the horizontal

roll

to hold.

sometimes the big

wooden

box

would have a tendency

to smoke,

which would make us

go outside

to play

in the rain.

the night clerk

the clerk

had seen it all.

all manner of guests who

appeared

after driving

on the long road.

the young

and old. tired and beaten.

the lost and lonely.

the excited

heading to a Disneyland

in their minds,

the two

hour stays

with no luggage

and curtains pulled tight.

he knew what

life was.

the clerk with one eye,

he knew that life

was

a temporary visit with

a Bible in the drawer

to help with

forgiveness.

waiting for the sun to come out

so much

is in the shadows.

a cat

going

through the trash,

a lost key, a letter,

a box

with a man

asleep inside.

a diamond

ring thrown

aside.

hope and love.

things yet to be found.

there's

so much we don't see.

yet it's all there

waiting

for the sun to come out.

Dostoevsky blues

it was

hard to plow through

the Russian

novel, 

every character had a strange

name.

not a Steve

or Sally in the whole book.

though a Dimitri and

Anton did appear.

i had to take

notes

and make a flow chart

to try and make

sense

of the meandering

and complicated plot.

i carried the book

everywhere i went that summer,

on buses,

to the beach,

to bathroom to the park.

i wore the cover

off before i reached the middle.

i never finished it.

one day perhaps, but

maybe

i'm just not that smart.

champagne love

it was a champagne

love

affair,

a fling if you must.

all fun

and bubbly,

sparkling and sweet

the night

of,

but by six o'clock

the next morning,

the bottle

was nearly

empty and flat,

spilled onto the floor.

i removed

her cat

from my chest then

reached

for my shoes,

my keys

and wallet and wondered

where my car

was parked.

are you leaving already?

she said,

from

the jumble

of clothes and sheets

on the bed.

i nodded, ummm, 

eventually,

yes.

ten years straight of pregnancy

my father

used to give my mother the silent

treatment

for days on

end.

he'd sulk

in the easy chair

with a beer

and the tv on.

we were warned to stay

clear of him

until

he came back around.

i think it involved

sex, or the lack

of with

my mother being continually

pregnant like

a cat for

ten years,

telling him,

for once,

no.

which nearly brought

him to tears.

do i miss Milagro?

do i miss

the old housekeeper, Milagro?

sometimes

i do.

when the dust builds up,

or i haven't

made the bed

in a while.

but for the most part no.

i think

of the time she broke

the mirror in

the hall,

hit the Verizon box

on the floor

with her wild vacuuming

style

leaving me without

television

for a week.

i could never find my shoes

or my

checkbook,

the milk was all gone.

there was the time she left

the back

door open

and the squirrels came in

to nest

and eat.

the water was left running

overflowing

down three floors.

i  found a vase in a twenty

pieces, 

and all my clever magnets

rearranged

on the refrigerator

door.

was it worth the two thousand

bucks a year

i was giving her.

i'm not so sure.

judgement day

i remember

the fat vultures at the end 

of the route 5 

corridor heading east

to the eastern shore.

how they would

line up

like supreme court judges

in their oily

cloaks,

waiting for the next roadkill.

patient

on the side of the road,

wings clutched

to their sides,

talking to one

another

licking their chops

as a possum hesitates

coming out of the woods

and stops

between the dotted lines.

it's judgement

day all day along this stretch

of highway.

we're lucky living here

we're lucky

living here in the DMV,

rare is the tornado

or hurricane

that blows through

lifting trailer

courts away, there's

no wildfires to speak of,

no trembling

earthquake,

or typhon rolling across

the sea

engulfing boats

and sailors.

we're lucky here.

maybe a strong wind once

in a while,

some minor

flooding,

but for the most part, our

biggest problem

is listening

to too much news.

and now even crime is

down.

why are people doing stupid things like lying in the road?

when i see

people lying on the street blocking

traffic,

joining arms,

preventing

police from doing their job,

or keeping people

from going to work.

i wonder what's wrong with them.

what mental illness

do they have?

does this really

help their cause?

do they think this is some heroic

gesture.

that will change the world,

or one single

mind that sees it on tv?

will they recount the votes

because of this

and put someone else in power?

i don't think so.

don't they have families,

loved ones,

jobs of their own.

dogs to walk, groceries

to shop for,

why are they doing this?

why don't they come to their

senses,

and go home?

what has gone wrong?

i take note

of the green faced clock

upon the wall

over the silent printer

and phone.

why don't people call anymore?

i watch

the secondhand circle

the plate

of hours.

i'm in the moment as they

say,

perhaps too deep

into the moment.

what has gone wrong?

i've lost you

have i

lost too much weight?

why

are these trousers so loose,

they no

longer fit.

and this shirt i have on,

it hangs on me

like a tent.

i'm swimming in my

wardrobe.

is it loneliness

and worry

that has caused this melting

or you?

i look in the mirror

and see that i look like

a prisoner

of war.

i'm in a camp

hanging on the wire.

what has happened to me

in a few short

years?

how long before i'm reduced

to nothing,

just dust

upon the floor.

whatever you do, don't buy a boat

she told

me that whatever you do when

you finally retire

is to not buy a boat.

i don't care how much

you love

the water and fishing.

don't do it.

you'll regret it the moment

you set sail

and your bank account dwindles

down to nothing.

do you know

what gas costs these days?

do you know

about rust

and mildew, mold,

sewage,

and electricity?

do you know aft from stern?

do you know

how to read a map,

or navigate by the stars,

or how to tie a knot?

do you realize that Safeway

sells fish now

and you don't have to spend

all day out

on the Chesapeake Bay

trying to catch one?

blown out to sea

i visited him

on Christmas eve. touched

his foot

that stretched beneath the clean

white sheets.

he didn't budge.

there were no drinks nearby,

no cigarettes,

no angry

children, disgruntled wives.

no police

knocking at his door.

he was alone

at last. the hurricane

of him

had blown out to sea.

i said a few

words of prayer.

his eyes were closed.

i told him

not to worry, you'll be out

of here soon.

then it's back to work.

there was a calmness

in the room

i never felt

when he was alive.

for once he wasn't fighting

the world.

at last he got the respect

he longed for,

by strangers, by those

unknown.

all county center fielder

with three

degrees from three different

colleges,

i see him

behind the counter at 

Starbuck's

pouring coffee, 

grinding beans.

his face is completely 

tattooed now,

and there's

pins and needles, hooks

and rings

sticking out

of his ears and nose,

his eyebrows.

he's wearing

a pink dress

and heels.

he was the kid next door.

tanned with floppy hair.

i remember

how i used to play

catch with him

in the yard. all county

on his baseball

team in high school.

i say hello

and reach over to shake his hand.

how's it going?

i ask.

he tells me that no one

will hire him.

no one returns his calls.

he's stuck here

in this store.

everyone is still here

no one lives here anymore

the pink house

abandoned in the woods,

so we go through a broken

window

in the cellar,

our gang

of boys, exploring what's

left behind.

there's the couch against

the wall,

a tv on the floor.

a child's doll.

toothbrushes in the bathroom.

beds with the sheets

still on.

we dodge the racoon

that has made this place

his home.

a bat circles before it finds

the window.

i stop at the kitchen

and see

on the wall

the markings of children

as they grew

year after year.

the lines and dates

where their heads once rested

as a mother

made the marks.

who were these children,

where are they now?

there's even a Christmas wreathe

still hanging

on the door.

everyone is still here,

everyone is gone.

it's just a passing fancy

the blush

of sun on this 

morning ocean arouses

a strange

sense

of hope in you.

maybe the world isn't crazy

after all.

it's just

a mirage,

this violence, this hatred,

these killings

are a passing

fancy.

it will all fade

in another decade

or two.

the stolen purse

i remember

the cave of my mother's purse,

the big one

that she strapped

around her shoulder

when she went

anywhere.

it was a treasure trove of candy and gum,

cigarettes,

jewelry,

a small photo album

of family

and friends.

matches

and crackers.

bills to be paid.

pens, and a notebook.

rosary beads from her first

communion.

tissues and rubber bands.

her wedding rings.

i remember how she cried

as she sat

on the bench after

the thief ripped it away

from her,

dragging her across the ground

as she screamed

for help.

as a boy of ten,

i remember her face, sad

and pale,

frightened.

she never in her life

hurt anyone.

the pink light coming into the room

what is it,

she asks me, as we sit

without talking

in the living room.

the tv

off, our phones 

no longer clenched

in our hands.

just me and her.

what is it, she says again,

what's on your

mind.

speak.

tell me if something is wrong.

don't leave

me in the dark,

alone.

spit it out. 

i can take it.

nothing is wrong, i tell

her.

everything is fine.

look how pink the light

is as

it comes

into the room.

the bullet train

you

hardly wake up

when

it's time for bed again.

the speed

of time

seems to be increasing

with each

new day

each month and week.

wasn't it just

yesterday

you stood 

in front of a mirror

without a line on your face,

how you bounded

up staircases,

three steps at a time.

you drank

whatever you wanted to drink,

ate everything

on every plate.

the world was in slow

motion

back then.

and now it's a bullet

train.

it's getting late.

we got to get out of this place

as i sit on the front porch

sipping coffee

and listening to music, perusing

a new poetry book

i see

my neighbor Lulabelle packing up,

there's a U-Haul trailer

hooked up to her Prius

out front.

hey, i say. you guys moving

already?

yes, she says,

we can't take it any longer,

between

that radical right Maga

and Trump.

all of our rights are being

taken away.

oh really,

like what?

well, for instance, umm,

well....

i can't think of anything

exactly right now.

but we're both

afraid to go to beach and get

a tan,

ICE might pick us up,

because of our skin color.

huh?

but you were born in Baltimore

and your

dad is a cop.

your skin is almost pink.

well, i know, i know, but

they're coming

for us, you'll see. my cousin

is sort of gay

and hides under his bed all day

in his furry costume.

anyone with brown eyes

and a foreign accent,

and likes Bette Midler

or QVC is next.

i mean, my God they banned poor

Jimmy Kimmel

for almost four nights.

the suffering his family must have

gone through.

every time i see a helicopter

in the sky

i pee my pants with fear

that they're coming for us.

you'll see, you're next.

i'd put that poetry book away

if i was you.

hold on,

i need to get these 2028 Kamala and Jasmine

for president signs

into the truck.

so where to? i ask her.

we're thinking Ireland

or California.

we're not sure yet.

maybe Gaza or the West Bank.

okay, i tell her. well, best of luck.

do you need some help with

all of those

Palestinian flags rolled up?

can you keep it down out here

i go out

into the back yard

to see what all the commotion

is about.

birds on the fence,

chirping,

bullfrogs

sounding off

in their hoarse voices.

there's a snake

slithering

beneath a rock.

squirrels are dancing with

acorns in

their mouth.

a raccoon is yanking

the lid

off a trash can.

i open the door and they

all stop

to take a look

at me,

shrug and continue

on as if i don't exist.

women and birthdays

we men

almost forget our own birthday,

the day

arrives

and you see the number

on the calendar

and sigh.

so what.

you're still here,

still alive,

maybe you'll celebrate

later by having a donut

and a second

cup of coffee.

but women are different

creatures.

the whole world

seems to know that their

special

day has arrived.

they get their hair done,

their nails,

a new dress is bought.

they go to the spa.

it's a month-long event,

with dinners out,

dinners in,

parties and balloons.

dancing and drinking.

birthday cards

arriving in the mail.

gifts by the dozen,

bottles of wine.

it's Christmas,

it's New Years Eve,

it's the fourth of July.

no surrender

the threat

of clouds is far off.

the spear

of lightning, the cannon

of thunder,

but

so is tragedy and death.

there

is little one

can do about

such thoughts,

do you close the windows

bring

in the dog,

hunker down

and wait it out.

or embrace the wind

and rain

when it arrives.

Un surrendered

once again

as you rock upon the porch.

the last dog

my last dog

loved

to bark, to gnaw on shoes,

to tear

things up,

unravel

and chew on just about

anything.

a full time beggar

for a crumb

of food.

hats and gloves,

wires

were shredded between his teeth.

i still see the traces

of his mayhem

when

i look around the room.

the legs of chairs

and tables

half eaten,

bones buried in the living

room.

part of me

misses him dearly,

and yet another part sighs

with relief,

and says whew.

she's gone sailing off the cape

i call up

my broker at Morgan Stanley.

i haven't

talked to her in ages.

i know she likes

to go to Cape Cod this time

of year

and sail on her

boat, and i hate to bother

her while

she's eating lobster

and filet mignon,

but i want to ask her a question

about this RMD thing

that is coming up.

the line

is busy of course, but i leave

a message.

when she calls back, she says,

well hello dear,

long time no hear,

how are you,

the market has done marvelously

well this year,

don't you think?

you must come up to the cape

this time of year.

pack a bag and hop on a plane,

come on up 

so that we can talk.

Biff and Betty say hello,

by the way,

they're opening up another

bottle of

champagne.

how to become a paid protester

i go online to do some research

on how

to become a paid protester.

maybe i can make a few extra bucks

for Christmas this year.

i see them

in their lime green vests

on the news all the time

TikTok,

YouTube.

they attend countless protests

around the country.

the Po Po know them by name.

to hell with nine to five,

the ad says.

you can be your own boss,

set your own hours.

work outside in the fresh air until

the tear gas arrives.

it's an excellent cardio workout.

tired of being a loner with

no friends, we'll here's your chance

to meet a fun group of lost

and deranged people

like yourself.

no experience necessary.

do you have a megaphone

and lots of negative

energy, angry all the time,

do you hate your

country, know how to set

fires and make exploding

devices, that's great.

a loud screeching voice is 

a must and we

prefer non-religious workers

with no

conscience or morality.

being estranged from your family

and having

no real friends is okay with us.

an empty heartless soul

that lives on the dark web

in your mother's basement fits

in perfectly with

our mission statement

that demands that we destroy the world

and take it

back from the Man.

the big spooky Orange man

in particular.

our motto is be angry at everyone

that doesn't

believe exactly like we do.

transgenders are welcome

with open arms,

as well as college professors

and baby boomers without a life. 

we value your

past experiences

made in the 60's. please bring

your canes and walkers,

wheelchairs, rescue inhalers

and plenty of Ensure,

and be safe.

try to keep to the right side

of the road.

defibrillators will be stationed

nearby next to park benches.

we do not discriminate by age

or race,

and

we don't care if you're a he, she,

him, them,

they or a furry.

we welcome anyone in an

animal costume.

come on down and bark your lungs out.

if hired,

welcome aboard

to three or four

exciting hours of looting 

and harassing

police on the streets.

if you can travel to Chicago or

New York, that's

a plus.

we will provide a gas mask,

helmet and

bullet proof vest.

just tell us your size, height

weight, etc.

and we'll do the rest.

sorry but we only provide clothing

in jet black.

also everyone will get a starter bag

full of broken bricks

and rocks.

we pay in untraceable cash at the end

of each protest,

and will provide a student lawyer

from Columbia

if needed when you get

arrested and carted off to the pokey.

come one

come all, join our enthusiastic

and growing team.

together we can make this

world a more

horrible place

and earn good money while doing it.

no ID's or background checks are

required.

the HOA

red

is a nice color for the front door.

but

black is fine

too.

yellow or

green would be fine

as well,

but we have

rules here.

so it has to be blue.

finding a grocery list

as i enter

the grocery store i find

a folded grocery list on the floor.

it's written in black ink.

the handwriting is very nice,

i suspect that the writer

of the note

went to Catholic School

or was taught at home.

the letters are very clean

and clear

with hardly any flourish,

all of it between the lines.

bread, milk, eggs,

grapes,

toilet paper,

paper towels.

Tide and Dial Soap.

at the bottom is the word

Oreos, which may have

been written by a child,

but crossed out.

i decide to use this list

to do my own shopping,

i circle the word Oreos,

which i put into

my shopping cart first.

the martyr Jimmy Kimmel

there's

a man, a homeless man

that i

talk to once in a while

on the street.

he's been there for years.

sometimes

he's sitting in the alley

with a can

of soup.

or a bag of fast food.

we talk

after i give him

a ten-dollar bill.

he tells me it's a crying shame

about Jimmy Kimmel

off the air

for four days.

man, he says. what's the world

coming to.

poor guy.

how's he gonna feed his

family

if they kick him

off the air?

i thought this country was built

on free speech.

he's a martyr now, that's what

he is.

don't be surprised if a statue goes

up for him.

but he lied,

i tell him. he flat out told a bold

face lie

to millions of people

and never apologized.

he shrugged.

yeah, who doesn't lie? the whole

world is one

big lie.

we need to forgive and forget.

you know he

makes 15 million dollars a year,

i tell him.

yeah, but it's a hard job

coming up with new jokes

every week.

i couldn't do it. could you?

he's under a lot of stress, i saw

him crying last night

on tv when

i went to the shelter, i feel bad

for the man, really bad.

it's a hard world i tell you.

a hard hard world.

the delusion of men

i used

to think that i could make her happy.

i truly

believed

i had the power, the intelligence,

the desire

to find a way

to make her smile

and be happy.

trinkets,

flowers, 

attention

and affection, 

something had

to ring

the bell of joy in her,

but each

year

showed me how delusional

i was.

she was happiest when

she was

unhappy, a lesson,

hard earned.

the boy with blonde hair

i often wondered

what

happened to the boy who

wrapped

his arm

with a band,

then

tapped his vein and shot

heroin

into himself

as we sat around Dana's

basement

listening to the White Album.

his beautiful blue

eyes rolled

back into his head

as he lay down,

while

a wide smile stretched

across his face.

i think his name

was Henry,

the boy up the street

with blonde hair

who showed

me how to throw a curve

ball

at the age of ten.

throwing dishes across the room

at last

i know where you stand.

your anger

tells me

exactly what i need

to know

about how you feel

about me.

there is no

confusion now,

no ambiguity.

thank you for at last

telling me

where you are with

where we're at.

the plate that just missed

my head,

has told me that.

three steps down on I street

there was

solace at one time in the dark

cave

of bars,

in the music

you knew every word to,

in the swampy

haze of smoke and drink,

there was promise in

the prospect

of girls

at the front end of their lives,

unafraid

yet by men.

there

was something like

hope

in the air, in your

heart,

that this night might

change

everything. like a random

lightning strike,

maybe.

it's what brought you

there night

after night, into mornings

when the sun

was wearily rising.

making the heart sign with your hands

i knew

that eventually i'd get sick of her

when

she started doing

that popular thing

with her hands, making

a heart sign

with her thumb

and fingers.

holding it up with a big smile

for me to see.

for some reason her doing

that made

me queasy. i felt an enormous

sense of cringe, not

to mention when

she would say Ciao all

the time

when leaving,

like she was Audrey Hepburn

or someone.

i don't know why

exactly that bothered me,

but it did.

circling Rhonda and Popeyes Chicken

i circle

the fried chicken establishment

like a pining

lover

wondering

how the old girlfriend

is. i miss it so much.

should i go in.

should i get the four piece

chicken dinner,

spicy with dark meat,

with fries

and slaw,

a large drink?

or should i drive on

and spare

myself

the pain and regret later

for

trying once again.

the democratic Mayors, We Got This

the mayor

is proud,

she's beaming

from cheek to cheek

wearing her new t-shirt 

emblazoned with the logo

We Got This.

she stands at the podium

with her charts

and graphs,

and pointer.

look at this, she says proudly,

crime is down this year

by three percent.

only 578 murders

have been committed,

only

173 carjackings,

678 robberies and 

1201 assaults. not to mention,

only seventy-eight rapes.

and may i add that

of the two thousand people

shot with illegal

handguns this year,

nearly one fourth of them have lived,

though severely wounded.

i also want to announce

that

drug overdoses have fallen

to a ten-year low

since i took office.

only nine hundred and sixteen

deaths have

occurred from

fentanyl this year.

let's give ourselves a huge round

of applause.

the city is safe again.

let me repeat that loud and clear.

the city is safe once again, so

don't forget to vote

for me once more

in November

and oh, by the way

pick up your free butterball

turkey and canned cranberry sauce

on the way out.

our goal is to keep you safe.

so stay off the streets

and subway

at night and

please remember to carry

with you at all times

your pepper spray and mace

and if you have

one a rescue whistle.

remember as you cast your ballot

for me

this year, that like i said.

we got this.

Betty loves buttered popcorn

i pour

too many popcorn seeds

into the popper,

and now

the kitchen

floor is

a foot deep in popcorn.

there's not

enough

salt and butter

to go around, but i do

what i can,

sprinkling

it about.

i bring

the tv into the room

and sit down,

then call my friend

Betty

who loves popcorn.

by midnight, it will be

gone.

ode to Prufrock

yes,

the women did come and go

in

the room,

but they weren't talking

about

Michelangelo, no.

they were talking

about the yearly shoe

sale

at Nordstroms

and where to

go for lunch.

we need you ASAP

there's desperation

in his voice,

as the man tells me he needs

this work done

ASAP.

i'll pay you double

for whatever you make.

i'll even pay

for your parking tickets,

he says.

we need it done

by midnight

tonight.

can you get down here

right away

with your truck, your

tools and tall ladders.

i'll even buy you lunch.

i stare at the pictures

he's sent to me on my phone.

bare drywall.

columns,

back splashes,

ceilings with wires 

hanging down. ten rolls

of godforsaken

wallpaper

bought at a yard sale

in Timonium.

the area is 

a cave of an unlit store

in Georgetown.

i turn the phone off and go

back to sleep.

i think i'm done.

what exactly does the United Nations do?

what exactly

does the United Nations do, you ask,

other than

write letters

and complain

about the weather

and wars,

food supply and disease,

but are they actually involved

in any of this,

doing something

about it,

or just sitting around

at their desks

jabbering

with their headphones on

and then

having lunch at

Sardi's.

love the baby blue helmets though.

it's like a book club

that gathers

where no one has read the book.

they really

need to get that escalator fixed,

what are we

a third world

country?

these are not good people

you

can tell who people are,

by the condiments they

put on

their food.

ketchup

on hot dogs,

mustard

on hamburgers.

tabasco sauce on eggs.

mayonnaise on

pastrami.

these are not

good people.

you must cut your ties

with them

as soon

as breakfast

or lunch is over.