too many bong hits

i run into

Susie at the grocery store.

we used to date

back in the 70's.

she drove a silver

trans-am,

loved her marijuana

and wine.

but went to church

every Sunday.

we hug.

she smells of cannabis

freshly smoked.

the kids are grown.

she's single

again.

i ask her about so and so.

or if she remembered

the time

we did this

or that.

she looks baffled,

no, she says. shaking

her head.

i don't remember any of

that.

how's your mom?

and then it's over

is life

like a rollercoaster?

maybe.

the giant hills

and 

dips,

free falling.

the curves along

the way.

the thrills

and fear.

the speed of it all.

you have

to hang on tightly,

and sometimes

let out

a scream.

then it's over.

an apple on her head

it was Jimmy's BB gun.

he got

it for Christmas one year.

his father being

in the army, thought it

was best

to start early

with weapons.

we'd set

up cans in the back

yard and knocked

them down.

but we got bored

with that before long.

i tried to talk my sister

into putting

an apple on her head,

but she refused.

girls were no fun

back then.

future bacon

i go to the hen house

to grab

a few eggs

for breakfast,

the pig in his trough

gives me a look,

because he knows

that breakfast means

bacon and sausage.

i tell him, not today.

i'm having French toast.

relax, roll around

in the mud. you have

a few more days off.

the lap dog and the princess

i remember

her purse.

a shiny black

Prada's thing.

it was covered in cobwebs,

having never

been opened in

the last

ten years, except

to get out her compatct

and a tube

of lipstick.

i never once saw

money

in her hand.

she had the penthouse,

the limo,

the diamonds,

but spending a dime

on me

was out of the question.

and the love making

was horrible,

to top it off.

she told her therapist

that i was

her lapdog.

which came out later

when

i ran.

always something

he buys a place

in Florida, he's officially

a snow bird

now,

i ask him what he does

in Florida

during the winter

months.

the same things i do

here,

he tells me.

golf and i ride

my bike,

but minus the shoveling

of snow,

the scraping

of ice

bugs though, are an

issue

as are the hurricanes.

let the good times roll

is it luck,

or fate, or destiny.

is it

God's will.

has your ship come

in?

is it your turn

at last?

what's behind

this stretch 

of good fortune 

and good times?

maybe it's best 

not to ask,

why jinx it,

just let them roll

and hope

it lasts.

be quick about it

it doesn't matter

anymore.

there's room 

now,

more

space

to stretch out in.

more quiet,

more fun

more love,

more sleep, more

of nearly 

everything but

pain

and drama.

cut them loose,

and be

quick about it.

the family bag of chips

i feel guilty.

i just ate a family bag of

potato chips.

why did they have to put

the word family

on the side

of the bag.

it's just me dipping

my hand

into the bag eating

one chip after

another

until i think, oh well,

it's almost

empty, i might as well

finish it

and get it out of the house.

i then turn the bag

upside down

to get the remaining

salty shards.

done. now where's

that family

beverage?

oh, so that's how they do it

as a child

you find someone, a friend,

an adult,

someone on tv

that you admire

and you begin

to emulate them.

mimic their behavior,

take on

their persona

whether real

or not.

you're just trying

to find your

way in the world

having been raised by wolves

with no one to look

up to.

you see how  these others

get it done.

they seem to have

life figured out.

and so off you go

being them in some

imaginary fashion

until you find your

own way,

your own wrong or right.

the first love

is there a first love

in every

life?

the boy or girl

next door.

infected you are

by infatuation,

a spell of sorts

that quickens

your pulse, making

your heart race.

a smile

from them sends

you to the moon,

and if they take your

hand

in theirs, well, that's

just the end all.

who are you?

on her death

bed

she began to speak Spanish

to her daughter

mistaking her

for the maid,

Milagro.

strange how

the mind and heart

try to figure

it all out,

when passing over

into the next life.

going through it

the afterlife

is different for each of us.

some

crumbling

into pieces, angry,

and crazed

while others

bury

the pain.

the grief of losing a

loved one, only to have

it come out

later

in a wave

of debilitating 

sorrow.

some wear death on their

sleeve.

making it a point

of survival.

taking to the street

for the cause.

and some

absorb and grieve 

then move on.

taking with it the wisdom

that it bestows.

making their life

a kinder and gentler

place

to be.

in line banking

i like

going to the bank

because there are no lines.

no one

goes to the bank

to do their transactions

anymore

just me

and a few other mid century

antiques.

i like to pour a bucket

of change

into the machine,

patiently

waiting for the churning

to stop

to get my receipt.

i like to stand at the desk

and fill out

deposit slips

or withdrawals,

tens and twenties please.

i say hi to the tellers,

Fred, Kamil and Margie.

the manager,

the assistant manager.

young whippersnappers, 

but they all know my name.

i grab a lollipop

to suck on while i wait

for my check to clear.

i like the bank.

it's nice and quiet 

in there.

she loves to dance

she loves to dance.

her life

is a dance.

she's a ballerina

at heart.

she's a

twirling top

spinning around.

she hears music,

just a note

of sound

and away she goes

on the tips

of her toes.

arms in the air

like a lovely swan.

for few dollars more

the job

is in the hood. in the worst

part of town.

the mayor had her car

hijacked there

just last week.

there's a crack house

on every corner.

do i want to go

there for a few bucks?

is it worth 

it?

do i pack heat, put

on a bullet proof vest?

take out the pepper spray?

where do i park?

will it be dark before

i finish?

i check the crime rate

for that area

of town.

it's all lit up in red

indicating

danger

in a five mile radius

of the address.

how do i tell the nice

young couple 

who just moved here

from Wyoming, no?

they really want this

periwinkle

wallpaper

up in the baby's room,

before he's born.

chicken and the egg

so wait a minute,

i ask

the farmer.

mr. jones in his overalls

and straw hat,

boots,

and a big belt with

a horse buckle.

so wait a minute, i say

again.

you mean to tell me

that a chicken

don't need to have sex

with a rooster to

lay all these eggs?

that's right, he says.

and lately, we're on

the short end of the stick

too

with all these test tubes.

the body count

the news

is not good.

the anchor points to the tote

board,

letting us

know how many are dead

in the latest

flood, or fire

or virus outbreak.

how many

missing.

the bigger the number

the better.

six thousand, ten thousand

can you give

me twelve, the weatherman

says.

stayed tuned

will bring you up

to date

coverage and do a recount.

we

promise to fill you

with dread.

the first wish

i meet

a generous Genie

at the beach.

she's in an old 

Mateus wine

bottle that's washed

up on the shore.

i give it a rub,

and out she pops.

ponytail and J Lo

pants.

she tells me

that i get a hundred

wishes

whenever i want.

a hundred?

sure she says.

why not?

well most Genies only

offer

three wishes.

hmm. she says.

i'm new at this, but

thanks

for the info.

okay, so what's your

first wish.

money, a car, a house.

how about we go

for a cup of coffee

and talk about it, i tell

her.

by the way,

nice pants.

the alive years are hardest

at last i finish

the thousand page biography

on miss

Plath.

good lord

what a life she had.

short as it

was.

everything she desired

out of writing

came after

her death. her ambitions

at last fulfilled.

so true for most artists.

the alive years

being

the hardest.

the Farrah Fawcett hair

i'll never

cut my hair, she told me once,

heading off

to the beauty 

parlor

at the age of sixty-three.

it's always going to be this

color

and down to my

shoulders

until the day i die.

even when i'm ninety

five

and in a wheel

chair.

my hair will be exactly

the same.

the Farra Fawcett

look

from the seventies.

it's me

my style.

that and my red bathing

suit.

the cold tub water

it's easy

to slip down that little

rabbit hole

of a phone.

suddenly you're interested

in things

that have never

crossed your mind.

who knew that a squirrel

could do that?

or which 

President was the biggest

in terms

of pant size.

before you know it

and hour is gone.

then two,

then three

and

the tub water has gone

cold.

one day and out

when young,

we used to look for jobs

in the newspapers.

remember them?

we'd turn to the classified

section and with

an ink pen

circle the possibilities.

each requiring absolutely

no skills

or higher education.

sales jobs.

construction jobs.

landscaping,

janitorial jobs.

driving an ice cream

truck.

picking apples

in a field.

we took a lot of one day

jobs back then, happy

for the cash.

sound tracks

what do i do with all

this music

that i've collected since

the age of 15.

records,

still in their sleeves,

tapes,

cd's. alums and 45's

all of them in boxes

or scattered about

in drawers

and glove

compartments.

the sound track of my life.

i have six ways to listen

to each of them

now

with a click of my phone.

there's not much that i

hold dear

to my heart,

but all of these songs

i can't let go.

just letting off a little steam

it's okay

to curse now.

which is good.

people can let off a little

steam.

mothers

and fathers,

kids even.

all of them using the s word,

the f word

and the longer

m f word.

no longer is it drunk

sailors

or motorcycle gangs.

car salesmen,

or circus

people blaspheming God.

i heard the priest at

high mass

the other day

let out with a g d

when his

robe caught on fire

by an inept

altar boy.

why don't they try to score?

when my

son was ten he played soccer.

i've seen

every soccer field

in the hundred

mile radius

of where we lived.

mysteriously most of

the games were

at six in the morning.

rain or sleet,

or hail.

it didn't matter, game

on.

two games a week

for nine months.

the season never ended.

at some point

they went indoors.

i shivered on the sidelines

and tried

to cheer, but

had no idea what was

going on.

no one seemed to care

if they won

or lost,

just some maniacal coach

or two.

in the end

the players were just

happy to go home

after pizza

at the local shop, no

mention of the game.

here kitty kitty

i give

a little bit of what she cooked

to the cat,

her cat.

things have not

been going

well and i suspect she may

be tampering

with the food.

that box of arsenic

beneath the sink,

a clue.

the cat

lives, so i dig in,

telling her how wonderful

it is,

her stew.

the high road less taken

the low road

is easier. the high road

being so moral,

so virtuous,

out of the mud

and debris

that lies below.

why is that?

what makes us decide

to take

the low road,

our quiver full of slings

and arrows.

ordinary madness

there is true

madness, wild eyed and 

hallucinatory.

having conversations

with the dead,

or the living

who aren't there.

and then there's

ordinary madness,

an umbrella that we

all fall under,

even in good weather,

living our lives in

a mindless sort of way.

the peach

this peach

is you.

believe me, i know

my fruits,

tropical

or domestic.

the fuzz of it, the soft

skin,

the fragility

of its life

span.

the sweetness

of juice.

i know what to do with

you.

bite down,

and soon.

longing for dark clouds

i'm determined to write

a serious poem.

pondering life and death.

love and sin.

abandonment 

and neglect.

rain driven emotions.

so i dig into

my favorite poets

searching for inspiration.

Plath and Sexton,

Robert Lowell

and Bishop, Strand

and Roethke. 

some strange dark stuff

in all of them.

but i've nothing right now.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll return to being

an emotional wreck

and dip my pen into

an inkwell

of despair.

are you happy now?

that bee.

busy around my ear,

reminds

me of

you.

i swat at it, but

to no avail.

it keeps

coming back,

around

and around it goes.

it's very agile

and fast.

i don't want to kill

it,

but i don't want

to get stung

either.

talking to it is useless

with our

human and insect

language barrier.

finally i give up

and let it

land on my arm where

it proceeds

to sting me, then flies

off.

i call out to it,

okay,

are you happy now.

come on over and watch the game

my neighbor

likes football.

i like football, but the common

interests sort

of end there.

i see him on Sundays

carrying in

cases of beer

and rotisserie chickens.

his big truck has eight

cylinders and American

flags

are hanging everywhere.

he's very patriotic

and has

an interesting assortment

of tattoos

running up his arms

and around

his neck.

which is all fine.

we say hello in passing,

but that's about it.

but then he asks

me if i'd like to come

over and watch

the game with him.

i cringe, and sigh, and

say geeze, i wish i could,

but my friend

Lula Bell is in treatment

at the hospital

for the next

six months, and i have

to help her out

with needles and stuff.

if i don't go,

she might die.

a nice cool breeze

all day,

i walked around with my zipper

down

on my trousers.

accidentally, of course.

fortunately

i wasn't going commando

today.

it did feel a bit breezy

down there,

but i attributed it

to being in a good mood,

after Betty

came over last night,

and morning coffee.

no one said a thing

the whole day,

or seemed to mind.

working, grocery shopping.

going to church

for confession.

it's a long day, and then

i finally go home,

and at last realize

what that breeze was

all about.

oh my.

on hold with Verizon

i get a lot done when

i'm on hold

with Verizon,

my impossible to reach

cell phone

and cable service.

i've pushed every prompt

and answered every question

with a push

of the numbered keys,

at last i'm in line

and waiting

to talk to a real person.

yesterday i baked a cake,

let it cool,

then iced it.

today i'm taking a pottery

class while

i listen to music.

there are nineteen callers

in front of me.

but no problem.

i do my taxes,

give my dog a bath.

i solve a Rubiks Cube,

and do a few

quadratic equations

that baffled Einstein

back in the day.

tomorrow, if the call

continues i'll be taking online

med school

courses.

by the time i talk to an agent

i'll be a resident

at Belleview.

thank you Verizon.

about so and so

word would

get around by standing in the yard

with cold

feet on the ground

hanging laundry

on the line.

i would watch my mother

with the basket,

a clothes pin her mouth,

her apron pocket 

full of them.

sheets and shirts, pants

and dresses.

all in the wind now.

the neighbors on either side

doing the same.

getting the word out.

using the trap door

don't misunderstand me,

i still like people.

not all people, but some.

i'm just quick to hit

the switch and open

the trap door on those

that lie, and cheat, 

and betray. those

that do me wrong.

the half light of night

she can't sleep.

from side to side she moves.

turning each

pillow over.

what is it dear, i ask.

what's wrong.

she turns on the light.

nothing she says,

getting up in her night gown.

i'm downstairs.

come with me.

so i do. wordless,

we sit in the half

light of night,

drinking milk and

eating cookies.

walk on by

you can't

look at women anymore,

not stare,

but give them an admiring

glance.

it's against the rules,

no longer

can you appreciate

their beauty.

the shape of them,

the curl of their hair,

the gleam in

their eyes, they way

they part

their painted lips,

making you sigh.

the rules have changed,

you have to walk about

and pretend you're blind.

troubled people

if life

exists outside

this galaxy, somewhere

in the universe,

do they look and see

and say,

let's go there, or are

they content and happy

enough

to stay put.

each agreeing,

they're troubled people,

why bother

them, let's not

go there.

Pot Roast Sunday

my mother

was proud of her 

jigsaw puzzles.

taking

all winter to put one together.

sitting at

the dining room

table, gathering

pieces by color.

what was it this time?

The Effiel Tower.

she'd call when it was finished

and say you

have to come over

on Sunday to see it.

i'll make a pot roast.

and when i did,

there it was,

laminated

and hanging on her

sewing room wall.

the next puzzle already

out of the box.

on just bread and wine

those days of less,

were full,

the one room

apartment,

the one

car,

the one phone

on the wall,

singulars in all things

were fine.

how easy sleep came

with less,

on my mind.

less

things to protect

and worry

about.

few regrets, because

the past

was so short.

so easy to be happy

on just

bread

and wine.

nothing has changed

the warm

sand

under your bare feet is

a welcome

home

of sorts.

the lighted end

of the day.

an array of pastel

ribbons,

and

there it is.

the ocean.

it's all there, same

as it's always

been,

beautiful and frightening.

rinse and repeat

we apologize,

but then go out and do the same

damn

things all

over again.

what's wrong with us,

we're not dumb

or bad people,

we just can't help

ourselves.

we can't keep our mouths

shut at times.

we make bad choices,

misbehave

and slander,

steal and lie.

cheat.

then we pray once more for

forgiveness.

the world is running

dangerously low

on Holy water.

only by dying will tell

it's difficult.

this faith thing.

despite all the miracles

you've

seen.

still,

it's hard.

we want to understand

this heaven

and hell.

we want concrete

evidence,

not a song and dance,

smoke

and mirrors, and yet

we know,

as the song goes,

miss Nyro,

that only by dying will tell.

anticipation

so much

of joy is built

around

anticipation.

the longing, the wait.

with time

and distance keeping

us from 

what we want,

desire grows even

stronger

by absence

we can almost taste

what our

mind and body

wants.

and love is no

different

than other appetites.

she's all better now

i get the call

from the mental hospital,

and sigh,

my vacation is over.

the doctor says

your wife is all better now.

she's cured

and somewhat normal.

we cleaned her up,

bandaged her wrists

and gave her

a medicated smile.

she'll be waiting for you

on the front stoop

of the facility

when you arrive.

no need to sign.

but we advise you

to keep her away from

sharp objects for awhile,

not to mention gas ovens,

and make

sure she takes her medicine.

and when you go

to sleep at night,

keep open at least one eye.

what love isn't

is that blood

on your shirt, she

asks, peering around

the corner

as i come

home from work,

and fall

into the big chair.

apparently

the days of the welcome

home kiss, are over.

i untie my boots, sliding

out of them.

just a cut,

i tell her.

i'm okay. i stare at

my hands.

they're still curled

from the tools

i used for nine hours.

my nails re black.

i take off my hat

and wipe

my brow.

i close my eyes and feel

the burn

of a long day.

i could fall asleep right

there in this chair

and not wake up

for days.

and then i hear her voice

in the kitchen,

are you going to wash up

before dinner?

or just sit there?

and you tracked mud

in by the way.

do you mind taking your

boots off on the porch

when you come home?

late for dinner again

i take the long way home,

around

the city, against the flow

of traffic.

i find

the back streets

by the park,

the lake,

the path where lovers

walk hand

in hand.

i go slow taking it all in.

i'm in no rush

to get home to an empty

house.

there is no one 

there to ask me,

where i've been.

there's

not a soul peering

anxiously out

the kitchen window,

hoping i'm not late for

dinner,

once again.

three rooms down, to the left

in black,

of course, we go to the funeral

home

to pay

our respects.

we sit in back, not wanting

to take a final

look at our friend

who lies

twenty rows up

in a very nice looking

casket.

we nod at the other guests,

smiling politely

as we dab at our tears

remembering the good times.

after a while though,

when words are said,

and we don't

recognize anyone

we realize that we're at

the wrong

death.

our friend is three rooms

down the hall,

to the left.

the quiet room

is there a more

thunderous sort of noise

than

silence?

is it not worse than

bombs

falling,

exploding around you,

bullets flying by

your head.

the heavy weight of quiet.

it's a tortuous

sort of death

when nothing is

said.

sleep on it

it's good to sleep

on things.

on major life altering

decisions..

no need to rush.

the solution will come

to you in the morning.

a good sleep has a way

of smoothing

out the sea

that has gone rough,

but not always.

sometimes your first

instinct is right.

abandon ship and swim

for shore.

trust your gut.

the cruise to save the marriage

we took

a cruise once upon a time.

the cruise

to save

the marriage.

a romantic trip

beneath the stars and moon,

drifting along

the blue waters

of the Caribbean.

she wanted a bathtub

in the room,

despite the six pools,

nine hot tubs

and Jacuzzis

and 

the ocean outside our

suite

with a king size

bed

and a veranda.

i gave in and said okay, but

on day two

of the ten day cruise

around

islands i caught her

on the poop deck making

out with

one of the servers,

Juan from Puerto Rico.

i remember

how he gave her an extra

helping

of creme Brule at dinner.

she told me

she was just making new

friends.

i tried to call my lawyer,

but the cell reception

was poor, at best.

just one, please

the pear

knows where it stands

with the other fruit.

green

skinned or brown.

fragile with

a curious short shelf life.

one pear

per year and you're done.

you never see

a bag of pears

next to a bag

of apples or

oranges.

you can't roll one

along

on the belt,

with its odd shape.

you have to carry it

to the clerk

and smile when she

says,

just one?

i can hardly see you

you have

to be careful with your words

these days.

the world

is thin

skinned.

everyone takes

offense at nearly

everything.

everyone is walking on eggshells.

no one

wants to be cancelled.

so when she asks

me if she looks fat

in this dress.

i quickly say no.

in fact, dear,

when you stand sideways

i can hardly

see you.

here, have another slice

of cake.

the gold watch

i was green

when i sat down for interview.

young

and inexperienced.

but my hair

was combed,

and i wore a new suit

with new

shoes.

i put on a fine impression.

what was there to lose?

i envisioned

a thirty-year run

with a gold watch at the end.

accumulating a tidy

sum to retire on.

i could do this job

even though

i had no

clue.

within a few weeks,

they knew that too

and a guard 

escorted me out

of the building.

her three story flat

should we

take the steps,

or wait for the elevator,

she says.

it's a now

question

with no need to ask.

we'll wait,

i tell her,

holding her bags,

and pushing the button.

love can wait.

three floors up

is a monumental

task.

ice berg dead ahead

i can feel

when someone is mad at me,

then miles away.

there's a chill

in the air,

no words needed,

just dead silence.

no telephone

ringing,

no ding for a text.

nothing.

the ice age once more

has set in

and again i have no

idea

what i've said or

done.

wanting an oatmeal cookie

with our

sleeves rolled up, we stand

in line again

for shots.

our vaccines

that will keep us ticking

for another

winter, or more.

pneumonia

shot. 

tetanus,

shingles.

covid of course.

the latest booster for

the flu.

we are human pin cushions

as we

one by one,

shuffle out the door.

just once

i'd like someone to hand

me an oatmeal cookie\

before i leave.

Shangri-La redux

strange

to see you so happy

again.

what's changed?

did the lobotomy

work

this time,

the electro shock treatments?

and here i thought

there was no help

for you,

no pills, no therapy,

no books

to read to bring you

back to life.

glad you're

happy again.

did he finally leave

his wife?

diagnosis pending

before i

leave the house.

i check

the stove, the water,

did i leave it running,

are all the lights

off,

i better run upstairs

to check

the windows

once more.

they're calling for rain.

i lock the back

door, again.

i move

the vase an inch to the left

on the mantle,

then touch

my favorite book

on the table six times,

then turn

around twice

as i back up,

seven steps

to the door.

clean up on aisle six

i understand why

young people don't want to work,

i get it.

the early rise,

the boss, the time clock,

the lowly

pay,

the mundane tasks.

i completely understand,

but so what.

grab that mop

there's a spill on aisle six

a jar

of dill pickles dropped.

two worlds

my friend

Linda, calls me from Italy.

sends

me a picture of her eating

linguini

and drinking

wine

in Florence.

she's placed a flower

in her hair

for effect.

how are you, she asks.

what's new.

i send her a picture of me

at the food

court at the mall

eating a chili dog and drinking

an orange soda.

a bag of clothes

from Target at my feet.

the new fall line

is in, i tell her.

the dirty dishes

i can't leave

the dirty dishes in the sink.

why, she asks,

come on,

let's go upstairs, we'll

do them

together in the morning.

she winks,

and sashays towards

the stairs.

but i tell her no,

and begin

to scrub them in

the hot water

with my rubber gloves

on.

go on up, i tell her.

make yourself comfortable,

this won't take long.

sadly,

she's asleep when i'm done.

the new lamp

the new lamp,

bright white and tall,

porcelain

with a wide shade

and

new bulb

gets all the attention.

the couch

sighs,

the plant in the corner

shakes her

head.

the pictures on the wall

have little to say

anymore.

it's all about the lamp now.

even the rug

is angry.

the misunderstanding

it's just a small

sting

from a wandering bee

protecting

the queen

and her honey.

the welt rises on my

hand.

a small

sore bump of

redness.

it's a misunderstanding

which i'm

quick to forgive

and move on.

the true story of Moses

Moses had a few

friends

that didn't believe him.

non-believers.

they

laughed

as he told the story

of the burning bush

up in the mountain

when God spoke to him.

did He have like a Brooklyn

accent

they asked,

a low voice,

or was it high pitched

and squeaky

like Mickey Mouse or

Joe Pesci?

they doubted the tablets

holding the ten

commandments.

my sister could do that

in her sleep

one of them said,

with a chisel and a hunk

of rock.

and what's with only

ten commandments?

my mother-in-law

has about fifty,

don't talk with your mouth full,

wipe your feet before coming

in after sheep herding,

finish your dinner, people over

in Ephesus are starving.

what is your 
God but a Las Vegas

David Copperfield.

what's next?

water into wine,

raising the dead, making

the blind see,

and the crippled walk.

pfffft.

how about something big,

like parting the Red

Sea?

or making Mt. Sinai disappear.

can he do that too?

and what's with the beard,

you've got soup

and bread crumbs

all over it.

not cool dude, not cool.

out of the closet at last

gathering

all his friends and relatives,

his loved ones

together for a party,

he stands up

in the room

below his beloved

chandelier

to make an announcement.

he taps a spoon to his

crystal wine glass

and proudly says,

i'm coming out of the closet

at last.

which makes everyone

laugh,

as they admire the art

on the wall,

the Italian linen,

the silverware,

the seven-course meal

they just had

while classical music

filled their ears.

oh, really now, please

tell us something

we never

knew, they say in unison,

eliciting a cheer.

how about this bush?

i would carry

my dog

out in a rain storm,

or sleet

and snow going sideways

and set

him under a bush

so that he could relieve

himself.

was that a good bush

to go?

of course not.

i'd carry him to another

bush,

then another,

politely encouraging

him 

at each stop along the way.

finally, with

both of us wet

and frozen,

he'd look up at me

with snow on his nose,

lift a leg

and say, okay.

what's wrong with her?

she confuses

me with her kindness

and generosity,

her

concern for me and others.

who does

that anymore?

what planet is she from?

what century?

making dinner,

and praying before a meal,

rubbing my shoulders

when they're sore.

topping off

my coffee with more.

putting a pillow

under my legs for comfort.

she tells me that it's

you who i love

and adore.

what's wrong with her?

she's wonderful.

visigoths

it must have

been hard to be around

Vikings,

the Visigoths

and other assorted ruffians,

and barbarians.

all that raping

and pillaging,

roughnecks with beards

and massive

helmets on their

heads,

with horns no less.

what a motely crew they

were.

bows and arrows,

swords

and swinging hammers

around.

trouble makers,

instigators.

glad that's over. 

finding the sweet spot

there are sweet

spots

in life,

moments of clarity

where

all is in order,

everything is exactly

the way

you want them to be.

love is true.

there is good health.

you are rested

and curious.

alive.

you want this to go

on forever,

but of course it won't.

the sweet spot

is a delusion

that will pass with time.

submitted for your approval

strange how the sock

drawer

is full

and yet not one sock matches

the other.

each white sock

different,

each black sock

different.

how is this

possible?

i think it's worthy of

an episode

on the Twilight Zone.

i get busy

with the screen play.

i can hear Rod Serling's

voice now

as he slowly pulls

open a drawer

in the shadowy room,

then holds a lone 

sock up

for the camera.

no so forever young

the rock star,

in his seventies,

has to cancel his tours.

drugs

and drinking

and doing whatever it is that

rock stars

do on the road

has caught up

with him.

he's a train wreck

inside

and out.

forever young,

is just a song,

not a reality.

getting loose

i get my leg stuck

behind

my head while taking a 

yoga class

at the Y.

three women

roll me over and carefully

pry my ankle

loose

and straighten out

my leg.

one of them pats me

on the head

and hands me a pill,

here, she says.

this will loosen you up

for the next

move.

they won't let you forget

most birds

will veer off before colliding

into the window

as i watch

from inside.

but on occasion,

one

will dive head first

into the glass, then fall

to the ground.

stunned and embarrassed.

most survive

and fly away again, but

the other birds will

never let them live

it down.

the evening news

are they running low

on things

to scare us, to keep us

worried

and bereft of ways

to stay

alive

what's next.

what's in the air, under

the ground,

what will we run out of.

who

will kill us,

what germ?

what nation will overtake

us,

where is the asteroid

that will drop out of the sky

and make

mince meat pie

out of civilization?

stay tuned,

the evening news,

at five.

old and unwise

just because

her face

is creased with time,

with worry

and trouble,

or that there are

lines around his eyes

and mouth,

his hair

gone grey,

don't mistake this

for wisdom,

it doesn't always

work that way.

old does not equal

wisdom,

sometimes, just age.

do i miss those days?

do i miss those days?

of course i do.

the friends

now old,

the carefree life,

the late nights,

the chase

for love, or lust,

and settling

for like,

the dancing, the drinking.

the carousing

as young men do.

do i miss all of that.

that unbridled youth?

of course.

how about you?

gaslighting

do you hear

that? i ask

my new friend Midge, as she

lies beside me

on the couch.

we're watching a movie

on Turner Classics.

Gaslight.

do i hear what? she says.

that clicking noise.

a drip, or something.

she shrugs her shoulder

and says, nope.

well it's something,

click click click.

it's driving me crazy.

beats me, she says.

i get up and look around

the house,

i check the bathroom.

turning the knobs on the

sink and shower.

the kitchen sink is tight too.

i go down into the basement

and check the water

heater.

i look out the window.

it's not raining out.

exhausted i go back to lie

on the couch.

then i see in her hand a tiny

metal frog

that she keeps pressing on.

click click click.

this is not a good start,

seeing that we just met yesterday.

how about some popcorn,

she says,

as she casually slides the frog

beneath a pillow.

giving it one more shot

the screams

from next door, 

and the thump of things

crashing

against the shared wall

of our bedrooms

is not unusual.

not to mention music

by

Marvin Gaye

and Al Green blasting

at full volume.

the neighbors,

Pam and Bill,

told me

the other day as they

were carrying in a load

of oysters, candles and

bottles of wine that they're

trying once

more to have a baby.

she said they're giving it one

more shot

before throwing in

the towel.

i told her i had no real

clinical suggestions

as to how

to get the job done,

but i gave her

and her husband both

the thumbs up

and told them,

good luck.

looking in the mirror

the grocery

clerk

looks down at my

selection

of groceries, then

looks up

at me.

there's something she

wants to say

about my one

tomato,

my half quart of milk,

and a single

steak.

but she doesn't.

perhaps she's looking

in the mirror

and not at me.

what you need is a hobby

you need a hobby,

my therapist says. you need

some sort of

activity

to take your mind off

your problems.

go bowling, or take up

archery.

i roll my eyes. what?

do you like to fish, she says.

what about gardening?

or how about wood carving?

i have a friend that makes

salad bowls out of tree

trunks. you should see them.

he sells them down at

the flea market on Saturdays.

he just loses himself in

his work, whittling all day.

personally i like to knit

at night after i get home,

she says.

it's very invigorating.

i made that pillow over there.

see it, the one shaped

like a cat on the window sill?

i let out a deep sigh, 

and get up off

the couch where i've been

lying for fifty minutes,

wringing my hands.

don't you just have a pill or

something to numb my brain?

i ask her.

begging at the table

tired of begging

at the dinner table, 

whining in his high

pitched

voice, my dog,

Rex,

pulls a gun on us.

he sits there with a

threatening

look

on his furry face,

and waits.

we stare at the small

revolver

between his paws

then

carefully cut him

up a steak

and set it on the floor.

he nods

his approval

then puts the gun away.

things have

changed, we can't let

him watch tv

anymore.

it's early in the relationship

let's go on

a picnic, she says.

i have a blanket

and a basket, and a thermos

that i can put

ice tea in.

it's early in the relationship.

so i say,

okay.

i'm very agreeable

at this stage

of the game.

we haven't even had sex

yet, but

the prospects

are promising.

a picnic might get the ball

rolling

in that direction.

sure, i tell her. i'll boil

some eggs.

and make some cucumber

sandwiches

with the crust cut

off.

oh, she says, you're so

sweet.

i'll bake some cookies

for us.

chocolate chip

with nuts okay?

yup, i tell her,

as i search under the kitchen

sink for bug spray.

game on.

fossil fuel protesters

they don't

seem to realize that the earth

is  a virtual

bar of soap.

at some point it's all going

down the drain

no matter what

we use for fuel,

so why

glue yourself to the road

protesting

climate change.

why chain yourself

together

blocking the street

in the belief that you're

doing anything

that helps?

the earth

has been changing

constantly for a very long

time.

hot then cold.

cold then hot.

at some point the sun will

burn out

and the party will be over.

get a job, be good people,

stop annoying us,

and shut up.

the human sun dial

i don't know why

i have so many clocks

and watches.

things telling time.

the stove,

the microwave,

the phone,

the alarm clock. i don't

even care anymore what

time it is.

i have nowhere to be

where time matters.

i'm done with

punching the clock.

i use the sun for waking up,

and the moon

for going to sleep.

taking it too far

my neighbor found out

last week,

that she was a half of

one percent

Native American

she sent in her

spit to the Ancestry

web site

where they analyzed her saliva.

they found

a trace of DNA

linked to some people

who lived

in Arizona before it was

Arizona back in the 1600s.

she's blonde with blue

eyes and as white as flour,

i saw her the other

day in her back yard

wearing war paint

and a head dress of feathers.

she was

constructing a totem

pole and a teepee, she yelled

across the fence calling

me the white man

who stole her land.

then let out a loud war cry

that made the dog howl

and a flock of birds fly

out of a tree.

this could be trouble.

take off your shoes

i cringe

and roll my eyes

when i hear the words

take off your

shoes, we're a no shoes in

the house

kind of people,

and here, put on a mask,

one can't be too safe,

and shhhh,

be quiet, talk lightly,

the baby's sleeping.

this time of the day he

takes his nap.

do you mind turning off

your phone?

rocking back and forth

there's an art

in getting the car out of the mud

or slush

of ice and snow.

someone has

to push

and rock the boat

from behind

while

someone puts there

foot to the gas

pedal, gently

and kind,

giving it a slow roll,

forward then back.

you need sand, 

or stones

beneath the tires, something

to make it grip.

even this sweater that she

gave me

for Christmas last year,

it's in the trunk,

forever unworn

and a last minute gift.

stuff it under and let

it rip.

tumbleweed art

there's a whole

segment of the show

on the woman

who collects

tumbleweeds

and turns them into art,

into chandeliers

and lamps,

something to paint

and hang upon a high wall.

they are great balls

of weeds and shrubs, vines

and branches,

all magically wound

together.

that have been

rolling across the windblown

desert for weeks

on end.

i invite her over

after some time without

my housekeeper

and let her take what

she wants.

you're already there

there are variations

of the sigh,

the exhale

of air.

sometimes it's boredom,

disinterest

in what someone is

telling you,

or the book in your lap,

or maybe it's

frustration

with the stuck key,

the stubborn lock.

while other times

it's a momentary

flash of

despair.

when it feels like 

you're going nowhere,

and thinking that maybe

you might already 

be there.

the proper tip

do i tip

the barista who just handed

me a cup

of coffee,

what's fifteen

percent

of five dollars,

twenty percent?

he/she, hard to tell

anymore which,

did shuffle

three feet to the left

to pour the cream

and drop

in a packet of sweetener.

i'll be at work

who isn't pierced or inked

or some

part of

the radical left or right?

who hasn't joined

the circus,

the carnival, letting

their freak flags

fly? dying their hair blue,

or purple,

chanting in the streets

for political and cultural

rights.

who hasn't joined

the madness?

is it just you, and I?

ten thousand suns

more than

ten thousand suns have

spent their

light upon these walls,

and yet.

they still stand,

crumbling,

but strong.

what lesson is there

in this?

in that,

i'm not so sure.

my only regret

get on with it,  i plead,

as my head rests upon

the curved

cut board,

the blade of the guillotine

resting ten

feet above my neck.

give them what they want,

i exclaim

staring out into 

the maddening crowd. this is

what they came

for,

and then i see a beauty

among the faces.

her blue eyes smiling

at me,

her long black hair

across her shoulders

catching sunlight.

i see kindness in her gaze.

maybe things would have

been different

if i'd met her sooner,

i think. but

it's my final thought,

and

only regret as i listen

to the tumble of

the blade.

the fake policeman call

the fake

policeman calls

asking

for a donation.

it's a deep manly voice,

serious

and strong.

it's scary how he knows

my name.

i ask if isn't he paid

by our taxes,

the county

or state, or district

that he works in.

the robotic voice

doesn't understand

my question

and presses onward.

there are three levels

of contributions,

the voice says.

the bronze, the silver

or gold plan.

you want to be safe,

don't you?

he says.

your kids, your wife, your

grandparents

need to be protected

by our men and women

in blue.

crime is up and never

going down, so

which plan are you more

comfortable with

in giving.

can we count on you

this year

with one of our monthly

donation plans?

buy a boat and lose friends

if you have

more

money than you'll ever need,

buy

a stupid

boat and sail

the bay,

the sea.

bring friends along

to keep

the rust off,

to keep it unsalted

and clean.

teach them

how to steer, how to

tie knots

and set the sails

or start the engine.

you'll instruct them on

how to bait a hook

and drop

the anchor.

you'll show them 

where the head

is, if you have to pee.

but soon

they'll be busy,

doing other things,

not taking your calls

to sail, suddenly

they're never free.

in our flammable costumes

sweating in

our plastic flammable

super hero

costumes

we hit the hi-rises

first, but

the word

got out quickly among

us

as to who

was giving out candied apples

and real

chocolate

bars

with nuts.

dollar bills

and real peppermint

patties.

the hell with these

apartments,

these hallways and steps.

we're going

to Park Avenue,

next.

they have a Cadillac

in the driveway

so they

must be rich.

shopping at the mall

i grab

my money, my wallet,

my coupons,

my pepper spray

and my

emergency whistle,

then strap on my bullet proof

vest, and head

to the mall.

but there's been another

incident

of some sort,

causing

everyone to stamped

out the door.

so i have to wait

in the parking lot

for hours

until the police

clear it out.

i put some music on

and wait.

the sale ends tomorrow.

but i could sure use

an Orange Juluis 

and a Cinnabon

right about now.

how it ends

she's late again,

i fold my legs and sip

my drink.

i read

the menu, turn it over

once more,

then again.

i play with the salt

shaker,

turning it over.

i look around the room

at the salesmen

away from their wives

eating

whatever it is they want

to eat.

over drinking and flirting

with the waitresses.

i stare at the six televisions

that are on.

i look at my watch,

i check my phone.

she's late again as usual.

finally i give up.

it's been an hour.

this friendship is not

working out.

time to go home.

dealing with severe hardships

i see the man

in my

backyard

in his bright green vest.

he's holding

a pick axe

and next to him lies

a shovel.

he's burying

cable

wires again

that run from my house

to the box

outside the fence.

the last wire was cut

by a competing

cable company

when they did their diggings.

not having internet

or television

for several

days was a hardship

i wish upon no one.

wi-fi was dead.

i stared for days at a

picture book

instead.

by law she gets half

by law

we divided everything in half.

the house,

the two cars.

the cat and dog. the kid.

every penny

i ever earned

was now half hers,

despite the fact

that she never worked

a day in her life,

or came into

the marriage with a single

cent

to her name,

not to mention that

i caught

her sleeping with my

son's karate

instructor

at the dojo. Carlos,

a former cartel

member

from Columbia and

a triple black belt,

so what could i do, but

sign it all away.

whistling in the dark

beware

of people that whistle

all

the time.

whether happy

or sad,

in crisis, or not.

i'm not saying they're

crazy,

or psychopaths,

but

keep an eye on

them.

the amateur magician

i ask her where all the scars

on her body came

from,

teeth mark from saws

are on her stomach,

her arms

and legs,

her torso.

all sides have been cut

at some point

in her life.

she pulls the sheet up,

and sighs.

my husband was an

amateur magician

and knife thrower

once,

when we were first

married, she says.

i was part of the act.

a small touch up

the smallest jobs

are the hardest.

the most trouble.

with the least amount

of profit.

the touch ups, the repairs,

the high

ceiling,

the cellar

crawl space, or in

the attic

four flights up,

just a dab of paint

will do, she says,

it'll just take you a minute

to finish,

and could you please

change a lightbulb

while you're up there?

i think you'll need

your extra long 32 foot

ladder for that.

i'll hold it for you while

you lean over.

three a.m.

i make a note

to fix

the clock tomorrow.

i'll set the hands

again,

find the right size batteries

to get it

ticking once

more.

it's been three a.m.

for a year now.

i think it's time

to move on

to four.

it's not time yet

i lie down

for sleep. but there is no sleep.

so i get out of bed

and go to the machine

to write

about not being

able to sleep.

is it worry

about the future,

is it money or love,

is it age?

what is it keeping me

up?

nothing.

nothing comes to mind,

it's just not time yet.

needing a place to go

in a moment

of boredom, i take out my shoes

and line them up.

i get the shoe shine

kit from

under the sink

and go at it with

brown and black tins

of polish,

the chamois the cloth,

the brush.

new laces for some.

now i just need a place

to go

to wear them.

treading water

sometimes

you're just adrift. floating

in the sea

of days

before you,

treading water in 

the deep

blue

of memory and loss,

it's cold

and colder the deeper

you drop.

the hardest ones

the best

teachers were the hardest

ones.

the strict

professor.

the ones with rules that

were never

broken.

they stuck to their guns.

you either

learned

and did the work,

obeyed,

or went home

with so much still

unknown.

guilt driven

as if on a leash

you go to places 

you have no interest

in going to.

but go anyway

to please someone.

you surrender,

as always.

you've been doing it your

whole life.

letting others lead

you by the hand,

tugging you along by

compromise

and guilt.

getting to the other side

we take

the brush down,

the vines,

the growth of years,

cutting through the bramble

with sharp blades,

we make a clearing

to get to where

we want to go,

wherever that might be.

we'll see

on the other side

if it was worth the effort.

go away

i see that

you texted me in the middle

of the night,

that you called

too

and left a message.

i see your footprints

in the flowerbed

by the window.

there's another note 

pinned to my

door.

you don't understand

the words, go away

and leave me alone,

do you?

the argument solved

my mother used

to throw

dishes at my father.

they were plates full of cold

food.

spaghetti,

or pork chops.

pea soup.

or baked beans.

his favorites.

we'd find the shards of

broken dishes

on the floor the next

morning,

the food stuck to the walls.

but they were

in bed together when

we peeked into

their bedroom.

entangled on one another.

the argument

solved.

the neighbor's pool

it will

be hot again today.

record temperatures

the weather man says.

the tar is sticky

on the street.

stay home, he says.

whatever you do

don't go out into

this heat.

but i do.

in my flip flops and

bathing suit,

my sunglasses and hat.

in search of a neighbor's

pool to jump into.

ten minutes late

it's hard

not to turn your head and observe

the accident,

the cars toppled

onto one another,

the fire,

the drivers

standing in the ditch

in pain.

the sirens

blaring.

fire trucks streaming

in.

it's hard not to look

and think

thank God i left late

today.

temporary

to each his own

castle.

whether box beneath

the bridge

or your uncle's

stately mansion

along

the hillside

where wine grows.

a roadside

motel with a hard bed

and pillow.

neon in your eyes.

the row house,

the penthouse,

the basement

room.

an army cot.

a prison cell.

we make it our own.

we'll remember it always.

sleep there

once

and it's in you.

part of who you are,

once upon a time,

your home.

the lemon girl

i don't

need to taste a lemon

again

to

pucker

my cheeks,

scrunch

my lips together.

i know what sour is.

i just need

to see one

cut

and squeezed, that's

enough

to know

that it's you i no

longer

need.

too far from home

it is the rug

of home, our feet ache for.

the bed

on the second

floor.

the dish and glass

where

you left them.

books on the shelf,

aligned

so.

the fireplace waiting

for wood

and

flame to warm you.

you've been away too

long.

on the road too far

from home.

making the new bed

the house

is ready for sale.

there's a sign in the yard.

see how it shines. see how

it's empty

and clean.

look at the floors,

the walls,

the new roof outside

the cut lawn

and roses, just planted.

it's as if no one

ever lived here before.

there were no births,

no joy, no laughter,

no fear or death.

it's a clean slate now.

ready for a new tenant

to make their bed.

fun is different now

fun

is different now. where once

i needed

a mountain

to climb,

or a stream to raft down,

or a rollercoaster

to ride.

now it's the front porch

swing

with a glass

of your ice tea,

your hand in mine.

a strange set of tears

a strange set

of tears

erupts.

something said,

something seen.

a memory

thought purged,

a scent

caught in the breeze,

now pricking a nerve.

you dab at your

cheeks,

your eyes,

wiping away

the mysterious

stream.

the Godly storms

what beauty

there is in these slender

lines

of filament

and spit,

the dark spider has

been at it

once again.

stringing her web from

post to hinge.

and me

with hesitant hand

swiping it

all away like some

Godly storm,

wreaking havoc

though lacking a bad

intention.

corks in the night

we're not two ships

in the night, passing

one

another.

we're more like two corks

from a spent

bottle of wine,

bobbing along,

a toothpick in the center

and a sail

from a slip

of paper

catching whatever

breeze blows

across this pond.

daily mud slinging

yes.

i have acted like a child,

an immature

person

seeking revenge by throwing

mud

at my latest target

of ill will.

the pen being my cowardly

sword

of choice.

but i'm sorry, sort of.

here's a rag

and a bar of soap.

water's over there.

now clean yourself up.

seeking the illusion

the air

is thin here. high upon this peak.

will i climb

higher?

maybe,

but then again maybe not.

perhaps 

i've gone

as far as i'm

supposed to.

what is fame, but an illusion.

the tumble

down

is often worse than

the struggle up.

getting sound advice

the weather man

in his

three piece suit and red tie,

his brown

shoes

and fancy haircut

advises me to hydrate

and wear white

if i go outside.

he explains how dark clothes

absorbs heat

while lighter clothes

reflect the sun.

i make a note

of that.

hydrate, he says, which

i take to mean

drink liquids such as

water or cold

ice tea.

i ask the screen if i can

put a lemon wedge

into the glass

too, but get no response.

i suppose next

week he'll tell us not

to pick up

snakes on the ground

when we mistake them

for sticks.

folding the fitted sheet

my six

years of higher education helps

little

in tackling

the mastery of a folded

fitted sheet.

it has baffled men

through the ages, men

such as Einstein

and Pablo Picasso,

and women too,

some

along the lines of Madame

Curie

and Joan of Arc.

she never got it down.

i go to YouTube

for help,

i call my mother,

my sisters,

my neighbor Louise

who had

seven children.

it's complicated they

all say.

drinking doesn't help,

so they advise

to not do that

while attempting

such a feat.

start early in the morning.

go slow.

be patient, they all say.

you've got this.

we need another option

i open the door

to let

the dog out back. he has to go.

but he sniffs

the air,

looks up at the sun,

and feels

the hundred degree

temperature

he looks up at me

with a worried look

on his face

that says,

i need to use the bathroom,

but i'm not

going out there and have

my fur catch fire.

we need another option.

newspapers?

the burning man

my hipster friend

Jodie

goes to the Burning Man festival,

or whatever the

hell it is.

she puts on her multi color

dress

and dyes her hair

blue for the occasion.

puts a stick

pin through her nose

and changes her

name for the weekend

to Rainbow.

i've yet to hear anyone

describe

exactly what they're

doing there.

crawling around

in the heat and mud.

music, crafts, drugs and drinking,

indiscriminate sex.

it sounds

like what i did in the seventies.

except we wore

nicer clothes

and were dancing in a club

under spinning

disco ball

with a vodka tonic in

our hand.

connecting the dots

they find a dot

on your skin, one on your lung,

your leg,

your scalp.

they are always finding

dots these days,

shadows,

and marks that

weren't there

yesterday.

that's what getting old

is all about.

wanting to go home

is it the heat

that

makes you weary,

makes

you lean

into the shade,

for a few less

degrees.

makes you brace

yourself

against a wall

near the alley.

is it old

age.

is it just fatigue

and hunger,

the weight of

carrying the load

of worries

that aren't

your own.

does it even matter.

you just

want to go home.

these boots are made for walking

i'd carry

the red transistor radio

to bed

with me

and spin

the dial hoping to catch

a tune

i might like.

be it the Beatles

or Stones,

Dylan,

or Tom Jones.

even as i child,

i'd like a variety

of music

to listen to.

even Nancy Sinatra

caught my

ear, with her boots

a walking.

Dean and Frank,

Leonard

Bernstein too.

the stubborn consumer

my father

would never buy a Japanese

car,

or a German

car, because of world war

two.

a Korean car

was out of the question

too, 

because of the Korean

war.

but his Chevy

Impala and Chevy

Malibu

have both seen more miles on

them being

towed

by a towed truck than

they have being

driven

on the open road.

call me for a free dinner and drinks

when i used to binge date

on a variety of online dating sites

looking for some sort

of love, or affection,

i spent

a lot of money.

it was the chivalrous

thing to do

to treat a woman to dinner

and drinks

even though it was the first date

and only date.

the odds were that you'd

never see them again

for the rest of your life.

one and out.

it was catch and release

most of the time.

i wasted a lot of money

on gallons of cologne

and mouthwash.

i could have put myself

through med school, 

with the money i wasted

on parking,

not to mention

the dry cleaning

bills and haircuts, well

trims.

i used to sigh when the bill

would come to the table,

and the date, stuffed with

a three course meal 

and wobbly with four glasses

of wine,

would excuse

herself to go powder

her nose.

rarely did i see a purse open,

most stayed

closed.

feminism. ha. what a joke.

the next go round

not to worry,

it's just a bump, a bruise.

a scrape

and cut. just blood.

it'll heal

soon,

trust me, they all do.

being made

of rubber

though,

would have been a good

idea,

dear Lord.

i'm putting that into

the suggestion

box

for the next go round

of creation,

if there is one.

her Daddy

closing in on

the epilogue

of The Red Comet.

she's

gone at this point,

found

lengthwise in her

nightgown

beside the hissing

stove,

the doors and windows

sealed with tape,

but more to come

as the beautiful

next wife is already

in her bed,

feeding her children.

eating strawberries

from her garden.

making love to her once

prince charming,

her muse,

her hope,

her salvation, her daddy.

our Lazurus moments

we have

all had our Lazurus moments.

rising

from the dead,

dusting ourselves

off,

shaking free of worms

and rodents

that have begun to nibble

at our souls,

but we're not dead yet.

it was just a little

nap, after a defeat or loss.

we're back in the saddle

once again.

ride em cowboy.

giddy up.

waiting for life to begin again

i offer

the man water.

it's ninety-nine degrees

in the sun

as he strings cable wire

from my house

to some underground

hole

beyond the fence.

he's wearing a uniform

and a company

cap,

so i guess he's trained

and knows what he's

doing.

back and forth to the truck

he goes

for a tool,

for more wire,

more things he needs

to get the job done.

i see him out the window,

as i sit on the cool

couch with remote

in hand, waiting for life

to begin

again.

once upon a time

with the wires

severed

you have no power,

no television

no internet,

nothing.

you resort to pen

and paper,

chalk upon the stone

walls

of your cave.

how easily we're

sucked

into it all.

technology blinding

us to

what was,

once upon a time,

good enough.

i told you so

because this normal

life

is not fun

enough, or interesting

enough,

they search

the cold lake

for the loch ness

monster,

they examine the haunted

house for ghosts

and apparitions.

they hike the hills

for big foot.

the abdominal snowman.

they turn

their eyes to the sky

and search

for a ufo,

an alien surprise.

then they bring back

a fuzzy photo

of something,

a blur

that looks like nothing

and say, see,

i told you so.

shot out of a cannon

when she returned

from

mountain climbing,

jumping

out of planes

and deep sea diving

she was bored.

so she joined the circus.

they shoot her

out of cannons now

into a net

a thousand yards away.

what's next?

i see her staring at

the moon at night.

perhaps.

the settlements

it's a life

of settling, of compromise.

with our

backs to some

imaginary

wall, we say okay,

give in.

we live here, 

we marry,

we land a job.

why not?

we have to stop looking

elsewhere

at some point\

and dig in.

this life is as good

as any,

i suppose.

keep it to yourself

they say

that we all have at least one

book in us.

a novel

about ourselves,

our life,

our own stories

told

from memory.

thankfully, not everyone

has the time

to write one.

most tales being boring,

and tame.

personal letters

i read

just an excerpt from

her personal

letters

and correspondence

collected

and anthologized

in volumes

one two and three.

how dare

they pull up her

dress like

that.

un clothe her mind

when it

was never meant

to be seen.

trust the gut

as does

the dog, i know too,

if there's

danger,

if someone is approaching,

if trouble

is afoot.

the gut informs me,

to double

lock the door,

cross the street\

when

strangers are approaching,

beware

of those who falsely

adore.

doing it all with a flashlight

i used to change

the oil

in my car,

the plugs, set the points,

change

the shocks

the oil pump, the water

pump.

i put new pads

and rotors on the brakes,

and all in the middle

of the night

with a flashlight.

but now i don't even

know where the latch

is to open

the hood.

the small thin box

she was tipsy,

not from

drink or drugs, but from

eating

spinach

and kale

her whole life.

never touching

meat.

God forbid.

she'd nearly fall over

when

getting up

from the couch,

light headed

and woozy.

her skin and bones barely

keeping her

upright.

it's going to be thin

box for

this one, when it's all

said and done

episode three of the bubble gum chewer

episode

three of the girl who liked

to chew

gum

while making love.

she said

it calmed

her nerves,

allowed her to concentrate

on what

was being said

and done.

her preference

was spearmint,

but occasionally she'd

go with juicy

fruit,

or double bubble,

the pink one.

she'd blow giant bubbles

once in a while,

and snap

it in my ear.

when it was all over,

she'd

stick the wad on my headboard

and save

it for later, in case 

i was up for another round

of fun.

waiting on the rooftop

i liked how

she was always prepared.

the flashlights,

and buckets,

the bottled water,

the sandwiches wrapped

in cellophane.

matches

and candles.

flares,

life preservers.

even a few books to read

when

waiting to be

rescued from the roof.

although i told

her time and time again,

evacuation would

be easier.

it's time to get out

of here.

the green apple

bless this

apple,

this

green orb off the tree,

plucked

ripe

and ready

for me to eat.

where it came from,

how it got

here,

who's to know these

things.

who gave us

the miracle

of that

tiny seed.

she will be missed

do we mourn

the fallen

tree?

perhaps. we give it a

farewell smile

and nod,

and remember

the shade

it provided,

the summer green,

the falls

with color.

we recall

how we climbed it

as children.

swung from the tire

on ropes.

we watched the birds

build nests.

the squirrels leap from

limb to limb.

she will be missed,

that's true.

to be missed

like that

would be wonderful.

your skin and your soul

there seems to be no

shame

anymore.

with the old or young.

no right or wrong,

no morals

to speak of.

there's

little kindness towards

fellow man.

so many

bewildered

and lost with

bullets flying and scams.

your skin

and your soul is on

sale daily online.

the hour glass is almost

out of sand.

covering your basis

there are times

when you think that

God just created

everything,

then stood back,

slapped His

hands together and said,

okay, i'm done here. 

have at it.

you people are on

your own

from here on out.

make the best of it

as you can,

but does it stop you from

praying.

no.

it's best to cover all

your bases.

your own blue zone

be your own blue

zone.

find longevity

in life,

not endured but

enjoyed.

love and be loved.

read

and stay curious.

eat fish

and meat,

fruits and vegetables

in season.

be kind,

not mean.

walk, but look both

ways before

crossing.

get a good nights

sleep.

big changes

while at the local

diner

down by the railroad

tracks

across from the airport

and the gumball

factory,

i asked the waitress, Lil,

for a slice

of apple pie

and a cup of coffee.

don't get mad, she said,

but we're plum out

of apple pie.

but we do have peach,

lemon meringue,

blueberry

and pumpkin.

dang, i tell her. i drove

all the ways down here

for that apple pie.

my stomach is all worked

up about it.

sorry, she said. but maybe

you'd like a change

this time.

mix it up a little.

okay. give me a slice

of pumpkin then.

i guess i am set in my ways.

you want a scoop of vanilla

ice-cream on that?

sure.

why not?

let's go crazy.

it says so in the Bible

she said to me once

that 

you don't understand adultery

because you've

never been

in love. real love

like me and Jimmy have.

God says

adultery is okay if two

people

love each other,

even if they're

both married

and carrying on secretly.

show me in the Bible

where it says that, i tell her.

to which she

replies,

we ain't no Bible scholars.

but i swear to you

it's in there, between the lines,

or at the very least

implied by Moses,

or Jeremiah, or someone

like that with

a name i can't pronounce.

can i interest you in some firewood?

a pickup truck

from Sperryville used

to come

by each winter selling firewood.

they'd knock

at your door

in their overalls

and beards.

the smell of whiskey

on their breath,

and crumbs from

the crumb cakes that

their wives made

for them

for the long trip.

i tell them that i don't have

a fireplace,

and probably won't

have one

anytime soon.

to which they reply,

thank

you, and go on to the 

next door.

very small fish

they're pulling

fish

out of the man made

lake

the size

of fish sticks

but with a head

and tail

and fins.

they lower them

into 

their buckets,

taking them home

for dinner.

four or five more

should

fill one

belly.

the stop the oil knuckleheads

they line the streets,

they sit

and stand,

they lie

down in their stop the oil

garb,

with their paper

banners

and plastic

signs.

meanwhile

people have to go to work,

they sit

stalled

in their cars

and trucks

while more gasoline

and oil

is burned.

our education system

has failed

us once again.

Saturday night at home depot

as we

stand in line

at the large hardware

store

with our basket

full

of goods.

plumbing tape

and washers,

a wrench

and a new toilet seat

for the third floor

bathroom.

a song comes on overhead.

Boogie Oogie Oogie,

by A Taste of Honey.

my feet start tapping

as i shimmy my shoulders,

she spins around

shaking her hair

wildly,

and uses the wrench

as a microphone.

we do a duet

until

the clerk yells at us.

telling us to move

forward, or

we'll have to leave.

it's Saturday night

again

at the disco,

1978 on M Street.

bread pudding

will we

have a Christmas this year?

with snow

and ice,

the lights strung on the house,

the tree in

corner

with ornaments

that your mother gave

you?

will there be

a mistletoe

above the door.

will there be

eggnog and cookies,

a turkey

in the oven.

will we wear our red

sweaters

with snowflakes?

will your sister bring

over her

bread pudding?

that's all i really care

for.

the darkened screen

do

our lives life need a punch

line.

a closing

of sorts,

a punctuation

mark

at the end of a long

string

of days

into years?

how do we wrap this up

and call

it an end?

maybe a higher

power just clicks

the button

and like on television

it all disappears.

the good ear

i can never figure out

which is my

good ear

and which is my bad ear.

the muffled one.

i turn each side to side

to the radio,

until i make

a judgement.

it seems to still hold

a thimble full of

the north Atlantic

in there.

sloshing around

permanently.

more lidocaine please

the lidocaine

is working, i can't feel

the scalpel

digging deep into my flesh,

but can hear

it.

the scrapping.

like a shovel

against the walls

of a coal mine.

i look into the doctor's

eyes

as she bends

over

with her tools.

she's lost in her work.

not happy

or sad, just busy,

getting on with it.

the nurse dabbing

at the blood,

seems scared though.

staging

the real estate agent,

brings

in a chair and a table.

a large

print to hang on the wall

of elephants

in Africa.

she's doing

minimalistic

staging.

she's done this before

she says.

she puts out a bowl

of candy

next to the brochures.

boils a pot

of water and cinnamon

on the stove.

then she goes around

and flushes 

all the toilets.

she's ready.

the reluctant patient

her man says okay.

he's reluctant, but he'll

give it a try.

go to therapy

to address his issues

and to save

the relationship,

but where to start?

she writes down a list

of all his

problems.

from weight to alcohol.

to his codependent kids.

then there's the mother

and father,

the grieving of a passed

wife.

there's the squalor

of the house.

he reads the list from

top to bottom,

as she picks out a clean

shirt for him

to wear to his first

session.

she brushes the crumbs

out of his beard,

then kisses him on the cheek,

now off you go,

she says.

good luck.

uncertain fashion statements

you are unsure

of yourself

leaving

the house with a black

and yellow

polka dotted dress.

how will this

play out on the street?

will friends

comment in a positive

manner?

will you be attacked

by bees?

ohhh what a world, what a world

i knew

i was in trouble when i saw

her on her

broom

writing my name in the sky

in black smoke,

surrender,

it said.

or else.

i think her lawyer

or her mother

put her up to that stunt.

it almost worked.

but didn't.

a carefully thrown

pail of water took

care of that.

his last hurricane

after thirty

odd years of preparing

for the next

hurricane.

he finally gives up and says

the hell with it.

he doesn't board

the windows,

or batten down the hatches.

he doesn't

wrap the trees,

he doesn't run out

for food

and water, candles

and

batteries.

he ignores the sirens

and

the evacuation warnings.

this time he plants

himself on the front porch

and says,

i here i am,

you want me,

go ahead, take your

best shot.

from your perspective

i don't expect

you to understand me.

it's hard

for me too,

guessing what

i'm

about to say

or do.

i'm not

surprised that

from your perspective

i am perpetually

confused.

but it's not true.

practicing screams

the ghosts are noisy

this time of year.

they're excited about Halloween

approaching.

at night i hear

them in the attic

sewing sheets together.

cutting holes

in black hoods.

i hear them

practicing boo noises.

rattling chains,

pots and pans.

emitting a variety of screams.

i can't get to sleep.

finally i tap on the ceiling

with a broom

that the witch ghost

left on the stairs,

and tell them to keep

it down.

it's too early for this

nonsense.

they all start to cackle.

stuck in the algorithm

the seven signs

of insanity appear on your

YouTube

stream.

six signs

of dementia.

eight warning signs

of Alzheimer's.

three

signs of a brain tumor,

ten signs

of cancer.

five immediate signs

of heart failure.

nine signs

of a stroke.

seven signs

demonic possession.

i have to get out of this

algorithm.