when they say, i've changed

i like to hear

the story of when people change

for the better.

they've done the work,

the therapy.

they've read the books.

church is in the mix.

confession.

they've turned over a new

leaf, they tell you, 

and anyone that will listen.

they want the past

forgotten.

they want their life

to have a new start,

with all forgiven,

they are

full now of magical thinking.

and you accept that,

with your mind,

but forgiveness comes hard,

or never when

you deal with a heart.

the wide dark porch

her house

was next to cemetery.

a white clap board

arrangement,

ordered through

the Sears catalog

in 1932.

it had a large wide porch

to rock on.

to sip tea,

or eat.

to gossip, or laugh.

and in hard times,

weep.

there were chimes

that sang

all night.

she'd sit there

under the stars,

mostly alone in later

life, and look out

across the rolling hills

of the dead,

and wonder

what will mine be like.

the sharpened claws

we each have a set,

not unlike the lion in the wild.

we have claws,

but being

the civilized

part of the animal kingdom,

we keep

them inside,

retracted, not ready

in the moment

to strike,

to kill,

to defend our lives.

at least it used to be that way,

but now

i see them out.

i see the fear

in so many eyes.

it's a constant world

of live or die.

the memory gum

we choose what

we want

to remember.

what was said or done.

whether

good or bad.

not unlike

what's stuck to

the bottom of our

shoes.

there it is,

that sticky grey wad,

reluctant

to let go,

to come undone.

whisperings

forgetful at times.

too busy

to remember, or is it

at last the whispering

of old age.

leaving a key in the door,

forgetting

it's the day the maid comes

to clean

the bathrooms, the kitchen,

scrub the floors.

you forget

to buy what you need,

or why you

came to the store.

who's birthday have i missed?

what day is this?

feels like monday. 

but it isn't, is it?

i'm running late

we don't like when people

are late,

or delay,

or cancel at the last minute.

in no hurry to arrive.

what excuses are there

to make them that way?

the dog, the cat.

the traffic,

the weather.

or just the lack of interest

perhaps.

no promises

i don't want to discover

or uncover

a damning clue

about you.

sinking with a hole

a sturdy ship.

please be who you are.

hide nothing,

be transparent and true.

i'll try to do the same.

but no promises.

the steamed mirror

as i stand

in front of the steamed mirror

naked

and wet

a towel half

around me.

i  see my parents.

there they are, the lines

of my father

engraved.

the worried eyes

of my mother.

the hair line

the shoulders,

they way i lean

towards

the water to wash my

face.

it says nearly

everything there is to say

about who

i am today.

beer and a sandwich

some climb

the highest mountain,

some jump from planes.

some

go to the frozen

tundra

to prove something

about survival

in weather extremes.

they take a picture

at the summit,

of them falling

with arms spread wide.

some leap

from bridges

tethered to a cord.

they raft the wild gorge.

some wrestle

alligators,

putting their head into

a lion's mouth.

they need the excitement

the danger,

the thrill of it all.

whereas i like

to watch it with a sandwich

and a cold drink

from the comfort 

of my couch.

in her yellow dress

in her yellow dress

she was a different person.

she smiled more.

felt lighter,

more alive.

others took notice of her

when she wore

her yellow dress.

she was a wild spring

flower

in the sunlight, 

separate from the rest.

men and women alike

made comments

on her grace and style.

who are you

they wondered.

come sit near us a while.

fool's gold

some gold is not

gold.

it's fool's gold.

mere stones colored

to resemble

something of value.

you see where

i'm going with this

don't you?

as i write with 

my tooth 

and heart chipped.

the long distance writer

i will write myself into sleep.

i am the long distance

runner of words.

one foot before the other.

my lungs full of air.

empty of air.

i am neither in love, or without

love.

i stride towards a finish

line that isn't there.

not a gallop or sprint, but

a weary gate.

i keep at it.

running. writing. alone,

purposely alone,

away from others, but

knowing that

there are those out there

that miraculously care.

eternity

i  believe in kindness.

compassion,

the touch,

or kiss.

i'm easily persuaded

by beauty.

by the smell of love,

like a flower

held.

i believe in all the things

we learned

as kids.

forever and ever.

eternity.

impossible things

like this.

two drinks and tomorrow

strange how a drink

or two,

or at most

three, takes you into another realm

of thinking.

love is blurred,

life is

suddenly a sepia

photograph taken long ago.

the edges hazy,

the words slurred.

what is real

is less.

the curled edges of time

lie before you.

a sip of gin can take you there.

you forgive,

you forget.

you're willing to do things,

that in the morning,

you will regret.

and so it goes

and as the women

brushes

the child's hair in the mirror,

and the dog  is walked,

the dishes done.

the doors closed

and locked,

the man sits in his chair

and ponders

a  different world,

not this one.

it's his secret. his own

life beyond what is knoen.

she'll never know.

he'll never tell her about

the one he truly loved,

life will go one.

and so it goes.

the loving smother

some can't cut

the apron strings, 

they need to

stay close

to the offspring.

there when needed

with cash

or food, or clothes to be

washed,

grievances to be

soothed.

the mother or father

smothering

the child,

never quite letting 

them go, to be alone,

or grow.

casting a long dark

shadow 

that smothers them

until

one dies, or 

eventually grows old.

the factory parts

they're putting new

hips into people

up at the senior village.

new knees,

new shoulders, new

hearts even.

new lenses

for the cataracts,

new kidneys.

they're rerouting

arteries. shaving

off bone,

breaking and setting

twisted arms

and legs

from getting old.

but i'm holding out as

long as i can,

keeping my factory

parts

until the bitter end.

the blur of high school

i don't know a single person

from high school.

not one

soul is still in my

ever decreasing social

circle,

fifty years down

the road and still

there is no one from that time

period

that i call, or text

or visit. it's the same 

as it was back then,

nothing has changed.

one raised eyebrow

when

she lifted her eyebrow

in your direction,

you

stopped

talking.

you were in some

kind of trouble

and there would be hell

to pay

before the night

was over,

leading all the way

through morning and

into the next day.

the recipe

the recipe

of life is very simple.

don't hurt anyone

and don't get hurt.

oh how easy

that sounds.

when our hearts are

filled with

imaginary love,

our heads 

in the clouds.

a carton full of cracked eggs

i should have opened

the carton

of eggs,

like i see people do in

the store.

looking for the broken

ones.

but no.

i took it home,

sight unseen.

more were cracked

than uncracked.

the shells crumbled.

the yolk spilled.

the whites running.

i should have vetted

the carton

better.

you'd think i would have

learned these things

after the last

relationship.

same old

vote for me,

he pleads on the phone.

please.

won't you come to the polls

today

and pull the lever

for me.

see how i smile.

i want

what you want.

i want success and health

and wealth.

i want

all men and women

to be free.

don't tread on me.

look, i'm waving

my flag on

the highway.

be a patriot, an American.

vote, you must vote.

it's what keeps

us free.

luck be a lady tonight

with no need

to apologize to anyone

anymore

for the wrong things

i may have

said, or

done, or left undone.

i haven't bought

a bouquet

of flowers, or

a heart shaped box

of chocolates

in ages.

no special hallmark card

with music.

or song.

no lengthy letter

explaining my deeds,

no ring or bracelet from

Kay Jewelers.

not a single poem.

i feel lucky to be walking

around guilt free.

what am I

there is strange

confusion of sex

gender

these days,

whatever

the case may be.

don't call me she or her,

or him

or he.

we're not sure

anymore what to be.

so let's use

an ungrammatical

term like they

or them

to muddy the water.

no need to lift my

dress or drop

my drawers to determine

which restroom

i should use, 

when i need to pee.

a dying flower

it's inevitable.

but we all become irrelevant

at some point.

live long

enough

and you become

an after thought.

someone who used to be someone.

loved and embraced.

now you're a dying flower

turned towards the sun

watered with words

but for the most

part no longer

a part of anyone's thoughts.

shadowed by a curtain

of lace.

two black bags

when i see the man

carrying

two black garbage bags down

the path,

i nod

as he passes, he nods

back.

i turn around and see him

set the bags

down.

he walks away. saying nothing.

i want to know

what's in the bags,

why here at the end

of the path, 

near the stream, 

why not set

them on the curb for monday

pickup.

strange. indeed.

i go on.

preferring mystery instead

of drama

and what i might find,

and see.

finding a tree to hug

i'll forgo

the christmas tree

this year, as

i did

the pumpkin,

the valentine heart,

the easter

basket

and the fireworks

on the fourth

with a hot dog and beer.

i'll forgo

labor day too,

and memorial day with

the flag

raised above the roof.

i'm all about

arbor day

this year.

i'll go out and find

a tree to hug

then rest upon its roots.

when you know you know

you get an itch

to get out,

to bail

in the presence

of certain souls.

who pretend

a friendliness of sorts.

too loud, too brash,

too quick to

praise and slap

you on the back.

you know but don't know

what exactly it is

that's wrong.

you just

know. 

you know?

the game

so much is a game.

a roll of the dice,

save,

collect, borrow.

work.

shelter and food, coming

first.

the nest.

than a wife,

or husband, a child

or two comes

next.

keep socking it away

beneath

the mattress.

get old. get older.

then hauled away

to be with

strangers,

then laid to rest.

the remedy for sadness

when i'm sad

and lonely, when the world

around me

has grown dark,

when it never seems

to stop raining,

and my aches and pains

have gone

on too long.

i stop and think of you

with absolutely

nothing on.

it surprises us

it surprises us

when the light burns out

with a mute pop,

the spoiled milk

in its box,

smelled.

we are slightly shocked

at the tire

losing air, the absence

of gas

to get us there.

the end of love.

we know these things are

coming, but still

we almost never expect

them to happen.

survival

survival is surrender.

we give in to the rain.

to the weather.

to others.

no longer putting up the fight.

we let the ocean carry

us.

the wind in our sails,

we give permission for

the world

to take us where we need

to go,

we throw up the white

flag. we

go with the flow.

passing through

the gate is resistant

to my pull.

the hinges rusted, the latch

loose.

not many that have

wandered here

have passed through.

i have to lift,

then give it a careful tug

to open.

it reminds me so much

of you.

our secret lives

we all have a secret life.

no one

knows everything about us,

nor do we

know them.

it's best this way.

no need to allay one's fears

and desires.

wearing

our true emotions on

our sleeve.

let's keep our lips sealed.

let's not be

judged by who we truly are,

let the image rule

the day.

I Wove You Too

i think i wove you, she says.

after we make

love for the third time

in ten hours.

we lie in bed exhausted,

a foot apart because

of the sweat.

we've got nothing left.

what?

what did you say?

i said i think i wove you.

what does that mean?

i've never heard

that word before.

Wove?

it's a new word, she says.

i made it up.

it's somewhere between

like and love.

saying love, is bad luck.

oh, okay.

i wove you too.

you're not wearing any pants

the neighbor knocks lightly

at the door,

i see her bespectacled face

through the peep hole.

it's nearly eleven o'clock at night.

excuse me, she says.

as i crack the door open,

don't mean to bother you,

but the lights on in your car,

oh and you left

your keys in the door, and um,

you're not wearing any pants.

thanks, i tell her, running

out to turn the lights off, ignoring

her last observation.

finding shangri-la

we're in horse country.

wine country.

everyone blonde and wearing boots

half way up

their legs.

there's a white mercedes.

a black

jag,

a cream colored bentley.

money is blowing

in the streets like leaves.

it's a skinny world,

of tight skin

and tight jeans.

you need reservations for

coffee.

everyone seems to know

everyone.

no one being who they seem

to be.

and look up in the field,

by that

white mansion

there's a horse or two.

some cows.

it's shangri-la, this is where

we need to be.

4th grade instructions

they told us

to wrap our arms around

our head

and ball up

under our desks

when the alarm sounded.

once the initial

blast is over, grab your

books and your

coats and

run home, those of you

not on fire

and find your parents.

okay.

now let's all have lunch

and then

recess.

perhaps a nice game

of tether ball.

done with wild things

i used to like the wild girls.

the crazy ones

with big hair and big eyes,

big lips,

big other stuff too.

but i've changed.

i don't need that kind

of excitement anymore.

the brash and bold big

mouth girls that you spun

around the dance floor.

give me the wallflower.

the quiet one. the beauty

reading a book, or

shyly looking over, with

a cat like look.

a change of season

they know what's coming.

the birds

the fox.

the nocturnal beings

lurking in

our shadows.

they feel the air,

the altered clouds,

a shift

of wind.

they get ready, as we do,

as winter begins.

unlearned,

no words, no books,

no voice to guide them.

they just know.

how good it is to

just know.

the vine yard

the hills roll westward,

the vines

dormant.

a pink yellow sun

blends

into the blue

beyond the trees.

we have nowhere else to

go, so we stir the fire,

we warm

our hands over the flames.

life should always

be this good.

we have no worry for

now, at what

tomorrow might bring.

buying the food scale

do i really need

a food scale?

has it come to that.

measuring by

weight instead of volume.

being exact

with my

recipes for new dishes.

leaving out the carbs

and sugar

and keeping in the fat.

when in my life

have i ever

been so precise?

maybe never,

but times have changed,

so we adapt.

the basics of life

they don't teach

you

the basics of life in

high school.

it's all trigonometry

and science,

learning

the periodic table,

so much history

to memorize.

they don't tell you

how to scramble

an egg, or fix a flat.

they leave out the part

about love

and marriage,

children

and all that.

dead roses

even when the roses

have died,

limp in the vase,

petals

falling to the side,

that once

beautiful bouquet

now dried,

even then

it's hard

to toss them aside.

the shortening christmas card list

some people are just not

good

at staying in touch.

an occasional call, or card,

or text.

while others stay in touch

too much.

full of information you don't

give a fig about.

and then there

are those who have disappeared

off the face of the earth.

never  to be seen or heard

from again. maybe it was

something said, or done,

or undone.

oh well, farewell.

so sorry that our friendship

had to burn out.

testing testing

i test the water

before jumping in, 

dangling

a foot

into the glossy pool.

i test the tea

before i sip, 

i blow upon the steam.

the soup too.

the stew.

the marshmallow off

the fire.

sticky with goo.

i'm testing everything

these days

before i let them in,

even you.

shot of love

none of us are bullet proof.

we can't

dodge what's coming out

of the barrel,

we can't stop it with our

hand, there's no time

to duck, or run,

or hide.

we all get nicked

or driven to the ground at some

point.

live long enough

and you'll find a bullet

in your heart, never

to forget the bang.

just a pinch of salt

all day

she spends in the kitchen.

at last coming out

with a spoon full of sauce.

taste this, she says.

tell me

what it needs, if anything.

i close my eyes and

taste,

then tell her maybe just

a pinch of salt.

she sighs, and mutters,

i can never please you.

my mother was right,

this will never work.

finding trust

we have to trust.

there's no way around it.

we trust

the trains, the buses.

the planes we board.

we trust,

that our shoes will get us 

to where

we need to go.

we trust this drink

in our hand,

this food.

we trust the cop on the street,

the vendor.

we trust the lights,

the water.

we trust and believe

the doctors holding our

lives

in their hands,

we trust so much in the world,

but sadly not each other

remembering cars

i remember

the cars.

each color.

how they drove, the smell

of them.

the sounds they made

going down

a road.

i remember washing them,

waxing,

changing the oil.

putting air into the tires.

cleaning them up for a date

i had

that night.

the blare of each horn

as i pulled up

to her house.

the bang of the door

as she got in.

the vinyl back seats.

i like them now

i change

my mind about them

when i hear

the music coming from

their window.

the sultry blues,

the horns,

the strings, the longing

voice

of etta james.

i like them now.

where as before i wasn't

sure.

where do they go

i wonder

where they go, when in trouble.

those

who have no God,

no religion.

no prayer

in their heart,

no pleading to a higher

power

for a truer path,

no bending upon one's

knees

to clarify the troubles

at hand,

or needs,

where do they go?

strangely

they are so unlike me,

who is not strong enough

to not believe.

between the years

we come up for air.

we relish

this small hour between

work.

between days

and years.

it's all very slow,

very fast.

but a moment in the sun

is fine.

lying here

in the grass,

we breathe, we close

our eyes.

we are going forward

without the past.

coming out of the water

when she comes

out of the water, shining

in the wet

and sun

unaware of her own

beauty,

i remember

what it was like

to be alone.

but that was then,

and this is now

as she smiles

and sits down beside

me.

finding the middle ground

i want the four star

hotel.

she wants a sleeping bag

by a campfire.

i want room service

and a rib eye

steak.

she wants to open

a can of beans with a pair

of pliers.

i want the big screen

tv.

she wants the stars at night.

i want quiet,

she wants crickets

and coyotes

howling.

there has to be a middle

ground somewhere.

watching the detectives

as a child

i wanted to be a detective.

i couldn't wait

for get smart to come on,

or james bond,

or columbo in his wrinkled

rain coat.

i studied

their investigative

ways.

how they pieced the clues

together,

one step a time,

one fingerprint

or hair fallen away.

they knew how

to follow

and eavesdrop, they

lingered in the shadows,

or wore

disguises.

i had no idea that i'd

be using it all one

day

in a marriage gone south,

with a wife who

ran astray.

she almost resembles you

two drinks

seems to be the limit now.

and even

then when morning comes

i'm reaching

for the aspirin,

the tylenol.

it was different back in

the day.

how we could drink

and dance

and eat

and flirt until the clock

struck two.

remember that

remember how it was

with me and someone

that almost

resembles you?

see you in the spring

turn back

the clock, go ahead

and

lose the hour of daylight.

i don't mind.

take what you want,

what you need

from me.

i'm just renting things

to begin with.

none of this

is really mine.

so have your extra

hour

of darkness.

it's fine with me.

see you in the spring

if you're still

around.

water under the bridge

at some point

there is more behind us

than ahead of us.

which is not a bad thing.

water under

the bridge they call it.

be glad for

the river that pulls the years

away.

to have them all

pool up in front of you

would be unbearable.

be thankful

for this new rain, this new

water, this new day.

the shared woods

okay.

i say to the fox, as it steps

lightly

in front of me,

giving me

a look of mild surprise.

it stops to gaze at me

as i sit on a stone,

near the opening of woods.

okay,

i nod.

we're good. go on

with your life

i'm

just passing through 

as i wait

for the moon

to rise.

making room for the new

before the trees

fall on their own

they go at them with

power

saws

and men climbing with

spiked boots,

helmets,

tools,

scaling the great oaks

that have

been growing

since time

began.

fat and round, tall, but

now a danger

to the new

row of homes.

down they go.

made smaller

and hauled away.

cleared, so that a new

sprig can be planted

and grow.

stamps, you know, stamps?

do you have any stamps

i ask her,

what,

what are those?

stamps, you know. little sticky

squares that you

press onto the corner

of an envelope.

when you pay a bill,

i write a check and stick

a stamp onto the right corner

of an envelope

then drop it into a mailbox

at the P.O.,

or slide it halfway

out my door slot.

so that the mailman

can take it when he does

his route.

stamps, you know. stamps?

how old are you, she says.

let me hop on your knee

grandpa,

and you tell me about

your rotary dial phone 

hanging

on the kitchen wall, or

your butter churn

next to the little wooden stool.

she says, i'm done with men

my friend, Betty, says she's done

with men.

i might switch to the other

side now.

i'm tired of men.

they want just one thing, and then

they're gone

until the next time.

women aren't like that.

they'll text you when they get

home.

they keep you updated on their

cats, and what they're doing

with the ball at the end off a stick.

they send you pictures of their garden

what's growing, what isn't,

or the cake they just took out

of the oven.

they know what a garlic press is,

they're not afraid to cry

and share their deepest secrets.

they want to share colors and fabrics

with you, discussing

the new fall fashion.

men, don't seem to care.

give them food, give them some

fun and poof, they're gone

until they're hungry again.

i'm ready for a women, but i

haven't found one i want

to kiss quite yet.

the daily grind

the man on the corner,

his chair, his sign,

his bags

of clothes.

he no longer rises and goes

from car to car.

you have to get out

now and go to him,

to hand him a dollar or

two for his

trip out of town, or gin.

like most of us, the

day to day has got him down,

the daily grind.

he's blue.

he's tired.

he needs a vacation from

doing so much.

and so do you.

nothing less

nothing less

than wonderful comes to

you

like a summer breeze.

she arrives

suddenly

without notice.

she's here

as if she's always been here.

crystal clear.

a breath

of fresh air.

she's always been near,

just waiting

for you to turn around.

missing the madness

sometimes i miss

the drama,

the arguing, the searching

for the meaning

in life in the midst

of chaos.

i miss the sadness,

the sorrow,

the crazy times.

the adrenaline spike.

the cortisol

surge,

the dopamine rush.

i miss the madness

of that life,

and then i slap

myself and like a soldier

no longer in battle,

move on.

the fragile glass

when  glass breaks

you can't

get it all up no matter

how hard you try.

it sticks around.

the thin shards, the pointed

crumble,

the sliver

stuck somewhere

waiting to be found

by an errant step,

or reach.

it wants revenge

for treating it unkind.

riding out of town

i like a man

who can get up and leave

with one suitcase

in his hand.

leaving everything behind.

starting over

from scratch.

i like that cowboy code

of just riding out

of town into the sunset

without looking back.

it's so romantic

and bold. although

none of it is ever true.

there's always something,

or someone

left behind

that won't let go.

the spider web

i come eye to eye

with a giant

spider in the back yard.

her web

reaches from one

fence to the other,

i can't get out the back

gate without going

through it.

she looks at me

and shakes her head,

pointing with one

long arm to go under.

please, her spooky eyes beg.

it's a beautiful web.

well constructed.

i can see the fine thread

of it meticulously

connected in squares

and rectangles, gleaming wet

in the early morning

sun. i appreciate it.

the fine art of capture.

so i go under.

the list of never agains

here's the list

of what i don't want to do

anymore.

go dancing.

meet your family.

walk your dog.

eat kale, liver, 

or indian food.

watch a hallmark

movie.

listen

to opera,

go camping.

watch a soccer game.

climb a mountain,

wrestle alligators.

get on a horse or

a ferris wheel.

jump out of a plane.

give a speech.

get married again.

what else you got?

who are you voting for,

she asks me.

red or blue?

oh my, i tell her, letting

out a sigh of exasperation.

what else you got.

green?

yellow? maybe a nice

sunset pink?

don't be silly, she says,

pounding a sign

into my yard

of an oily man waving.

what are they fighting

over this year, i ask.

same old, she says

taxes, abortion, immigration,

schools,

vaccines.

bike lanes.

you know, the usual stuff

they stir up on the news.

but you should vote,

it's what makes this

country so great.

there's a referendum on

gun control

that you should really vote

against.

shame to not allow us

to buy machine guns anymore,

don't you think?

crispy beef and mai tai

i run into

the bus boy at hunan west

at the super market.

we look at each other,

and squint our eyes.

he points at me

and says, crispy beef

and mai tai, right?

dang, i tell him. you got

it. quite a memory you

have there. jimmy, or is

it joe.

not even close he says,

laughing,

we miss you though, come

back soon.

we're open now

for sit down.

heckler in the crowd

there was always one guy

in the crowd

a heckler, giving Jesus a hard time

at his sermons,

following him from town to town,

hoping for a free meal 

and wine.

what's up with all the stories,

he'd yell out,

the metaphors,

we're not all in the Mensa

club here.

don't quit your day job,

he'd shout. but

Jesus would ignore him

and press on, having

incredible focus

and no need for cue cards.

just give us the scoop,

the man would yell,

give it to us straight.

come on, i heard this same

sermon back in Judea.

really, camel through the eye

of a needle.

my brain hurts just

trying to envision that.

woman at the well, water

into wine? throw the net

over the side of the boat?

what are you some kind

of magician?

jimminy crickets, quit beating

around the burning bush

and just give us the rules

for staying out of hell.

the crowd would murmur

and get restless

waiting for a lightning bolt

to take the guy out.

eventually Peter

would go over

with his giant staff and give

the guy a look,

which quieted him down, then

he'd signal the wine pourer, Mary,

that this guy was cut off.

raising my standards

i've raised my standards

even further

than usual.

the old standards were

women breathing,

with original girl parts.

if my standards were a limbo stick now

you couldn't get

under it.

if you can basically

fold a fitted sheet,

and you know who tom waits

is and have never

been under psychiatric care

we're a match.

i know that eliminates

most of the first world

women, but hey,

you have to raise the bar

eventually.

kissing skills would be nice too.

fig newtons? really?

growing up, i never once 

heard a kid,

or an adult

request a fig newton cookie.

never.

and yet, somehow there

always seemed

to be a bag of them

around the house.

we never questioned our

parents as to who the hell

Newton was,

was that the same guy who

discovered gravity? 

He made cookies too? dang.

anyway,

you noticed them

once the good cookies

were gone.

the oreos, the chocolate chips,

even the lame

vanilla wafers were devoured

before the fig newtons.

but there they were

in the open  bag, three rows

of  mushy

crumbly squares holding

a glob of semi hardened

fig guts.

you'd look at one and grimace

as you put it into

your mouth, biting down

on God knows what,

reaching for the milk

to quickly wash the taste away.

worrying about the little stuff

sometimes

you almost need a hurricane

or an earthquake,

a tornado perhaps.

maybe a tsunami to

rise up out of the ocean.

of course with no

death and destruction,

but a harmless

disaster, something to

rattle your cage, to

wake you up and

get the blood going again,

a nice big dose of

smelling salts to make

you grateful for all

that you have and

to get you to stop

whining about the little

stuff.

finding a note on my pillow

if i see a note

on the door, or on the table,

or on

my pillow, or

taped

to the bathroom mirror

i don't bother reading

it anymore.

it's never good.

it's never you won the lottery.

or i love you.

i miss you,

can't wait to ravish your

bones when

i get home.

it's the opposite.

so i just ball it up without

looking

and assume the worst.

who are you calling nuts, buddy

the guy in the car next

to me

motions with his hand

to his ear.

spinning a finger

it's the international sign

indicating,

that someone is nuts.

he keeps at it until the light

changes

and we both move on.

i shake my head.

he doesn't even know me,

how dare he think

i'm crazy.

sure i have my bad days.

he has no idea

what i've been through.

the drama and trauma

with a bunch of wacky

women. how dare he give

me the crazy sign.

and then i touch my ear

at the next red light

and feel a big glob

of shaving cream

stuck in it.

Jeff? who's Jeff?

when people

no longer want you to fix

them a cup

of coffee or tea,

or walk them to the door,

when they no longer

kiss you goodbye

on the lips, but instead

turn a cheek,

when they don't return

your calls,

or texts, when they forget

your birthday,

or mistakenly call you Jeff,

when they

no longer leave a note

behind when

they depart, saying love

you. you're the best.

we'll, guess what.

game over.

heading west

the goal was to get to California.

to the beach

to the sun

the surf.

the girls.

that was the mission at hand.

Malibu, here we come.

we loaded up

the chevy.

cashed out our savings,

bought our beach clothes

and headed

west.

we made it to Front Royal

Virginia,

which was where

the car broke down

and we had to call our

parents to come and rescue

us.

something in the water?

is there a day that goes

by when

you don't run into someone who

you think is crazy,

whether on the street,

in a store,

driving their car.

you shake your head and mutter

to yourself,

what the hell is wrong

with people these days,

as you swiftly head home.

the power to forgive

they are liars,

misinformed, delusional

gurus

telling you that you have to

forgive to move on.

bullshit.

forgive yourself yes,

but the one

who did you wrong, no.

let them

apologize

first.

show regret and remorse.

you want to hear

the words

i'm sorry.

and then we'll talk

about forgiveness,

but not until then.

giving it one more night

as i stand

at the open fridge,

the cold light

chilling my bare legs,

i look at the sliced meat loaf

on a plate.

will i ever eat that again,

most likely not,

but i can't toss it just yet.

it's only been

one day

since it was made.

i'll let it rest in peace

for now.

my compassion for

left overs

is limited, at best.

jumper cables

in the old days,

when most cars were junk.

breaking

down as you drove them off

the show room floor,

the first killing

frost would doom

the battery and someone would

be tapping on

your car window

asking you if they could

get a jump.

they'd show you their

cables

swinging them in the air

like rubber snakes.

so you'd get out,

lift the hood after easing

your car

in front of theirs

and plug the clamps on

to the bolts.

okay. start her up, you'd

yell. always referring  to

the car as a woman,

because it reminded you

of so many woman you

had known,

who also, on a cold morning,

wouldn't turn over.

thirty one days

i think back

and try to recall if anything

other than

thanksgiving

came good or unraveled

in november.

not a single drama

filled day comes

to mind.

so i'm good with this month.

let it be a long one.

closing time

we close

so many things.

our doors,

the windows when the weather

has turned

towards  cold.

we shut down

the garden,

locking the gate,

we finish up

our the summer things.

folding clothes

into the cedar chest.

we hunker down,

we contemplate.

we set out the salt bags,

the shovel

we close down

the year

as the next one waits.

the lone indian kid

one kid,

shows up at the door

dressed

as an indian.

i cringe,

but don't lecture him

on the cancel

culture thing and 

all that. there's

a single feather sticking

our from his head

band.

he's wearing war paint

and carrying

a rubber tomahawk,

there's a quill

of arrows

strapped to his

leathery vest.

i figure he's a conservative

kid so

i give him a dollar bill.

here you go Tonto,

don't spend it all in one place.

huh, he says

no candy?

nope. sugar's bad for you.

he shakes his head,

you people, he says

and walks away.

the horror

i curl up

with a cup of hot tea,

on this halloween,

a box of kleenex

between my knees.

i turn on a hallmark

movie to another

christmas saga

and wipe my tears away.

i open up

a quart of rocky

road, 

curled beneath

the blankets,

settled in between

the feather pillows.

i light a candle

for ambiance.

wait a minute,

that's you, not me.

i'm watching

a horror movie,

where some masked

crazy person

is  terrorizing a town

and some

slinky knucklehead

babes.

only the third time i've

seen it,

but it's so nuanced you

tend to miss

the details.

tap dancing

there is no

sound track to your life.

no sheet music

to speak of.

no drum rolls

for the dramatic parts,

no violin for sadness.

there is no

orchestra,

no band, no trio

or crooner singing your

song.

it's just you alone

in the spot light,

tap dancing through

your days,

insisting that the show

go on.

living larger

after working your fingers

to the bone

for most of your life, 

you reach

the point

of upgrading.

no longer content

with the econo-

lodge,

or holiday inn,

the continental breakfast

at motel six.

you want a better room

with a better view.

valet parking.

the king size bed,

the stocked mini bar

you want extra towels

and cotton sheets.

you want room service

with a full menu.

you want the wake up call

and the do not disturb

sign on the door.

you want the sauna

and the pool.

you want a massage.

you want them to know

your name

when you arrive or leave,

you want to hear the words,

come back soon.

a cold front moving through

it's the season

of what

do we wear today.

coat,

sweater.

t-shirt.

long pants or shorts.

sandals

or boots.

it could change any

moment with

a cold front

moving through.

maybe i'll

pack a back and be

ready for

any season.

just as i do with you.

the first date desire

don't even say that you

love me

when you dodge

my kisses,

turning your cheek to the side.

and when i put

my arm around

you, you cringe now.

you jump away

as if i'm on fire

when my hand

reaches for yours.

what's the meaning of

this?

are we done now,

just say it?

after two dates, is it

possible that you've

lost your first date desire?

strangely content

i don't mind waiting

anymore.

i used to fidget

and stare at

my watch,

tapping my fingers

or foot,

grumbling about the late

arrival of a train

or bus,

or dinner mate.

no more with that.

i sit patiently now.

perfectly content with

where i am.

i sit and peruse

the menu. observe what

others are doing.

i'm strangely content

these days

when i have to wait.

the moral dilemma

it's a moral dilemma

whether to hand

out candy to children this year

as they go about

in their costumes

for Halloween.

giving them

sugar.

the true poison of our time.

creating and contributing

to so much obesity

and disease.

do i get them going 

on the nutritional

road to hell 

with a milky way or

an almond joy.

do i clog their little hearts

with gum

and lollypops,

rot their teeth with

mary janes, and butter

fingers?

do i expand their bellies

with a candy apple,

perhaps.

what about a nice little

baggie of fresh broccoli?

steamed with a pad of butter,

lightly salted,

let's see how that goes

this year.

we are men, we fix things

as men we fix things.

not ourselves, of course, don't

be silly,

but other things.

we have our tools in the garage,

turn the light on

and see how clean. 

look there on the work bench,

a handy vise.

see the assortment of saws,

the hack saw, box saw,

and above it

there hangs

the phillips head screw drivers,

the flat heads too, 

the pliers, the socket wrench.

see how they're all aligned

by size.  neatly in rows

how they shine.

below on a shelf

there rests the hammer.

not one, but three, the mallet,

the claw,

the sledge.

and least i forget, the drawers

of nails,

the brads, the commons, 

the wood screws,

the screws for dry wall

screws for all sorts of projects

that might lie ahead.

and in a separate drawer

there's wire and string,

an assortment of tapes

and glue.

we are men,

we fix things. now let's take

a look at your broken shoe.

green jello in the air

as the family gathered around

her, as she lay dying,

the room darkened, the beeps

and blinks of machines

keeping her alive. 

they texted

and read magazines,

they talked

about her life,.

telling tales out of school,

remember the time she did

this, or that. oh my.

she did get around, didn't she.

the drinking the smoking.

money trouble. three husbands.

remember when she dyed her

hair blue, pffft, what a nut,

pretty much a life of lies,

and then suddenly she sat up

and threw her cup of green jello 

across the room,

hey, hey she said, i can

still hear you people, i'm

not dead yet. i'm still alive.

really, split pea soup?

as one unanimous

protest,

the seven of us let

out a loud groan

when my

mother announced

she was making split pea

soup for dinner,

with the ham bone in.

who cares about a dumb ham bone? yo.

my father's favorite.

something was up.

maybe he'd be home early

tonight.

curtailing his drinking and

flirtations.

we shook our heads

and sighed.

thinking of later

when we'd make

our sandwiches with 

wonder bread, 

crunchy peanut

butter and jelly inside.

wretched weather

you rarely hear

the word wretched anymore.

it sounds

English, British,

maybe my

friend Ingrid, from Ireland

might toss that

word around.

Wretched weather were

having, eh?

bloody hell, this rain,

she might say.

she refuses to give up

on her native language,

or pint of beer, not glass,

or potatoes

and boiled beef.

it's hard to dispose of 

the red hair and freckles

too i imagine.

the scarecrow

the scarecrow

in the field, nailed to the post

a martyr of sorts.

scaring

nothing away.

a bird sits on her arms,

her straw hair.

her eyes are painted

in.

the nose long.

the ears.

how strange she is,

hanging there

with no heart to speak of.

living each

day

with her own fear,

unable to move

away from who she really is.

any minute now

any minute now

i'm going to get up out of this

chair,

drink the last gulp of coffee

and go

stain a gazebo in lorton.

any minute.

soon.

any second now.

why is it so windy out?

and rainy.

it's friday, can't i stay home?

i give a zero on that delivery

the notice says that the package

has arrived.

i look out the door.

nope.

nothing.

nada.

i step out onto the porch

in my boxer shorts

to see if it's in

the bushes, or on a neighbor's

porch.

still nothing.

i go  back online.

how was your delivery,

the message says.

please give us a rating

if you have the time.

i type in zero.

and the robot types back,

thank you.

she had that going for her

betty

was a hell of a baker.

she couldn't cook worth

a can of beans,

but put her

in the kitchen with

sugar, eggs, flour and butter

and a rolling pin,

stand back

brother.

there wasn't a cookie

you could name that she

couldn't whip

up in a 325 oven.

parchment paper, no

problem.

a cookie sheet greased.

nuts and sprinkles.

any shape, any size, 

look out,

she had a dozen cooling

on the sill in

no time.

marriage counseling

i remember those days

on the boat,

signaling mayday

to the coast guard,

come save me, tow me in.

i'd send up a flare into

the dark windy sky,

the ocean filling the deck,

as i pumped it out again.

my life jacket on,

as i took the wheel of

the doomed ship,

not yet willing to let

it go down.

i saw no land, no other

ships around.

just me, locked in

this storm

unwilling to drown.

nothing has changed

his hearing

hard,

his vision blurred, 

his mind though is sharp

as puts his

hand to pen

and paper to send you

a note.

all is well, he writes.

nothing

has changed or

ever will

with you and him.

a very strange way to

go through life.

the little mouse maze

you can always tell when

someone is lying, holding

out on you,

not giving you the whole

story,

the complete picture.

it's in their eyes, their

hesitancy, they mumble

and avert their gaze.

it's not lying exactly,

but lying by omission.

you want to shake it out

of them, but what's the

point. you'll find out

eventually, you'll find

the cheese, but it's hell being

in their little mouse maze.

the perils of pauline

i imagine

there's another girl lost.

there seems

to be a new one

each week.

fallen off a cruise

ship,

lost on an island,

the boyfriend or husband

a suspect in

their disappearance.

it's headline

news.

the pretty blonde,

the shiny brunette,

the perfect

person, now gone

with everybody searching.

the reporters

going on breathlessly

about

each clue in the case.

it sells soap,

the beer, 

like the perils of pauline

you can hardly

wait.

one cold cat

funny how

she despised cats.

seeing that they were one

and the same.

selfish

and aloof,

mysteriously unhappy

about nearly

everything.

purring only to be fed

or pleased.

you never knew

what she

wanted, or thought,

or felt.

and she did all 

that she could

to keep it that way,

wondering

on my knees.

down to the bone

there is something 

about fatigue

that attracts you.

the slow

climb up the stairs,

the steam of bath water

the shedding of

clothes

down to the bone.

tossing the phone into

the air, not caring

where it lands.

there is sweet joy in being

tired, leaving the mail

on the floor,

message unanswered.

not giving a fig

about anything, but a cold

drink. a short nap.

then dinner,

then nothing with your feet

up in the air.

who are you, exactly?

it's an awkward

time,

the party.

no where to sit,

or escape

questioning.

who are you,

where do you work,

who did you come with.

you smile

and answer as best

you can.

searching for the door,

sipping your drink,

wishing it was

stronger.

this isn't your cup of

tea,

these situations.

small talk

is like poison to you.

ten minutes in

and you're ready to bolt,

to flee.

opening the curtains

i worried about her.

her removing all her

clothes as soon as we

got into the hotel room,

opening the curtains.

her need to flaunt herself

in front of people passing by.

what are you doing, i'd

ask her, as she flung

her dress towards me.

enjoying the view.

she'd say. just waving

and saying hi.

don't worry, she'd say.

i'm all yours, it's going to

be a long long night.

no school bus

has there ever been

a more true

happiness than

the school bus not arriving

on the corner

to pick you up.

what joy you felt.

no school today.

the parents already gone,

impossible to walk

the ten miles to class.

the relief of it all

as you walked back home

with books in hand

then grabbed a ball and glove,

eating your

lunch already.

the fear is here to stay

the news

about the virus is more

sickening

than the virus itself.

the hysteria

of it all.

the death count.

to get the shot or not.

the physicians

the politicians, 

the actors, the musicians.

everyone has

a say on what to do.

who's right,

who's wrong, who knows.

but the fear is

here to stay.

the end of us

we pay for

our room,

our food.

the paltry view of the road.

we check in

and leave

in two days

before noon.

we're back on

the highway.

me and you.

but with different

maps.

the end of us

has come

too soon.

perfectly imperfect

by design,

not flawed, we are perfectly

imperfect.

the stutter

or uncertain walk,

the eyes

not set,

the nose too long.

too thin,

too round.

it doesn't matter.

there is plenty of love

in the world,

more than enough

to go around.

when God pokes you in the eye

i like a direct

answer from God

after lengthy aching

prayer.

when he takes a stick 

and pokes you in the eye 

with it

leaving you no doubt

of what you have to do.

that sharp jab of pain

is worth it.

He tried the other ways,

with a gentle hand, but

you wouldn't listen.

a house with roses

i'm more interested

in the boarded up houses,

who lived there,

who left it like this?

the rusted

swing set in the yard,

the blackened brick

from fire.

the bike with one wheel

on its seat.

i want to know about the tire

chained to the tree.

the refrigerator

without a door, pink, and

leaning against

the wall.

an old car on blocks,

the hood up.

i want to know about the broken

windows,

the clinging shutters,

who planted those roses

in the garden, still insisting

to grow?

asleep below the stars

as we lie

under these stars

the fire nearly out.

the trees dancing

in the moonlight

we talk of our lives.

where we've been

and with who.

we ponder what's next.

where will we go.

how long do we have.

we decide not to worry.

but to breathe in

this mountain air.

to listen to the stream

rush against the rocks.

we fall asleep

with that,

touching each other

before our eyes close.

making room for something new

we find room

for things we like.

a picture,

a vase.

a chair.

people too.

we make

an effort to clean out

a corner,

a wall.

we set aside old things

and time

for someone new,

we make a small sacrifice

to give

way to change, although

we find it quite hard

to do.

when karma shows up

i'm not sure if i believe

in karma.

the whole energy thing.

the reverse

of the law of attraction.

but i do

think that in the long run

there is payback.

that we all get what's coming

to us.

be good and good comes

to you.

be evil

and well, there's a dark

storm coming.

and you can't stop what's coming.

the gourmet photos

i'm so proud of my

shrimp

and broccoli dish,

that i just have to take

a picture

and send it off to all

my peeps.

oil, butter,

a dash of salt and pepper.

i print it off and

add it to my collection

of other

gourmet creations.

scrambled eggs

with bacon.

cheese as well. sharp cheddar.

then the masterpiece of

chicken legs

with rice,

and least i forget

the fettucine with alfredo

sauce,

home made.

next week, pbj

on rye.

stay tuned.

Get out of the way, i can't see the tv

in the olden days,

the sixties,

we were always

messing with the tv

trying to get a picture

on the black and white

RCA box.

we twisted levers,

adjusted

the volume,

the horizontal had

it's own knob.

the vertical too.

there was no reception

without a wad

of tin foil

cupped onto the rabbit

ears

and pointed at some

distant moon.

we opened up the back

to a webbed assortment

of tubes,

and gently pulled one out

to replace it

with another.

if all else failed

we slapped the side

with our hands to heal

the mysterious trouble within,

and resurrect a picture.

before leaving

the crackle

of wood

under the blanket of

fire.

you close your

eyes

and remember

the burning leaves

in a barrel.

your father

with  rake in hand

his blue eyes

two startling 

but distant lights,

looking into yours

on this cold

fall day.

his exit 

already planned.

a good month to be in love

i like november.

it's the best month, now.

it used to be july.

but i've changed my mind.

got older.

not exactly wiser,

but older.

the rain,

the cold,

the fresh winds.

the first taste of snow.

the windows open.

football.

the leaves falling.

thanksgiving.

comfort food.

big coats and scarves.

gloves.

a fireplace roaring.

sleeping in.

it's a good month

to be in love.

loosening her Chico khakis

as i sat at the bar

watching an online

date eat a plate of

calamari,

licking her fingers between

each greasy bite,

i thought about

my life.

what went wrong.

questioning

what terrible mistakes did

i make, or what am i being

punished for?

i tapped the bar for another

gin and tonic.

she stopped talking about

her cat

for a minute and

ordered another

extra large

glass of pinot noir

from France.

do you mind if we order dinner

now, she said,

licking the empty

plate, loosening the belt

buckle on her Chico khakis.

i know we're never going

to see each other again,

and that you're going to pay,

but let's have dinner,

okay?

do you have a cat?

the alimony check

i remember

writing the alimony check.

the child support payment.

dividing

my house in two.

my income.

my savings. my

retirement portfolio.

i remember sitting there

in the lawyer's office.

signing my name

to a sheet of paper, making

the ex wealthy.

despite never having a job

in fifteen years.

i cringed as i watched 

my hard earned money

float away.

it's the law the lawyer said,

nobody cares who's

at fault, or that she was

the one

who was sleeping

around, lying, cheating,

and never working.

she gets half of everything.

better luck with the next

love of your life,

you have my number.

now go on your way.

you seem tense

as she drove the car

beyond the speed limit,

i pumped

my invisible brakes

on the passenger side,

i gripped

the dashboard

as if it was a steering

wheel.

i tightened my seat belt

and braced myself

for impact

as we bolted through

a yellow light.

is everything okay,

she asked, looking

up from her cell phone?

you seem tense.

the crazy new norm

the new norm

is to be

crazy.

film yourself doing

dangerous

behaviors.

record the stupidity

of your life.

post

your dumbness,

your lack

of principles or

virtues online.

show the world

your true colors.

be as ridiculous as

possible

to be liked.

the halloween stock market

i used to like halloween

when i was a kid.

my dentist did too.

all those hours of dangerous

knocking on

doors

while dressed up as

Oscar Wilde

or Holden Caufield

with everyone 

asking, and who are you?

all that candy.

the big bag spilled

onto the floor

as we traded back

and forth.

two almonds joys

for a candy apple,

verified with no sharp

objects stuck inside.

three squares of double bubble gum

with a comic wrapped

around them,

for a tootsie roll lollypop.

it was like the stock 

market before the closing bell

was rung.

(which was my mother

banging two pots together)

how much for this butter finger

and a heath bar?

come on now,

speak up.

cheese strings, get out of here

with that.

are you kidding me?

the confession app

after a shot or two

of tequila

i feel a sin coming on.

the music

the dancing, the flirtatious

fluttering of eyelashes

and come hither looks.

the daily lust in my heart

sin that i fight

with weakened willpower.

i should pre-empt it

with the  confession app

on my phone

from St. Bernadettes.

but it might go viral,

and then what?

grandma's perfume

sadly, she was wearing

the same

perfume my grandmother used

to wear. 

white linen. it was

exactly the same scent

gmaw wore.

it affected me

in a bad way.

i couldn't go there.

i started kissing

her on the cheek

and giving her short hugs,

patting her on the shoulder.

i wanted to help

her read the small print on

things, or adjust the antennae

on the tv.

here, i'd say to her,

taking her elbow, let me

assist you across the street.

there's a curb there,

step up.

sex? forget about it.

holiday shopping

at christmas

i end up buying a lot of nice

things for myself.

televisions,

a new computer,

maybe a car.

while others get gloves

and scarfs.

pots and pans.

maybe some sheets

or towels.

i'm not a good shopper

for others.

but for me, i think

i have it down.

there's a knock at the door

there's a knock at the door.

a light musical tap of knuckles.

it's the new neighbor.

Giselle.

the flight attendant

from Germany.

she's in uniform

with a cute little hat on.

she's very tall in those

stiletto heels, which seem

hardly stable for flying.

she wants to borrow some

extra virgin olive oil

for a meal she's whipping

up for the flight crew.

come on over, she says,

we're all alone.

it's just me and the girls,

and we could use some

help getting the champagne

bottles open.

you know how hard

those pesky corks can be?

i wake up in a cold sweat.

i can't eat hot peppers anymore

before bedtime.

the first cut is the deepest

the first cut

is the deepest. the first

lie.

the first betrayal.

the first

deception.

you never quite get over

that wound. it

never heals.

it swells. it gets infected.

it oozes.

it's a reminder

of what went

down and what's to come,

if you don't get out

and run.

is that gun loaded?

i don't trust a woman

with a knife

or a gun in her purse

on the first date.

i get

the pepper spray,

but a gun seems to be

taking

it too far.

the switchblade too.

and what's with the cuffs?

Macy's one clerk

there's no

clerks in the store. just

one solitary woman working

the register.

she's frazzled.

the line backs up

to men's underwear

around the corner

past the cologne counter.

i look at

the shirts and pants

i'm holding in my arms.

do i really need

these things?

don't i already have these

exact same clothes.

yup. so i set them down

on the bin

thirty feet away from

the check out.

let them deal with it.

the tragedy of spilled milk

i've never completely

gotten over

spilled milk.

it terrifies me to this day.

every time i pass

a cow in a pasture

on the side of the road

i'm triggered.

i have to pull over.

i can't go down the dairy

aisle at the grocery store.

i start to sweat.

in my dreams i see

the white puddle of milk.

the broken glass.

the helplessness

of it all, as my mother wipes

the floor,

and tells me wrongly,

don't worry about it. 

this too shall pass.

use it sparingly

we throw the word 

around

quite loosely.

i love 

this color,

this book,

this room,

these pair of shoes.

this dress,

this risen moon.

we say this word with

such

carelessness.

we use it so much

that its meaning

is robbed,

made less

than what it should be.

it should be the rare

gem

taken out

for when it's really meant.

love, a magical word

that means more

when used sparingly.

we know our roles

each to his own

place

in the world. his or her

own stage

to play upon.

the right words,

the right

costume.

it's who we are.

who we are known to

be.

labeled by profession,

or blood,

whether

king or queen.

we know our roles.

seldom do we

break character,

and be set free.

no funny bone

there is no funny

in some.

no bone

to tickle, 

dour all the time,

no skin

that makes

them giggle.

no spot

beneath the arm,

or on the bottom

of a sole.

they have no

laughs within them,

nothing will

make them chuckle,

and that's

why they have

to go.

fixing the marriage sex camp

the neighbors.

always fighting, decide

to go to a sex camp to straighten

out their sex lives.

they think

that by fixing that, all

will be well.

the husband tells me this

over the backyard

fence as i hang my wet

clothes onto

the clothes line.

we're going to be learning

new techniques, 

he says.

new ways of communicating.

some sort of reiki baloney,

new age stuff.

she's mad at me all the time

because i want her to

dye her hair blonde

and get implants.

women, pfffft. but

if we can get the love making

down.

i think we'll be okay.

what about your mistress,

i ask him.

will you have to give her up?

damn, i hope not.

we'll see.

struck by lightning

there was something

electric

about her. perhaps,

struck by lightning

in early

childhood.

she seemed to be plugged

in

all day.

vibrating.

even her hair was out

of control.

she talked

without stopping, 

without an

organized thought. 

her eyes rolled, she was

the life of the party.

at work.

on a bus, a plane,

she made new friends

everywhere.

it was insane.

even while sleeping, her

legs kept

churning.

her mouth a whisper

as she talked

in her sleep.

the learning curve

it's an endless

learning curve this life.

each

day a new lesson.

a new

book,

a new test, or quiz,

some sort

of trial.

there's another new

teacher at

the head of the class.

i think i'm ready

to graduate though.

enough

with the late night

studies.

the school bell ringing

as i run

towards

the forever yellow

bus.

Wiggly was like that too

most dogs have a personality.

fun

and athletic,

jovial and bright.

obedient.

even stubborn,

or mean,

but Wiggly had none.

Wiggly

was the middle aged man

sitting at the bar

alone,

with an unlit cigar

in hand.

his coat and hat still on

during

the cheese sandwich

and beer,

not watching the tv,

or others,

but staring

thoughtlessly into

the future, without

a plan.

Wiggly was like that too.

he was neither here,

nor there.

the stepford restaurant

it was strange

how everyone looked the same

in this four

star restaurant.

the women in shoulder

length blonde

hair.

wearing similar clothes.

it seemed they all

went to the same

cosmetic surgeon,

the same

make up counter.

they talked the same,

gestured the same,

all of them throwing

their hands into hair

to show off

their rings when they laughed

with vague reason.

and the men.

in t-shirts and jeans,

no socks and boat shoes,

waiting it out,

waiting for the check

to come.

regretting the lamb

i should have

had the ribs, but no i had

to venture

out of my comfort

zone

and got lamb.

i don't know much about

lamb.

mint jelly?

i always think

of white sheep

on some grassy hillside

when i see

lamb shanks on the menu,

but with beef

i have no problem.

up on the high wire

i care and yet

i don't care.

i walk a fine line of

ambivalence

and desire.

i tip toe every day,

trying not to fall off

the stretched out 

high wire.

what has to be done

some nights are colder than others.

you need

the extra blanket down

the hall,

on the upper shelf

in the linen closet.

it's two a.m., there's still a long

way to go

until morning.

you think of the cold floor,

an open window.

your new love, sleeping soundly

wrapped in the blanket

she pulled off you.

your teeth chatter.

your legs shiver.

finally, you give in. you

get up and do what has to be

done.

more leaves will come

i see the man in

his yard, steadily

raking.

but it's not raking that

he's doing.

he's somewhere else,

the leaves

are just part of it,

having fallen

from the trees.

the rake in his hands is

more than wood.

it's something

beyond his understanding.

he's trying to get

somewhere,

or forget

something. someone?

more leaves will come,

he tells himself.

this is not the end

of things.

late night to the P.O.

it's cold.

frigid, in fact.

the wind is up.

the stars are clustered

in the way

they do on nights like this.

you almost feel

as if you could

grab a handful

if your arms were long

enough.

you put on your coat,

your scarf,

your hat.

where are you going?

the post office

of course.

the envelope licked

and stamped.

there is no one here

to ask where you might

be headed at this hour,

in this weather,

which makes it all the more

reason,

to go without worry

of when you might

come back.

you do go on, don't you?

so you stop for gas.

the tank low,

the yellow light on.

you sigh and unbuckle.

you do go on

with these things, don't you?

the credit card

into the pump,

the numbers punched.

you clean the windshield

as you wait,

you watch the sun

melt above the Exxon sign.

then off to the store

where you buy

the necessary things.

the bread

of life. your meat.

your drink. your shaving

needs,

and other assorted

items.

you pass the flowers

and the hallmark cards

without a glance.

you do go on with things,

don't you?

the queen bee

there's always a ring leader

in every group,

an unannounced

boss.

the queen or king of the gang

of friends.

you see it in  gaggle 

of girls,

or pack of boy wolves.

it just works out

that way,

the loudest, the biggest,

the boldest.

the athlete, the cheerleader.

the prettiest.

they have a way of taking

over and running the show.

usually they peak in high school

and it's down hill from

there

once everyone catches on.

a bad cup of coffee

there is such a thing

as a bad 

cup of coffee.

cold

and bitter,

stale.

too long in the pot.

no matter how

much sugar

or cream

you pour into it,

it's never right.

same goes

for making love

with the wrong person.

cold and bitter,

too long in the tooth.

no matter how many

times you

try it,

again and again.

you just can't get it

right.

can i get a price check on this pineapple

we're very worried about numbers.

our age,

are you old enough

yet, or too old,

our weight, our blood pressure,

our height,

the diameter of our waist.

we worry about

cholesterol,

good or bad.

triglycerides. 

we worry about the tax rate,

the interest

on a loan.

the air pressure in our tires.

the odometer,

the battery bar,

the minutes on our phone.

we are ruled 

surreptitiously by

numbers.

from grade one, until

the grave.

how long do you have left?

how much have you

saved?

can i get a price check on

this pineapple?

then they make you grow up

i like how kids

don't give a damn about

drips,

or drools, spills

on their shirt

their pants,

ice cream, sodas,

cake, soup,

whatever they put

into their mouth,

some falls out onto

their clothes.

or gets wiped onto

their sleeves.

it's a good way

to go on about

life, eating, drinking,

having fun with it all,

but then they

make you grow up.

and they pound it in

you.

sit up straight, don't

chew with your

mouth open.

don't get sassy with me.

now go to your room.

you'll never find another love like mine

sarcastically,

she wishes me luck.

you're going to need it

she says.

i smile and wish her

luck too.

she raises her middle finger

at me

and slams the door.

she lifts

the kitchen window

and curses at me

as i go down the sidewalk.

you'll never find

another woman like me,

she screams.

never.

i hope so, i whisper

pulling up my collar

in the cold wind.

i hope the hell that's true.

no loneliness quite like that

when i hear people

talk

about loneliness, i think

that they'll never

be happy.

they'll bring this loneliness

to the next

person they meet,

and the next.

there is no greater pleasure

than being

alone.

being with yourself, happy

and content.

the only times i've ever

been lonely in my life,

was when i was with

the wrong person.

lying in bed

with a mistake.

the bad choices are all on

me though.

i let them shatter the peace

within me.

the late afternoon party

there's a late afternoon

party

in progress

two doors down.

i look out the window

and see

the young couples.

colorful

balloons are strung up

across the yard.

there are paper plates

and cups.

the men are quiet,

and bored,

stirring the charcoal

with cans of beer in hand,

while the women are

laughing,

having fun without

them,

the children, restless,

are crawling

on the ground.

this is what men do, he said

i remember my

father

changing a tire on the side

of the road.

cursing

a random nail

as the snow fell.

i stood close

by

as he turned the wrench

removing

the hubcaps,

the lug nuts,

and raising the car

off the ground

with the jack,

while my mother

and sister

stayed warm inside.

this is what men do,

he said to me.

cigarette in his mouth.

his greased knuckles

bleeding

somehow,

his knees wet from

the snow.

we fix things, he said.

they stay

warm in the car 

doing nothing, while

we fix things

and get back on the road.

organic chips

as i pull a green

potato

chip out of the nine

dollar bag,

that reads 

organic.

natural, no saturated

fats

or sugar.

no animals were killed

to make these chips.

there's

a bright sun on the package

and a picture

of a cow smiling.

i smile.

even chips are good

for you now.

made from

farm raised asparagus

and a blend of kale.

i try not

to gag as i chew

then spit

the first one out.

the blues bar

i go into a blues

bar

along the way.

it's a sad place

in a dark alley

in a bad section of town.

it's heartbreak city,

you can feel it as

the music plays.

the sax,

the snare drum,

that big bass.

old men and women,

alone with each other,

huddled over their

drinks,

the diva at the mike

is whispering

her lament.

some billie holiday song

from long ago.

i ask the bar tender

for a drink,

and ask him, hey

what's the deal here,

why is everyone so glum?

she used to stand right there

as i turn 

with spatula 

in hand

to the stove, watching

meat

fry

on the old black pan,

onions

and peppers too,

i think

of a woman i used to

know.

right there,

she used to stand.

too bad for him

we compare

our lives, we take notes.

this one

is better off, than I.

but she's ill,

and look

at the car he drives,

how it chugs down

the road

with smoke trailing

behind.

how do they

afford such a home.

the trips

to France,

to places unknown.

that one went to a better

school.

she's prettier

than i'll ever be, he's

smarter,

but shorter, 

too bad for him.

the ripple of us

the ripple

of a leaf falling,

a stone

tossed into the lake,

the birth

or death of anything,

all of it

is give and take.

everything connected

in some strange

way.

when the moon fell apart

when the moon

fell apart,

falling into

the sea

we stood and watched

at the shoreline.

all things must end,

we said to each

other, kissing one

last time,

and remembering

how life used to be.

the summer vacation

i make plans for my big

summer trip

this year.

but then i look at the calendar

on my desk

and it's already October,

almost

into November.

i was wondering why

it got so cold out.

my new bright blue

bathing suit

is on the bed, the tag still

on, my big beach towel.

my shovel

and bucket.

the new James Patterson

novel

hasn't even been opened yet.

there are my sandals.

my sunscreen.

my granola bars for the journey.

all waiting patiently

for a vacation

they'll never get.

maybe next year.

down goes muffy

it was a mild surprise

when

the police came and arrested

the woman next door.

knowing what she was up to,

and the men

she hung out with,

it was just a matter of time

before the po po came

a knocking.

i stood out

on the porch with my

cup of coffee

and waved to her as they

took her out

of the house in handcuffs.

she didn't even have time

to put on her make up,

but still had her fishnet

stockings on

and stiletto heels.

she looked at me and

yelled out.

take care of muffy for me. okay?

i said, who's muffy?

but it was too late, as the

cat jumped into

the squad car with her.

be like the blue cup

some things

appear to be unbreakable.

like that blue

cup in the cupboard.

it's been dropped,

thrown,

tossed

and kicked and yet

there it is on the shelf.

uncracked,

without a chip.

be like the cup,

you say to yourself

as you get back on

the horse

and say giddy up.

stay away

i remember

the first day

when the third wife moved in

she hung

a crochet pillow

reading

Stay Away

onto the bedroom door

knob.

i asked her

what's that?

and she said, sometimes

i like to be alone,

and i need

some time to myself.

i don't want you coming

in here,

when you see that sign.

i laughed.

but we've only been married

for an hour.

so what, she said.

i have my moods.

are you telling me that i can't

have some alone time?

no. please,

have at it, i said

and pointed out the window

and told her.

do you see those

woods out there.

the trees, the rocks,

the stream.

squirrels?

that's where you go

to be alone.

go there.

suddenly i had seen

the tip of the iceberg

i was about to hit and

sink

the already listing ship.

the wrong thing to do

as the sliver

of wood

breaks the skin

and slides

into my thumb.

i know

it will trouble on

down the road.

i should stop right

this moment

and get the splinter

out.

but i don't.

i have work to do.

strange

how we know what

pain

lies ahead, and yet

we press on,

hoping for the best.

kissing Fido

she loved dogs.

she let them lick her face

raw.

dogs have

no germs, she used to tell me.

did you

know that dog is God

spelled 

backwards?

she was full of gems

like that.

i cringed,

as she tried to kiss

me

after watching

Fido lick her

face when she came home.

destiny calls

i know when i'm

going to spill paint,

or set

off the smoke alarm.

i know

not to take that exit,

or to get

in that line

at the bank.

i feel it in my bones,

when i meet someone

i shouldn't be with,

and yet stay.

it's all very clear,

but 

destiny calls.

another lesson, another

year.

oh really, i write too

it's not the same

but it's the only analogy i can

think of at the moment.

more will come

as i type this, i'm sure.

but when i hear

people say,

i write poetry too, it's like

me saying to a five

star michelin chef

that i like to cook too.

i'm not saying that i'm

five star, or one star,

hell, i might just be a

yellow sun fading

in some far away galaxy.

it's just that i cringe when

someone hands me

a sheathe of their own

freshly cooked 

plate of poems, and asks

me to read and taste

a few.

the orange poem

so few words

rhyme with orange.

orphanage?

maybe.

storage?

porridge?

better. but let's start

with yellow instead.

why make

it harder than it has

to be when

writing a poem.

let's leave orange out

of the picture

and go with yellow.

right away, i got,

jello,

hello

and fellow.