the leg in REM mode

my left leg

is asleep.

deep in REM mode.

it's thick and heavy with

pins and needles.

i've sat in one

position too long.

i stumble as i try

to get

up and leave.

i wonder

if it dreams

of running, of walking,

going up

stairs.

doing jumping jacks,

or lining up

a ball to kick

into the blue sky

of air.

i sense it needs coffee,

needs time,

needs a little bit of 

TLC

to get it back and going.

slowly i shake it out

and limp

to the coffee shop like

an old soldier,

coming home from a war.

he's in eggnog heaven

the dog

is in heaven as he rolls about

in the

wrapping

paper, the ribbons

and bows,

all shredded with

glitter on his nose.

the light

cord is

cut in half by his sharp

teeth,

the cookie dish

turned

over

and licked clean.

his belly is swollen

with

sugar,

and little meatballs

with toothpicks

that were

left on the coffee table

by Aunt

Mimi.

he's lapped

up

the eggnog from the spilled

carton,

he's in heaven

now,

may he rest in peace,

our little canine

if he makes

it through the night.

damn this nut bowl

damn

this bottomless nut

bowl.

these salted cashews

and walnuts,

peanuts,

Brazil nuts,

honey roasted

nuts,

and pistachios.

damn them,

damn them to hell,

i think as i put another

handful

into my

mouth,

savoring the sweetness

and the salt,

enjoying

the satisfying crunch.

i have the will power

of a baby.

i can't stop myself

and dinner is in an hour.

responsible drinking

it would

be nice, one day, one week,

a month
of peace.

no wars, no killing,

no

crazy messages

or tweets.

no anger for an hour.

no news
that's twisted left

or right.

just a placid simple

day

of opening gifts,

and eating,

drinking responsibly,

and

holding each other tight.

the ugly text message

it's a strange

and ugly

text from an unknown source,

or name,

or person.

a dark

anonymous soul

writing to me from

somewhere afar,

across lakes and streams,

someone 

with an Indiana

area code.

it's full of hate and anger,

a deep

sadness,

things must not be going

well for

him or her,

whoever the text is from.

maybe heartbreak

or mental illness is involved.

what a crazy

world it has become, so many

lost souls,

throwing

stones

at people they don't even know.

they tell me

to leave

them alone,

or else i'll be blocked.

i can only laugh,

and go back to the book

i was reading,

shaking my head, i move on.

blueberry jam

as she

brushes her hair,

i stand at the stove and crack

two

eggs into the pan.

i look at her in the hallway,

in front of the mirror.

she looks

at me

and says, what?

nothing,

i reply.

nothing.

i pull the toast from

the toaster,

set it on a plate,

then the eggs.

i sit at the table.

watching her leave

as the door

closes

behind her.

the blueberry jam is cold as

i spread it

across the square land

of bread.

wireless

it's a Christmas

miracle,

connecting all of my new

devices

to the world.

i'm almost a wireless person

now.,

hooked

and connected

to the strange invisible

planet

that we've

become.

the lights are lit.

the passwords set,

i just need to set my fingers

on the keyboard

now

and type.

let them go at it

long into the winter night.

the sailor

he had

the North Sea in his

eyes.

the wind

in his blown hair,

the silver

of stars,

the brine, the salt

of sailing,

gruffness

of songs in his voice,

of drink

and oft told lies.

he had more

stories to tell,

but

he couldn't go on,

couldn't

tell another without

thinking

about the one he loved,

the one

still in his heart,

locked in the pages

of his mind.

settling into the big chair

really,

really, this year too is nearly

done.

how can that be,

i just

turned the page,

yesterday,

i used to be 21,

i used to be young.

i used

to be on the run,

on the go with friends,

and now i'm 

settled in this big chair

watching

the snow 

fall, sipping another

cup

of coffee,

a book in my lap,

eating a cinnamon raison

rum bun.

waiting in line

the line is long,

but i have all of my receipts

and tags

and bags

and boxes.

one would think that Santa would

know my size by now,

after all these years.

i've settled

into extra-large on almost

all things,

expect shoes,

which seem

to be getting smaller for

some strange reason,

the podiatrist

is the next stop on the list.

status of the trash pickup

the neighborhood

is in a panic,

will there be trash pick up

on Christmas

day,

or will it be on Friday, or

will we have

to wait for the scheduled

Monday

morning for pick up?

is it okay

to set the bags and boxes,

turkey bones,

ribbons and bows,

and ham

bones out

tomorrow night, or should

we wait?

i can't get a hold of the condo

board

for an answer, 

(they are so inept, pffft)

if anyone

knows the status

of the trash pickup,

please contact me, or post

a notification

as soon as possible

on the Facebook page,

i can hardly sleep.

also, before

i forget,

can we put our trees out

by the hydrant

on Monday?

it's the most wonderful time of the year

it was

an interesting Christmas,

my

mother's arm in a cast,

her black

prescription glasses held

together

with white

medical tape, while

the bruise from my father's

fist

turned yellow

and green

on her cheek.

but the church basket

on the porch

lightened things up a little.

Andy Williams

was on the radio

while one sister

peeled

the potatoes, and

the other

one

changed the diaper on

the baby.

us boys watched football

on the tv

before going

out into the snow

to throw

a ball around.

we learned to ignore and

absorb

almost everything.

number 28 in line for a ham

as i stand

in line,

in the cold, with my number

in hand,

shivering like a character

out of a Dicken's

novel,

i stare

into the window

of the ham

and turkey

store,

and wonder what else

might there

be to eat

at home in cupboard

if the store

runs out

of meat.

have i ever had peanut

butter and jelly

sandwiches

for Christmas dinner,

cheese and crackers,

with a Mountain

Dew drink,

for the 

holiday feast?

the answer would be

yes.

i shuffle forward

in prayer.

a love and hate relationship

Moe,

my long departed

dachshund,

would eat anything,

chew

on anything, bite, eat,

swallow,

gnarl on

anything

within reach of his long

snout.

furniture,

gloves,

shoes, books, the legs

of tables,

beer cans,

computer wires,

sunglasses,

dead animals that

he'd drag

into the house.

an open purse was his

delight.

it had nothing to do

with food,

or nourishment,

or the lack

of treats, or affection,

it was more out of

anger,

out of spite,

for going out of the house

for an hour

or two

each night, and having

the nerve

to actually have my own

life.

the baby boomers

the trees

in this wind are falling,

one by

one,

the old ones,

the grey ones,

the woods are thick

with them.

sturdy

for so long.

i hear them snap

in the early

morning hours,

giving in

to nature, accepting

what eventually

had to come.

catfish on ice

i shouldn't, but i can't help

myself.

i yell out to the fisherman

on the pier,

hey,

hey. 

maybe you all haven't heard

this but, 

Safeway sells fish now.

all kinds,

from catfish to flounder,

no need 

to cast out anymore.

they begin

to run towards me

with their scaling knives

their rods

and reels,

tossing beer cans

at me,

but i'm too fast for them.

get a load of this, she whispers in my ear

who

doesn't like a good rumor,

a conspiracy

theory

a bit of juicy gossip,

some dirt

shared

over the back yard fence

between

Midge and Marge.

yes,

it's a decadent

and

sinful, and yet, we all

need a bite

of something sweet

and delicious

every blue moon.

of course all in good fun,

no harm.

the morning ice cold shower

as i step

into the cold shower,

the freezing

cold

hard spray

of only cold water,

colder now

because it's winter

and the pipes

are near

frozen,

i wake up to the day

with a loud scream,

energized

by the shock of it all.

i shiver

as i stand there with

a bar of soap,

the water cascading

down my head,

down my goose bumped skin.

i feel the north pole in my bones

as i begin

to get an ice cream

headache,

like i used to get when

eating

rocky road.

it's then that

i know it's time

to get out

and start the day, wrapping

myself up

in a big towel

as the dog licks my leg.

lost in the fun house of mirrors

when you

begin your journey of psychological

research,

trying to understand

what

went wrong

in the last five or six

relationships.

blaming it all on the other person,

because you

are pretty much perfect.

you begin to wonder though,

is it me,

am i the narcissist,

the dark

empath,

the covert or grandiose

narcissist?

am i the passive aggressive,

sociopath?

am i the borderline personality,

on the spectrum

with a social

anxiety disorder?

so i have a touch of bi-polar,

or schizophrenia?

am i paranoid

and obsessed with rumination?

where do i fit in with the Munchausen

Syndrome

or the Stockholm Syndrome?

do i have

cognitive dissonance,

a favorite person,

am i the one ready for the loony

bin,

and not her?

a dozen books

later,

three hundred and twelve

YouTube videos,

and the jury is still out.

let's see how long this lasts

the steps

were full of pots pans, books,

magazines

and 

canned fruits and vegetables.

shoes

were everywhere,

scraps

of paper,

boxes of ink pens,

string

and paper clips, hair

bands.

clothes from another

century

hung on racks in the basement.

photo albums

that belonged to the previous

owner

were on the shelf.

her mattress

was on the floor

next to

a futon from college,

an ancient television

and turn table

that no longer worked.

morning sunlight poured

through

the curtainless windows.

a crack

like a lightning bolt ran

up the middle of the glass.

it was clutter chaos,

that smelled like fear and despair,

but she was

pretty

and had amazing blue

eyes,

and a great kisser to boot.

let's give

this a shot, i thought,

at least

for a little while.

the broom closet

we had

a broom closet when growing up.

shovels

and bags of road

salt were

in there.

mops and Lysol.

straw brooms,

bottles of Mr. Clean,

a grey metal

bucket.

a scrub brush

with yellow rubber

gloves

hanging on

the rim.

sometimes we threw

our shoes

in their too

when they were muddy

or we had

stepped into

something on the road.

at some point

it became a pantry too,

for canned goods

and dog food.

just your imagination

she was

liquid, mercurial, light

and sprite,

an angel

on the head of a pin,

tiny,

a confection,

a sweet delight,

a breath of fresh air,

and then

she wasn't.

updating my face book photo

i see so many people

updating

their photos.

maybe

i need

a new photo for all my

social

media accounts too.

not a close up,

and not one too far

away,

but one to soften the blow

of aging

and holiday

weight gain.

i can wear black, of course

and a hat,

and dark

sunglasses.

a picture

with sepia

lighting perhaps,

maybe with a river

in the background,

or some

cows or chickens

on the ground,

something distracting,

so that i'm

not the focus of the picture,

just a good shot

from a safe distance,

though

unsuitable for

framing.

we all have a story to tell

we all 

have a story to tell.

but for most

it can be pared down into a short

story,

or maybe

a long poem.

few have

a novel though

and worst yet,

a sequel,

and few have the time

to patiently listen

to that long

of a story.

just give me the highlights

or low lights.

wrap it up

nice and neatly

in a bow

before my ears begin

to bleed.

tell me the moral of 

your story,

before you go.

12:01 p.m.

when i finish

reading 

the morning paper,

drink my

last cup of coffee,

then finally put some

pants on,

i'm going to do

something

constructive

today.

there's still time.

sign here and here and here, initial there

it might

as well be written in Greek

or Latin

the government

form

that sits on my desk.

despite the words

being in

English,

the sentences are run on,

like

in a James Joyce novel,

in endless

paragraphs,

long winded and convoluted.

it's a well educated

mishmash of

chicken scratch.

i check the boxes,

fill

in the blanks,

sign my name and send it off

any day

now it should be coming

back.

the Epstein girls

to end

the madness, 

the suspicions,

the hypocrisy, the mystery

of so many

redactions,

just have the girls,

now women,

the victims,

or survivors, or young

entrepreneurs

just name

names

and let the chips fall where

they may.

why hold back

at this point?

tell us who and when, and where.

tell us how

much money you made

and who paid

you?

tell us what you had to do

and to whom.

take your time.

here's a pen

a blank sheet of paper.

spill.

here's a tape recorder,

put your hand on a Bible

and tell all.

then

get the psychological

and spiritual help

you need, 

and the monetary

reparations

if that's the aim.

but please. just be done

with it,

name names.

why continue with this insane

secrecy?

waiting for the mail to arrive

tell people

that you write poetry

and they

will send you poetry

of their own.

i understand

how it works now,

so i tell them that i bake

cookies

as well.

any day now i expect

cookies to arrive

in the mail.

a place where they can see the stars at night

the baby,

the dog, the accumulation

of things

makes them put a sign in the yard.

house for sale.

they move

to a bigger house,

somewhere

in the country,

near farms

and trees. where cows

graze.

a place

to raise the child,

a place where the dog

can run free,

where they can see the stars

at night

and not

worry.

you can't keep it all out

the north wind

blows

up the wrist of my sleeve.

i

can't keep

all the weather

out

despite layered in clothing.

coats

and sweaters,

gloves

and hats.

it reddens my cheeks.

tells

me a story,

one i already know,

about small defeats.

after so much misfortune

your

cake in the fridge

is getting

old.

please come soon.

i'll cut

you a slice,

set it on a plate,

it's the least i can do

for you

after so much misfortune.

we'll sit

by the fire,

and not talk.

we'll just eat cake,

drink

tea,

and wait

for time to move.

that's all i remember

all

i remember is the cold

moon,

full and white,

my feet

soaked to the bone

with

the slush

of yesterdays storm.

and

her wet eyes

as she kissed me goodbye,

letting go of

my hand,

i recall the shadow

of her

disappearing into the night.

and me

on the stone

steps

waiting for the sun to rise.

that's all

i remember.

honest.

don't make me pull this car over

i'm

having a fight with my

printer.

i call it names.

i curse.

i shake it,

i shake my head

and roll

my eyes at its rattling

on and on

and not

working.

nothing is coming out

of its

noisy mouth.

it's the drawer,

the paper, the connection.

the lack of ink.

i beg

it to work.

please print i plead.

just one

unblurred sheet.

come on,

you can do it.

but it's a screaming child

in the back

seat of the car

wanting a happy meal.

don't make me pull this car

over

and give you something

to cry about

i yell out.

heading to the mall, Town Center

i wake

up sweating. i suddenly

realize

that

there's only five days left

until

Christmas.

do i really

have to go to the mall

and start

shopping.

do they still have malls?

is it too late

for Amazon

to deliver before the 25th?

quickly i get

dressed

and rush down to the mall,

which is now

called the Town Center.

is there a

Spencer's in there,

a Radio Shack,

an Annie's Pretzel,

and a Cinnabon?

what about the food court,

where tiny

aggressive women

reach out to you with

fried pork

on toothpicks.

is there a Sears, a J.C. Penny's,

a Britches

of Georgetown?

Woodies?

Kinney's or Victoria Secrets?

what about

the massaging chairs

near the fountain?

a lot can go wrong

a lot

can go wrong with the human

body,

beyond

the inevitable aging

process,

the results of sun,

and gravity.

but

most of it is the result

of 

drinking and smoking,

eating

badly

and stress.

i can't stress the word

stress

enough.

it starts early with the first

crush on

the girl in front

of you

in the first grade

and continues on until

the last

divorce.

Wally greets me at the door

my friend Walter,

who hates

being called Wally,

got a job the other day as a greeter

at Walmart.

i pray for him.

he used to be scientist

down

at Bell Labs,

researching nuclear

energy,

but now this.

i just need something to

do with my

time, he says.

living alone with his cats

on the third floor

of a four-floor walkup.

i see him

at the door as i go to Walmart

to pick up

another bag

of marshmallow

peanuts.

his name tag says Wally.

it's the end of the world.

welcome,

he says,

as i come through

the electric doors.

downsizing

we spend a lifetime

of accumulating things

depending on our needs

and desires.

we fill

the house with so much.

we spend

years of adding

on to what we already have,

from top to bottom.

it never seems to end,

and then it does.

then we downsize

to a smaller,

more comfortable life,

and realize that so much

of what we have can easily

be let go of.

which includes people

too.

the enormous dull book

i begin

once more where i left off

yesterday,

the book

earmarked

with a twist of the corner.

i may

never finish this book.

one page,

two pages at a time.

by summer

i should be halfway through it,

unless i find

another book

to read,

to wile away my time.

reservations downtown

this

rat, large and cumbersome,

overfed,

not

an athlete by

any measure,

crosses

the street in front of

us

before

we go into the four

star

restaurant in town.

but

the rat,

grey

as the slush

that melts underfoot,

panicked

by our bootsteps,

hits his head on the curb,

and falls

over.

we step around.

pick me

we want

to be chosen, to be

the one

picked

to play in the game,

we want

the girl to ask us

to dance,

we want

the teacher to praise

us,

our mothers

and fathers to be proud.

we want

to be noticed

for the fancy car

we drive,

the house we live in,

the clothes we

wear.

so much

of our lives

is spent

on building up our self

esteem.

making us feel

better

than what we really are.

the Christmas family photo

it's a family

photo

that now includes grandchildren,

along with

husbands and wives,

siblings,

twenty

or more

people stand together,

arm in arm,

side by side.

smiling

for the camera

beside the Christmas tree,

the quiet fire.

the photo gets larger

and larger

with each passing year.

there's grey now

in some hair,

faces are showing their age,

there's thickness

around the waists

that were never there,

but

thankfully,

as of yet, with God's good 

grace,

subtraction

has not taken place.

the leaky heart

i can't

fill you up. it's impossible.

there's

a hole

in the bottom of you,

and no

matter how

much love and affection

i pour in,

there's never enough

to make

you whole.

you're only

happy when you're unhappy.

i can't do this anymore.

i'm

going home.

so, what's next?

eventually,

they do catch the bad guy.

they

track him

down

and end his flight.

six or seven authority figures

get up at the podium

and tell

us the story of how

they did it,

patting each other on the back,

each happy

to share the limelight.

it all goes away

eventually,

except for the lingering

conspiracy theories

that will

go on until the end of time.

the crime

is solved. case closed.

but no worries, more

mayhem is coming down

the pike.

stay tuned.

what we need and don't need more of

we need more

doctors, surgeons,

teachers,

and engineers.

we need smart

people

in our lives to figure

things out.

we need

scientists and astronomers

pilots

and inventors,

farmers

and carpenters.

we need a good plumber

a good electrician.

someone to keep the trains

on time.

we need

entrepreneurs,

morally sound

people

with no axe to grind.

we need the opposite

of politicians.

throwing up the Bat signal

so where

is Superman when we need him?

Batman

and Robin,

we need them to clean

up Gotham City,

to go around

the world

and save

us from ourselves.

someone to catch

the bullets,

dismantle

the bombs,

someone to stop the evil.

we need a superhero of some

kind

to stop the madness

that the world has become.

where is the Flash,

the Green Lantern,

Wonder woman,

the heroes of our childhood?

we shine the signal

up in the sky,

but no one comes.

happy as a clam

i have

a waterproof watch,

water

proof pants, hats

and shoes,

a waterproof jacket.

my phone

is waterproof,

my floor,

my roof.

i've never before been

so safe

from what water

can do.

i'm happy as a clam

with a closed

shell.

i hope you are too.

the clip on tie

it was

a cheap suit,

a J.C. Penny's special.

a pale

grey greenish number

with 

small lines

of red thread

running through it.

a thin white shirt,

starched,

a clip-on tie, plaid.

it was the first wedding,

the entry

level

step into love and marriage.

the pictures

were horrifying.

a few months

later,

as i was driving home

from work

i saw her

walking up the street

with our new toaster

oven and her

one bag.

i waved, but she didn't

wave back.

when i got home,

i ate the last slice

of the frozen wedding cake

and stuffed the suit in the trash.

the quiet neighbors

there's

banging going on next door.

hammers,

saws,

drills,

the moving truck idles

outside

in the parking lot

as boxes

and bedsprings get

carried out.

it's a beehive

of noise,

after six years of never

hearing a dog

bark,

a baby cry,

or a single word.

maybe we weren't friends to begin with

i count

on one hand, and then

the other

hand the number

friends

who have decided not

to be friends

anymore

because we disagree on

politics.

it's a sad thing

that people can be so

caught up

in this crazy world,

becoming loveless

and unkind,

humorless

as they lose themselves

in a different

frame of mind.

saving the dearly departed

i feel

guilty deleting

all

the dead people from my phone.

maybe

i shouldn't do that,

so i don't.

instead,

i keep them around.

their faces,

their numbers,

their old texts and emails.

it's comforting

somehow.

the fisherman

i never

knew anyone that loved

fishing

as much as big Mike did.

since the age

of twelve

he was digging up worms

in the back yard,

or making

dough balls

with jello

mix to catch carp at Great Falls.

he had

custom made

spinners

and rods, a tackle box full

of fly's

and weights,

hooks and nylon reels 

of line.

he'd put his waist high boots

on 

at the crack of dawn

and drive his Chevy Malibu

down

to the banks of the Potomac

River

at Fort Washington

with his box of blood worms

and cast

away.

filling his white bucket

up

as the sun went down,

with perch

and catfish,

herring

and whatever else swam

his way.

the holiday dinner party

it's the time

of year

when you're forced to be with people.

you've run out of

excuses

for not going. so you go.

some people you like,

some you don't like,

and the feeling

is mutual.

but you attend anyway and put

on your

happy face,

your pleasant smile,

and demeanor.

you carry

in your toll house cookies

nestled in a tin.

you make small talk, you

shake hands,

you hug,

some hug you back.

you avoid the mistletoe

as you make

vague plans

to get together again,

call me you say,

or they say to you.

let's not let another year

pass.

and then you realize

that you've only been there

for fifteen minutes.

you wipe your brow,

you can feel

the sweat beneath your

Christmas

sweater, running down 

your back.

why is your eye twitching

you think,

as your head

swivels around searching

for an exit.

the holiday nut bowl

i may

have put the holiday nut bowl

out too soon.

the candy

bowl too, with those little stamp

like

candies, striped

red and blue,

yellow and green.

little candy canes,

and gnocchi shaped

candies,

that with one lick

turn into goo.

the shells are every where

and i have

a tooth ache.

i may have cracked a molar

on that last

bite of a walnut.

both bowls

need a refill

and there's ten more days

to go.

don't forget to put the seat down dude

we pause

and take a break about arguing

politics.

neither of us

can get

the other to agree on

any of the issues,

so

we agree

to stop talking

and give it

a rest.

and then a bearded man

wearing a dress

walks

by, with a red

silk

bra. we watch him

as he goes into

the women's bathroom

and it starts up

all over

again.

timex in a red velvet box

i take the watch

out of

the red

velvet box

and put it up to my ear.

an ancient

Timex.

a gift at thirteen.

the tick is

soothing, a kind reminder

of youth,

of when the first

watch

meant

so much around

my boney wrist.

waterproof, the dial

reads.

it pleases me,

beyond measure that

we're

both still ticking.

getting ready for a show

i'm

on hold for two hours

with the DMV,

but i'm

getting things done.

Christmas

cards,

bills

and correspondences

i've let get away

from me.

i've clipped my nails,

used a cue tip

on my ears.

i take a dollop of Vaseline

and rub it into

the dry skin

of my hands.

i sip at

my cup of coffee going

cold,

i rub

wrinkle cream on my face,

slather some Rogaine

onto my scalp.

i pluck the hair

in my

ears, my nose.

i drip eye drops into

my bloodshot

eyes.

i'm practically Cher 

getting ready for a show.

we're so much alike

the black

bird

on the fence, like a soldier

at his

post,

is deep in thought.

i wish

there was a way

we could talk

to discuss things.

i'd like to know where

he's been,

where he's

flown to,

does he have a family,

does he

stay in touch with old

friends.

i get the feeling

we might

be cut from the same cloth.

but i'll never

know.

he spreads his wings,

lifts himself,

and off he goes.

Cream of Tartar

into the far

back corner of the deep cupboard

where there

is no light and mystery lies,

i reach my arm

and hand around

the corner

to find what's been left behind.

i can't see

what i'm pulling out.

but it's mostly old

seasonings, boxes of

baking soda, a brick

of brown sugar

and other things from a past life

long gone.

out comes something labeled

Cream of Tartar.

what the hell is this?

i immediately ask ChatGPT

what it is

to educate myself.

the little bottle is nearly

full, a strange

white powder,

with a strange name.

apparently you

don't need much to add to

a recipe.

this one bottle could possibly

last a lifetime

and maybe the next two

if you happen to be Hindu.

i turn the volume up on my

phone and listen

to the lovely voice of my

ChatGPT person.

Cream of Tartar,

or potassium bitrate, she says

in an elegant manner,

is a by product

of winemaking,

prevents sugar crystallization,

adds acidity to recipes,

helps make what you're baking

to rise and prevents deflating,

stabilizes whipped egg whites.

who knew?

there is so much i don't know.

the laminating queen

my mother

loved

to laminate just about

any piece

of paper

she got her hands on,

or cut

out of a magazine.

there was

her list

of phone numbers,

pictures,

recipes.

newspaper articles that

piqued her

interest.

sometimes she'd make

three

holes into the page

with her little

hole making

gizmo

and align them all in

a thick notebook.

she was crafty,

to say the least.

there was so much to

throw away.

so when exactly did it all go to hell?

so when

exactly did it all go to hell

in a handbag.

can we get a specific date on when

we went

over the edge

and off the cliff as far as civilization

goes.

was it Hitler,

or Stalin, maybe Pol Pot, Vlad 

the Impaler,

or Nero.

or how about H. H. Holmes,

the serial killer,

or Ted Bundy,

or Jack the Ripper,

maybe Dahmer.

Epstein?

perhaps it was when the Ayatollah

took hostages

in Iran,

or Saddam Hussein in his reign

of terror

tortured and killed

thousands.

perhaps it was when

Japan bombed

Pearl Harbor,

or Berkowitz, the Son of Sam,

ran wild,

or the Boston

Strangler had the world

tied up in knots,

and don't forget

James Earl Ray?

Oswald,

Sirhan Sirhan,

all good candidates.

was it Booth on the balcony

with his revolver,

or Richard Speck and the nurses,

the sniper

on the Texas tower,

Manson and his minions

committing murder,

the BTK killer?

Caligula?

Judas Iscariot and his bag

of silver.

maybe 911,

or October 7.

or just Eve handing Adam

an apple

in the Garden of Eden?

kings and queens

i've never

understood the obsession

with royalty.

kings and queens,

princes,

dukes, duchesses.

all the pomp and circumstance.

the weddings

and funerals, everything

horse drawn,

the adoration

of the crown.

what exactly do they do other

than

live luxurious lives,

and wave

from a balcony

wearing fancy suits

and gowns.

give me the juice

i have

an electric car,

an electric

toothbrush,

an electric shaver.

electricity

powers everything

i need

or use.

my life depends on

the juice.

lights,

computer,

refrigerator, washer

and dryer,

the mixer,

the blender,

the coffee maker,

the blanket on my bed,

the motor

that makes it shake

when i put

coins in the slot.

i'm all about the plug,

the wires,

the batteries,

the outlet.

without Dominion

Power

i have no clue

what to do.

i haven't copped wood

in years.

checking up on the old ball and chain

out for a drink

or two,

my friend Jimmy

tells

me that he likes to look up

his old

girlfriends

and wives

to see how badly they are doing.

to see if

they've aged

poorly,

gotten fat and are now

living

in some hell hole.

it brings me pleasure, he says,

to see what's

happening to them

without me.

i tell him he has shaving

cream in

his ear,

and that his zipper

is half mast,

and it's okay, i'll once more

get the tab.

number 4 is called

as i sit

here at the 
DMV,

waiting for my number to be called.

285,

at 9 a.m.,

waiting to get a sticker

for my

license plate,

i realize

that i never could have

come across

in the Mayflower.

i'm scrunched up

against people,

babies are crying, kids

with runny noses

are scurrying about.

there's coughing

and sneezing

going on.

people are tapping

their feet,

humming,

talking on their phones,

eating crackers loudly.

the woman

next to me is hogging

the chair rest

with her ham hock arms.

i have no place to put

my elbows.

there's a ding,

i look up.

number 4 is called.

give till it hurts

we're a charitable

country.

there's a charity for everything

that ails

you.

from head to toe,

to within.

anything

that can define you as

a victim.

maybe it's 

your environment,

the language

that you speak,

maybe it's a disease,

your sex,

your gender, 

the color of your skin.

there's a bucket on

every corner collecting

spare

change, dollars,

checks,

and even crypto currency

to make you

whole again.

all of this nothing

after a two-hour drive,

we park

in the gravel driveway and carry

our bags in.

it's a bed

and breakfast in the middle of nowhere.

from

the window

i can see a few horses, the rusted roof

of a barn,

once red.

i see the unpaved road.

a frozen

grey pond.

there's a dog off his leash.

we might take

a walk later, after she gets out

of the shower.

but for now, i'll  stand

here at the window

and take all of this nothing in.

the same game for thirty-five years

for nearly

35 years, with a group of guys,

mostly

men,

boys,

an occasional girl,

we played basketball at the same court.

a small

full court,

paved and lined

with string

nets, surrounded

by old homes

and trees.

each Saturday morning

at ten a.m.

eleven

on Sunday we showed up

to play ball.

we didn't call each other

on the phone,

never celebrated

birthdays

or marriages, or the birth

of children,

we rarely

saw

one another outside of the game,

but we were friends,

thick as thieves

until the end.

and then we got old,

some moved, some passed on,

summers faded as

autumn arrived,

but we limped onward,

then winter

took over.

and we were gone.

breakfast with Mark

i like

to have breakfast with Mark.

a Falstaffian

guy

if there ever was one.

boy oh boy

can he stuff

himself with pancakes,

and eggs,

bacon

and toast.

i love

how he puts it away

and tells

the waitress

to bring him more.

he doesn't care

about his weight.

about death

and disease.

about carbs and sugar,

what he weighs.

he's free.

i like the way maple syrup

drips on his

beard, 

the way sausage links stick

to his sleeve, 

he's a joy to be with,

i'm so glad he's nothing

like me.

collecting presidents

i take

the small jobs. the half

day

jobs.

the two hour

jobs.

i like to get in and out,

with cash

in hand, with

nearly the whole day

ahead of me.

i feel rich

with

my pockets full of 

Benjamins.

Lincolns and George,

strange

what a child you still

are,

still thinking like

when you were poor.

hustling flowers

he's

hustling flowers at the intersection

of Broadway

and Vine.

Lillies

and Roses,

Carnations.

he's a ragamuffin,

held together

by strings

and bows,

twine.

his face is red with weather,

his eyes

blue

as ice water, holding

a winter

sky.

maybe in different times

i'd buy

some,

a bouquet from

his hand,

but things have changed.

flowers are

no longer on my mind.

maybe later she'll tell me

i see her

long arm holding a spoon

at the bowl

mixing

something.

but we're not talking at the moment,

so i don't ask.

she doesn't even

look up,

or say hello as i walk by.

i take my

shoes off and go

up the stairs.

maybe later

i'll ask her what's wrong.

maybe later

she'll tell me.

wouldn't that be something?

don't make my mistakes

your gut

is your true brain,

in fact

it has more

neurons in it than your

actual brain

does.

your gut tells you

which way

to go,

who to be with,

what to do and not

to do.

don't ignore your gut.

listen

to it, feel it.

believe it.

don't make the same

mistakes

i have done.

winter of contentment

i've

lost track of time.

of days.

it feels cold out, so i suspect

winter

is upon us.

it might be December,

or January.

i look up at the full moon.

i find the low

white sun

when it's day.

i listen to the crunch of

my boots

as i go down

the path

of the greyed woods.

i wonder where

all the time went.

and yet feel content

now that

what used to keep me up

at night.

no longer

keeps me awake.

going numb head to toes

it's hard

not to shrug, not to shake

your head

and roll

your eyes at another mass

murder, another,

shooting,

another mindless

slaughter.

another gunman on the run.

another FBI hunt.

another suicide

bomber,

another religious fanatic,

another

demented

activist,

another plane

into a building, one more

knife attack

on a train.

another someone set

on fire.

another, another,

another.

going numb seems to be

the only,

though reluctant,

answer

to get through the day.

the gamma ray redlight solution

i may

be a sucker to the great reviews,

the four stars,

the praises

from Jim Bob,

Billy

and Sue in Arkansas,

the grandma

in Wichita,

the doctor in Toledo.

i can't find a single bad word

about the product.

so onto Amazon

i go.

i dive into the red-light therapy

gizmos.

one for each knee

with straps bound

by Velcro,

one for my

face,

a rubbery mask

to make me

wrinkle free,

one made specifically

to stick up my

nose

to heal the sinuses

and

end the endless

dripping

that confounds me.

if i live through all these

pulsing

nanometers,

and gamma rays,

i'll let you know.

no different than a sunny day

we travel

carefully in the new snow.

defensively,

slowly

negotiating the turns

and hills,

avoiding

crazy drivers

intent

on plowing through

the yellow light,

pumping the brakes

as we go.

but it's not different

than a sunny

day,

is it?

going caroling on Christmas Eve

i left

the bathroom window open

the other

day

to let the steam out,

and my neighbor heard me singing

Christmas

carols in the shower,

switching my voice

around

from Sinatra,

to Bing Crosby, to Bob Dylan,

hitting the high notes

not unlike

Barbara Streisand

would.

so, my neighbor, Milly, 

asked me 

if i would like

to join their choir and go

caroling

on Christmas Eve.

we've heard you singing

from your bathroom and you have

a very good voice.

we love your version of 

Jingle Bell Rock.

so would you like to join us?

damn right.

i tell her.

i'm all in.

so what's the playlist.

i can practice.

i'm taking another shower, 

later today.

seriously, what's wrong with you?

she yells

at me because i let my freezing

cold feet

touch her long warm

legs.

it's our first fight.

what's wrong with you, she says

loudly into

my good ear.

you need to get a checkup,

a cardiologist

needs to do a workup

on you.

you have

zero circulation

in your body.

there's not a droplet of blood

in your feet.

seriously.

keep those ice bergs

away

from me.

i'm surprised your toes

don't just snap off 

at some point,

like icicles.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

so i guess that's it,

you're not in the mood anymore?

we're going to sleep?

yes, now put these socks on.

the daily grocery stop

it's a hard

decision to make,

which aisle to go through

to check out

my groceries.

am i in a hurry. am i in

a bad mood, 

do i choose

the angry

woman

wearing all black

covered

in tattoos,

who yelled at me once

for having

cash, or

the pimply teenage

kid

on his first day at the job,

wearing his

trainee badge,

or the self

serve registers, where i have

to scan

everything

and hit the help button

because i

misspelled

jalapeno again.

are you a member here?

type in your phone number.

paper or plastic?

i see a large vegetable garden

in my yard

at some point,

with cows and chickens,

maybe a pig

or two.

starting the puzzle i got last Christmas

i stare

at the cover of the box

the puzzle

came in.

one thousand pieces.

it's a windmill

in Holland

surrounded

by tulips.

a cascade of flowers.

red, yellow, white.

the sky is blue

with puffy white clouds.

i put my elbows

on the table

and rub my face.

i need a drink.

i go to the kitchen and

pour

vodka and Kalua

into the blender,

some cream

and hit the button for

shake.

it's nine a.m. Eastern

Standard

Time.

i take my drink and sit

back down.

i find my first piece.

give me my damn cupcakes

we know

the vending machine.

the candy,

the cigarette,

the coke

machine.

we know how it works.

the coin

slot,

the pull of the lever.

we know

how the Snicker Bar

gets stuck

halfway

down.

the peanut butter crackers,

the pack of gum,

or Camels,

we know how to slap

the side,

to kick

at it, trying to free

what we've

paid for,

what's ours.

we know how to use

both

hands

and how to shake it hard.

to jiggle it like

a madman,

we need

these stale cupcakes now,

right now,

before we starve.

first digs

it's 4 flights

up

to her apartment with

windows

overlooking

the Exxon station and a small

graveyard

for cats and dogs.

she's carrying box

after

box

after box of life,

books from college,

magazines

from Vanity 
Faire to Vogue.

her clothing is over

her shoulders

and under

her arms.

for pizza, her friends

are coming

over to paint

the walls.

they're bringing beer

and

music.

wine coolers and a blender

for something

hard.

the mattress is on the floor.

a few stuffed

animals

are strewn about,

brought from home

which seems so long ago

and far.

the wobbly

table

is in the corner,

holding a bowl of Cheez its.

her mother's lamp

is in the middle of the room

attached to a long

extension cord.

it's a start.

who hasn't been there

before.

the field trip to Gettysburg

on the cold yellow school bus

to Gettysburg for

the 8th grade

field trip,

a girl, Madeline, who everyone

called Mouse, 

came over to where

i was sitting,

staring out the window,

happy to be

out of school, thinking

about the civil war.

she told the kid

sitting next to me to scram,

then sat beside me,

and said,

i'm Madeline, i think we

should go steady

and go to the 8th grade

dance

next weekend. okay?

i looked at her round 

freckled face

and wiry red hair

and shrugged. sure.

whatever, i said.

having no plans for that evening.

she went back to her seat

in the back

of bus with her giggling

girlfriends.

i turned back to the window

to the rolling

hills of the battlefield,

to the long fences,

the stone walls

and gravestones and wondered

which side would i

have been on.

that enormous oak tree

would be a great place to hide behind

as i pointed

my loaded musket.

setting rain to music

it's a soft

rain,

the kind of rain that should

be set

to music.

a lovely grey

of a rain,

steady and

windless

under low clouds,

making

silver

mirrors

on the road.

who needs the sun,

with rain

like this?

have a nice day at school sweetie

the new

parent doesn't tell their children

to have

fun at school,

be a good boy.

study hard

and listen to your teacher.

have a nice day.

that was a long time ago.

now,

the mother

wraps her arms around the child

as if it could

be the last time,

and says,

keep your head

on a swivel my love.

don't forget to drop to the floor

if you hear

gunshots,

be silent, play dead.

you can use your biology book

as a shield.

and on the way home,

don't talk to strangers,

or take short cuts

down an alleyway.

watch out for any unmarked white vans

slowing down beside you.

wear your running shoes,

and if you have to,

use your pepper spray.

i packed it in your lunch box

with a tuna sandwich

and some cookies

that you like. 

oatmeal with chocolate chips,

not raisins.

your whistle and cell phone

are in there too.

dial 911 of there's an emergency.

and remember,

kicking, biting, and scratching

are perfectly okay.

counting pennies

the job,

the menial job, the boredom

of repeated

tasks,

the mindless

repetitive

work

of manual labor, i never

felt bad

about it, never

disparaged the grind

of it all. 

i welcomed

the paltry check on Friday.

never moaned about

the aches

and pains that came

along with it. 

i counted my pennies,

and was grateful,

knowing that it was

a steppingstone

to what would come next.

get over it, i have

i make

an early new years resolution

to not

feel bad about

things.

to no longer feel regret

and remorse,

to no longer feel

sorry or the need to apologize

for things

said and done.

i'm done with guilt and self

doubt,

shame and dismay.

what's done is done.

get over it.

i have.

maybe this year

i'm waiting

for the river to freeze over

so that i can walk

across it

and visit you.

to make amends,

to apologize,

and set things right.

it hasn't frozen

in over

forty years.

but maybe this is the year

it will turn

into a road of ice, 

wouldn't that be nice?

how dare you say Merry Christmas

for a while

when

the woke madness was in 

control

of society,

we couldn't say Merry Christmas.

we couldn't

celebrate

openly

the birth of Jesus,

savior of the world.

how dare we utter those words,

making

the non-believers,

the atheists

and agnostics

Muslims and Satan worshippers

feel bad.

what a horrible thing to do,

to greet others

with the words,

Merry Christmas, 

thank God, that's in the past.

those poor shipwrecked sailors

one side

calls them ship wrecked sailors,

like those

on Gilligan's Island,

the captain,

the professor, Ginger, etc.

harmless

fishermen,

poor fellows

on a three-day cruise

on the high seas

when a bomb

struck their drug filled boat

causing

it to sink.

while the other

side, the more rational

and common

sense side,

sees them

as drug dealers,

evil,

cartel members, hell bent

on killing,

and addicting our youth

with their

nautical dope.

if one bomb doesn't do the job,

lob another

one, fish have to eat too.

preparing for what might never come

as i cleaned out

the apartment my father lived in for 36 years

i was

amazed

at how he threw away

nothing.

not a cracked dish

would leave

the cupboard,

not a chipped cup,

or bent

fork or spoon,

were ever tossed.

ten pairs of old shoes

were under the bed,

waiting to be worn.

shirts i'd never seen before

hung in the closet

next to the uniforms he

wore during the war.

so many rusted gardening tools.

he stored water bottles,

stacked to the ceiling.

peanut butter in barrel

sized jars,

gallons of ice cream.

loaves of bread were

frozen in the freezer.

empty containers were everywhere,

folded bags,

plastic and paper,

string and rubber bands

wrapped in balls.

the next great depression

was not going to catch

him off guard.

it's all make believe

it's just

a movie, a show

on tv.

it's not real life, but

if you

watch it

long enough you begin

to believe

that it's all true,

that the characters are real.

Alice in Wonderland,

The Matrix.

Captain Kangaroo.

you begin to have

feelings for them,

love and hate,

sympathy and compassion,

disgust.

it's not unlike watching

the daily news.

the bank turnover

at last

the five-month cd

has matured

and come to fruition with

its piddly gained

interest.

i take my piece of paper

down to the bank

which is no longer First

American,

but Crestar,

and sit down

at Sally's desk.

but she doesn't work there

anymore,

despite her name placard

being left behind.

she had replaced

Bill from when it was Chase,

who had replaced Emily

from Sun Trust.

but now

it's a fellow

named Salamander, who is there

to help me

roll it over at 3.4 percent.

which he does.

see you in five months,

i tell him.

oh no, he says, not me.

today is my

last day,

i'm moving to another branch

when we become

Truist.

the sand untouched

it's a blue

cold,

this sea. this winter

madness

of waves.

the white frost

of each,

the boom and crash.

the solitude

of sand

untouched,

as far as the eye can see.

no one

is here.

just the thought of you

in summer,

and me.

finding her list of lovers

i found

her diary the other day.

i shouldn't have been looking for it

in her closet

buried beneath

handbags

and books, clothes

and shopping bags,

but i felt

the urge to dig a little deeper

into who i was

hitching my

wagon to.

in the diary

going back to high school

she had

a list of all the men she ever

made love

to.

rating each with a four star

rating

system.

after reading about a hundred

names,

there i was,

not the last name on the list

in chronological

order, but near

the end,

maybe sixth or fifth

from the last one,

next to Sam,

our next door neighbor,

who only got one star,

but she gave me four stars so

i felt better

about it.

the queen of soups

she was a genius

when it came to soup.

name a soup,

she could make it.

no need

for a recipe,

no notes, nothing jotted

down.

she could make soup

out of a single tomato

or celery stalk.

one potato, no problem.

tree bark.

it was all in her head,

clam chowder,

French Onion, pumpkin,

butternut squash,

potato soup,

gazpacho.

give her a pot, a spoon,

water,

salt and pepper,

and sixty minutes

and you had

a bowl of soup

on the table.

she could make soup

out of anything

sitting in the cupboard,

or in the crisper drawer.

she'll be the queen bee

when

the apocalypse

occurs.

the divorce dad every other weekend

the divorced

dad

with his divorce puppy,

brand new

for the kid,

the Christmas

lights

strapped to the house

like it

was

when life

was bliss.

the blow-up Santa

waiting

in a puddle beside the bush

for air.

playing catch in the yard.

welcoming

with open arms

every other weekend

the child

with tussled hair.

doing things

together,

off they go to a game,

to a concert,

to the mall.

both wearing the same clothes.

finding the time,

going the extra

step,

the extra mile,

showing

that he loves his son

despite all

becoming hard.

the first credit card

i  couldn't believe

that Montgomery Wards

would

offer and actually give me a credit card.

but they did.

how easy

the world seemed at 18

with 

little money in the bank and working

in a field of mud

as a laborer.

name

and address was all

they asked for

and now

i could charge things.

what a world

it was.

i bought my first bed with it.

my first

couch

and set of dishes.

sheets and blankets, pillows.

i wore

the card out.

a very smooth stick behind the shed

i show

her the half-moon scar on my knee,

and tell

her the story

of how

i picked up a snake

at the age

of five,

thinking it

was a stick behind my

grandmother's shed

in New England.

how could a stick be so smooth

and shiny,

a keeper

if there ever was one.

and then

the frantic toss of it into

a tree

and me falling

into the broken shards of glass

in front of me.

mason jars

and beer bottles,

shot glasses.

Canadian Club bottles tossed

onto the ground

with other trash.

i never knew my grandmother

was such a lush.

cold drinks in the shade

how

did suddenly

the skin

on your arms, your neck

begin

to look like parchment paper.

something

the Magna

Carta was written on.

when

did this happen?

were

you left out in the rain,

then dried

in the sun

to reach this age?

oh well.

it's long shirts and turtle

necks

from here

on out

and cold drinks

in the shade.

the nightly news at 6

the once nightly news,

an hour

at six o'clock,

is now every minute 

of so called

breaking news.

which isn't

news at all.

it's whining, crying, sobbing.

a boat load of

men and women

in fine

clothing,

dresses

and suits, with coifed hair,

and air

brushed faces

to make us like them more

than they

deserve.

bright eyed and busy tails

with good

teeth.

who cares?

go one day,

one hour without their voices

in your head

trying persuade

you one way or the other

as to which side is the best

and you'll be fine.

more relaxed.

more

calm and at peace with the world.

click off

and close your eyes.

stranger in your own land

as so

many of your peers

slip

into the great sea,

you look

around the stores

while shopping,

while driving in your car,

at the bank,

at the DMV

how few of you are left.

everyone

is younger.

you've become a stranger

in your own land.

how swiftly

the world has changed

and never

going back to how it was

when you

were young.

simpler times?

perhaps.

more common sense,

more civility,

more family?

maybe.

or maybe it was all a mirage,

imagined

and discolored

through the prism 

of looking back.

kiss number three

her first kiss

was just a sample.

a small

sweet planting of her lips

against

my cheek.

dry, not wet.

just a taste

of what was to come.

so kind,

so gentle.

i remember it fondly,

as i now

wipe the blood from

the swollen bruise

on my face

with a handkerchief.

this elderly age

holding

hands meant everything

back

then,

when young.

it meant so much,

as it does now

at this elderly

age.

the fingers entwined,

the warmth

of friendship

and infatuation

running down your arm

into hers.

the walk

together,

hand in hand,

down the path of time

finding mercy

harmless

or not, there is the fear,

the fear

that makes

you want to kill the snake.

to take

a rock to it,

a stick

or stone.

to find the sharpest tool

in the box

and slay

it's slithering, frightening

life form.

but for once maybe

you'll let it pass

this time,

find it's way out of the grass,

and past

the gate,

back down the hill to the stream

where it belongs.

wet paint

the railing

is wet, i tell the woman.

then

the man

of the house.

i put a sign up.

i stick a long

band

of blue

tape

across the door.

i prop a ladder against

the steps.

it's wet

i tell them once more.

it may take

two hours to dry.

the next

day

i see their hands, all

five fingers

and palm of each,

are white

like a pair of gloves.

they are all in the wind

strange

how

people choose to disappear,

leaving

no breadcrumbs behind,

no trace,

no footsteps in the snow.

the line

is dead.

no forwarding address.

the house empty.

they're gone.

they've left to a place

they

don't want others

to know.

abandoning a life they no

longer

want to belong to.

something inside of them has

gone

terribly wrong.

the Christmas flannel shirt

the plaid

shirt, so sad hanging

in the closet

for ten years,

flannel,

with pearl white

buttons.

red, blue, green.

yellow

in the thatched mix

of threads

criss crossing

within the itchy fabric.

i could chop a tree wearing

that shirt.

i could eat

pancakes

with syrup on them.

i could grow

a beard

when stepping out into

the cold

with my axe,

wearing

that shirt.

a Christmas gift from my

mother.

i don't know what she was thinking,

having never once

seen me

in a shirt like that.

with feathers in their mouths

if you want

to become wealthy without too much

effort.

become a politician.

get elected.

small town,

large city,

congressman or woman,

senator.

strange how,

they come in with so little

to their name

and leave

with so

much.

literal wolves in the hen

house,

with feathers

in their mouths.

her Gideon Bibles

she opened up

the trunk of her car once

to get

the spare tire out and jack.

there were

stacks of Bibles

in there,

randomly tossed about.

what's up

with all the Bibles,

i asked her.

she winced, and shrugged.

come on help

me with this flat.

they are all Gideon Bibles,

i said to her,

picking one up,

shaking the dust off.

you steal them

out of motels, don't you?

you take them from

the dresser drawers.

yes, or no?

i'm not helping you with

this tire

until you come clean.

she looked at me

and nervously laughed.

yes. yes.

i steal them.

i need help, okay. i'm mental.

now help me

with this flat.

the bus stops along the way

there

are jobs that you expect to be

temporary.

bus stops along the way

to your

destination.

paper boy,

for instance,

tossing newspapers

onto porches

at the crack of dawn,

or being a barista,

pouring coffee each day

draped

in a green apron.

the kid that cuts your lawn,

with rake

and clippers in hand.

maybe a dancer

in

a dinner theater performance

of West Side Story.

it's not for

long, before your feet hurt,

and you

are no longer young.

you toss in the towel.

you move on.

two nuns at the Safeway

two elderly

nuns

at the grocery store.

in black

and white garb,

one

older than the other, lagging

behind,

a loaf

of bread under her arm,

marked down,

the other,

pushing the cart forward,

filling

it with things to take

back

to the convent. both

quiet,

and deliberate, with a subtle

glow about them.

wordless.

it makes you wish

you were

a better person.

can i talk to Sylvia, please

lonely at times,

a little blue

and glum, partly cloudy,

you don't

mind the wrong number

caller

who asks to talk to

someone you don't know.

is Sylvia there?

they ask,

no, you tell them, 

she's not.

but you try to keep them on the line

just the same,

using your

most pleasant voice.

you ask them

personal questions about

their life,

how they're getting along.

where do you live, you

ask, do you have children,

a wife.

do you like your job?

do you have any pets,

cats, dogs?

how's your health?

perhaps we could talk again

sometime, 

maybe meet for a drink

or lunch,

you say to them,

before they quietly hang up.

shopping for a box

we go

shopping for a box.

a long

box.

but so many to choose from.

some with

cotton

cushions inside,

pleated,

downy soft,

fit for a prince or king,

or queen.

hinged, with or without

locks.

gold inlaid,

chestnut,

hardwood, or bronze.

go ahead and climb

in the funeral

director says,

try it out.

make yourself comfortable,

you'll be in there

for a long time.

sunny side up people

we

are hopeful people,

optimistic

sorts.

we are the sunny side

up

of humans,

wishful thinkers,

and 

glass half full

kind of folks.

we always see the light

at the end

of any dark

tunnel,

the silver lining

in the cloud

as rain falls.

we laugh in the face

of adversity.

we get up when knocked

down.

we

appreciate how so much

of this life

is a joke.

and for the most part

are able

to turn

that frown around.

captured by the prey

she tapped

my phone, put a tracker

on my

car,

had me followed

by a private eye,

sifted through my drawers,

my laptop,

downloaded

every key stroke i ever made,

put a camera

in my house, 

rummaged through

my closets,

emptied my pockets,

she did

all the things

she thought

i was doing to her.

but i wasn't.

and in the end the hunter

was captured

by the prey.

the bright orange chair

i regretted

buying

the orange chair

with large wide cushions,

midcentury modern,

the bright

retina damaging 

chair

that consumed all the light

in the room.

so i gave it away.

then i crazily married the girl

i'd given it to,

so the chair returned,

but in short

order,

i regretted her too.

eventually they both

had to go.

where to put the ocean this year

tired

of where the paintings

and photograph

hang,

i stand

back with hands on my hips,

and mentally

rearrange

the landscape

of the walls.

maybe the ocean

would go

better beside

the window,

the black and white photo

of the flat iron

building

in the dining room, 

perhaps,

the trees nearer the kitchen,

the portraits

in the hall.

i get the hammer

and jar

of nails out,

and change my little world.

hitting the lottery in Minnesota

it's a very

curious thing, how 

hundreds of thousands of people

from a country

on the eastern coast

of Africa,

Somalia,

bordering the Indian Ocean,

that is arid

and tropical, with a temperature

of 87 degrees

year round,

decides to move to America,

to a state 

that gets 51 inches

of snow annually?

a place of howling winds,

blizzards,

and herds of moose

running wild

across the frozen tundra.

where the winter temperature

runs from

minus 30 to plus 30

degrees Fahrenheit.

a place where ice fishing

and snow boarding

are daily activities.

where chopping wood

is a necessity

in staying alive.

why would they choose

this particular place

to travel thousands of miles

to and call home?

oh right.

Walz and Omar live there.

cha ching.

8 billion in tax dollars stolen,

and counting.

now you know.

the 50 count Christmas card box

i still have

about twenty

Christmas cards left over from

the box

of fifty

i bought ten years ago.

people are dying

off

like crazy.

friends,

parents, lovers.

siblings are in the wind,

children

are estranged and living

in unknown

places.

neighbors have moved on.

it's a beautiful

card though.

silver,

with white crumbling candy

like stars.

Santa in a red

suit waving

from his sleigh as it's pulled along

by smiling reindeer

in the sky.

i signed them all

when i first bought the box,

Merry Christmas

and a Happy New Year, to you

and yours.

my name, below.

embracing the non-entity that i am

an old

girlfriend,

that i never loved

for a variety of reasons,

told me once

that

i was a non-entity, that her

and her

friends

had agreed upon

this

summation of who i am

over

wine

and cheese

in her penthouse condo

in Arlington.

i had to google exactly

what that meant.

a non-entity.

i read

the definition out loud

to myself.

a person with no special

or interesting

qualities,

an unimportant person

or thing.

gee whiz,

was that really me?

it left a bruise for a second

or two,

but somehow

i recovered

and healed from that 

devastating sting.

pillow talk

she liked

the heat up,

73 or so.

the big comforter on the bed.

the downy

one that could keep

biscuits warm.

pajamas

and socks,

sometimes thin gloves

on.

whereas i preferred

sleeping

in the buff

with one blanket

and a sheet

over me.

maybe the window cracked

open a little

to let the snow in.

the overhead

fan

on medium.

even with the pillows

we disagreed,

i needed one,

she needed

at least three.

we should have upgraded for fifty dollars more

we expected

a room with a view.

an ocean

view.

the sand and sea,

gulls

frolicking about.

a room

where we could see the long

stretch

of the boardwalk.

a veranda

to sit upon and sip our

coffee as the sun

came up

all bright

and yellow and full of

seaside hope.

but no.

we got the other side,

the dark

side

where the ac units are

stacked high

and churn

and turn all night.

where the green dumpsters

are picked

up at the crack

of dawn. 

sending a waft

of garbage into our eyes.

how we

endured the thump and clank

of the trucks

as they idled loudly

before

driving off.

and the sirens of cop cars

flying by.

The Twin Cities, free money

how

does one city lose

two

billion dollars?

stolen,

not in the dead of night,

but in broad daylight.

how

does no one notice that

someone

is draining

the tax dollars out of the coffers?

who's at the wheel

here?

governor,

mayor, congressman or woman.

is there

an accountant in the room,

a comptroller,

anyone with a calculator

and an elementary knack

for mathematics.

if someone stole

five

thousand

from your bank account,

or just one thousand,

you'd notice it

gone

at some point,

like at the first of the month

when the statement

arrived,

or when you logged into

your account

online.

questions would be asked.

heads would roll.

this has to be a joke,

right?

go get your leash

at night

when i arrive home.

i sit

on the side chair and remove

my shoes.

i rub

my feet then go into

the kitchen.

i empty my pockets into

the green bowl.

keys

and change, dollar

bills.

notes.

i open the refrigerator

door

and brush

the stubble on my face.

the dog

follows

me around.

i pour food into his plate,

water

for his bowl

then go sit back down.

the dog comes

to sit beside me after

finishing his meal.

i put my hand

on his warm head and ask him,

so what's new?

walk?

where's your leash?

it's getting late

i'm

still in my Saturday clothes.

the same

jeans

and old shirt,

the frayed flannel, missing

two buttons,

there's paint

splattered on my shoes.

a screwdriver swings lose

in my back

pocket,

a hammer lies nearby.

i'm looking for something

to do around

the house.

my ear is against the wall,

to the floor.

i'm listening,

for a squeak, a leak,

some

wind

coming through a window

that needs

adjustment.

i'm still in my Saturday clothes,

but it's Thursday

already.

it's getting late, time seems

to fly by.

the bed away from the wall

i push

the bed away from the wall.

oh, my.

so much

dust,

tumble weeds of

time.

spare change, quarters

and mercury

dimes.

case

nickels.

earrings, broken promises,

rings,

books half read,

dead

bugs swatted

on summer nights.

who leaves

a dress,

a shoe behind?

these poor fishermen

since 2018

over a quarter of a million people have

died from

fentanyl poisoning.

look it up.

so when you see these

'fishing boats'

being blown to smithereens,

full of drugs,

it's hard

to feel sorry for them,

for the choices

they've made with their lives.

should we arrest

them?

read them their Miranda rights,

take care of them

for the rest of their lives

in prisons,

paid for

with out tax dollars?

are they the victims now,

not the dead,

who die

by the hundreds, 

both day and night.

the great waffle debate

we fall

into a deep discussion about

waffles

and syrup.

should fruit be involved,

berries

and what not.

nuts.

whipped cream.

what about butter,

salted and sweet,

creamy,

or unsalted

and cold.

what's the best side.

bacon,

or sausage, or what about

the much criticized

scrapple.

where has scrapple gone to

these days?

it's snowing outside.

we can see

it covering the cars from

where we sit

in the diner

next to Costco.

we ask for more coffee,

more time

to peruse the menu.

we have all day.

what about pancakes?

pondering the big store

do i need

a ten-pound bag of shrimp,

snow

tires

and another computer,

a rotisserie

chicken

and half

a cow

to stuff into the freezer.

is the annual

yearly fee worth it

for

a Christmas

tree and a tank of gas

at a discount?

do i need more clothes,

more

things i don't really need?

probably not,

but the prices are so low

it's hard

to resist.

i can't eat or sleep because of him

my old friend

LG,

who has a severe case

of TDS,

calls me on the phone crying.

what's up,

i ask,

boyfriend break up again,

horse die?

cat coughing up fur balls again,

dog has fleas?

trouble at work?

no, she says, sobbing into

the phone.

none of that,

well, yes, all of that,

but mainly,

i can't keep up with the Orange man.

everyday

he keeps

doing things that drive me

crazy.

he's up all night tweeting,

making fun

of Somalians.

referring to them as garbage

just because they scammed

two billion dollars

out of Minnesota taxpayer's pockets.

he calls people fat and stupid

just because

they want to put Tampons into

boys' bathrooms.

he's besmirching

our mayors and governors.

he's in the news

all day

long, ending wars, lowering

the cost of living,

bringing gas down under three

dollars, he's

securing the border,

building a beautiful ballroom,

arresting criminals,

attacking drug boats. 

keeping

men out of girl's sports.

ending wars around the world,

and now

he's created an investment

account for newborn children.

why is he doing this to me?

doing so many good and wonderful

things.

i can hardly eat or sleep anymore

because of him.

egg shrinkage

i'm staring

at this brown egg,

small in the palm of my hand,

despite

the box saying that it's an extra

large

farm raised,

free range,

organic egg.

it's the size of a pigeon's egg.

i need to crack about

five of them

to make

a decent sandwich,

once fried

in the frying pan.

the ten year Christmas list

after about

ten years of being married,

you start

giving gifts

like vacuum cleaners, and toasters.

mops and brooms,

cookbooks

and blow dryers.

neck massagers,

batteries

included,

and maybe a gift certificate

to Victoria Secrets

just to prove that you are still

over the moon.

Hilda is on the phone

all of my mother's friends,

from

childhood

and into adulthood had names

you rarely

hear anymore.

it's a shame.

it's rare to meet an Edna these days,

or a Gertrude,

Evelynn, or Agnes.

no longer do you hear the name

Mitzi or Myrtle,

and yet

when the phone would ring,

we'd call out

to mom, yelling out

their names.

mom, Bertha's on the line,

or Ethel,

but it sounds like Eunice,

Edwina's sister,

and Midge is at the door

with a strawberry

pie. i think i see

Sylvia coming up the street

walking her dog,

Gladys.

we need a time machine, ASAP

we need

to work on the time machine.

it should be

a priority.

put Elon on it and a bunch

of brilliant

nerds,

smarty pants.

make them work around

the clock until

it works.

we need to go back in time

to fix

the mess we're in.

mistakes have been made.

this all comes to mind

after eating

a four-piece spicy meal

from

Popeye's Chicken.

let's go block some traffic this weekend

i see

my neighbor,

the third-grade schoolteacher,

coming up the street

on crutches.

yo,

what happened, i ask her,

helping her

to sit down on the stoop

in front of her house.

oh, she said,

broke my leg

trying to block a police

car after

a criminal was arrested.

the front

tire ran

over my leg.

they didn't even stop, can

you believe that.

what about your face?

oh, that's nothing,

bear mace.

i got sprayed when i tried

to hang onto

the bumper of an unmarked van

as it

sped away.

i put some baking soda on

the peeling skin.

hey,

you should come out and block

traffic with us

on Saturday.

we're protesting

the killing of the drug traffickers

and cartel members

in their fishing

boats.

i get my wheelchair from Amazon

today.

let's see them run me over

when i'm in that.

city life

we need

more insane asylums.

more

institutions for the mentally

ill.

the dangerous

ones.

the crazies that roam

the streets

causing mayhem.

why do they keep releasing them

after the

mayhem they cause.

who's running

this system of catch and release,

frustrating

the citizens

the police.

career criminals

set free by

the sympathetic

mayors, judges, and tree huggers.

all day long it's rob, rape,

murder,

rinse and repeat.

the new born appliance

on day

one, you are so careful

with the new

appliance,

your proud and haughty

GE fridge,

all shoulders and made

out of stainless

steel

you can see your face in.

you use

your best wash

cloth

to clean up spills

and stains.

wiping it down like a new

born child

you just made.

but by week two,

you still care, but ignore

the ketchup dribble,

the coffee spills,

the rotting lettuce in the bin.

you put off

for a few

days the pickle jar

stuck on the shelf

beside

the tumbler of Tanqueray

gin.

holiday prep

i put

the snow globe out.

the two

battery powered candles in

the window

that flicker red

i display

the Christmas cards

from

years ago, then

tack up some mistletoe

over the doorway.

the wreathe

of dried

cranberries is

hung on the door,

and last but

not least i haul

out the fruitcake

my father

sent ten years ago.