what's the deal with your God?

in an accusatory manner

she used

to condemn

my faith by saying things like

well how

do you like them apples.

look what your God

has done now.

she'd stick the daily news under

my nose

and show me a flood or

fire,

whole towns wiped

out by

some plague,

or someone lying in the street

full of bullet wounds.

bombs blowing up,

cats stuck up in trees.

what's wrong with your

God, she'd say.

how can a loving and kind,

compassionate God

let things like this

go on?

yup, i'd say it's a mystery

why horrible things

happen, like me and you

being together.

it beats me.

sorry, but i didn't catch your name

i find

it hard to remember names.

they slip

from my mind

as quickly as they enter.

they evaporate

and fade

with the sound of the voices

attached.

but i do remember

what was said, or left

unsaid,

i remember

the lettuce stuck

between teeth,

the sadness or joy

in someone's eyes,

the scar

upon a chin or cheek.

i remember the grey roots

in their hair,

slowly

creeping into

the blonde or brunette.

i remember not the name,

but recall

almost all the rest.

trees in storm

of course,

that is the answer, isn't it?

to bend,

to continually bend

in whatever

storm

or wind

that comes upon us.

despite each darkness,

each

catastrophe, bend,

keep bending,

don't break.

do you know a good plumber?

people often ask me,

because i'm in a 

blue collar trade,

do you know a good plumber,

a good electrician,

a good

housekeeper,

or landscaper.

someone that does floors.

i write down

a few names, a few

numbers.

they look over my shoulder

at my rolodex,

and say, hey,

give me those too,

your therapist and your

divorce lawyer.

old fashion crime

another car is

stolen from in front of someone's

house.

a store robbed

at gun point.

identity theft,

and credit card fraud.

a door pried open,

the jewelry

gone.

packages

are swiped off the porch.

i miss the good old

days,

when pickpockets

were a problem.

they slip away

in time we lose touch

with others,

even with siblings,

and cousins.

lovers have become

strangers.

distance

and years have pushed

us away.

a gradual

fade.

old friends once a daily

part of your life,

have slipped

into some vague fog,

almost

dream like.

paper plates

my mother

would buy paper plates by

the hundreds.

it was easier that way

with seven

mouths to feed and

with no

dishwasher in sight, only

her raw pink hands,

but you had

to gauge

the amount of food you

placed upon

the fragile plates.

mashed potatoes were

a problem

as was gravy.

pork chops had to be

served

one at a time.

it was always a challenge

to unbend

the forks

that had been used earlier

to pry

open a paint can,

or unstick a stuck

drawer, but we managed.

our cooking styles

in the kitchen

we each have our styles.

i like

to be quick about things,

chop and dice,

sauté,

while you

like to lolly gag about.

stirring slowly

while reading

a recipe.

i'm fast with the stove,

the knob turned

full,

while you're

a crock pot sort of gal.

low heat,

a simmer, then taste,

forever

taking your time.

it occurs to me, as i watch

you cook, that

nothing changes in

the bedroom

either.

where'd you hear that?

when i hear

you using expressions that i've

never

heard you use

before,

i question where you've been

and with who.

having

never read a book, or

watched

a movie that didn't involve

a comic book

character,

i wonder what's up

with you.

saying clever and cryptic

things is

obviously suspicious,

and something new.

the black bear and other stories

near exhaustion

from

your trip, your tales of travel,

from Yellowstone

to the Pyrenees,

i fix us

another drink

then sink into the big chair

across from

you, and the photo

album.

heavy in your lap.

i've paused you in mid story

about the black

bear,

but please go on,

and nudge me if you suddenly

hear a trace

of snoring.

just say no

you stop doing things

you don't want

to do.

it's taken a while

to get there, but finally

you say no

to attending

the wedding, or

to meeting the parents,

the siblings,

you refuse to walk someone's

dog,

or watch their cat,

you just say no.

the party invitation,

jumping

into the pool when asked.

no thank you,

you say,

no exuses,

no lies, no made up

stories about why you

can't be there.

you just say no,

i'm sorry. the walk away.

i'm here all night

things weren't working out,

i needed air,

a new

place to lie down in.

so i

booked a few nights

at the local inn.

the edge of town.

near

the tracks,

near the abandoned

warehouse.

three nights

i told

the lady at the desk.

double or queen

she said,

while eating a tuna

sandwich.

just me, i replied.

just me.

a twin bed would be

fine as well.

we have free wifi

and color tv, she said

with a smile

handing me the key.

do you need help with

your luggage?

no, i said, showing her

my toothbrush,

i'm good.

well, she said as she

wiped mayonnaise

off her chin,

if you need to talk about

anything,

i'm here all night.

i've heard these stories

before.

it's a woman, right?

the Catholic girl

how will

i know when you're satisfied,

i ask her,

as she kisses

me on

the cheek and bites

my lip.

drawing blood.

how will i know

when you've had,

enough,

that it's over?

when i untie you, 

she says,

with a dark smile,

but first

the whip.

i'll not move an inch

before the rain,

i go outside to sit at the black

table

and open

a book,

The Red Comet,

that i may

never finish,

but the trees have my interest

now,

the dance

of leaves, the ominous

clouds,

it feels dangerous

and sexual.

this sudden swirl of wind.

the roar

of thunder imitating

war.

the power in and out

with itself,

the flashes of light

like swords.

i'll wait it out, i'll not move

an inch

until it

pours.

a tin full of ashes

it comes

down to money, doesn't

it?

can we afford it.

another child,

a new car.

that dress in the window?

coupons are cut,

pennies

saved.

is there enough in the bank

for a vacation,

two star,

or three. enough

cash in the bank

for our

teeth, or

to have a maid

just once a week.

we count and count

and count,

even in the end,

someone is taking

measure

of us.

will it be wood or steel,

brass,

perhaps gold inlaid?

or cheaper still,

perhaps

we'll cremate.

McLean asylum

what is,

what was this place,

the asylum

on the hill, taking in

so many

that we know.

through

song, or book, or

show.

they seemed so

bright,

so smart.

poetic.

what demon has got

to them

where they need

electro

shock treatments,

therapy

around the clock,

lobotomies,

and more?

three squares  day

and a tennis

court,

a place for the crazy

rich, no doubt,

not the poor.

the penniless are still on 

under bridges,

having conversations

with ghosts,

inventing lives

while

begging at the corner.

waving from a boat

people

love to wave from

ships,

from small

boats

on the sea or lake.

they extend their arms

in the breeze,

beneath

the sun,

and smile.

they are happy to be

out on the water.

away

from it all.

a joy expressed

in a carefree

wave to strangers,

with feet on the ground,

still on

the shore.

the Catholic Chat Room

you need to pray

more,

Father Smith tells me

in the Catholic

chat room.

all of you need to pray

more.

but,

i tell him. i'm getting

mixed signals

from God.

rarely do i ever get exactly

what i'm asking

for.

Father Smith

types in, what are you a child,

is God Santa Claus

for crying out loud?

is He coming down

the chimney

with some hot blonde

and a bag

of money?

do you think there's

going to be

a Mercedes Benz in

front of your house

because you

prayed for one?

no.

you need to make your

prayers

a little easier to fulfill.

He's under a lot of pressure

you know

with global warming,

and wars,

inflation, etc.

how about you lose some

weight,

and get a job?

she's a very busy girl

i find a pair

of shoes under my bed.

they aren't mine.

they are black and recently

polished.

size 11.

i get on my knees

and look

under the bed,

there's a man under there,

trying to hide

in the shadows.

i hear a rattle in the closet,

so i open

up the doors,

another man.

the toilet flushes, i

knock.

a man says, hey,

i'm busy in here.

my wife, geeze, i just

can't trust her

anymore.

we're growing meat now

i ask

Martha, who

is still wearing her

lab coat and hazmat

helmet, what this is on my

plate.

what kind of meat

is this?

pass me the gravy,

i ask her,

reaching over for

another slab

of something

that seems to be glowing

a little

with a purplish hue.

i grew it she says

in the lab

at work.

it's a combination

of elk

and chicken, some

trout dna too,

we grafted those cells

together

and voila.

bon appetite.

it'll stop moving in

a minute.

time to let go

i am unable

to let go of things.

i realize this

as i open

the ice box

and see

a multitude

of mysteriously wrapped

hunks of

what looks like

ice covered meat,

undated,

fish.

some god forsaken 

broccoli

casserole

left there by a disgruntled

vegan.

anorexic wife.

my therapist tells me

i need to let go

of things,

so i pull the trash can

closer,

and start there.

you have my number

i stare

at the phone waiting

for the New Yorker Magazine

to call,

the Atlantic Monthly,

Poetry,

The Hudson Review,

but no.

there's dead silence.

not a peep, not

a whistle, not a single

wag of the finger

saying come here

dear boy, we want 

them all.

the marshmallow life

the young

man

laughs at you. asks you

why

do you still work,

why aren't you

sitting on your can

drinking

a beer at some beach

resort.

a box

of fried chicken between

your legs

and reading

a book?

he's never worked

a real

day in his life.

his hands are as soft

as the marshmallows

he eats

with his wife, both

of them

on the dole.

clearing the cache

you

have little memory left,

no room,

no storage.

you're chock full of nonsense

that the world

fills you with.

useless information

about movie

stars

and celebrities,

conspiracy theories,

political diatribe.

how can you clean

the cache,

empty the files of your

cerebellum?

erase the temporary

images.

you shake and shake

your head,

no luck.

it's all stuck in there until

dementia

comes along

to give you a clean slate.

don't wait for this

the open

coffin

is hard to bear for loved

ones.

and those

familiar

with his laugh,

his words.

he looks different they

say

in hushed tones,

bending

to touch the wood,

to stare once

more into

his face.

it reminds us

to say love early and often,

don't wait

for this.

after a hard rain

it does

seem simple, 

the white chickens

in the yard.

the cow,

the fence

and blue sky.

what else do we need.

the well,

the land green and

full

of spring seeds

now coming

about.

your hand in mind

as the sun

rises

and blesses us

after a hard rain,

with its shine.

the golden field

to each his own

path

to tomorrow. the limited

land

in front of us.

once a golden field

of sunlight,

a place

called forever,

but still 

there is no ending in sight,

though you can

smell it,

feel it, almost touch it

with your outstretched

hand.

to each

his own way,

in his own stride

and gait,

all arriving eventually

to where

we're they're meant to be,

no one

is ever truly late.

the five star bagel

let's stop

here for a bagel and a cup

of coffee,

she says,

looking at her phone.

yelp gives it three and a half

stars,

the jalapeno

cream cheese is rated the best,

or should we keep

walking and find

a five star deli?

there's one in Soho.

we can catch the cross town

bus,

or the subway,

and be there

in no time at all.

Queens too, has a five

star bagel.

they recommend

the onion.

after the first lie

should

i open that sealed box

in the attic.

should i look under the bed,

or creak

open the medicine

cabinet

while she's in the shower.

should i look

in her purse,

her phone.

should i drive myself

crazy with another

untrustworthy

woman?

or just let it go

with blinders on.

settling for dumb bliss,

letting her secrets remain

unknown?

let's save it for the morning

can we

finish this argument in the morning

i plead

to the angered

wife.

sleep on it?

but she says no,

we're going

to finish this tonight.

i sigh

and take my shoes off,

i loosen my tie.

i miss arguing with the first

wife.

she got it

right.

she was able to leave

things be,

slam

a door, and go to the other

room

for the night.

but not this one.

she wants to dig her heels

in,

load her gun,

and fight fight fight.

so much goes unfinished

very little is decided.

sentences go unfinished,

lines of dialogue

are left hanging

like

unpicked fruit

on a vine.

balloons of thought

are in the air,

no longer

tethered

by the one who

thought them.

very little is finished,

not the poem

the story,

the lie.

things drift off

as they often do,

life rushes forward

with no period pressed 

at the end of each line.

the summer hot dog

you learned

the art

of the summer hot dog

at church

picnics.

the bun,

the relish and mustard

applied

with caution.

you stood in line

beneath

the great oak tree

where

a man in a white

shirt

and suspenders would

tousle your hair.

you were hungry.

sermons did that to you,

kneeling,

then rising,

then kneeling again

in the airless room.

although still absent

of shame

and guilt at that age,

you had a feeling that those

days would come

soon enough,

but here, outside

the church

standing in the dry grass,

you were

hungry, not so much

for worldly

things, or the words

of God.

no. it was real hunger.

you needed food,

and you were next in line,

at last.

dead before the knife

you don't truly

appreciate

the beauty of the rainbow

trout,

or any other

fish

that silently swims

below the world

of air

and light.

we know it, but don't really

understand

the colors, the fins, the eyes.

the magic

of it's life.

they become stranger

now,

and more beautiful than

you realized,

lying still in our waterless

world.

dead before the knife.

the door slightly ajar

we

avoid too much light,

letting

others in

with caution, not hiding,

but being

careful

with our words,

our

current state of mind.

selfish

with out time.

we like

our room less cluttered,

free

from drama,

we eye the world

with suspicion,

with a wariness learned

the hard way.

we tilt

the door just slightly

ajar,

and ask what, or why?

the hundred mile bike ride

she wants

to go on a bike ride.

let's do a hundred miles, she says.

she's wearing

her bike costume,

pink and black,

her biking shoes

strapped

into the pedals.

there's a number on her

back from when

she was in the tour de

Chantilly, Virginia.

she's wearing

high gloss sunglasses,

with a space age helmet.

there's a gps on her handle

bars, with a mirror

and heart monitor

attached.

i look at her, and say okay,

then put my little

dog, Fifi, and a water bottle

into my basket.

adjust my flips flops

and say, okay,

let's go. and oh 

by the way,

there's not a lot of hills

are there?

temporary benevolence

i spend

the day forgiving people.

i don't know

what has gotten into me.

i'm in a very

benevolent mood.

i'm suddenly kind

and empathetic

towards

people that have done

me wrong.

i decide to end all

the grudges

i've been holding inside.

it's like i drank some holy juice

and seen the light.

i make a list then call

them one

by one.

telling them, hey,

remember when you lied

to me,

cheated, betrayed,

stole money,

slandered me,

and broke into my house

and took my dog,

remember that time you were

late

and never called, or the time

you borrowed money

and never paid me back?

well,

i forgive you.

it's a long long day,

but finally i reach the last

name

and start to dial her number,

but stop.

nope.

can't go there.

there's no forgiving that.

she's up to something

my father's new girlfriend,

Ellen,

who

he met at

Krispy Kreme's one

morning

as he picked up a dozen

glazed and

a bear claw,

and a large

coffee,

is suspiciously getting

too close

to him.

she answers his phone.

opens

his mail,

comes in without knocking.

he's ninety-five

and she's

eighty-seven.

always bringing over

a new bottle

of baby oil.

even now it's hard to know

what trouble

he might be in,

as she reads off the numbers

of his lottery

tickets

with a magnifying

glass, then saying nope,

we still didn't win.

his day job

i ask

the boy, the skinny child

man

sunburned,

with golden hair,

on the corner

who stands at the light

and marches

back and forth

at a nice clip with his sign

and plastic

bucket,

how long can he keep

doing this.

how many more years.

he says,

nothing as he walks by,

to grab a dollar from

the car

behind me,

then returns 

when the light turns green.

he tells me

in a loud voice,

it's the governments

fault.

to which i neither

agree

or disagree.

a little strange is okay

i like strange

people,

quirky souls, collectors

of odd things.

out of the box

kind of thinkers.

they're fun

and different than the regular

joes,

they surprise you with

what they

say and do.

i like them,

they're

interesting to be

around,

but not all the time.

the camping trip

i see the neighbor

loading

up his oversized

v8 truck,

raised high

on giant wheels.

his weekend son is with him,

lanky

and quiet,

sixteen years old,

bewildered

and distracted by his phone.

i see fishing rods

go in,

a cooler,

a skim board, folding

chairs and blankets.

a tent.

odd luggage, of various

sizes and colors.

it's for a week

somewhere.

i imagine. 

along some stretch

of the Carolina coast.

i remember trips like that,

trips that i'll

never take again.

i want to yell out the window,

don't forget

the bug spray,

but i don't.

a certain way of doing things

you find

a routine at a certain age

and stick to it.

waking up

at the same hour,

the brushing of teeth,

the cold

shower.

clothes on, then down the stairs

to boil

a pot for coffee.

there's the porch light

that's turned

off.

the paper on the stoop,

retrieved.

there's the letting of the

dog into the yard.

there's the waving

to the woman

out back,

smiling, leering

into my house, so nosy.

the fierce wind

there are days

and then there are days.

some feel

as if they will never end,

while

others

careen by so quickly.

the hours

speeding past,

as if caught in a fierce

wind.

i remember her elbows

i distinctly

remember her elbows.

i recall

the sharpness of them

at the bend

of her stick like arms.

she used to rub lotion on them,

some sort of plant

based suave.

aloe, perhaps.

they were soft elbows.

the skin,

yet strange

and boney, knife like

things. weapons

of some sort.

at night i worried about

my teeth

and eyes. my nose.

sleeping far far away

on the other side.

forever in the game

he needed money

to get out of jail.

a few thousand should do the trick

this time,

for back payments

on child support.

he said he

had a Rolex watch in his

coat pocket

that i could sell.

all i had to do

was break into his locked 

one room rental.

without setting

off the alarm,

then find a pawn shop.

he was exhausting.

the trouble he stayed in.

the courts,

the fines, the law suits.

the car repossessions,

the back taxes,

and child support.

always in the game, but

never winning.

Sunday morning at church

it

was a small 
Baptist church, celery green

and white

walls

within which provided a

calm

of sorts,

i took a peak

inside

at times to use the loo,

or find

a water fountain.

the pews shined of old

wood,

the burning of candles

hung in the air.

there would

be singing,

as pretty girls in dresses

sat, in virginal rows,

like so many

flowers yet picked.

i stopped

bouncing the ball

to watch them enter,

me in the lot

beside the church,

worshiping a different God,

with shirt off at the

basketball

court.

narcissistic tsunami

it's a me

me me kind of world now.

it always

was to some degree

but

it's gone too far.

everyone wants their

fifteen minutes

of fame,

turned into a lifetime

of being a star.

they can't sing, or dance

or write.

no schooling,

no books read, but still

there they are

in front of us 

all day all night.

screaming

to be seen,

wanting desperately to be

loved on

center stage,

forever in the spotlight.

her glasses

after blowing on them,

she rubs

her designer glasses 

against her blouse.

a corner

of her white

blouse, 

one lens then the other.

then puts

them back on.

pushing them onto her nose.

she's ready to tell me

something

of great importance,

something

that i'm sure i already

know.

ten worms equal twenty

sliding the worm

onto

the hook after cutting it in half

with a butter knife,

was bad enough,

but not nearly

as bad

as pulling the hook

out of a fish's

hard lip

when you reeled one in.

the fish all slimy

and jittery refusing

to sit still,

his lungs gagging on air,

as you

held him down on a rock.

what lives

these creatures

endure at the hands of

small children.

whatever happened to what's her name?

i run into somebody,

who i barely

recognize,

who asks

hey, whatever happened

to what's her name,

who?

you know, that girl?

the girl you were seeing

for a while?

which one?

you know the one, about

this tall,

dark hair,

blue eyes.

geeze, i have no clue.

i think you have me confused

with someone else.

aren't you, ummm.

no.i'm not him,

but good to see you again too

whoever

you are.

it's nothing personal

they are all good sharks.

despite

the bad reputations,

they are just

eating arms

and legs because they're there.

they're not

angry, or mean,

vindictive, or

psychopaths, they're

just hungry.

they have enormous

mouths,

and rows of sharpened

teeth for a reason.

they have insatiable appetites.

this is what they do.

they eat things in the ocean,

and if they see you

wiggling around in the water,

they eat you.

it's nothing personal.

too good to be true

it's shocking

to the brain and other

assorted

parts of the body when

you realize

that nothing was true,

it was all a lie,

nothing

was what you thought

it to be.

everything

you believed in

was a fantasy,

a complete and utter

gaslit stew.

another rain check

i cancel.

i say i can't make it.

sorry.

but i'll be out of town.

at the beach.

or on the moon.

i'm not sure

which at this point,

but mars

too is on my horizon.

let's do a rain

check,

again.

and again, until

you get the message

that i'm

never coming.

i feel so close to you

when i was

near death from eating some

strange

cut of shredded meat

in an Ethiopian dish,

she told

me that she never felt 

closer to me

than in this moment.

me,

with tears in my eyes,

groaning,

as i lay on the cold tile

of the bathroom

floor.

asking God to intervene.

i squinted my

eyes and looked her 

and said,

what does that mean?

the ny times

the new york

times

disposes of it's sports department.

yes.

we're inching closer

to the end

of the world.

they want to concentrate

more

on war,

weather

and money. 

the vagaries of life.

no longer will you find

a Yankee

box score.

i'm not like you

he held

the dark cloud above

him

with

strings. it went where

he went.

always

with a story of what

went wrong,

and how.

childhood

trauma,

jobs and wives.

wayward children.

it would begin to rain,

lighting

would flash.

you don't know the trouble

i've gone through,

he'd say, not even Job

can match the life

i've had. 

i haven't had one lucky

moment,

i'm not like you.

for crying out loud

she's crying

as we visit her dog's grave site,

the stone

carved

with the name,

and age,

an engraved

imprint of Fido.

she lays down a bag

of Purina dog chow,

chicken and rice,

his favorite brand.

i've never seen her cry before.

not in all

the years

i've known her.

through tragedies,

the death of parents,

the loss

of others.

but for some reason visiting

the grave

of this dog

that's been dead for ten years

turns on the water works.

as we leave,

i put my arm around her

as she shows

me a scar on her hand.

he bit me

once, she said, then we

had to put

him down.

stuffed pork chops

he asks

me over the phone if i'm the one

who gave

him the recipe

for stuffed pork chops.

i tell him no.

it wasn't me.

he's asked

me this several times over

the years,

when winter ends

and he gets the propane

grill out from

the shed.

this repetitive questioning

scares me,

seeing how much younger

he is.

it's everything

how quickly

we are these days to lock

the door,

and stay in.

switching the bright porch

light on

before it's even dark.

there's nothing that you lack.

no reason

to go back out there.

it's as if the apocalypse

has already

happened.

there are bars on our doors,

cameras on the roof.

no one makes

eye contact anymore.

it's not one thing that's gone

wrong.

it's everything.

we're in their hands

for how

long has my life been

in the hands

of a woman.

starting

with a mother, then

onto aunts

and neighbors,

grandmothers.

and then, as life often

does,

it puts you on the road

to romance,

such that it is.

one upends

their life,

moving to be closer

to the one

who has your heart.

she takes

your hand and leads

to where you will live,

decides your

fate,

how you will

dress,

how you will make love.

the string

is long

with no end in sight.

they have you when born,

and at death,

they're standing close by.

which one

i like what

you wrote the other day

about love,

she tells me.

i nod,

and say, oh, well thank

you,

but which one?

i move

on so quickly as you know.

tell me it's not just me

stuck in

the sweltering heat,

of summer, that strains

to keep

things light,

happy us, on our feet,

i long for winter.

i long for snow.

i long to chip ice off

the kitchen

window,

to shovel my way out

to an unplowed

street.

i am never happy with

where i am.

love thrills me,

then bores me

all in the same day.

i am never happy

with this food,

laid out on my plate,

i want to be hungry again

and start all over.

tell me it's not just me,

but you too.

the layman's diagnosis

i'm not a doctor,

not a psychologist,

or therapist,

but

i deem you incurable.

i give

you the layman's stamp

of disapproval.

you will never change,

never bend

or alter your ways.

you are disordered

and crazy from the cradle

to the grave.

just as that snake

in the grass

is who he is,

so will you remain the same.

the cat in the bed

hurry

hurry hurry

i tell the cold water,

wanting

it to heat up

before i step in.

hurry up with the pot

of coffee,

will this water ever boil?

i rush around,

finding my shoes,

my pants,

a shirt,

my cap.

a few dollars,

the phone and keys,

a book.

hurry hurry hurry

i tell myself.

while you lie in bed,

smiling

like a cat,

with no where

to be.

fresh fish

the sign

says fresh fish,

never frozen.

let's hope so, i tell her.

we pull the car over

and go in.

we're risk takers

below

this soft skin.

go sit by the fire

we shake

the snow off us,

brush

it from our hair,

and remove our coats.

we go sit

by the fire.

we have things to talk about.

decisions to

be made.

but we get lost in

the flames.

the crackle

and comfort of heat,

tired from

the walk,

we set our boots aside.

we say nothing. 

as we so often do.

it can wait.

once more, 

it can wait.

just a pint please

it's not

that i don't want to give blood,

fearful,

or that there

is something wrong

with my blood, 

i would be very generous

with my

blood, if there was an easier

way of getting it out

of my body.

a spigot of sorts

instead of a silver spike

taking aim 

at the blue string

in my arm,

the vein tapped fat

and ripe.

my birthday is coming up

her birthday

is coming up. everyone knows.

everyone

is prepared for

the month to come.

she's made

a list of gifts she wants,

of where

she wants to go.

she names her flower,

preferably

the pink or yellow rose.

she hints around that she prefers

silver

over gold,

perhaps

a nice hotel

is in order, a three day

stay

no less, with room service,

a massage,

and a salon

for nails and hair.

a view of the water 

and sailboats would be

wonderful,

but please, please don't

make a fuss.

two poems about the moon

i asked

her why, why do so many

poets

write poems about the moon,

and she laughed.

she smiled

and nodded, still holding

her purse

over her shoulder

as she stood in front

of the class, 

preparing to lecture us on

poets that she loved.

Lowell and Plath,

Larkin

and Strand.

Elizabeth Bishop.

she had no answer about

the moon, but then asked the class

to write one.

no.

write two.

is that a double oven?

she praises the granite,

the new

tile,

the oak floors stained

a dark brown,

the bathrooms

of course

all shiny with fixtures,

the tub

clean enough to eat off,

and then there's

the kitchen,

where she nearly faints

to the floor,

touching

the stove, the ice box,

the spigot,

is that a double oven,

good lord.

look at the size of these

rooms,

the closet space,

so many windows to bring

in the light.

i see the yard, i envision

a hammock

stretched out

across the grass, anchored

by two trees,

as it swings

quietly

in a summer breeze.

did you call me last week?

some so called

friends,

return your calls or texts

quickly,

while others,

more busy than you'll

ever be,

take their time.

maybe in a week or two,

they'll get back to you,

they'll text you

back and ask, 

did you call me last week,

why?

the swimming hole

the small

pool

adjoining the shed

where

the landscapers

keep their tools, is

surrounded

by barbed wire.

there's one lifeguard

on duty,.

a young

girl in the high chair,

smoking while doing

her nails.

the pool is full of children,

half a float

and screaming while

an old man

hangs

onto the side

kicking his legs in some

prescribed

exercise.

the water is a greenish

yellow.

through the fence

i see the eyes of a raccoon

family,

waiting their turn.

we should talk

i see you

turning the bottle of poison

into my

drink.

a few drops

more, then you stir

and hand

it to me.

we should 

really talk about

things.

a clear message

in the quiet

of the yard, determined,

relentless,

things grow,

no matter

how much you cut

and trim

back, sever vines,

or dig roots from

the ground,

they keep coming,

keep growing

with

a clear

message from the world.

a hole in the earth

hardly

an animal, a mere

small

ball of fur,

a cartoon character,

chestnut brown,

looking

up to me

before he dashes

away

into a hole

he finds in the earth.

there's

so much of the world

going on

without

our knowledge.

fixing nearly everything

i can fix many things.

hand me

a wrench, a pair of pliers,

a screwdriver,

a hammer

and a handful of nails.

let me at it.

tell what ails

this old house.

which machine do i need

to fix,

which set of stairs

creak when we walk up,

which light flickers,

which door, or window

is seeping air.

i can fix nearly everything.

everything that is,

but you, my dear.

the orange sweater

a few

days before she died,

knowing

instinctively

that she had little time,

she went

to the post office with all her

packages

for Christmas.

a sweater

and book were

mine.

i read the book on the way

to her funeral, 

during the long flight,

and wore

the sweater, despite

the colors

despite the bold stripes.

how she must have laughed

at that.

we'd like to be happy

we'd like

to be happy, to be near

what

we assume happiness to be,

but

don't quite

get there, 

small things, larger things

get in the way.

so we

put that idea on the back

burner

and settle for some

variation of contentment,

a hot meal,

a warm

bed.

electricity and such,

it's too hard to reach for

more

some days.

relentless clocks

these damn

clocks,

these ticking watches,

the relentless swing

of hands,

the grandfather clock,

the chimes,

the bird

coming out again

and again.

each a reminder of how

much there's left

of the day,

or night,

and life to spend.

the coin bucket

as children

we'd sit on the floor,

the wooden floor, cold, because

the windows

wouldn't crank

any further to keep

the winter out,

we'd roll coins

into paper sleeves,

counting

slowly, sifting through

the pile,

after my mother dumped

the bucket out.

tomorrow dinner

would be

better.

warm bread

i fell in love

with her after she baked a loaf

of bread,

made by

her own hands,

then set it on the table

with a knife

and two plates,

butter and jam.

please,

she said in the yellow

light of the kitchen.

please, have some.

what else could she do

to make

herself more wonderful?

chemically imbalanced?

even past thirty,

she had

a history of histrionics,

of wild

haired schemes,

outlandish

clothes,

prolific in her lovers,

eccentric beyond reason,

now with blue

hair and a pin

through her nose.

tomorrow?

with her

stuck on irrational,

who knows.

the new normal has

arrived.

it's beyond

us, those who are old.

why nothing changes

the lessons

are temporary. each of us

learning

what we need

to know to survive.

but then we

die.

and the next child born

has to learn

all over

what we learned.

this is how it goes,

and why

very little changes.

cemetery road

the drug

of sugar is in everything.

everywhere.

each box

or bag,

bottle or jar,

loaded with the white

death.

no different than heroin

or cocaine,

a sweet addiction,

disguised as joy.

killing

children with cereal

and candy

bars. soda.

the syrups that we pour.

toxicity with a smile.

another slice,

another pound,

another heart stricken

as we limp

and waddle down

cemetery road.

then everything dies

don't eat me,

the world

says.

leave

me to the life i've been

given.

whether fruit

on a tree,

or animal in the wild.

let me roam,

let me grow from

the dirt

and bloom,

leave me alone.

but if we do, then 

everything

dies.

only in this way

only

by being silent

can i say

what i really want to say.

the absence

of words,

no shout, no whisper,

no turn

of phrase,

no offering

of thought,

letting nothing be heard.

only in this way

will you truly

know my feelings.

sediment and silt

who doesn't

have a dinosaur past, a room

or box

full of memories,

some happy,

some sad.

who doesn't have a place

full of sediment

and silt.

sentiment and guilt,

pictures and cards,

small jewels,

old things in a closet,

tossed about,

a land

of bones, unburied, 

still lying

on the ground.

switching places

once content

and satisfied with nearly

everything

i did or said,

now you're moving chairs

around

the room,

hanging pictures

i don't like

upon the wall,

painting colors

that only

you adore.

you're not the same person

anymore.

you've changed.

what you found funny and smart,

now saddens you,

strangely,  i've become

the chore.

the flickering gaslight

do you see

the flickering lights,

hear

a knock at the door,

what is

that noise,

that sound in the middle

of the night.

i think

you're losing it,

losing touch,

losing hold.

no, there's no one

in my phone.

did i tell you one lie

or ten,

who's to know these

things.

here, i know it's summer,

but let me

help you with

your heavy coat.

constant farewells

it's a short

visit, just a few minutes to see

what's left 

of you,

of course

there's still blood

swirling

in your veins,

there is flesh and bones.

your open

eyes

gazing, your parted lips

in some

sort of wonder,

as to who you are.

i take your slender

hand and say

nothing.

for what is there to say,

but a constant

whisper of farewell.

this is not how i wanted

to remember you by,

but it's all

i've got for now.

summer high tops

as we played

stick ball in the street,

being Maris

or Mantle,

hydrants and Ramblers

as bases,

cardboard too,

the heated

tar

road, a soft black stew,

came home with

us

on the bottom

and sides

of our shoes. it's death

to them.

it took

money earned slowly,

summer

money, cutting lawns,

washing cars

to buy them,

and now this.

the bright white 

summer high tops,

once pristine, now

ruined.

in observance

always you took

the back seat,

even at an early age,

in observance, 

your eyes

wandering about

the room, 

ears open,

mouth closed,

trying to determine

if this is how

one should or should

not behave.

nothing's changed.

i'm just passing through

short of wind,

you stop

and lean against the post.

find a step

to sit on, a wooden

plank of a fine

porch,

not your home, but

it'll do

for now in this summer heat.

and when

the door opens,

and the woman

asks

in a motherly voice,

can i help you, are you okay?

you wave

your friendly wave

and tell her, no, no,

i''m fine,

i'm just passing through.

in a minute

i'll be on my way.

the farewell kiss

the kiss

good bye says everything.

does it

linger, is there a warm

embrace

involved,

is it a peck on the cheek

as siblings do,

or less.

are you

still strangers,

shaking hands

farewell,

with pats on the back,

still

unsure of what lies

ahead.

confess.

Home

of course

the mat, saying welcome,

or the one

word,

home, defines where

you are

at last.

but is it true?

is there joy, warmth.

and safety,

once the door is closed.

is it real,

or just

an imaginary world,

another temporary

stop

on your weary road,

that you tell the world

with a fragile

smile,

that at last

you have a home.

equal parts

is there such

a thing

as true balance, equal

parts,

of love

towards

one another.

there are sour moments

just

as there

are sweet times.

making

more of either one,

will in the end

make you

decide.

a summer day at twelve

as a kid

running through

the woods

into creeks, climbing

trees

and avoiding

snakes

and leaves of three,

you'd twist an ankle,

scratch

your legs

on thorns, fall flat

on broken glass

in abandoned

hobo camps,

then rub

mud into your wounds,

at last you'd head

down

to the river to fish.

just another

summer

day.

the dry well

unloved

we seek love,

thirsty

for affection, but where

do we go

for such a thing,

where is

the well to drop

our cup

into and find it?

where once

we turned our heads

to the sky

and drank

the rain,

now it's cloudless

over a  barren earth.

with age, nothing

is the same.

as time stood still

near the end

we took a trip to Middleburg

Virginia

where

she bought a lamp

in some

funky store

along main street.

i bought a cup

of coffee and waited for

her

on a bench,

staring at the stopped old

clock

along the promenade.

it was cold,

windy.

leaves thrashed about.

one day

i would carry that lamp

to the curb.

the yellow belt choke hold

i knew

she was sleeping with

my son's karate

teacher,

when she came up

behind

me and put a choke hold

on my neck.

it was a very

learned move,

despite being only a yellow

belt.

she was

taking classes

three times

per week at the dojo

with her lover boy Carlos.

impressed, i asked

her to loosen

her grip

so that i could breathe,

i just had a few

more things to move

out of the house,

and then she could have

the keys.

a dog would change things

a dog

would shake things up.

so would

a cat,

but less so.

do i need that kind of cold

shoulder,

do i need

the guilt of a puppy

in the window.

what about a bird

in a cage.

or a gold fish in a bowl.

no.

i don't think so.

alone, seems to be the most

prudent way

to go.

skipping stones

i spend

a few moments

skipping flat rocks

across

the pond.

pondering

the past and future to come.

they skip and skip,

three or four

times then splash

once done.

a kid joins me,

then another kid,

then another,

before i know it there's

a crowd skipping

stones

across the pond.

the geese fly

away,

i go home.

you're a man, so shut up

it's a

touchy

subject, of course.

the whole

baby thing. when is it

a baby,

when isn't it a baby?

obviously something

is growing

in there and it's not

nothing, but

do we

let the cake bake,

or take it out

of the oven

before it rises

and we have to ice it.

make room

for it

on the table?

it's a woman's right

to choose,

but what if the baby

is girl?

doesn't she have rights

too?

all very confusing.

speedo weather

it's the hottest day

of the year

ever,

the weather girl says in

her bright yellow

dress.

dang, she says, it was

a hot one.

put on your swim trunks

and head to the pool.

the panel laughs,

the cameraman too.

code red, the news anchor

says,

wiping his brow,

it may be the end of

the world

as we know it, he chortles,

before going on

with sports news.

the kindle version

so,

it's not the New Yorker,

or the 
Atlantic Monthly,

it's not the Paris Review

or in some other great

tomb

of Poetry.

it's just you and some

girl in Montana

making

a copy

of your work, 

making it available

to the ambivalent masses,

mere pennies to spend

for a view.

parenting

when you grow up

with so

little,

only having love in limited

portions,

spread out

amongst siblings,

you find

your own way to make

it in the world.

there are no

tracks

for you to follow,

or step into.

no trust fund

to catch you when you fail.

but you manage

just the same.

perhaps this is where you

went wrong

with your own

child.

you over gave.

i think she did

did she dream

of love

as she stood there

ironing

and folding clothes,

the basket

with no bottom.

was she thinking of

boys she

knew in school.

of playgrounds

and Ferris

wheels,

the summer carnival.

did she whisper songs

as she moved

the iron about, pressing

down

onto shirts

and dresses, getting

wrinkles out?

i think she did.

the prairie house

it's a prairie

house

out in the middle of a dry

field.

maybe there's a well,

that stack

of stones

says so,

but the barn

is gone.

all fences down.

a black crow

sits on a broken window.

there is nothing to speak of.

just the yellow

clapboard

house

in the middle of an

empty field,

where children may

have been born.

shiny ships sinking

we enjoy

scandal, the falling down

of others,

such

sweet and sour

gossip it is that we dwell on.

that we

devour on our phones,

on tv.

she had it

coming,

or he did, we all agree.

the bigger they are,

etc.

how

deliriously happy

it makes

us,

to witness failure,

to stand back

with hands on hips

and watch as

shiny ships sink into

the sea.

lastcall.com

for a while

my mother was on face book,

Instagram,

LinkedIn,

and a dating site

for seniors,

while her divorce was

pending from her third marriage.

she posted photos of her garden,

tomatoes and string beans,

loose leaf lettuce,

and the puzzles

she was working on, spread

out over the dining room table.

pics of her yellow parakeet,

Joey Heatherton,

and her dog

that she called Dean Martin

were on her sites too.

she texted me the other day

and asked

if i wanted to do a zoom call.

i told her, mom,

i live ten minutes away,

how about i stop

over for lunch.

oh no, she said. i can't

i have a date.

a date?

yes, i met some nice man

on lastcall.com

he's a retired

encyclopedia salesman.

he seems really nice.

in fact

we zoomed last night

until

three in the morning.

he wanted me to model

some lingerie

that i used to wear for your

father, so i obliged.

i open up the kitchen drawer,

rattling around

everything that's in there.

what's that noise, she says.

oh nothing.

i'm just looking for a sharp

knife to kill myself.

funny way of showing love

it's a serious

world.

death, disease, accidents,

you know

the drill.

no matter how hard

life is,

we still hit our knees

and pray,

and try to be thankful

for our blessings.

but then there are

floods,

and tornadoes,

hurricanes and fires,

wiping

everything out.

wars and plagues.

children gone missing.

God loves mankind, but

sometimes

i have my doubts.

the three worlds

there are several

worlds

now.

the real world when you're

actually

out of the house

among people,

and then the other world,

the one in

your phone

and computer.

a strange disturbing

land

of conflict and trouble.

and then there's

the third world.

the place where you're

asleep

safe in your dreams.,

clutching a pillow,

your latest

preference.

the almost prettiest girl in the room

she wasn't as pretty

as she thought she was.

the prettiest

girl in the room.

she took measure of

those around her

adjusting

her second place

tierra, finding

a mirror to confirm

what she already knew,

which was okay.

she'll get over herself

one day.

if it hasn't already

arrived, not to worry,

it will soon.

vertigo

just staring

at the carnival rides make

me dizzy.

and ill.

the colored lights

and screams.

it's not the cotton

candy,

or the candied apple,

or the caramel

corn

anymore.

it's the whirl of things.

the movement

of rides

going up and down.

the twisting

and screech of metal

all about.

i used to close my eyes

when on them,

but not anymore,

i can be on the ground

and close them now.

an even longer day

done with

work, he's in the yard now,

bent

over crab grass and weeds,

sorting

through

the wired fence

to get to the tomatoes,

now green.

the other life

is behind him.

those days on the train,

the coat and tie,

the business

meetings.

hands on some

vague wheel.

everyday the same.

but now this, what is he

to make of

this,

hands in the dirt,

knees

as if in prayer digging

into the earth.

forty-three years

it occurs

to me that we've known each

other for

forty-three years.

hard to believe

that one dance on a dance

floor,

so long ago

could lead this, this

forever

friendship.

let's make it another

forty or more.

it's coming down

it was

late in the night when

our mother

came into the room to tell us,

there's no

school

tomorrow because

of snow.

two feet or more,

she said.

we jumped to the window

and looked out.

there it was

already

icing the ground.

what joy

we felt, and in her

eyes

i saw her joy too.

the green bowl

at an early

age, maybe it was

the stained glass

in church, but

colored glass caught

your eye,

your heart

and imagination, you've

never gotten

over it, you think,

as you stare at the kitchen sill,

where you've set green

bowls, and indigo

glasses out

to catch the light.

an orange bird, like a jewel

hanging from the latch.

the ride home

her name,

according to my own version

of the memory,

was Martha.

i never saw her again

after we made

love in the back

seat of my mother's car.

a green dodge

dart.

we parked

under the canopy of

oak trees

on Owens road,

off to the darkened side.

after nine minutes, or less,

we adjusted our

clothes then drove away.

i remember putting my signal on

as we pulled

out onto the vacant

street.

turning on the lights

and the wipers

as it began to rain.

she just needed a ride

home

from somewhere.

why me, why now?

the pink

snake, long dead since i dropped

the boulder

onto it's

magically colored

body

and head,

still lies there behind

the house

on the sidewalk leading

up to the woods.

i can see his fangs,

his eyes,

so much of what was

in, now out.

did he feel pain,

was there time to think,

time to ponder

his regrets, his shame

as the shadow of stone

came upon him.

was there a moment of

why me,

why now?

the sliver crucifix

i find

the old worn prayer, nearly

forgotten,

the one

where i ask for mercy,

for guidance,

for deliverance

from poverty

and fear.

how many nights did

i pray this

prayer,

rubbing hard the crucifix

in my

small hands,

fingers pressing against

the sliver body of Christ,

begging

for silence,

as i listened to the parents

below

destroy nearly

everything.

just one more, one more

the drink

had two effects, although

neither

at the same time,

he'd

reminisce about

the life

before this one, 

good times had for one

and all, or cry

about a tomorrow

that might not come

with

tragedy looming near.

he'd spill

his life into weary

ears as the drinks went

down, and then

at last

against the hard wood

of the bar,

his face in the shine

of the mirror

across, he'd tap down,

for one more.

just one more.

children

so important the nest,

upon

the high branch, 

built as if protected

by a crown

of thorns,

sitting high

to keep out the thieves,

the hungry,

the earth bound.

the blue eggs appear

to be jewels

in this wet morning sun.

a harvest

of gems.

how long before

they're gone.

it'll be fun, let's go

i think

they should really wait before

going to Mars.

the no air,

food or water thing

concerns me.

it's like going up K 2

where

nearly half

the climbers

never come back.

why?

heroic, brave,

courageous?

how stupid are we,

how large

our egos

to think we can do this?

humanity,

what are we going to do?

risking everything,

the one precious life

we have to go under

the sea,

or into the air.

we're so smart

and yet so often

utter fools.

turning the world upside down for clues

when you

first feel like someone is lying

to you,

cheating on

you,

you turn into the best detective

since
Sherlock Holmes,

or Columbo.

your instincts are never wrong.

your gut

is telling you

that something is amiss.

your Spider sense tingles

as you leave

no stone unturned.

into pockets you go,

shaking out the pages

of books

as you search

for evidence

of betrayal.

with psychotic determination

you go through drawers

and closets,

purses. you lie on the floor

to look under beds.

you open glove

compartments tossing things

around.

you cross every vague boundary

there is,

because this is war.

a very cold war

going on in your own house.

it's cat and mouse.

it's sick and dark as 

you log onto

to their e mails, their texts,

their cards

and letters.

you don't care anymore.

you're looking for the one big

arrow to

end this nightmare

that somehow you've endured

and at last

there it is.

hell on earth

they fed them

starch

and gelatinous meats,

sugary concoctions.

fried chicken

and potatoes,

Salisbury steaks

with gravy. large

loaves of white bread.

noodles.

jello.

my mother gained

twenty pounds

in one week

after moving in to

the senior home,

called A Home for Mom

in a sketchy

neighborhood in southern

Maryland.

at the clang of a bell,

everyone in the tv

room rose as one

and waddled to the dining

room table

where three meals

a day were served.

they were not unlike

the living dead

rising from their deep

musty sofas.

most were stroke victims,

had Alzheimer's,

or some stage of

dementia.

they were all diapered up

and unable to

remember if they ate

already, or were

even hungry.

it went down hill from

there.

when you came to visit,

your own mother didn't know

if it was Christmas,

or the Fourth of July,

rarely did she remember your name.

sometimes the local church

choir would come by 

and sing for them,

distressing everyone

by blocking the tv screen as

another episode of Barney

Miller or the Jeffersons

came on with the volume

turned up.

the stationary closet

on Wednesday

the office played volleyball

in the sand pit next to the parking

garage.

a lame attempt

at building comradery

amongst workers.

it was my only chance

for revenge

towards bosses

who spoke in another language

in front of me,

mocking my

inability

to write code for a program.

i'd leap high above

the net to spike the ball

with vengeance.

i was never promoted or

got a raise after

the first game

when i broke Hung Van's

nose with the ball

and was moved into an office

called the stationary

closet.

lost in the woods

we're lost in the woods.

every

tree looks the same,

the sun is somewhere behind

the clouds.

we keep circling,

does moss really grow on

the north side of a tree?

neither of us have survival

skills.

we have no tools, no map,

no knives, or matches.

this stream again that

we cross, is it going down,

or up stream.

it begins to rain.

she calls me an idiot,

tells me that we

should have brought the bread

crumbs to toss behind us,

and mark our path,

but no.

it's our first fight, maybe

our last.

we're circling, and it's

late, almost dark.

we're soaked and tired.

we have no food, no water,

no cell phone reception.

is this how it ends, us

lying in the carved out

trunk of a fallen tree?

two miles from home,

from grocery stores, and

Starbucks,

even gas station vending 

machines.

the apartment by the zoo

it was mistake

moving

so close to the zoo.

we had no idea how loud

the monkeys were,

as they swing

from tree to tree,

the chatter of birds,

the elephants

stomping around,

even

the seals kept us up

with their

constant

clapping for fish.

but you get used to it

after a while,

hesitating

in mid sentence, raising

your hand to pause,

to let a lion roar,

or a gorilla beat

his chest

and yell, or

to allow

some exotic bird to caw.

my left arm bicep

i don't have

time for a complete workout

at the gym,

so i buy a small

dumb bell

of twenty pounds and do

lifts and curls

with my left arm.

the arm that hangs

out the car window

and puts

items into the box at

the drive-thru bank.

all day long,

i'm at it, lifting my weight,

during meals,

showers,

even while making love,

which annoys

Betty to no end.

in no time at all i'm

entering

arm wrestling contests,

and flexing

my one big muscle

as i drive around.

in my convertible car.

i get a tattoo, of course

for that

bicep. some lettering i

found on a Chinese

menu,

which i think says Spinach.

but there are draw backs

too.

i have to have all my

shirts and coats,

and suits

altered to fit my new

enormously buff arm.

and people everywhere

are asking me to open

twist off caps,

and jars of pickles.

Bonjourno

when

she returned from Italy

she painted

her house

shades of yellow

and Tuscan brick red.

she was into

olive oil now, 

virgin and cold pressed,

home made

pasta,

and bread.

there was a bright colored

scarf

around her neck

and a flower

in her hair.

she threw around a few

words in Italian,

and started

saying

ciao

whenever she left

the room or was about

to hang

up the phone.

next year she's going

to Germany.

this should be interesting.

ay caramba

unable to breathe,

i find

the rescue inhaler and sit on

the curb,

taking in a few

puffs

of the chemically induced

air.

i try to catch

my breath

in this oppressive heat,

my head between

my legs,

feeling weak.

i take my hat off and rub

the sweat

off my brow.

someone walking by puts

a five

dollar bill in my hat.

in about an hour i've made

over a hundred

tax free dollars.

ay caramba,

i get it now.

i'll be right back

she puts

on the coffee, i go out for the paper

and a dozen

eggs.

i text her as i'm

in the store, asking

her if there's anything

else she needs.

she gives me a long list

of items.

i spend an hour shopping,

then head

home.

when i get there her car

is gone,

she's gone.

most of her clothes

and things

are gone, her dresser

and closet are empty.

finally.

it's the first promise she's

ever kept.

i go to the kitchen

and crack a few eggs

into the pan,

then pour a cup of coffee.

it's still hot.

let's see what's in the news,

i say to no one,

spreading

the paper on the table.

getting out the butter

and the jam.

seventy-nine dollar raviolis

i was in

New York once

at 

DeNiro's restaurant

down

the street from the trade center,

Tribeca,

when i ordered

raviolis.

three raviolis

arrived

on a giant plate,

there

was parsley around it too,

thus

i understood the price.

i hardly had

room for the forty-five

dollar piece of cheese cake,

thinly sliced.

foo foo

the foo foo restaurant

is expensive. prices have been

marked up

since the last time

we were here.

what's new about that?

nothing really.

it's the same across the board

in every store,

every pub,

every

pushcart on the street

selling hot dogs.

the reasons are plenty.

covid,

the war.

the economy.

everyone wants a dollar more.

be patient

so much is left

unread.

so many pages yet to turn,

books

to read

that wait patiently

in silence

on the shelf.

don't worry, i tell them,

your time will

come,

your time will come.

i tell them the same thing

that i often

tell my self.

our own personal yoko

we called

her Yoko, because she broke us

up.

the four of us.

four boys

about to be men,

doing everything together

as we painted

the town red.

but then

one of us fell

in love.

it was never the same

after that.

she ruined it for all

of us. tagging along

to every event.

although now,

she's almost a friend.

drive all night

the beauty

of

the mid week holiday is

that nearly

everyone

takes the whole week off.

traffic

is light,

it's a delightful drive

to go anywhere,

no horns

blaring, no one

in the rear view mirror

flashing his

lights.

calling you names.

it's a wonderful time

to drive.

come with me, we'll drive

all night,

in any lane.

tossing and turning

it's a rough sleep.

i go through

the list

of worries, turning the pillow

over with

each new topic

of concern.

it goes nowhere.

nothing is solved.

nothing learned.

i'm a rotisserie chicken

all night, stuck

on the spit

as i slowly

turn. i'm

exhausted when the sun

comes up.

and hungry.

very hungry.

the neighbor's party

i see her

in the grocery store

with a cart full of all beef

wieners.

twenty cobs

of corn.

a case of beer

and a large costco size

bag of buns.

there's mustard

too

and relish.

ketchup for the heathens.

then the sheet cake,

teetering

on the pile,

twelve by twelve,

decorated

with candles and candy,

all of it in

red white and blue.

she avoids

looking at me, i wasn't

invited.

the mystery call

as the phone rings at two

a.m.

i let go.

it's never good news

at this hour.

there are

five six seven rings,

then it stops.

maybe they'll leave a message,

maybe they'll

call back in the morning.

who's to know

these things.

time for another great flood?

who has time

to work anymore, we have to march

and riot, set

things on fire

and tell the world

who we are,

and what we want.

here are the pronouns i will

accept.

does anyone just get up

and go

to work and punch the clock

anymore?

put in a hard

eight hours then go home.

does anyone really

care that you're a man in women's

clothes, or a girl

with a gun

and a mustache?

it's annoying.

exhausting.

no one cares what you call yourself

or what you do

with your sex organs.

sew something on or

cut something off.

have fun with that.

what possibly could go wrong?

call me when you have a real

problem.

do we need a law, a parade,

for every circus

freak coming down the road?

you're just a person, a human,

not unlike me

or you. go ahead and

be who or what you want to be,

then get a job,

go to work,

then go home.

give us a break and

leave the rest of us alone.

click bait

everything

you see online

is a click bait, a lure

to drag you down,

send you past the gates

of hell

to see

the most disgusting things

to look at, or

to eat,

Hollywood stars

without clothes,

then and now,

what happened

to Warren 

Beatty?

Kenny Roger's nose.

how does Dolly Parton stay

upright?

the richest and the poorest

will be revealed.

the real story

behind

the drugs and guns

of the rebellious priest

and his lover

the aging nun.

click here,

click here.

go down the rabbit hole.

one more time,

one more

click, please have another

mindless view

before you leave.

home before dark

the dog

doesn't wander far,

off her

leash, she looks back

to see us,

to make sure

where we are.

we're all happy at

the same

time

as we walk.

so rare to feel that

way

about anything.

so let's keep going

further

and further, then turn

around and head

for home

before it's dark.

a marking point

that

was a good one,

she says,

pointing to the sky

at the blossom

of lights

cascading

outward

then down,

the crisp bang then

boom

above,

but below

the clouds. the showers

of

greens and white,

reds

and yellows.

blue.

we stay until the end,

standing for

the grand finale,

to clap and shout.

then we roll

up our blanket,

to head home.

with summer officially

half over.

wishful thinking

she puts

a camera up.

one in the window

another on

the door.

it's wishful thinking,

hoping

that someone

will

pass by, 

an old lover,

wanting to

see her more.

she checks it daily

morning,

then night,

never believing that

no one

cares anymore.

fool on the hill

only we

seem to think that everything.

will last

forever.

every book written, word

said,

every poem

and deed done,

whether good or

evil

will be remembered.

no other species

think like that,

just us,

the fool in me and you.

Scarborough cupboard

why

are there so many spices

in the cupboard

when i only

use salt and pepper.

where did the oregano

come from,

the all spice,

the garlic powder,

the turmeric

and bay leaves.

who snuck in the ginger

and cinnamon.

basil and thyme,

rosemary?

parsley and sage.

i feel like i'm in a

Simon and Garfunkel

song.

the marlo furniture exhibition

the picture

of the Spanish galleon

hanging

on her wall

is a frightening mish mash

of mustard

yellows.

fruit gone bad,

oranges and cherries

at the bottom

of a bag.

a sunset is wishful thinking.

maybe it's the sky

and the ocean

all on fire at once.

perhaps it's the end of the world.

i avert my

eyes when i come

through the door,

trying not to knock over

her porcelain

Dalmatian dog.

being careful not to trip

on the shag rug,

a depressing shade

of asylum mauve.

i'd knock on wood for luck,

but there is none.

who isn't strange

who isn't strange

raise your hand and if

it's raised

you are more than likely

more strange

than the others, but

acutely aware 

of the all the strange

you need to cover.

the white wedding tent

it was a white silk tent

where

the wedding party sat.

it kept

the large black flies out

that hovered

near the spit

where a monstrous

still head on

pig spun

across a charcoal pit.

the cake

looked melted.

four tiers, no

limits on expense.

was it all an omen of

sorts.

the heat of day,

the rain. thunder

and lightning.

perhaps it was.

a funeral was just a year

away

for the ecstatic groom,

finding love

at last

at this late stage.

agreeable

plans we've made

have

changed.

it may

rain.

we scratch out the day

and settle

on the next

day.

we're flexible like

that.

agreeable and kind,

without fuss

we

find a way.

good lighting

as years

pass, you still love to read,

but

you're more selective now,

as you

are with most

things.

food and love, for instance.

you appreciate

friendly

lighting, dim and nice

for love,

and daylight for a new

book,

outside in the yard

with a sun above.

heading north for elder care

i go in

the opposite direction.

i head

north

with all of my possessions.

i can't do

sunny Florida.

not a fan

of bugs and alligators.

no seasons

to speak of

not to mention hurricanes

and politics.

instead i buy a snow

shovel,

some ear muffs and head

up to New Hampshire

to a log cabin

in the forest.

but it crosses my mind

that 

this may be a mistake

as well.

the giant pile of goodbye

i pile

her things in the yard.

clothes

and laxatives.

books on self harm.

Halloween masks,

and trumpets.

a broken

hand held piano

from Yamaha,

pointed shoes,

witch capes

and hats.

a biography

of Heddy Lamar.

i throw a blue tarp

on the whole

mess

as it begins to rain.

i'll wait

until i have some gasoline

before i

start the fire.

so long, farewell

i go down to the train

station

to wave goodbye to people

as the train

slowly pulls away

heading to some far

away destination.

some wave

back, others shake their

heads

and mumble, who's this

guy.

children, mostly, wave

and smile.

they seem happy

to be waved to.

they're not as judgmental

about crazy people

as grown ups are.

too early for holding hands?

we go

to the movies

and she takes my hand.

is it too early for hand holding?

i mean we've

only fooled around

a few times.

i switch the popcorn

box to the other hand,

telling her

sorry about the butter

and salt.

she smiles

and reaches into her

purse

for napkins.

i get goosebumps.

flipping the coin

there's always

two

sides of the coin.

an obvious

and cliche observation,

of course.

but let's flip the coin

and see

which direction

this will go.

call it

in the air.

heads or tails.

Audrey and I

at last

my humanoid girlfriend

arrives

in the mail

from China. she's

stuffed into a box

with bubble wrap.

she looks

like Audrey Hepburn

back in

the day.

rail thin, without

the cigarette addiction.

all i need to do is plug

her in,

and true love

begins.

she never ages,

or is mean,

never lies or talks back.

she even sings.

it's nineteen

sixty-three

all over again.

she's Betty Crocker

and Irma La Douce

all in one

package.

i'm taking her to Tiffanys

for breakfast

tomorrow.

i think i left the iron on

halfway

to the beach, she turns

to me and says,

don't get mad, but i think

i left

the iron on in the basement.

i was ironing

a dress

and then ran up the stairs

to finish packing.

i think we have to turn around.

i let out a deep

sigh and say a very bad word,

puffs of steam

come out of my ears,

but i make a u-turn

at the light

and speed back.

i don't tell her that i forgot

to close

the back door and lock it.

let's get it on

my neighbor, Sheila,

tells me

as i sit on the front porch

that her

and her husband

are trying to have a baby

again.

i want to tell her,

i know.

i can hear you at night

going at it.

i can hear

Marvin Gaye on the stereo

for hours,

the popping of champagne

bottles,

and then the symphony

of bed springs

adjacent to our

shared townhouse wall.

i nod,

and smile,

there's a lull in the conversation

as i stare at her,

unsure what to say next,

then settle for

yeah, that's nice. kids

are great.

then,

how about this weather

we're having?

she wants more

i bring her

back

a three pound bag of salt water

taffy from

the beach.

it has all her favorite

colors.

pinks and blues,

greens and oranges.

all a pleasant

pastel shade.

each piece with a guarantee

of three hundred

or more chews

before dissolving

into your stomach.

i find a shell on

the beach too.

an empty white shell

minus

the clam guts.

it's not enough though.

she wants

more.

she always wants more.

time travel

i buy

a time travel machine on amazon.

something

new.

a fun

device that you

strap

upon your head

and disappear

into the past

or future.

you make all your wrongs

right.

then come back,

minus

the memory of each

wackadoodle

wife.

your current state of mind

there are various

forms

of laughter.

the belly laugh, the scoff,

the giggle,

the roar

with mouth open

and tears

falling, but

why don't you laugh

anymore?

it seems as if

you've taken

levity

completely out of your

repertoire.

not a funny bone is found

inside you.

glum

is your current state of

mind.

no longer

can i juggle balls

in the air, 

or do somersaults

and tricks

to put a smile on your face.

my jokes fall flat

to the floor.

what once put joy in your

life is over. 

kaput.

apparently

i've become such a bore.

or were

you faking it all that time,

all those laughs?

anything unattended to

so much time

spent

in worry, concerned

with age

with the endless task

of filling days,

rearranging

the chairs

and tables, the lamps

of your life.

setting the mood with

movies and books,

food

and love, or close

to love.

counting pennies

long into the night.

you manipulate the blinds,

the curtains,

swiping cobwebs

from the corners,

giving your world 

more reason,

more light.

you've beaten the rugs clean,

you've put your house

in order.

it's exhausting, as you at

last sit alone, still

some shade of blue,

and wonder

is there anything

unattended to, 

have i left anything for

God to do?

picking up a cake

i see the baker

in his

tall white hat

and white apron leaning

against the wall

outside the bakery,

he's smoking a cigarette

and looking

down at the ground.

he needs a shave.

he's been up since

3 am,

making cakes and pies.

bread.

there's flour

on his chin,

what looks like

cherry jam on his collar.

he nods at me,

says hello, the wedding cake

right? 

it's ready, he says.

then smashes

his cigarette under

his powdered shoe 

before going back in.

Medicare A and B

i get about fifty calls

a day

from some dude

or girl

in India asking me if i have

Medicare A and B.

they sound

young.

in their twenties, on the phone

all day

calling baby boomers

in America,

trying to steal

their information, their

identities

and all the rest.

they want to send back

braces,

knee braces,

they have a new plastic

card for you,

do you have diabetes?

cancer,

are you in a home under a

nurses care.

do you make your own

decisions.

do you have a checking account,

a savings account?

do you smoke, do you have

any diseases

that are gong to kill you soon?

what's your address,

your name, your age,

your height and weight?

what's your social security number,

your Medicare number?

i'll wait while you go find it,

they say.

in the background

i hear a hundred other voices,

chattering on the phones

in some hellish cave,

asking the same

questions over and over again,

and sometimes i'll hear a rooster

crowing, a cow mooing,

or a goat bay.