the car salesman

okay, buddy,

he says to me, despite the fact

that he knows

my name.

okay pal.

compadre,

comrade, friend.

as he slaps

me on the back

walking

through the rows

of used cars,

it's hard for him to spit

my name out.

no worries, buddy Roo,

amigo.

brother.

we'll take care of you.

don't you worry,

my man,

we'll have your new

car soon.

it's not my fault

how close

we are to being on the street,

uncared

for, unwashed.

alone.

how close we are to being

penniless,

to being lost

with no

way home.

how close we are to being

faithless

with one wrong

turn,

one illness,

or disaster.

how quick we are to blame

it all, not on ourselves,

but on

God.

everyone is gone

there's no one home.

no cars

in the driveway,

no lights on,

no dog barking.

i ring the bell, knock.

i go around

to the backyard,

jiggling the gate

to get in.

i press my face

to the glass of the back

door.

it's empty.

there's no one home.

no one

at the table,

no one standing at

the sink, no one at

the stove.

where have they gone?

it seems like

just yesterday it was a warm

and loving home.

the reluctant grape

i think about reintroducing

food

into my body.

not right away, of course.

but at some

point

i might heat up a bowl

of soup

or take a bite

out of an apple,

or small grape.

in a few days, perhaps,

once swallowing

is possible

again.

food again, would be great.

describe your symptoms

i have a doctor.

i've never

met him, of course, 

because he's very busy.

i completely

understand,

but when he writes

me back after i describe

my maladies,

he misspells a few

words

and the page is littered

with typos.

i'm sure he's brilliant.

smart as whip.

i'm sure he's hip to all the latest

developments

in the medical world,

but he can't construct

a legible one paragraph response.

without mangling

the English language.

my throat is red, i write

in the latest communication.

think

peppers, or fire, or a

traffic light.

red like that, i tell him.

if my throat was a physical

destination,

it would be a place called hell.

i can't swallow food, or

drink, even air seems to be

an issue.

i'm waiting.

but i know he's busy.

billboard clothes

it's hard to find a shirt,

or pair

of pants, or coat

or sweater anymore

without a label on it

in bold letters.

the names.

calvin, or tommy,

or ralph

emblazoned on

your chest

or back or arm.

we are walking billboards

for fashion.

thread bare items,

in the thrift stores

and outlets.

cheaply made

by slave children in 

Indonesia.

we don't seem to care,

everything

and everyone has a brand

now.

what happened to white

t-shirts

and chinos.

the next rising sun

i see your point,

although

i disagree. at this

age we're both

so full of knowledge

we feel the need

to argue and persuade.

we're too learned now

to keep quiet.

but

let's move on to other

topics.

like we used to do

when we were young

when we were less concerned

about our beliefs,

let's go back to happier

times and drink to that,

to those long nights

and welcoming the next

rising of the sun.

binged out

my eyes are bugging out

from watching too much tv.

netflix

etc.

i'm down to Emily in Paris.

i've watched

nearly everything

else except

the British Baking channel.

God help me.

i'm feverish and shivering.

i've got the big

blanket around me and the dog

with his head sticking

out wondering

when i'm going take him

out for a pee.

my answer to that is hold it.

maybe at the end of the next

episode, after we see what

happens to Emily.

the marriage mantra

i'm sorry,

but i can't marry you.

i look into the mirror and say it

over and over,

maybe twenty times

as i'm brushing my teeth.

it's good practice,

just in case.

i love you, but i just

can't marry you.

it's not you,

it's me. no need to

go into detail.

if you were really starving

i walk

through the grocery store

fully

masked

and drugged,

wearing brain surgeon

gloves,

and with a nice blue 

surgical hat

pulled tight

on my aerodynamic head.

i'm

pushing the empty cart

past

pork and beef.

eggs and bacon,

noodles. cakes and pies.

canned foods fit

 for the Armageddon.

i see nothing that i'll

ever want

to put into my mouth

again

for years,

i can't think of anything

i want to eat.

how long

before starvation sets in?

i used to tell

my mother that i

was starving after playing

in the street for

fifteen hours

and she'd say, stick your

tongue out.

i would.

and she's laugh and tell

me if i was truly starving

my tongue would

turn black.

i have to google that at

some point.

but i'm going to the mirror

just to check.

i'll give you ten minutes

don't look at me,

don't make

eye contact please.

i got enough on my plate

without

hearing your problems.

i can't handle

your sadness,

your current dilemma.

oh, okay, now

you're crying, okay, alright,

don't leave.

take a seat and come

sit next to me.

ten minutes, i'll give

you ten minutes.

here, here, 

dry your eyes on my sleeve.

dreaming of ice cream

am i in

the doghouse with God

for my

many transgressions?

(although many are completely

explainable)

yes, i have sinned,

thus 

the prairie

fire on the back of my

throat

that won't quit.

i've pulled the alarm

and wait for help.

i douse the inflamed skin

with cold water,

with NyQuil,

Dayquil,

hot teas,

and ice chips.

a handful of Tylenol

gets tossed

in. i gargle

a shaker of salt

in a glass of water.

my stomach now

has the salinity

of the Dead Sea,

but it still burns.

i find myself on my

knees,

praying,

making vows that will be

impossible to keep,

but hoping for an

end to this.

it's time for ice cream.

the lover's cross

keep your

books,

all of them, even the ones

you don't like.

keep

your old shoes

and sweaters.

reminders of who

you were,

who you still are.

keep,

your memories in a box.

pictures

and small

things. but

don't keep everything,

just a few

touchstones

found along the way,

reminders

of a different day,

but don't put yourself

up

on a lover's cross.

god bless the child who has his own

i warm

up

to the notion of making

a will.

it's about time

i think

as i wipe the sweat

from my

brow,

a thermometer

resting

on my chin.

who gets what,

who gets

nothing.

i'm

holding onto

grudges until

the bitter end.

it's what we do,

my Italian

friend.

more days to come

with the sun

on your face, back against

the warm

sand,

not a cloud to be seen,

the gentle

ruffle

of waves.

you're nineteen again.

you smile

at the prospect of

a lot more days.

this is how it always

should be.

salt in the air, the cry

of gulls,

you lying next

to me.

stopping for a burger on the way home

i compliment

her on her green beans.

delicious, i tell

her as i move

a pile around my plate.

more salt,

she asks,

butter, pepper?

it's my mother's recipe.

no, please, they're

prefect the way they

are,

and don't get me started

on this trout,

i say as i pick the bones

from my teeth.

have you ever thought

of starting your own

restaurant, i ask,

coughing out a potato peel.

you're so sweet, she says.

wait till you

get dessert.

you like jello, don't you?

flowers with wings

she loved

her birds, one

as green

as emeralds,

the other yellow,

like

a daffodil,

both gems,

flowers with wings.

and when

they died, after

picking them

up

from the bottom

of cage,

covered

in old news, she

started over.

there was always

starting over,

with her,

which she passed

on to you.

her waitress tips

there was always

salt and pepper on the table.

butter

and bread

in a white stack

in the center of the table.

there was always milk,

cold

from the glass bottle.

there was always

just enough to go around,

seven pork chops,

a stew,

chicken, or spaghetti

from the wide

white bowl.

somehow, she made do,

with her waitress

tips,

counted out in the early

morning for each of us

before school.

i've got this

it's good to have a few

bad turns

in the road,

in life.

reference points.

it's easy to look back

and say,

this is nothing, i've

got this.

this may be bad,

but it's nothing like

it was

when i had

a wife.

who knows you?

who knows you?

who really knows you,

gets who you are.

few.

fewer than you

realize.

all of us keep our cards

close to our

chest,

leaving the door only

slightly ajar.

when the fever breaks

it is the soft

hot

glaze of sweat that awakens

you

in the morning.

like

the tropics,

the gentle heat

beneath the blankets,

the sheets.

the stack of pillows

scattered

like life rafts

about your head

and feet.

you may be at last

swimming

towards shore.

the colored braids

what did you

do in the war daddy?

i asked my father,

home at last,

touching

the colored braids on

his chest.

the silver medal.

i cried a lot he said,

i was afraid

even when i killed someone,

wondering what

had i done as they lay

there

and bled.

shameless

if you give me a line,

i'll steal it.

if i read

an amazing stretch

of words,

with or without rhyme,

look closely

and see that

i've made them mine.

i'd feel guilt

if i robbed a bank

or hurt someone,

but with poetry,

all bets are off,

i have no shame.

love like that

how dare

you stop by and knock on my

door

after driving in the rain.

what gives you

the right,

to peer through my window.

with your

bag

of soups,

your cookies

and drinks,

leaving them with

a get well card

on the unlit porch.

flowers too?

how dare you care for me,

love me.

i can't handle love like that,

just who exactly

are you?

where's my pen?

it's your turn

now, you think, as you lie

in the cold bed

shivering

with fever.

why are your hands

so cold?

there is nothing left

to taste,

or smell, there's no

hunger in you,

no

desire for love,

or food.

what to do with these

aches

and pains,

these bones,

coming unglued,

but like always, you see

the other side,

that light,

you know that this will

end,

one way or the other,

just as sure as the sun

sets,

or rises.

once more, where's my

pen?

slacker

i call in sick.

it's a short call, 

then i draw a hot bath.

boil some water for tea.

stay home, i tell myself,

pull the plug on everything.

get some rest.

why work when you're

not feeling well.

how much more money 

do you really need.

and yet as i watch

the cars pull away,

off to their world of work,

i can't help but feel guilty.

reduction

it's hip now

to simplify your

life.

minimalize

things.

what's old is new,

it's

the way

to go these days.

reduce,

pare down,

don't consume.

let go of what you

own.

buy less, 

eat less, restore,

and from what

i hear

you can even make

coffee at home.

the open air church

he's looking

for a new church, he tells me.

something

that fits

his way of faith.

no crazy stuff.

no men in gowns,

no snake handling,

no speaking in tongues,

or smoke and mirrors

no homily in Latin.

not Baptist either,

they don't like to dance.

or a church where

you have to sing a lot.

no fire and brimstone,

making you feel

worse when you leave

than when you arrived.

no stained glass,

or gold chalices,

no basket going around

and around

until you're tapped out.

just a nice simple thing,

he says,

maybe a place like

in the Sermon on the Mount.

apologies to Langston

being born

is hard, no doubt.

and the end,

is no picnic either

when the air

runs out,

so best you

find some fun in

the middle.

with lovers who

make you shout.

red birds

it's a red

bird

in the tree against

the white

back drop

of snow

and ice, bare limbs,

that pleases you.

there is life

and then

there is other life

that gives you

reason

to believe.

call me Ernestine now

i run into my old pal

Ernie in the grocery store.

we used to play

football together back in the day.

he was the first

one of our gang that had to shave

his face.

he had a deep voice,

and broad shoulders

from lifting weights.

he got all the girls.

but there's something different

about him now.

he's wearing a dress

and high heels, and what looks

like a blonde wig.

i swear to you he has breasts

too, not your little ones, either,

but Dolly Parton sized ones.

the thought crosses my mind

that he will never drown.

hey Ernie, i say, how are you?

been a long time.

did you see the game the other

night.

it's Ernestine now, he says

in his new whispery voice.

and i don't watch football anymore,

so violent.

he's looking at lipstick

in the cosmetic aisle.

what do you think, he says.

pink, or merlot?

i shrug, i like red actually.

you know what, he says,

i think i will go red today.

thank you.

so glad we ran into each other,

you're as handsome as ever,

still married? he says,

winking and looking me over.

yes, i tell him. i'm very

very married. love her.

absolutely married.

six kids. yup. working on

one more every night.

sometimes in the morning too.

eventually i'll do it

i could easily

get up

and turn the knob

on the shower

and stop

the constant drip

that falls

steadily

into chrome drain.

sure,

i could do that.

just like

i could do a lot of

things that bug me,

but i'll wait until

it drives

me almost

crazy, then

i'll take action.

the Versace dress

you see on tv

the story

about the lion who ate

the woman

who fell over the fence,

into the lion's

den at the zoo.

she lost her balance

leaning over,

taking a selfie

for her Facebook page.

there's a video of

the lion in the paper,

spitting out

pink fabric.

shredded into

large

bloodied strips.

there's a large wide belt

stuck to his tongue.

oh my God, Betty

says, covering

her mouth.

i think that's a

Versace dress.

i've been looking

for that dress all year long.

oh, and look, she says.

pointing at his large paw

holding down

a white glossy high heel

and part of a leg.

look at her shoe.

hate the shoes, she says.

you can't wear those shoes

with that dress.

i've seen them at 

Nordstrom Rack.

she really should know

better.

let's take a nap first

i get the upgrade

room.

this one has two double

beds

and a view

of the empire state building.

room service

and 

extra towels.

i love extra towels.

it's on

the 12th floor, but

from

the window,

when i pry it open

an inch or two,

i can still

smell

the hot pretzels

and hear

the chatter of the crowd,

the blare

of taxi horns down

on the street.

i empty my wallet on the bed.

i only brought

two thousand

dollars in cash for

three nights.

it's going to be close,

i might have to break out

the Amex.

cute, boy or girl?

you can't help

yourself,

falling into the pattern

of those

before you.

discussing the weather

with complete

strangers,

talking cuts

of meat with the butcher.

asking the cab

driver

what kind of miles does

he get with his

Prius.

you wave to strangers,

look into

strollers and say

things like, cute,

boy or girl?

you ask

the mailman,

how many miles do you

think

you walk a day?

God help you.

you've arrived at that

age.

what falls between the cracks

yes,

things do fall between

the cracks,

forgetting

appointments,

calls to make,

places

to be.

i admit i have

been

lax

at times, a tad careless

with my

itinerary.

i agree. 

i think it's better,

if you

don't mind, if you

call me.

Monday Namaste

she used

to sit in the sunny

room

in a yoga pose.

a praying mantis, or

frog,

or tadpole,

who's to know.

she'd mediate for

an hour,

hands folded,

arms intertwined,

composed.

and then she'd get

up and stretch.

but it was Monday

and she'd see

the trash truck coming

up the street

and scream up

the stairs for me

to take the trash out.

cursing.

we've got old shrimp

shells

in the bags.

hurry, before

it's too late.

take the day off

belong

to nothing, no party,

left or right.

join

no one

in their fight.

don't be persuaded

by tears

or shouts,

by someone's

dream,

or fears.

stay away from

parades

and protests

for a while.

stay home, and take

the day off.

the world will

be here

tomorrow too,

hopefully.

a good read

i see the wind

turning pages of the book

lying

in the street,

dropped

by someone in a hurry.

not looking back

to put it under

their arm.

it's a strong wind,

a curious wind,

reading quickly, page after

page

all morning long.

six dollars an hour

it was

a mere six dollars an hour,

but

we welcomed

it.

young,

the cold meant nothing,

as spades

and pics

broke

against

the iced ground.

at ten the sun rose high

enough

to soften it.

so we dug.

we dug all day.

we dug nine feet down.

the final measure

is it courage

or

the plain man like

dumbness

of ancient

times that overcomes

us,

keeps

us at the wheel of work?

in the end

don't we all die

an ignoble

death?

what glory is there

in the nine

to five,

the gold watch at the end

of life.

the tombstone

holding

numbers, our

collected time

on earth, a final

measure.

still there

i have a picture

of my

father, in black and white,

on a farm

in Nova Scotia,

holding his pet calf

on a leash.

Clara belle.

he's all of thirteen.

his hair

parted to the side,

golden

in the sunlight.

so much of life ahead

of him.

and now,

still here,

at ninety-five, there

it is.

the same smile, the same

glimmer

of life in his pale

blue eyes.

she's trying to kill me

her stack

of pancakes, four deep,

with three

pads of butter

on top,

maple syrup and berries,

with a side

order of sausage links,

makes my

knees weak.

she's trying to kill me

in so many ways.

at the kitchen table,

and when the moon 

comes out

between her cotton sheets.

tightening things up

i spend

part of the morning fiddling

with the latch

on the back fence.

it's loose,

somehow,

i hardly ever go out

that way,

and yet,

the screws are loose,

and the gate

only closes halfway.

i bring out

my tools to fix it.

to tighten things down.

to make it

right.

there it is.

just like that.,

like new.

a good start for the new

year.

polka dot shirts

some never

get the memo about how

fashions

have changed,

i for one am wearing the same

clothes i wore

fifty years ago,

who

would think

that polka dots would

ever go out of style,

or bell bottom

pants,

not I.

got that over with

i do a mass

happy

new year emoji,

gif,

texting thingy.

fireworks, etc.

with party

noises,

to three hundred

close

friends.

whew.

that's done.

at least for now,

but it's only forty-five

days or so

until valentine's day.

it never

ends.

beef liver for dinner

i keep reading 

and watching informative

videos

about how good liver

is for you.

packed with vital nutrients

for better health.

the French call it foie gras,

for duck

or goose liver,

but what do they know?

so i buy some beef liver

instead,

a bloody

pack at the grocery store.

a dollar ninety-nine.

it's about the size and shape

of a deflated

football,

but solid red, almost blue.

boneless of course.

after draining the blood

off,

i toss the slab

into a frying pan

with melted butter.

i'm gagging already.

wincing

as the organ meat fries up,

throwing a grey unfamiliar odor

into the air.

what was i thinking.

should i add some

onions, garlic, season it?

finally it's cooked, i think.

so i slide

the mess onto a plate

and cut off a small piece.

i grimace and put it in my

mouth,

slowly i chew.

then i think, i'm eating 

a cow's liver.

i've crossed some line in the sand

that i might not

be able to go back to.

animal organs.

what's next, hearts,

kidneys,

lungs? bladders?

i can't spit it out fast enough

into the sink,

then turn on the garbage

disposal.

i rinse my mouth out with

water, gargling

as much of that liver taste away

as i can,

then quickly floss

my teeth, after a thorough

brushing.

finally after

settling down, with my hands

no longer trembling,

i go back to the fridge.

how about scrambled eggs

tonight and bacon?

the gypsy souls

they move,

they travel, they have

no home,

no roots,

they never stay in

one place

too long,

or fall in love forever.

it's all

temporary.

what's great today

is gone

tomorrow.

you've known them

all along.

they've always

been this way. 

unsettled,

unsure of what to do

with their lives,

where to go.

who to be with,

where to land.

what's next?

that went by fast

who likes

the ticking clock,

the loud

strike

of hands

within the machinery.

it never stops,

does it?

always, tick tick tick.

relentless

as the hands continue

to swing around

to another hour,

in another day.

there is no rest for

the clock.

there's little

rest for us either,

as we flip

the calendar page.

give me five hail marys

my last formal

confession

was a few years ago

in Father Smith's office

over at St. Bartholomew's.

it was a nice

office with statues and pictures

of holy figures

scattered about, 

and on one wall

a black and white photograph

of the 1950

New York Yankees,

autographed by

all the players.

as i knelt on the plush

blue rug,

praying and confessing,

i squinted up

at Yoki Berra's signature

under his grinning face.

he wasn't a great

player, but he was

funny. durable, lovable.

a team player,

which makes up for a lot

shortcomings.

finally i finished my list

of sins,

your basic, lust, anger,

jealousy,  a dab of envy,

here and there, etc.

i looked over at Father Smith,

who was now staring at me.

that's it, he says. that's all

you got?

no other sins you want to

confess to? are you sure?

you know it's an even bigger

sin if you're lying to me?

i shrug, nah, i think that's

it. but the day is young.

he didn't laugh.

nine hail marys, two

our fathers, and i want you to

wash and wax my car.

detail it, inside and out.

what?

we stand up and he tosses

me the keys.

pull it up out front when your

done, i've got an exorcism

to take care of this afternoon.

i blurt out a name, an

ex wife.

he looks at me, stunned,

how did you know?

finding faults

okay, okay,

i admit it, i tell her.

i too, yes even me, i too

have faults.

oh, do tell she says,

smirking,

while she brushes her

hair in the mirror.

well,

for one, ummm.

i had one, hold on,

let me think on this.

short term, memory?

she says.

no, that's not a fault.

that's not one.

okay.

go on.

i'm too forgiving of

people, i finally blurt out.

oh, brother she says.

that's it? really?

and i drive to slow

sometimes

in the left lane.

okay, we're done here,

she says.

i'm going shopping.

do you need anything at

the store?

nah, i'm good.

give me that pitch

you want the pitch

fat

and hard

right down the middle,

of the plate.

you want

to see the stitching

of the seams,

the words

inked on the white

leather.

you want that pitch,

not the curve ball

down and away,

not the inside slider,

and definitely

not the knuckleball,

slow and tumbling

through the air

when you're standing

at the plate.

give me fat and hard,

you want that pitch,

and then

you wait.

finding your way through darkness

when

waking up in the middle of

the night

in the pitch black

lightless

room

you find the dresser,

then the wall,

then the doorway

to the bathroom.

your fingers

using the house as braille.

the thought

actually crosses your

mind

that's this is how

the genius

Stevie Wonder

gets it done all the time.

if only

you could sing and play

the piano.

staying out of trouble

please

remind me of your birthday,

our anniversary,

and whatever

other holidays

you hold dear.

write them down.

text me

the dates.

scribble them on a pad

by the door.

write them in the sky

if you have to.

then tell me what you

want this year,

make a list,

cut out some pictures

from a magazine.

sketch

what you want, flowers,

clothes,

maybe another diamond

ring.

just let me know, okay.

some advance

warning, please.

you can stay one more night

it's one fly.

one blue

black winged thing

buzzing about.

i open

a window,

the front door and try

to shoo

him out,

but it's cold

and the wind is blowing.

white flakes

of snow are coming

down.

he flies back to the light.

circling

circling looking for a place

to land.

who can blame

him,

the warm glow

of the bulb. 

his sun.

i tell him okay,

but

just one more night.

coming home

stuck

in the mire, the mud,

the swamp.

knee

deep in shallow

water.

it's Friday,

late

in the day.

late in the month.

late

in life

but i see light

up ahead,

and i smell

what you're cooking

on the other side.

put a plate out.

i'm on my way

home.

no need to worry, 

i'm coming home

tonight.

end of month sale

the saleswoman

at the car

dealership calls again

to tell

me that there are no cars

in production

anymore.

in any color, shape, or

size.

what do you think about

a rickshaw,

she says.

bamboo. hardly used

by a Chinese man

in Peking.

it's got maybe ten

kilometers on it, at

best. it's on the lot now.

come on in, when you can.

a suitcase by the door

when everything seems

to be okay,

the most feared words

to a man are,

'we need to talk'.

nothing good

follows that.

now? you ask, 

right now?

i was just going

to take the dog

for a walk.

yes, she says. now is

as good as time as any.

please, sit down.

she's grim 

and looking away,

then you notice

her suitcase by the door.

please, can we do this later?

not unlike

your body, the machines

in the house

tell you

when they need a rest,

need to

be replaced

or fixed.

they leak, they wheeze

and squeak,

there's a rattling

noise

in the washer,

steam

rising from the pipes,

dripping

water.

i put my feet up on

the couch

and go back to drinking

my coffee

and reading the paper.

later.

i tell them all. later.

not too old

i can get there

from here.

i'm sure of it.

i just need to watch

my step,

find my balance.

place

one foot after

the other onto the stones

in the cold creek.

i've crossed over before,

and i'm not too old,

not yet, at least.

can i get a jump

when i hear

my neighbor's old truck

cranking

its engine, unable

to start,

coughing

and sputtering,

i know that in about

two minutes

there'll be a knock at the door.

it's winter after all.

but i have

the jumper cables

ready and my

boots and gloves on.

i may buy him a new

battery

for Christmas.

cracking open the new nut

when i need to,

i study psychology,

especially

when i have some new nut

in my life

that i have to understand

or get rid of.

i dive into

the deep end of Freud

and Jung.

i immerse myself in

YouTube videos about

narcissism and all the other

personality disorders.

i read books, i go to

therapy.

i take cold showers

and lower my carb intake,

I exercise more.

none of which is necessarily

connected

but it seems to help.

what's with the big spoon

they tease you

with a bump in a pay.

it's always been that way.

a ten-cent raise.

another

dollar, matched

in your retirement.

social security sending

you notice

that you'll get a few

more hundred of your money

back each month,

that they so nicely

saved for you.

restaurants do it to with

their big spoons,

ladling on

the rice and beans, the meat,

the spoon half full.

why have a big spoon if

you're not going to use it?

come on man.

quit being so stingy

with the money, the food.

you go on ahead

if someone

tells me that they want to

buy a Winnebago

and cross the country

to visit the Grand Canyon

and ride a burro

down the narrow

rocky path,

i immediately break up with them.

it's a deal breaker

on so many levels.

same old sunrise

do we

get bored with another sunrise?

do we

no longer wake

up

as the colors

spread across the horizon

and take

note,

of the beauty and majestic

wonder of it all.

the cascade of pastel hues.

yes. we do,

but it's no one's fault,

you've just

been around for a long time

and seen

more than a few.

okay, i give up

it's just

a paper cut, a small

thin

slice of skin, but it's painful

enough

to give up

all my secrets,

where the money is,

everything.

no need to torture

me any

longer,

i'm all in, i'm on 

your side now,

put the paper

away. and get me

a Band-Aid,  please?

her last dying words

as she lay dying,

my aunt Delores,

famous for her Italian meals,

called me over to her bed.

candles

were lit,

statues of saints

had gathered on her nightstand.

the Priest was finished

with his job.

she was old.

very old, but able

to whisper

and with her finger curled

beckoned me

to her ear.

she told me what she had

to say,

then closed her eyes

and died.

i cried. the room cried.

then someone asked

me what she said.

I told them.

keep stirring

the red sauce, she whispered

to me with her last

dying breath.

use low heat

or else it will splatter

all over the walls and your

nice white shirt.

keep stirring

and when it comes to a boil,

then you add the meatballs.

the longest day on the couch

i'm more

tired doing nothing, than

i am working

all day

going to the post office,

the market,

the gas station,

then out to the stables

to feed the horse,

chasing

the flies away.

she nods, and hands

me the remote.

lying around is exhausting,

i tell her,

tapping her leg.

hey,

are you asleep already,

it's half past eight.

let's see if we can stay

up for the news,

it starts at ten today.

the blood drive

it's strange

to watch the blood curl

in burgundy

waves, wispy strands

out of the vein

and through the tube

then bagged,

to be used

by others.

someone you don't

know, both stranger

by face and name.

you may save a life

with your precious

O negative brand,

of juice,

or your own.

it's mainly the needle

going in

that you can't stand.

getting lucky

i'm afraid to look under

the bed.

it's never good.

there's always something under

there

left behind.

a shoe,

a skirt, a pair of earrings,

or a watch that you have

to now locate

the owner for.

sometimes it's a tube

of lipstick,

or a phone charger. or

a wobbling

empty bottle of red wine.

but sometimes you get lucky

and it's a pack of gum,

unopened.

the spearmint kind.

wrong side of the bed

you wake up

in a bad mood, but you don't

know why.

everything is basically good.

the heat is on.

you have food.

the bills are paid.

the coffee is hot and it

looks like a nice

day outside. plus

you're no longer in communication

with the ex-wives.

why the bad mood?

it's all downhill from here

you hear

people say, it's all down hill

from here.

the rest is gravy.

we're on the home

stretch.

these are usually people

not doing the work.

they're standing

over

the road being tarred,

or the ditch

being dug.

they're wearing a white

helmet

and drinking coffee.

whistling.

a can of boiled potatoes

i stare at the dented

can

in my cupboard.

boiled potatoes.

i remember reading about

botulism

in a health magazine

in jiffy lube

when i was waiting

for the oil to be changed

in my car.

i'm afraid to open it.

i don't even know where

this can came

from.

who would buy a can

of boiled potatoes.

and then i think of Dasha,

my friend in

St. Petersburg.

i think she sent it in an

effort to get

a visa.

.

top of the speed dial list

she went

from being at the top of my

speed

dial list

to being blocked and

deleted.

no contact.

funny how that goes

in such a short

time.

one never knows

who sticks.

leader of the pack

at the end of our

senior year

rob may,

the unofficial

leader of the pack,

wrote in my yearbook,

thanks

for helping me with my

physics

homework.

i owe you a bottle

of sweet cherry wine.

best wishes

in the years ahead.

he passed away

a few years later

in Viet Nam.

i never got my wine.

but i've

got the memory of

his C plus on the test.

suddenly the light goes on

the light went

on

in my head

when i was standing

outside

the dressing room

waiting

for her to try on another

dress.

i can't do this anymore.

it was an 80 degree day.

perfect

weather.

sunny.

i could be anywhere

doing anything,

the beach,

a ballgame,

a walk around the lake.

but here i was

holding

two dresses

waiting for her to come

out from behind

the curtain and ask,

how's this? do i look

okay?

i think blue is my color,

don't you?

castles in the clouds

he fictionalizes

his life.

puts a polish on the rotten

apple

that it is.

he turns the fruit

around

to hide the dying

spot of

brown.

the bruise when he

fell from

his imaginary castle

in the clouds.

he whistles

in the dark, spins

a good yarn

as he

dances around the whys,

the hows.

the lies.

it's not

all wine and roses

anymore,

you can

see the sorrow in his

eyes.

where you were meant to be

it's just brick and mortar,

wires

and glass, wood

and tin,

pipes

and vents. coats

of paint.

it's just a house. but

you don't leave

it without a tear in

your eye,

a scar on your heart.

it's been home for so

long. it's

held you in its arms,

bathed you,

let you read books

by the window.

kept you warm 

in winters.

you've watched 

the trees rise above the roof.

raked the fallen

leaves.

you shoveled snow

away from the doors

to let love in.

it's where you belonged.

it's a part of you,

never to be forgotten.

don't let them in

narcissistic

people have a diving rod

for finding

calm

and normal.

for seeking out

empathetic souls.

they want

what you have.

they want to get out

of their own 

world of cold,

take hold,

and steal what's yours.

your peace,

your soul.

don't let them.

the distorted blur

in the beginning

there weren't enough mirrors

in the house

for the both of us

to preen in.

young, we were, pretty

and unlined.

at least in our own eyes.

she went her own way though,

and i went mine,

aging apart.

we are both now i imagine

down to the reflection

in our toasters,

our spoons, our glasses

of dark wine,

squinting at our image

in the distorted

blur called time.

down to one candle

it's a small cake,

with one

candle.

to add the correct

number would

cause a prairie

fire now.

it's a birthday

cake.

round

and in it's 

soft blue

jacket.

chocolate

with white icing.

we're happily

down to

a single flame now.

which is more

than enough.

thank you for

no longer keeping

count.

the pepper mill

the large pepper

shaker

is kept in the vault

in the manager's office.

not far from

the arc of the covenant,

and shroud

of Turin.

only when the plate

of food arrives

are you asked

if you want some.

tell me when to stop,

the nervous

waiter says, trembling

as he turns

the enormous pepper mill,

carved out of wood

from a nearby forest.

it's too risky

of a seasoning

to be left on the table

with mere salt, or left

to the hands

of unskilled patrons.

those late night monologues

did Shakespeare

have 

a large eraser, or did he just

cross things

out

with his feathered pen,

and write below

what

he just wrote. did he

say the lines

out loud, to himself.

i think so.

it must have driven

his wife

crazy, whoever

she was.

ah the stories she 

could tell

about Will and those

late

night monologues,

roaming

the house in

character,

while she tried to sleep.

we got this

it's mostly

men

lingering in the tool aisles

at the big store.

salivating

over saws and hammers,

wrenches

and power

tools.

stroking lumber,

eyeing

the rigidity

and plumbness

of two by fours.

we need to make things.

we like to

build

and tear down,

start all over

again.

that's why love is such

a great

challenge to us.

we can start to build

it once more from scratch.

stand back,

we got this.

2023

no gym,

no club,

no orange theory,

or planet

fitness.

no pool, no track

to count the laps.

no dumbbells to lift,

no cross fit

gizmos.

no pull up bar,

no rowing machine,

or stair master,

no tread mill,

or stationary bike.

no leaden ball

to throw around.

just some push ups

maybe a bike ride

and

occasionally

a brisk walk

around the lake.

of course no sugar,

no seed oils,

no processed foods,

low carbs

with good

sleep and love.

that'll work.

a mere thought

it's just a thought,

a mere

memory of years ago,

words said,

but it's enough

for you to tilt the clock

at three a.m.

and see

how little you have

traveled since then.

polishing an image

her act

of kindness was part

of it,

part of

the image she wanted

to portray.

virtue

signaling with

each

vegetable on her plate,

her insistence

on

prayer at each meal,

or with an orange

sliced.

the beads

that hung from her

mirror.

the peace sticker on the car.

the rescue dogs,

now dust

in jeweled boxes.

the visiting of graves.

all a part

of her

failing, yet obvious

play.

between the lines

as much

as we desire simplicity.

we

need the complex,

the nuance,

the slight of hand

reference.

wit

and cleverness.

it can't all be checkers

and tic tac toe.,

pratfalls

and easy laughs.

we need

the game of chess

too.

we need to read

between

the lines.

it's why i need you.

she's light, i'm dark

she likes

the hallmark channel.

the boy

and girl

reuniting in a small

town,

both coming home

for Christmas

to inherit the family

llama farm.

it's always Christmas

on the hallmark

channel.

i like

the dark and quirky

fare on the tube,

the noir,

the mysterious

ending,

the anti-hero, the twist

and turn,

the ending

that you didn't

see coming. we try

to indulge one another,

but 

it's good to have two

tv's in the house.

tip toe into love

it's better to inch

towards

love.

tip toe into the deep

water

of affection.

the leap

is usually fatal.

love

at first sight

is fool's gold.

give it fifty years

or more,

and then,

if it's still alright,

give it a go.

a tenth row seat

don't buy

the cheap seats,

and don't buy

the front row either.

find something not too

far,

not too close.

it's a lesson

to live by for baseball

games

and comedy

clubs alike,

you don't want to be

hit by a line

drive,

or catch the comic's

eye

and be the star.

by the time we got to Woodstock

after the summer

of love,

and the summer of Woodstock,

you could

see the teachers

in our high school

change.

suddenly they were wearing

their hair long,

wearing

bright colored clothes.

the women

had flowers in their hair.

the men

had a strange a look

in their eyes,

as if they'd seen something

on the other side.

but they still had geometry

to teach,

sentences to diagram,

history to unfold, and

explain the differences

between sine and cosine.

peeling potatoes

she'd sit on

the kitchen stool, close

to the floor,

a pail beside

her, a box of potatoes

to her left

then begin

to peel.

her red hands shaving

off the brown

skins.

one after the other.

so many mouths

to feed,

and yet, she felt

blessed.

it's not my fault

if we can

find someone to blame

it all on,

we feel better.

it's not our fault

for where we are

in life, our

current state of affairs.

it was our mother

or father,

the color of our skin,

our lineage,

our hair.

our lack of money,

or education.

our gender.

nothing in life being fair.

we like being

the victim.

it gives us reason

for failure.

for underachieving,

for misery and despair.

throwing dice against the wall

Einstein

said,

God does not play

dice

with the universe.

but it

feels that way

sometimes

when you're out

in the world

and there's so much

chaos

and mystery,

so much

confusion and death.

you can almost

hear the rattle

of dice

rolling

on the floor 

the moment you

wake up.

where'd they go?

people disappear

all the time.

they just go, move away.

for one reason

or another.

a marriage gone bad,

financial troubles,

or just wanting

better weather.

they pack up their

belongings

and drive south,

or west

and make a life there.

they cut

all ties, 

leave everything

and everyone they ever

knew behind.

you wonder

what happened to them

as the years go by.

they don't

return your calls,

there's no forwarding

address,

no texts,

nothing.

just poof

and they're gone.

so long.

it never sleeps

you have to hand it

to rust.

it never

gives up.

never stops eating

away

at metal

once past the paint.

with tiny red teeth

it just eats

and eats and eats.

twenty-four seven,

it never sleeps.

take the bus

don't get in a small

plane

in any kind of weather

especially

if you're a musician

in a band

with a thimble

full of fame.

so what if you have

the money,

take the bus,

a car,

uber.

hitchhike

if you can.

the list is so long

of the ones gone down.

punch the clock

i've

never heard a bird

complain

about the wind,

or rain, 

the lack of worms

in the hard

ground, or

a turtle

coming out of the stream

murmuring

about the water

being too cold.

i've never

heard a red fox

gripe

about the weather,

or that he's

hungry and tired

of hunting the rabbit

or mole.

they just get up

and get it done.

the two ends meet

as when born

we are now

at the mercy

and kindness

of others,

our mouths open

for the spoon

of warm

food, soft enough

to swallow.

we are looking

for safety

and comfort.

if someone would

read to us,

that too would help

us sleep.

how quickly the circle

closes 

from birth until death,

where the two

ends at last

will meet.

the fruitcake murder

it was the first recorded

murder

of this Christmas.

a woman

hit her husband in the head

with a

loaf of fruitcake

a gift he thought

would please her,

because

of the cherries

and other assorted fruits,

like jewels

embedded within

the thick

inedible brick

of sugar and flour,

and other mysterious

ingredients.

he chose that for her

special Christmas gift

instead of the diamond

necklace

she showed him

online, nine weeks ago.

the day after

ahhh, the leftovers.

the cold

bowl of potatoes,

a mini Everest

with a peak.

the once silken gravy

now mud,

the turkey slices,

limping

their way home

as if lost

on the shelf, no longer

the center of

attention.

where are the bones?

the hard rolls,

unbuttered and waiting

to be resuscitated

by the tired stove.

whatever was green

is less green now,

hidden away

beneath plastic sheets,

everything seems

ready

to be swept into

the can, opened by

your foot,

only the bread pudding,

and cookies,

will get a kind reprieve. 

life of the party

at this

age, now, 

in the winter

of her life,

it's easy

to concede

that she's a marvelous

antique,

an heirloom of sorts,

fragile

with silvered hair

and skin like a parchment

scroll

from the Dead Sea.

when she speaks

we listen,

and when she doesn't

speak we wait

for some snippet

of wit,

or wisdom to fall

like petals

from her soft spoken

lips.

they say she was life

of the party.

still is.

a better gift

it's not

the biggest box

wrapped

beneath

the tree, it's not

the most expensive

thing

bought,

it's not the shiniest

or the newest

gizmo

on the block,

it's just this, this

kiss,

this gentle hug

in friendship,

from the heart.

the mystery of gravy

gravy

is my Achille's heel.

not

sex, or food,

or drink,

or work,

or money. not greed

or fame.

lust or envy

just gravy.

i'm unable to master

this culinary

mystery, so

help me.

just human

you can't pick

your children,

or parents.

siblings too.

you get what you get,

for better or worse.

you navigate

your way through life

with them.

loosening the reins,

forgoing arguments,

at last,

as wisdom sets in,

you accept the fact 

that like you,

they're just human.

pick your dish

pick your holiday

dish.

would you like

it bitter

and cold,

full of regret and remorse.

unable to move

past

the past.

or would

you rather feel cheerful,

and grateful,

with a big spoon

of sugar

in your Christmas

bowl.

one less reindeer in the sky

he won't tell us

what it is,

the grey slab of meat

on the Christmas

table.

seasoned

and surrounded

by small

potatoes and carrots,

peas.

just eat, he says, smiling,

you can't help

but notice

the antlers on his

wall,

the shotgun

propped up in the corner.

still warm,

his orange

hunting vest

forever on.

my future bride to be

i meet my future

wife

at a rib roasting class

down

at the elementary

school.

a late night

three-hour session,

non-credit,

detailing all the things

we need to know

about cuts of meat

and au jus.

we learn through

an excruciating lecture

what temperature

to turn the stove on, etc.

blah, blah, blah.

we're both

wearing chef hats

and aprons.

when we arrive,

clicking our sharp knives

together.

like her

the only culinary success

i've had lately

has been PBJ's on

Wonder bread, 

her too.

it's meant to be.

the beauty of aging

the beauty

of aging is that

you say

what you mean,

and mean what

you say.

and have no qualms about

the consequences.

you've never suffered

fools gladly,

but now

it's turned up a notch.

you have no

patience for the angry

or selfish,

for the rude and dumb.

it's refreshing

now, to block and delete.

to walk away

happily, to just click

and move on.

hitting rock bottom

they talk

about rock bottom.

that's when things get turned

around.

but not always.

some like it there.

some

feel at home

with almost nothing

owned,

with no one

to care for

and no one to care

for them.

they don't want pity,

or help.

they've surrendered

to the world

and no longer

want to join in.

the wind off the Hudson

sure

the ocean is swell.

all that blue

and salt in the air,

the gulls,

the long stretch

of white sand,

it screams

of sun

and youth.

but a day at the beach

is no longer

a day

at the beach

for me.

give me the subway

car,

the jostle

of Manhattan,

give me the bum in

the alley,

the neon,

give me the chaos

of taxis,

the steel and brick

of it all.

art and movies.

martinis.

pastrami.

give me the wind

off the Hudson, give

me a place

where imagination

is born.

being grateful

when it's cold

like

this 

grateful sets in.

you aren't

on a steam grate

bundled

in rags,

or under a bridge

in a makeshift

tent.

you have

fire,

you have wood

and shelter.

you have food 

and water.

even love

is in abundance.

we have the car you wanted

the manager,

there are not salespeople

anymore,

just managers,

at the car dealership

texts to say that she has my car

on the lot,

finally. it's red, she says,

with red interior.

i tell her no, i want

black, with parchment interior.

all wheel

drive, she says.

no.

just front wheel drive.

it has the advanced

package.

i don't want that, i tell her.

i want the technology

package.

there's only twelve thousand

miles on it.

i want new.

it also has all season

floor mats,

no extra charge for those.

when can you come in?

no prescriptions necessary

i text my pharmacist

friend

in India

to inquire about prednisone.

Nida Shaikh.

he calls me brother,

and tells me to call

him Brian.

fifty pills at ten mg,

i tell him. no knock offs,

the real stuff.

he takes his

time about texting me back.

maybe because of the ten

hour time

difference.

he's pretty reliable.

and i trust him.

no prescriptions needed.

he has a farm

outside

of Delhi,

sometimes i hear sheep

and roosters

in the background

when we talk.

what could go wrong?

oh please, go on

so many

conversations are one way.

we sort of listen

to the long story about how

the cat was

stuck in the tree,

or how

your father used to take

you over his knee,

three eggs, not two,

really,

but

you wait patiently

just the same,

tapping your foot,

waiting

for the other person

to finish

so that you can say what

you have to say.

a lot of nodding

is involved,

a half smile,

blinking. pulling

at your ear,

just looking for that slight

pause

to jump in.

then finally it's your turn,

but you've forgotten

what you had

to say.

the big parka

nine degrees.

who can survive nine degrees?

single

digits.

ten, i can handle.

twelve

or thirteen, ok,

we'll figure

it out

with the big parka,

earmuffs

and mittens,

but nine.

that's ridiculous.

the morning city

the morning

city

is different. different

from

the night.

the debris

is present. the glow

is off.

the shine

diminished

by the broken shade

eeking light.

who was fun 

is now

tired and half asleep.

the wallet

emptied

the desires

drained

by the stranger lying

next to you

on your right.

what time do you get off?

at 2 a.m.

it was coffee

and cigarettes at 

the roadside diner.

how we sat

there, taking off

our winter coats.

our hats,

rubbing the winter

out of our hands.

we were

exhausted from a night

of carousing.

we kidded the waitress,

all of nineteen,

and asked

what's good here.

and she'd reply

nothing.

not even me,

to which we'd say, no doubt,

then order

steak and eggs

and hashbrowns,

toast, and jam. 

keep the coffee coming

we'd tell her,

then ask

what time she got off.

who they really are

with anger

you see the true soul.

the dark

side

of someone.

their thin

skin

and insecurity shows.

it's been there all along,

but it took

a few cross

words

to bring it out,

to bring it home.

when the curtain falls

the curtain

falls,

the stage is cleared.

the actors

have taken

their final bows and wiped

the grease paint

from their faces.

it's back to the real

world now,

where there is no

script, no lines

to read,

no director

telling you how hard

to laugh,

how long to cry,

or when to bleed.

the hall is emptied

as the lights go up,

and everyone,

exits onto the dark

cold street.

man in the cellar

who's in the cellar?

who's banging

their cane

against the ceiling.

is it too warm, too cold.

is he hungry again.

whose turn

to sponge bath him.

someone go down and

check on him.

it's hell getting

old and living down there.

but he pays

the rent on time.

so there.

keep all receipts

i keep all my receipts

my mother would say,

showing

me her cigar box

full of them from

years gone by.

you never know,

what fits today might

not fit tomorrow,

maybe you've lost

your taste for green,

or a style that's passed

by. be prepared, honey,

mark the date on them.

and hope you can return

things, before the time

expires.

non-stick

carefully

i take the scissors

and approximate

the amount of wrapping paper

i'll need for

this frying pan.

non-stick,

mind you.

Cuisinart.

the handle part is the

hardest.

a lot of tape

comes in handy

there.

the frozen snow

it's hard to tell

if she's bitter, or happy.

the Botox

for Christmas has set in.

one expression

fits all moods,

all circumstances that

she finds herself in.

she's like

the new fallen snow

out the window.

but a little colder.

a girl and her luggage

it's just for two

nights,

i say to myself as i watch

her

pull luggage out

of the car.

her bags are a happy

green.

i put my shoes on

to go out

and fetch the larger

ones.

she takes the one

on wheels,

i grab the ones with straps

pulling them

onto my shoulder,

down my back.

i've learned

not to ask.

the Christmas card

it's a very shiny family.

you can see

that in the Christmas portrait

made

into a card

sent out

to friends and family alike.

each boy, each girl,

an ornament

catching the light.

hung onto the tree well

watered,

by man

and wife.

even the dog has a glitter

about him,

red bowed

and still, waiting for

someone

to take him out

to do his business

in the cold night.

now what?

you remember

quite well

the first girl you kissed.

how it

reddened

both your faces

as you negotiated

tongue and teeth.

lips pressed too hard,

too soft.

what to do with your hands?

where

do you place

your feet?

but by summers end

you had

it down.

now what?

poetry air balls

from here,

this chair, i can ball up a piece

of paper,

crumbled

because i didn't like

what i wrote,

and toss it to the wastebasket.

sometimes

i hit dead center,

while other times, like

most of the time,

it rims out

onto to floor.

i need to move

closer, or stop printing

each poem

out.

destination divorce

we planned

a destination divorce.

she went

to France

with her new boyfriend,

Carlos,

while

i went to New York

to get a hot

pastrami sandwich.

with Betty.

from each location

our lawyers

struck the deal.

we split the money

down the middle,

she got the cat, Fluffy

and the Williams

Sonoma kitchen gear,

while

i got the dog,

Rex, 

and the weight machine

in the basement.

are we scared?

are we scared?

does

the weather make us worry,

put us

ill at ease.

does the frantic

voice

of the weathergirl,

make

us go to our knees

and pray.

what about our milk

and bread.

our coffee?

how will we survive

this rain,

this ice.

wind? when was

the last time we had wind?

is this how it all ends?

nothing like

this has ever happened

before,

it's the first

snow ever.

stay tuned, we'll let

you know

who lives and who dies

after this brief commercial

break.

grab your coat, it's cold out

i've lost

my taste for debate,

for arguing

a point

about the world

at large.

i care and yet i don't care.

it doesn't matter anymore

what you

think,

what i think.

let's just leave it at that

and move on.

grab your coat,

it's cold out,

let's walk

in silence,

no need to bring

our phones.

don't wait up, i'm going out

she was stuck

with the aging husband,

separated by

drywall, and a floor,

now

in the basement.

old and sick,

an invalid too soon.

his finger

on the bell.

no insurance.

obese and penniless.

what was there to do.

but feed him,

pay his bills,

do his laundry.

yell down the stairs and say,

don't wait up,

i'm going out.

the bricklayer's helper

the bricklayer

with a cigarette clenched

between his teeth

and last nights

drink on his breath,

said

show me your hands.

i held them out,

eighteen

and wanting a job.

he felt

the smoothness of them,

turned them over

and laughed.

you won't last a day,

he said.

but come on.

pick up my bag

and follow me.

blood in the socks

it's a small

blister on the back of your heel.

blood

and skin.

new shoes

will do that

to you.

they have to be worn,

broken in.

put some miles on them

the leather needs

to bend.

but tomorrow

it's back to the old

loafers, soft and 

comfy, time to slip

them on

once again.

he's had enough

he's got winter

in his hair,

in his bones, his blue

eyes

are ice

his teeth, brittle,

his voice

soft

and low.

he's seen it all,

done it all.

but he doesn't talk

about it much.

he's not worried about

tomorrow,

or the next day.

he's had

enough.

just passing through

don't get angry

don't get blue,

no need to worry,

no need to cry,

put it all behind you,

i'm just passing through.

you've known it all along,

i'm just passing through.

finding love on the cross-town bus

the young woman

beside me on the bus,

with her 

shopping bag from Garfinkle's,

between her feet

falls asleep.

her head eases down upon

my shoulder.

her hair is lovely

and soft

against my neck.

i'm immediately

in love with her.

i imagine what our life

will be

like.

how many kids?

will we have a dog.

will we live in the suburbs

or in the city,

perhaps near a park

where we can

ice skate in the winter.

i try not to move

so that i don't awaken

her.

it's nice to have dreams

that aren't disturbed.

going back to school

i go back to university

soon,

not to

take classes or to learn

anything new,

but to teach.

i've given them my

resume,

which happens to be this

blog,

and marital history.

and extensive knowledge

i've acquired on

youtube and

webmd.

they immediately

accepted me

as a tenured

professor.

i start next week.

i have my choice of classes.

psychology.

nutrition.

creative writing.

and grilling meat.

made in China

can we trust

where these things come

from.

the Virginia

peanuts,

the Boston cream pie,

the north Atlantic

salmon?

how do we really know

who made

our Maple Syrup,

can we be sure it was Canada,

or Vermont.

who's really making

this sweet amber goo?

every gizmo i turn

over says

made in 
China.

i thought we were mad

at China.

what's the deal here?

can anything be true?

boney fingers

they find

the bone of a finger in a cave

and this

changes everything.

it's a whole new

line

of prehistoric

men and women,

move over paleolithic man.

slide down

mister neanderthal.

these were thinkers,

look at the way

the finger curves.

they put it to

their chin.

artists, writers, philosophers.

look how

large their foreheads

were.

they sat straight up

and pondered,

they weren't just out there

killing

the wild animal

that galloped in herds.

the tiresome trio

when

did musk become king

of the world.

bill gates.

trump.

when will they go away

and leave

us alone?

a tiresome

trio

of over achievers

who keep

beating their

own ego

laden drum.

please, get off the stage.

stop

with the madness.

it's no longer fun.

oh and Putin too.

that makes four.

marketing 101

no mystery

that

sex sells. 

the pretty girl holding

a can

of beer,

a pretzel,

soap suds.

the woman at

the wheel,

the come hither

look on her face,

the leg

bared.

buy me,

buy this.

get her.

critics be damned

the energy

wanes, the critics point

to old

paintings,

old novels,

ancient poems,

they say he's not the same.

his best

was in his early

days.

when he was young

and ambitious.

when he

was the hunter,

the matador in the ring.

sad how

the brilliant fade,

why don't they just

stop

and go away.

fuck the critics, the artist,

the writer,

will say.

a six month lease

the empty

small apartment,

one bedroom,

one bath is

waiting to be rented.

a starting point

for the young, or

a stopping point

for the old.

the walls

with a fresh coat

of white paint.

the stove

cleaned,

the bathrooms too.

a coat of wax

on the wood floors.

a set of new keys.

the bus stop out

front will sell it.

it's waiting,

waiting

for someone in between.

someone waiting for

the pages

of their own life

to be turned,

waiting for what's

next before

once more they leave.

a lot of crumbs

i was watching

the neighbor

vacuum out his car

the other day

and it occurred to me

that maybe i should

do that.

i can't imagine

how many crumbs

from scones

and sandwiches

are all over the place.

or maybe i should

get a small dog again.

short but with a long

nose, flexible little

fellow,

to get between

the seats.

ne're-do-wells

the old adage

that crime

doesn't pay, doesn't seem

to be holding

up anymore,

has there ever more

of a crime

wave

than now.

each phone call is

some sort

of thief

or ne'er-do-well

wanting

you to get your

wallet out.

no vacancy

with the guest

bed

gone, you are safe once

more

from overnight

visitors,

relatives arriving

to tour

the city.

there's a small

couch

in there now.

a bureau,

a desk,

a window with a

pleasant

view. some books

parked

along the shelves

of a small

bookcase.

there's no one

there in the early

morning hours,

for you to politely

knock on the door,

and ask what

they want for breakfast.

this changes everything

i haven't had a conversation

with my

mailman in over ten years.

we pass each other

with hardly wave

or nod,

and then

yesterday,

he stops me as i get out

of my truck,

hands me my letters

and asks

what do i know about

painting cabinets.

this changes everything.

the frozen pond

it looks safe.

the thick ice picking up

the blue

in the sky.

you throw a rock

across

the pond and watch

it skate

to the other side,

you press a stick into

the ice

until it breaks.

it looks safe.

should we give it

a try?

but in your ears

you hear your mother's

voice,

saying no.

why did i come here?

there are days

when you can't find

what you're

looking for. even when

the grocery clerk asks

if you did.

you search

without a list,

up and down the aisles,

then the moment occurs

when you don't

even remember

what you came into

the store for.

it comes back to you

later,

when it's time for dinner,

and you sit down.

the shrinking thesaurus

as a kid,

and even as a teenager

i rarely

used salty

language,

and if i did as i

grew older,

they were muttered

underneath

my breath.

but now i can't stop

swearing.

despite all

the words i've learned,

all the reading

i've absorbed,

certain words just

seem to fit

best when

angry, or a story

needs a good telling.

oops!

who hasn't

left

the stove on

once or twice in life,

left the door

unlocked

all night, who hasn't

turned

off the iron

as it sits hot on

the board.

who hasn't

left their keys

in the door, or

let the water in

the tub overflow

until it came 

through the floor.

who hasn't

called

someone by the wrong

name,

when expressing

affection,

telling them they're

adored?

act one

present

the big bed.

the soft bed.

the room with a view.

roll out an ocean.

a full moon.

let's set stage

for romance.

que the music,

light the candles

and pour

the wine,

enter you.

quiet on the set,

now action.

the smaller version of God

we make

our god small,

we

limit him or her,

or whatever

the case may be

as being like us.

maybe old,

maybe with a white beard,

maybe

a judge of sorts,

angry at times,

but loving too.

caring at times,

but aloof

and distant.

we think of him as

some wise grandfather

figure,

with a gavel and sword.

a scale

to balance out

the good and evil

that we do.

but i suspect He's nothing

like that.

nothing like us,

but more,

impossibly fair,

infinitely true.

careless

despite our

best efforts to kill

ourselves, the body

does

it's best to keep

us alive, to

keep us healthy.

but we

feed it junk.

sugar,

processed foods.

we smoke

and drink,

feed ourselves drugs.

we leap off cliffs,

we dive

deep

into the pool of

fools.

we want to touch

the stars,

climb

Everest.

we're not satisfied

in being

content and happy on

the ground.

we're so careless

with what we

put into our minds,

into 

our mouths.

better night than day

some days,

july days in particular

the sun

feels closer,

a hot

bath of light.

too bland

and too much.

while other days,

and nights,

it's the moon

that hangs

tight over your

shoulder.

a cold smile on

it's rocky

face. more mystery

is my take, the

nights are much more

interesting

than days.

living underwater

i can swim

better

underwater, than i can

on the surface.

the same

holds true

for living.

bending like a fish

through

the troubled

depths

of life, hidden

in the shadows,

the murky

light.

washed ashore

the debris

of you, of me, floats

to the surface

washed

ashore

by time and waves.

by

storm and disrepair,

the sinking of it all,

driftwood.

algae.

old green bottles

holding messages

from those

still lost

at sea.

the timber of our

hulls,

bent and detached,

little is left,

most

is gone.

the same Christmas card again

as usual,

the best Christmas

cards

come from the Exxon station

up the street

where i get my oil

changed,

and from my dentist

who cleans

my teeth,

not to mention

my lawyer

and tax preparer.

they're beautiful cards,

oversized

with embossed lettering,

brilliantly colored

pictures of mangers

and other religious

scenes.

pieces of art that

should be framed.

they never send the same

card, year

after year, like i do.

sending one out from

the box of one hundred,

which seems to 

never end.

raised by wolves

raised by

wolves we were,

and television,

and what we learned

on the street.

the parents were busy

with their

own drama filled lives.

work and babies,

keeping

the house afloat,

making sure there

was something,

anything

to eat.

no words of wisdom,

no pondering

of our futures,

no planning a path

for us,

schools or talents,

or otherwise.

just grow up

and stay out of trouble.

get a job.

everything will be fine.

just a few hours late

i got lost

going to Fell's Point

in Baltimore

one year.

i told her seven o'clock.

she was making dinner,

i was bringing

the wine.

i took the wrong exit

and started

back across the bridge

again past

the glowing

Domino Sugar sign.

finally

i arrived

and she put out a plate

for me.

the strip of salmon

more dried

than any fish i'd ever

seen.

delicious i said, and

poured the wine.

it was almost nine.

one thing well

to do one

thing well is a blessing

in life.

whether

hammering

a nail.

or grinding metal

at the factory.

the baker

up all night

icing

his wares.

one thing well.

that's all you need 

to make

a lifetime

rich

and fulfilled.

a good starting point

penniless,

or weak, sick and 

lost.

beaten down.

these are good

starting points,

for when

blessings arrive

you'll understand

and be grateful,

having seen

both sides.

beware of the silver

spoon in a child's

mouth.

they never know

struggle, or less,

everything given

to them

too soon.

the humming bird

the nervous

yellow

bird,

never still,

a bright splash

of color

floating,

and darting

from

flower

to flower.

the life of springs

party,

too pretty for

it's own

good.

not unlike you.

sleep on it

sleep on it.

give it a night,

maybe two.

do nothing, but wait.

the answer

will come to you.

make no rash decisions.

just sleep on it.

you'll see.

when tomorrow

comes,

you'll know what

to do.

a love poem

why don't you write

a poem

about me,

she said.

oh, you don't want

that,

i told her.

let's make love

instead.

before life began

in the night

shade

of my room, the blue

lights

of my Pioneer

receiver,

setting some sort

of mood,

i'd lie in bed and listen

to the stack

of lp's

i mounted on the turntable.

Elton,

and McCartney,

Croce,

Dylan.

i knew each crackle

in the vinyl.

each skip, each word

forever

etched in memory.

it was before so much,

almost

before life began.

asleep before me

she talked

about ending things,

of moving on,

not from us, but from

the world

at large.

life was too hard.

she said it sincerely

and i believed her,

but instead,

she brushed her teeth,

and set out

her clothes

for work the next day.

then fell asleep

before i did.

that time of the year again

as the holiday

grows nearer in celebration

of the birth

of Christ.

and the stores

get crowded,

the roads jammed

with traffic

in all directions,

a man reaches

out the car window,

as he beeps his horn,

and waves

one finger in my

direction,

his face red with anger,

and scorn.

it's that blessed time

of year again.

the vegan restaurant

for her birthday

she

wanted everyone to go to the vegan

restaurant

in Vienna, because

she was special

and everyone wanted

so hard to please

her,

an impossible task

to begin with.

but we did it, 

or else faced

the consequences

of silence

and brooding.

it was a well known gathering

spot

for anorexics

and tree huggers.

there was

no meat.

just pretend meat.

fake meat

made out of some bizarre

soy

concoction.

a veritable plate, or bowl

of rancid

vegetables,

straw and twigs,

indigestible

kale

and spinach, leeks.

after a visit or two there,

and being sick

for days,

i took things into my

own hands

and stopped

for burgers along the way,

grilled

beef.

cow meat.

short ribs and steaks.

dr. feelgood

i see my

doctor at the bar

chatting it up and having

a good time

with the local pharmaceutical

salesman.

laughing,

hitting each other on

the back,

clinking glasses together.

they should get a room.

i'm buying,

the salesman says,

a round for everyone.

go ahead

get the big steak.

we had a good week,

a good year.

don't make me pull over

you can't take kids

to mars,

they'd be in the back seat

of the space

capsule,

moaning, are we there yet?

i'm bored,

i have to pee,

i'm hungry.

can't we stop somewhere?

i can't see

out my

window, my stupid sister

keeps

bugging me

with her boney elbows

and knees.

it smells in here,

someone just cut the cheese.

can i open the window?

a new birth

the seed

pushes itself upwards,

forward

to the sun,

into the rain.

the world pushes onward.

the rush

of cars,

the rush of trains.

nothing stops,

everything

keeps growing

and dying.

a new birth

for each new grave.

the orange shag rug

at the start

of the marriage,

the first house,

had

orange shag carpet,

wall to wall,

ala 1980,

and

blue vinyl siding.

there was

a squared mud yard

out back

where

the new dog

would go to do his

business and bark.

the front porch

had concrete

steps

with a loose

handrail that her mother

insisted we'd

be sued if we didn't

get it fixed.

the front

door was white, though,

with a pineapple

knocker, faux gold.

which gave us

hope.

eventually we changed

the carpet,

before it ended in

divorce.

it was

a low pile oatmeal color,

which said

everything.