what about Jupiter

i didn't want to discourage

the child,

but i had

to tell him

that there was no air

on Mars,

no food, or water,

no grocery store, or

places

to buy gum or pop.

there's no way to fill

up your ball.

your bike tires would

all be flat. he  closed

his astronomy book and

said, oh, i never thought

of all that.

what about Jupiter?

punishment

my mother

and father used to punish us,

by no tv,

no going out

to play

in the street.

no wandering the city

with my friends.

we had to take a bath,

brush our teeth,

read and go to bed early.

and if lucky,

maybe we could have

a snack to eat.

this is exactly how i

live my life now.

the android crack head

all day,

like a crack head

stretched out

on the streets in the

Tenderloin

of Frisco,

wanting my next fix,

i check my phone

for emails,

texts,

calls,

a new video

of some fool

standing on his head

and eating

with chopsticks.

i check

the battery power.

scared

if it drops below

twenty percent.

what if it dies, what then

dear lord,

what then?

there has to be an

outlet somewhere.

going dark in sadness

we use

to capture fireflies

in the summer

and place

them into mason jars

with holes

cut out in the lids.

it was fun

for a while, for

us, perhaps,

but not them.

it wasn't long before

they stopped

glowing,

flickering out,

which i assumed was

sadness

on account of being

trapped, but

by then we

were busy with other

things,

frogs and turtles,

for instance, putting

them into

a grassy box.

she was a gold digger

i suspected she was

a gold

digger when i caught

her trying

to open my safe,

and then

peeking into my check

book,

and 401 k account.

but i wasn't completely

sure until

one night while

i was sleeping, she

pried open

my mouth and tried to

remove a gold filling

with a pair

of pliers.

making new friends

i make

a commitment to myself

to make

one new friend

everyday

of the week. but it's

not going

well.

after approaching

people

and introducing myself,

they ask

what's wrong with me.

i tell them nothing,

i just want to be their friend.

now

i have a black eye,

a swollen

lip, and two chipped

teeth.

my ribs are bruised

and

there's a bump on my

head

that's bleeding.

friends are hard to come

by these days.

making the bed

i like how

she makes the bed.

i stand

back and watch and think,

oh,

that's how it's done.

i make notes

about the blanket

being

smoothed over

with a hand,

how the pillows are

being aligned

and plumped,

the corners

of the sheets tucked

tightly at the foot

of the bed

and top.

one day i may give

this a shot

on my own.

but where did that

stuffed animal

come from?

party conversation

i agree

and agree and agree,

just to get

out of the argument.

to end

this circular

conversation that's

going nowhere.

you are so right,

i say

repeatedly, trying

to close

the door, but no.

he can't stop with his

points, his beliefs,

his inflated ego.

finally, i tell him.

hold that thought, 

i have to go get

another chestnut

wrapped in bacon

and another drink.

a day at the beach

my baby,

my sweet little darling,

she says, holding up

her tiny

dog,

letting it lick her face

and squirm,

trying to

get to the floor.

she puts

it back into the straw

box,

with vents

for air and a handle,

and off we go,

the three of us.

i'm not sure

if i love her anymore.

the things you do

as i stand

outside the dressing room,

holding several

dresses, while

she

changes behind

the curtain,

about to show me

another flowered

dress

she might buy.

i wonder why i've

allowed myself

to be here

on such a sunny day,

stuck inside

beside women's wear,

shoes and purses,

shiny lingerie,

when it's so nice

outside.

a life grassed over

i prefer

to stay away

from the graveyards

with their wide

iron gates

and flowered lawns.

i pass by

despite

friends

and parents

resting there.

the mound of dirt

now grassed over,

the stone

engraved

doesn't do it for me.

i prefer

instead to hold on

tightly

to memories whether

right or wrong.

when the storm comes

we prepare

for

storms like we do for

war.

we store up

goods,

water.

batteries for the lights,

we board

the windows.

we pray,

then

we wait in the cellar

hoping

that our side

will prevail,

that we will

survive this dark night.

the likes of you

she was very

very

5th avenue.

sophisticated.

pearls

around her neck.

a white

cat

at her disposal.

well read,

well schooled.

no taxi

for her, only a driver

would do.

her hair

up

ala

Audrey,

she smelled of

society and money.

French

perfume.

lovely

in any season,

or light.

so why on earth

was she with

the likes of you?

when we run out of bullets, we have rocks

if there were

no guns,

no bombs to speak of.

no missiles,

or jets

or battleships,

no bullets

or grenades

would the world

be at peace

then,

no.

as long as there's

a flag to wave,

we'll always find rocks

to throw

and break

against each

other, a spear with

which to heave

and slay.

a day too late

i understand

the cry,

the struggle to get free

when

one foot

is caught

in a trap.

if only you hadn't

taken

that turn,

gone another way.

a lot of if onlys

come

to mind

with wisdom coming

a day

too late.

sleep walking

it waits,

the sly red fox

with

red eyes in the shrubbery

at the end

of the court.

hunched

as he does,

his heart

pounding,

in the cool silence,

ready to rush what

i set out,

once i'm gone

and the door

closes.

they learn, they listen,

they watch.

unlike us

with our mouths aflutter,

our eyes peeled to

our phones, in a 

perpetual sleep walk.

don't give up on me

i stare at the pen,

then

shake it.

i hold it up to the light.

i lick the tip

with my tongue,

still bone dry.

really, i think.

you're out

of ink.

already.

six years you've been

in that drawer,

reliable

and sturdy, and now

this,

giving up, quitting

on me.

i'll have to bring it up

on Thursday,

during therapy.

a bag of kale and carrots

as i take

the trash to the curb,

i remember

how the minister told us

that love

is eternal,

never selfish or proud,

it's

loving and kind,

loyal.

love lasts

forever, until death

do us part.

i take the shade off the lamp

as i set it

on the street for pick up.

your shoes,

left behind,

a box of blouses and skirts..

the charger to your phone,

and a stack of

self-help books.

then a rotted bag

of kale and carrots, 

your soap box

and rusted megaphone.

Cecilia

he tells

the interviewer

how they added drums

to the song.

using

fingers and palms,

tapping out

a tune

on a container made

of Styrofoam.

i used to love

that song,

but now all i can think of

is chow mien,

and a shrimp roll,

when i hear it on the radio,

a take out delivery

of Chinese food for Simon

and Garfunkel.

finding bail money

go find

my watch, he said, and sell

it. It's a Rolex.

there's a pawn

shop

on K street.

the watch is in my coat pocket,

the black

coat with a suede collar,

it's in a closet,

take the watch,

the one with the blue

face,

the other one is fake.

but you have

to break a window

to climb in

and use a sixteen foot

ladder.

the alarm might go

off, so be quick about it.

i hate the food here,

and they took my belt

and shoelaces.

the man bunking next

to me is carving

something that he calls

his shiv.

he snores at night.

off somewhere

still here, but not

here,

we disappear at times,

separating

body

from mind.

we're elsewhere, feet

in the sand,

the first

cold touch of ocean

above

our knees.

we're no longer

listening, or speaking.

we're

shivering off somewhere

in a distant sea.

i won't do that for you

i used to tell her,

i'd do

anything for you. i love

you that much,

and then

she'd say,

would you eat that squirrel

in that tree for me,

or jump off a building,

or swim naked

across a lake

full of snapping turtles?

would you put knitting

needles in your

ears for me,

or kiss Judge Judy

on the lips?

i had to change my proclamation

of love

to there's not a lot

of things

i'd do for you, and yet,

i still love you.

cheap wisdom

it's artificial light,

don't

be confused by how bright

it is

coming into the window

making

stripes on the wall.

tomorrow

it will be gone.

be careful with cheap wisdom

found in a silly

song.

my selfish heaven

i imagine

heaven

to not have church music,

or angels

with wings,

no clutter, no

smoking, or excessive

drinking.

there will be a long buffet table

of food

to eat,

no soy, or tofu, or lima beans.

but plenty of

drinks, and dessert, never

gaining

an ounce weight.

all my friends will be

there.

no one mean.

all the pets

i've ever had.

i'll have a giant tub

to soak

in after playing basketball

all day,

and a king size

bed to sleep in.

every book will be on

the shelf,

every movie

available on the big screen,

and of course love, there will

be lots and lots

of love, all of it without

regret.

the weathergirl at 6 and 11

i watch

the weather not because i want

to know

if it's going to rain,

or snow,

be hot or cold.

no.

i have a window for that.

i watch it for the weather girl

in her

high heels

and fancy dress.

i'm in love,

no matter what

the forecast is,

or whether she's right

or wrong.

there's something about the way

she points

at a cold front

on the map, moving in,

and says,

doppler radar with a 

toss of her hair,

then

with an endearing smile,

see you back here, at

eleven.

now back to you, Jim.

the older you become

the older

you become, 

the less you understand

the young,

despite

being there yourself

once upon

a glorious time.

the way they talk

and think

is baffling,

their strange

views, all of it

confuses you. their style

of clothes

and hair,

the piercings and tattoos,

the things they like to do.

you'd like to see

what becomes

of the world once they

take over,

but thankfully, by then,

the world

will be done with you.

my old friend

wanting love,

he wooed her, all women

desire being

wooed.

an amateur

at first, but he learned

his way.

small steps,

towards winning her hand.

a long

and arduous journey,

but then they were married.

he's won.

and now.

i see him, on the ladder

with a hammer

in hand,

i see him mowing the lawn,

walking the dog,

hanging curtains

in the window,

putting a fresh coat of paint

on the baby's room.

i see the list

his wife gives him, before

going out

with friends.

we wave to one another,

in passing.

i'd like to see him again,

but it's

too late for that.

he's won his love, my old

friend.

just another day

there's a delay.

the trains.

the traffic.

the long line for coffee.

there's nothing

we can do,

but wait.

there's no use in complaining.

no sense

in getting worked

up about

the bagels taking

so long

to come out of the oven.

the butter

being hard,

the wind and rain.

it's just another day.

as they float away

they put too much

helium

into the party balloons,

and now

children are flying

all over the park.

they seem happy though.

holding tightly

onto the strings, 

aloft in the wind,

no longer

tethered to the mothers

and fathers below.

flying off to their

own lives.

it was bound to happen.

seven layers of cookies

i finally open up the tin

of cookies

my father

sent last Christmas.

a round red

hat box of

seven layers

of factory made cookies

in little paper cups.

all stale and as hard

as rocks. they turn

into sand as

they crumble on your

lips with the first bite.

but i'll tell him, they

were great.

not wanting to miss

this years box.

the heat is on

the mercury

in my thermometer

is frozen.

the blood red drop

has

slid

down to the last

number.

perhaps it's time

to turn

the heat on i tell 

her,

as she shivers,

caked in ice, from

bottom to top.

one brown shoe

you sit in the shoe store

and remove

one shoe, to put the new shoe on,

a brown dress shoe,

out of the box.

you look at it

in the small floor mirror,

then you give

it a test walk

down the aisle, an awkward

half limp

march from one

end of the store

and back.

do you need another pair

of shoes?

dress shoes, at that?

hardly.

but it sure feels good

and looks

nice in your shorts

and white sock.

before the wind takes it

i left a note

on the door for you.

it said

everything i needed to say,

not twice,

but once.

please read it, before

the wind

decides

to take it. the wind

doing, unlike me,

what it wants.

yes, but no

how far

do you need to go

to believe

in God.

what tree,

or mountain must

you climb,

what animal, what fish

in the sea.

what insect

or star

in the sky won't convince

you

of divine creation?

of course there's death

and destruction

fear

and disease

to make you think

otherwise.

indigo

we acquire

a favorite color

early in life, whether

blue or

red,

green or yellow,

anything

in the rainbow.

we don't

understand why, but

we feel

good

about that particular

color.

we spend a lifetime

surrounding

ourselves

with it.

clothes, and things,

paint

and glass.

all in various shades.

it's

home 

and stays with us.

please, please, you have to stop

after i caught

my wife sleeping with the mailman,

the milkman,

and the avon lady,

i kicked her out of the house,

but i couldn't

get the wedding ring

off my finger.  it was stuck.

i used soap,

and lotion,

olive oil and grease, but

it wouldn't budge.

finally i took a hack saw

to it,

and slowly cut into

the gold

band, until i was able

to pry it off with a pair

of pliers.

i then went to my doctor

to get

a tetanus shot.

not again, he said. please,

please,

you have to stop.

people across the street are starving

my mother

used to force the baked

beans

and hot dogs into

us with guilt.

people in 

India

are starving. you're lucky

to have food,

now finish your dish,

or no tv tonight.

across the street, my friend's

mother would

tell her son,

finish your lobster

and rib eye steak, you're

lucky

you don't live across the street,

eating baked

beans everynight.

the two dollar ticket

as the ancient roller coaster

climbed

the first track, up an impossibly

steep hill

of crackling wood

and metal

gleaming in the summer

sun.

i wondered

why, and what

i was doing here. is this

how my

life would

end,

splattered among

the peanut

munching crowd below.

the sirens

in my ears, as my life

began to slip

away into eternity,

each memory and thought,

about to disappear.

there's always next year

the aging

fan, he is. still wearing

the colors

of his team at sixty.

the hat,

the flag,

watching every game.

living and dying with every

throw

of the ball,

each fumble or

swing of the bat,

each quarter, each inning.

there's always

next year,

he tells his wife,

as another loss adds up,

ruining

his day, his night.

his life.

the mailman is getting younger

some thugs,

young

thieves, beat up the mailman

and took

his mailbox

keys.

they're wearing

his pith helmet

and have

his sack

on their back.

i have a stack of mail

in my hands

as i approach

the box.

they tell me, we'll take

that

have a good day.

mums the word,

okay?

public speaking

public speaking

makes

my throat go dry,

and i suddenly have to

pee and run

out of there.

even in front of two

or more

dogs, or cats.

i get nervous. a flock

of birds

and i start to tremble

with fear,

quickly throwing them

my stale loaf

of bread and running,

to get out

of there.

what's your story

she used to ride

the elephant at the circus.

she was a small

girl.

a waif of  sorts

in a sequined top

and shorts.

she had big hair 

and smoked

cigarettes like they were

going out of style.

she told me her story

over drinks one

night in a dark bar

along the edge of town.

she started to cry

when she talked about

her favorite elephant

Dumbo, how when

the circus closed,

they had to put her down,

she then wiped

her eyes lit another cigarette

and said.

that's my story, what's

yours?

who am i

sometimes you can't find

the right word,

you lose your

train of thought, you

can't remember a name,

or where you put your

keys, your wallet,

your watch and you believe

at last that you're heading

down cemetery road.

the vacant lot

it was a beautiful yard.

roses

lined the fence,

the grass was perfect.

the trees  trimmed,

there was order and

civility about it.

a small fountain in

the middle, made of stone

arced water into the air.

every weekend

he was out there doing

what he had to do to

keep it up, to weed,

to cut, to mow, to mend

the fence that border friends.

a flag waved from the porch,

and then things changed.

he got old, he lost interest.

the marriage failed

and the kids went off to

lives of their own. yards

of their own.

it had to end.

turn the baby monitor off, i can't sleep

it's your baby

too,

she used to say when the little

whippersnapper

would start

to cry

in the other room,

wanting a bottle,

or his diaper changed.

his staticky whining

coming through

the baby monitor.

how do i know

for sure

he's mine, i'd tell her.

you led a pretty wild

life

before me.

pfffft, she'd say. look

who's talking.

and besides,

he has your

eyes, and toes.

and the shape of his head

is just like yours.

she had me there.

hubcaps and blueberries

you don't have

to drive

far from  ground zero,

washington

dc

to see another world.

hear another 

language.

you can almost hear

the battle cries from the civil

war. there's wide

stretches of farms,

horses,

cattle, gas stations

where

they fill you up,

wipe your windshield

and check your oil.

there's a woman

with 

pies on a table,

she points to the field

behind her

shack where you can

go pick blueberries.

she has a box

full of random hubcaps.

it's not

far,

go west to where the mountains

rise,

where the bears roam

free,

where you can hear

a banjo being strummed,

a washboard

being slapped.

you'll know when you've

arrived, because

it's not like here.

twizzlers and string cheese

in order

to get a clean bill of health

i don't

eat potato

chips,

or ice cream for a whole week

before

my blood work.

no grease

or sweets.

the doctor is pleased

with my results.

he says,

whatever you're doing,

keep it up.

i can't wait

to get back to my car

to eat

some twizzlers

and string cheese.

hot air and blather

it's mostly

talk,

hot air, blather,

about what to do about

the war,

about the migrants,

crime

and

poverty.

so much to say

about

racism,

the unsolvable problems

of the day.

but it's their job

to strike

the gavel,

to rise at the podium

and get elected,

making promises,

promises to the masses

that they'll deliver

better days.

the waiting

the layer

of leaves have filled the small

square of

yard, but more

to come

say the trees,

fluttering

in an orange

and yellow breeze.

i look out the window,

at the old rake

leaning

against the fence,

waiting.

tomorrow looks

promising, once it

rains.

dark friendships

there

are those, that you feel

their

presence

when you enter a room.

a wet

cloud

of darkness.

a vibe of danger.

some of these

demonic souls proclaim

to be friends.

they don't have to speak,

but you

know.

stay away, don't

engage,

get out. 

your primitive

instincts are trying

to protect you.

i'm in a bad relationship

i get into bad relationship

with the woman

in the car behind me,

albeit short termed, because

i have to exit

the interstate in three miles

on the right.

she's in a mini-van,

tail gaiting me a seventy

miles per hour.

the Friday traffic is thick

with travelers and trucks.

buses and what not.

she's fuming

about me being in the right

lane, not moving

fast enough.

i wave out the window

for her to go around, but

she honks her horn instead

and gives me the one finger

salute.

she's smoking a cigarette

and eating a sloppy kabob,

sucking on a long red straw

from her coke can.

i can see her kids and dog

in the back seats, jumping

around, finally she passes

and pulls in front me, only

to tap her brakes to teach me

a lesson about driving slowly.

on the back of her

van are stickers. it takes a

village, coexist, Biden and Harris,

and my son beat up your valedictorian.

it all makes sense now.

sweet sadness

there is such

a thing as sweet

sadness.

the end of a book, turning

that last

page,

the movie

sliding into credits

after

stirring your soul,

the lover

leaving after one

last kiss

on the cold porch

as rain falls.

the cat's eye marble

there's the junk box.

bolts

and nuts, screws and nails,

rubber bands,

and coins

from Mexico,

and then there's the more

important box.

the one with ticket

stubs,

and receipts,

pictures of loved ones,

and rings.

a gift watch,

post cards from 

the deceased.

a Catechism from

childhood,

a cat's eye marble,

green.

mirror mirror

when young,

you can't get enough

of the mirror,

turning left

then right,

trying to figure

out who you are,

what you look like,

what others see.

are you good enough for this

world?

do i fit in?

will they like me?

and now,

you don't even turn

the light on

in the bathroom

when you go in to pee.

i know you

there are those people

that you

feel like

you've always known them.

in a minute

of talking,

they get you

and you get them.

the humor,

the intelligence,

their outlook on the world

aligns with

yours.

old souls meeting

old souls.

it's rare, but a wonderful

thing

to be there.

rebellion light

we were good

at climbing fences, 

going places

we weren't

allowed in.

getting onto rooftops,

jimmying locks,

entering

windows, or doors

unlocked.

we meant no harm,

stealing

nothing.

it was mostly rebellion

light.

getting a small

thrill

out of disobeying

the world,

at night.

not everyone can be saved

not everyone

can be saved, not every

cat

or dog

at the pound,

can be rescued,

stuck

in their cage.

some are meant

for a short

life

here on earth. 

destined to endure

a brief

and uncomfortable

stay.

central park zoo

it's a small zoo.

one old bear,

asleep in his

cage.

a seal,

some birds which

flew in

from

another state,

three pigeons,

a duck

from the pond.

a stray dog

with a collar,

and a feral cat

who just had a litter

of kittens,

but the price is good,

one dollar.

it used to matter

it used

to matter, games,

sports,

the score.

who won, who lost,

but the thrill is gone.

i just don't give a flying

fig anymore.

i sleep

well either way, despite

how we're supposed

to throw

ourselves off

a building

if our team loses.

strange

how so much of it has

become a bore.

drinking a smoothie

she's into smoothies

now.

she puts on her yoga

pants,

does some stretches

then throws

an avocado into the food

processor, followed

by a peach, and some green

grapes,

an orange, a banana,

some chocolate chips

and

an apple, then hits the switch

to the machine.

around and around

it goes,

chopping and 

swirling, until it's done.

she pours a frothy

green like

foam out,

and asks me if i want some?

nah, maybe

later.

are you going to do some

more stretches later?

i'll spot you.

the wood carver

he shows me

the duck

he's whittled from a block

of wood,

then painted.

it's beautiful.

it took me a year

to get the feathers

right, he says.

carefully he puts it back,

then pulls a mountain

lion off the shelf.

this is my pride and joy,

he says,

placing it in my hands,

treating it gently,

like a Fabergé egg.

two years

for this one, he says,

shaking his head.

it was hard on all of us,

just ask

my wife.

a stretch in solitary confinement

you truly

do not know, or understand

loneliness until

you are in

a horrible relationship

with someone

and you live with that person.

there they are

lying next to you, a foot away,

both of you

wide awake.

it is the seventh

layer of hell.

nothing tops it.

not even doing a five

to ten stretch

in the county jail.

playing the bongos

next time

we come to the park, we should

paint our

faces and wear a costume,

i suggest to her

as we sit on a bench

in Central Park

drinking our morning coffee.

we need to fit in,

we look too much like tourists.

maybe we can sit in

on that circle of bongo

players, or

join that ukulele fellow

singing 

Tiny Tim songs. it might

be fun.

she says nothing, but hands

me part of the Times,

which no longer even

has a sports section.

using the Heimlich at Katz's deli

i notice

the defibrator

at the back of the restaurant

in Katz's deli

in New York.

on the wall is a diagram

on how

to save someone's life

if they're choking. it's

a picture of

stick like

people doing the Heimlich

maneuver on someone

with mustard

on their face.

each menu comes with

directions on how

to compress a heart.,

delivering CPR.

then our

forty dollar

pastrami sandwiches

come out

each ten inches

high

and a plate of fries,

and i begin

to understand.

the nine inch pickle

alone

might kill us.

maybe we should walk

with

pepper spray in our hands,

our money

stuffed in

our socks,

our phones hidden

away

we decide not to take

the subway

when we see blood

running

down

the stairs,

and hear a piercing

scream.

instead we get in a cab,

where the driver

says

the meter is broken,

and we have

to pay

up front, or he's not

taking us

to Broadway.

we do as he says,

and hang on

as he

speeds like a madman

through signs

and lights.

pedestrians jumping

out of the way.

two regrets

there are big regrets

and small ones

there's

the i wish i'd never met

you regret,

me letting

a psychopath

into my life,

when i should have run

for the hills.

and then there's 

the regret of eating

two hot

dogs with everything

on them,

some onion rings

and a slice

of apple pie,

and then a beer or two

to wash

everything down.

each will give you

severe heartburn.

good luck to you

good luck

he says,

or she says when patting

you on

the back dismissing you

to your own

life,

and path.

good luck out there

with 

whatever it is you're doing.

wherever you

go,

whatever.

it's a very nice way of

saying,

we're done here,

now go away.

the bowl of fruit

so much

is about image, not

substance.

it's in

the style you wear,

clothes

and make up,

the muscles that you

build.

maybe it's the car

you drive,

or where

you live. so much is

a mirage.

nothing being

what it pretends to be.

take that bowl

of fruit on your mother's

table,

for instance.

back seat driver

i can't sleep

in a car, or a bus,

or on a train.

i can't even doze

off

on a plane.

i want to keep an

eye

on the driver or

the pilot

in case

we're about to crash.

maybe there's

something i can do,

to help

things.

take control of the wheel,

or pump the brakes,

and get us

there safely,

that's how delusional

i am.

the sidewalk diagnosis

my doctor

is on strike, i see him in

the picket line,

holding a sign

and walking in his white

smock.

his nurses are there too.

the receptionist.

i see his Bently in the parking

lot.

i go up to him and show

him the rash

on my arm.

he takes a look and

says,

it could be poison

oak, or poison ivy, or

something along those lines.

you might be allergic

to peanuts too.

dang.

i tell him, i just had a

peanut butter and jelly

sandwich and hour ago.

come and see me in three

weeks or so,

he says,

or sooner, once the strike

ends,

but for now, maybe

rub some mud on it,

and stay away from the peanut

butter.

he puts his hand out,

and so i give him twenty dollars.

a lovely bee flies by

she's a pretty bee

in her

black

and yellow cloak.

she smells

of honey, i like the sound

of her wings

the buzz

of her

is enticing.

should i let her land

on my hand

or arm,

or worse yet,

my heart.

should i allow her

to give

me that fateful sting,

before we

part?

none of this is real

none of this is true.
it's all

made up.

a fictionalized version

of reality.

so whatever you read here,

don't quote it,

or treat it as

real,

don't take a single thought,

or word

to heart.

it's just a bunch of imaginary

renderings of things

that might have

or might not have

taken place

or a period of sixty odd

years.

it's sprinkled liberally

with sugar

and salt,

seasoned well before

placing it into the oven

to bake, or

burn.

somebody get the alarm.

the longest day of the year

i remember

sitting at the thanksgiving

table

one year.

my mother's husband,

not my father,

who we called

Hitler, or Himmler,

would be smoking a cigar,

while

in his underwear,

cutting the turkey

with a dull knife that he

wiped on his shirt.

twenty people

would be

there, the windows shut

tight,

no air.

the phone wouldn't stop

ringing.

at one end of the table

was my sister's

husband with a metal

halo

keeping his neck straight

and his head

upright

from being shot

in a drug deal gone bad.

four or five dogs

would be running around

looking for dropped

food, or an unattended plate.

smoke was in the air,

the ash trays full.

children would

be crying.

the television would be

blasting with a football game,

there'd be

cursing and cheers.

there'd be a line to the bathroom

down the hall.

my mother would be in

the kitchen, sweating,

making gravy at the stove

and squeezing cream cheese

into olives.

her little radio

on the counter playing

Christmas carols.

new york new york

new york

is in love with itself.

they tell

you that the second you arrive

in the city,

putting a shirt

and hat on you

stating that you love

new york

with a big red heart.

we have the best cheesecake,

the best pizza,

the best deli,

the best subway,

the tallest buildings.

we're the largest and most

crowded,

the noisiest.

we have the most crime,

but the best

cops.

the most taxis.

we have the most rats

per capita.

we're a city that never

sleeps,

or stops eating, or

jaywalking.

we are the best.

we are new york.

forget about it they tell

the other cities.

we are the center of

the universe.

not you, so step off.

blood from a rock

i haven't heard

from my broker in a while.

i'm worried.

usually she calls

once a month to shift

some of my hard

earned money

into

a new cash cow.

churning me for her fees.

i think she's looked

at my portfolio lately

and sees that there is 

no more blood

left to squeeze.

the opera next store

something is going on

outside.

i hear the neighbors

arguing in the yard,

someone's crying.

plates are being

thrown,

curses are made.

vows of revenge 

are proclaimed and

doors are slammed.

there's the shattering

of broken glass,

there's twisted arms

and blackened eyes.

but i don't budge

to go look out the window.

i grew up with this

kind of thing.

i know how it begins

and i know how it ends.

what's the answer to number nine?

we sat next to each

other

in nearly every class 

from the 4th grade

into high school and even

in college

for a few semesters.

he got his answers

from me,

looking over

my shoulder onto

my test.

i studied like crazy

while he had

other things to do.

he'd whisper, what

about this or that,

true or false?

whispering his signal,

pssst, psst, i did

the homework

and he'd made a copy.

years later, i found out

that he was a doctor

now, a surgeon, one

of the best.

i'm very proud to have

helped him along

his chosen path.

the right thing to say

how do i look,

she asks,

holding up a photo of herself

in a yellow

dress,

going to the prom

in high school.

it was taken a while ago,

she says.

but i look the same now,

don't i?

yes.

i tell her.

of course you do. you

haven't aged

a day

since i met you.

what now?

i hate when women

are angry

with me.

giving me that look,

you know what i mean,

don't you?

they go silent

and aloof.

more than usual.

half the time they don't

tell you why

they're upset

and you have to guess

the whole day

at what's bugging them.

you go on your best

behavior, putting the seat

down

on the toilet,

not putting your shoes

on the coffee table,

or leaving the butter

out on the counter.

you even pick up a bouquet

of flowers from

the grocery store

which seems to help a little.

it can't be her birthday

again, already, can it?

where did this come from?

i wake up

and

roll out of bed,

then pinch

the side

of my stomach.

where did this new roll

of fat

come from.

this little spare

tire that

wasn't there

last week.

i haven't had a donut

in ages, or

pasta,

nor have i licked a cone

of ice cream

in months.

confused, i carry out

my bin

of empty gin 

and wine bottles

to the curb

for pick up.

five dollars a cup

i stopped

drinking coffee at Starbucks

for a year

and had enough

money for a new

Lamborghini.

it came with

an espresso machine

in the glove

compartment.

it's red of course.

sometimes i drive by

to say hey

to my old barista,

and grab a handful

of stevia packets

on the counter.

a penny saved is a penny

earned.

she came in a box

when she

pulled her hair up over

her head,

i saw the little stamp

tattoo

on her neck.

made in China,

it read.

but i didn't question

her on it.

things were

going too well to upset

the apple cart.

i kissed her

on her cold almost

flesh like

forehead instead,

then we went to bed.

in celebration

hunched beneath

the awing

of the seven eleven,

shivering

in cold rain, he'd

be sucking

on a cigarette as if

that was his

only means of breathing.

the whites of his

eyes would be filled with blood

from drink.

his hands would

tremble

as he reached for

the door, and climbed in.

the whiskey

rose from his skin.

why do you

drink so much, i'd ask him.

what makes

you do this to yourself?

he'd laugh.

when i'm sad, i drink,

he said,

to help me with my blues.

and when

i'm happy, when

i have a pocket full

of money and a place to sleep,

i drink even more in

celebration.

unregistering to vote

i go down to the county

voter

registration

office to unregister

to vote.

i'm done

with it i tell the nice

lady at the desk

who reminds me

of Flannery O'Connor,

with the same

exact accent from the deep

deep

syrupy south.

now why on earth would

you want to do

a fool thing like

that, silly boy, she says.

i've never heard of such

a thing.

unregistering to vote,

that's just plum crazy.

who in the ham sandwich

put a notion

like that into your pretty

little empty head.

my great great grandfather

fought in the civil

war trying to protect us from

the northern aggression,

unfortunately we lost, but

he was a true

patriot of the south. so,

i refuse to assist you in

undermining the nature

of our democracy.

obviously you never

heard of the constitution,

or the bill of rights,

or the declaration

of independence?

have you, look at me when

i'm talking to you.

take your eyes off that young

lady walking by.

i can see the sin in you

from a mile away.

i do believe our education system

has failed us

when it comes to boys like you

from the north.

now skedaddle on out of

here before i call your

poor mother up, and she comes

down here to give

you a righteous whupping.

tomorrow can't come soon enough

the dog

next door waits all day

to be let

out into the yard.

he gets about

three or four barks in

before the owner

comes out

to quiet him.

then back inside

he goes.

back to couch,

where he sits, with

paws up,

at the window.

like with most of us,

tomorrow can't come

soon enough.

so lost and blue

if only

we were rich, if

we were

taller,

thinner, had blue

eyes,

and perfect teeth.

if only

we went to a better

school,

had better friends

lived in a better

house.

drove a nicer car.

if only our parents

were better

at what they did,

their parents too.

perhaps

then

we wouldn't be

so sad

and lonely. so

lost and blue.

live long enough

it's a bad cup

of coffee, but you sip on it

anyway,

as your eyes

search for

a new place along

the way

to get a fresh cup.

a disappointment,

but one you'll get over

soon.

live long enough

and you understand.

you stare at the cup

in your hand, cold,

weak,

picking the pieces

of grounds

off your lips and tongue.

and yet the sign said

the best

coffee in the city.

how could you go wrong.

one more

sip, and then it's done.

go slow

there are various

forms of no.

the no, not now, not never.

then there's

the soft no.

the maybe no.

or the no

attached to a wink,

that says, go further,

but go gently,

go slow.

the cold slap

i step

into the cold shower.

full blast

and let

the icy stream

hit me.

suddenly i'm awake

from whatever

dream

i had.

no longer thinking

about

the past

or what i lack, or

need

to get through the day.

the cold

water

is a well needed slap.

to lie in the shade

sore from

walking, pockets turned

out with

stubs

and receipts, lint,

small tid bits of where

we've been,

debris.

i need a rest from

the long

weekend.

a place

to lie in the shade,

and sleep.

despite us

a strange

inch deep puddle, that

has resisted

sun

and the stamp of boots

and shoots

along

the busy sidewalk.

survives 

somehow.

a pond

in the concrete,

luring birds.

nature finding a way,

despite us.

what has changed

what has changed.

what hasn't

what stays the same,

almost

nothing.

but let's pretend, okay?

pizza for breakfast

it's late,

but we're still hungry.

room service

would be nice,

but 

where's the menu.

we look

all over the room, pulling

open drawers,

checking

inside

the cabinet. the bathroom,

is it posted on a door?

it's nowhere

to be found, but we'd

like a slice or two

of pizza.

so we call downstairs,

to the front desk.

the girl tells us

to go online,

to turn on the tv and

scroll, then down,

then right.

it's past midnight. we give up.

tomorrow, it's off

to Original Ray's Pizza,

for breakfast.

when is your birthday, exactly?

for girls,

for women, it's birthday month.

it's not just one

measly day.

everyone knows.

the word is out.

the cards

and letters pour in,

the texts,

the calls. flowers arrive.

balloons and

gifts.

but please,

tell me once more,

exactly which day is

it again?

taking my pants off

it's an eighty degree

day

in Manhattan.

we sweat

on our walk.

we drink water,

we lick a cone of ice cream.

we take some

clothes off.

go barefoot

in the park.

maybe the world is

becoming too

hot.

maybe not.

but let's dance while

we can

on the green grass.

wait for me as i

take my

pants off.

we feel at home

as we cut into our plate

filled

dish

of red meat,

a rib eye

on bone, with

a strong drink beside

the bread,

and Caesar salad,

the red lights

all around,

putting an eerie

glow

on our faces.

the music low.

we're happy

in the restaurant below ground,

off 58th

and Broadway,

we oddly feel good,

we feel at home

sunday at the park

it doesn't matter

that the drummer can't

keep a beat

or that the saxophone player

is drunk,

or high,

or that the singer is off

key,

his guitar missing

a string or two.

and those dancers

twirling about with two

left feet.

what the hell.

it's central park, welcome

to the human

zoo.

and then we'll sleep

too much food.

too much

drink,

not enough sleep.

too much

of nearly everything, 

everything there

is, except you,

of course.

i'll have another

and then we'll sleep.

the water at Camp Lejeune

all day

i get phone calls about

Camp Lejeune.

was i ever there,

was anyone in my family

ever there.

has anyone died or become

sick from drinking

the water there.

i tell them my name

is General George Patton,

and yes.

i've got a bad cough

and my hair has fallen

out on

account of the toxic

water.

i'm sipping a canteen 

of it right now.

i think my lungs are

falling apart and my knees

ache.

i'm transferred to a lawyer

named Jimmy,

who wants to take my case.

nobody's happy anymore

as we walk

by the White House, we notice

how many protests

are going on.

people wanting more

money,

less hours on the job.

there's girls that want to

be boys,

and boys that want to be

girls.

there's a group

of nuns

protesting equal rights.

there's two mobs

hanging on the fence,

some want open borders,

others want

them closed.

there's a group of cub scouts

complaining

about making knots

to get a badge.

dogs are barking

wanting to be off their leashes.

there's people from all

over the world

wanting something.

everyone is carrying a sign,

and chanting.

nobody's happy anymore

with their lot in life.

meanwhile 

the commander and chief

is at the beach.

always forgetting something

did i forget something,

i think

as i lock the door.

i stand

on the porch and think about it.

the oven's off.

the iron.

the back door locked.

the windows

pulled down

in case it rains.

there's money and credit

cards in

my pocket.

two changes of clothes.

a toothbrush.

and then she opens

the door

holding her luggage,

and says, what's up,

don't you want me to go?

picking up where we left off

true friendships

never

end.

years may go by,

decades

without a word

spoken,

and then you meet again

and pick up

exactly where

you left off,

shaking hands 

and embracing, you'll

see them again,

down the road

perhaps,

or hopefully in

heaven.

the Lincoln penny

these shiny

coins

that appear out of nowhere,

fallen

from  pocket

or hand

and left

for the next set of eyes

to discover them.

pieces of silver,

of gold.

to some, i imagine,

disregarding luck,

they're

not worth the effort

to stop

and bend.

a bagel with everything

i have little interest

in the Statue

of Liberty these days, or

the Empire State Building.

i don't care

about the Brooklyn

Bridge,

or Wall Street.

the Lincoln Tunnel.

i don't need to go to

Times Square 

anymore, or Noho,

or Soho, just get me

to a deli,

where they serve

a pile of pastrami on a slice

of seeded

rye, with a swath of

mustard, or just

a bagel with everything,

toasted.

forget Chinatown

and Greenwich Village,

the Hudson

and the East River,

The Edge

and The Highland,

do i need to walk Central

Park once more?

perhaps, but

let's eat first and then,

we'll walk,

and do it all.

when all else fails

i can't trust

my nose anymore,

or my eyes,

my ears.

or even taste.

what was spicy once

upon a time,

is now bland.

words

are garbled.

vision blurred.

i can no longer smell

what's coming

around the corner.

i just have my gut

now,

to see me through.

a few skips before you sink

like the stone

i cast

side armed

across the black pond,

i let you go.

i let you have a few

skips

along

the surface, but that's

it.

one, two, three,

then down

you go.

the train going by

with the window

open

to the yard, the stream

below,

through

the thickness of woods

shedding

leaves,

i can hear the train

whistle

plainly, i can hear

clearly

its tug and pull, its

pitch,

all of it calling after

me.

what kind of cheese?

when i open

the door

to let some air in,

a woman

walking by with her

dog

says to me, hey,

what are you cooking

in there.

it smells good.

i shrug,

oh, just a burger.

actually a cheese burger.

i can smell it

out your window,

she says,

the dog is looking at me

as it raises it's

leg to pee in my yard.

okay,

i tell her.

not knowing what to

say next,

well, i should go in

and eat.

are you putting onions

on it,

she asks.

yup.

what kind of cheese?

umm,

cheddar.

what about condiments?

ketchup,

lettuce and tomatoes?

of course i tell her, trying

to step back

into the house

to close the door.

what about potato chips?

nope.

no chips?

fries?

nope. i'm so disappointed,

she says.

i love fries.

but i bet you're going to have

a beer with it, right.

an ice cold beer.

just some ice tea

i tell her.

the dog is pulling at the leash,

sensing my anxiety.

thankfully the smoke alarm

goes off.

well.

it's ready, bye. i quickly

shut the door

and turn off the burner on

the stove.

i see the woman out the window,

still looking in.

sniffing the air.

you should really have

some fries with it, she yells

in.

give me the black and white Zenith

i look

at the battery powered drill.

push the button

trying to turn a screw

into the wall.

dead.

i have no

clue where the charger

is.

which one of a dozen

wires

belongs to it.

the weed Wacker, dead.

the phone,

almost dead.

the lap top,

the i pad.

i miss the plug in the wall,

and the turn

on and off button.

putting tin

foil

on the rabbit ears

to watch the Twilight

Zone,

Alfred Hitchcock

and the Outer Limits.

fiddling with the horizontal

and vertical

dials like a Nasa scientist.

throwing in the towel

like the rat

problem, the city has

given

up on crime.

they've thrown in the towel.

the jails

are full.

go ahead, loot, riot,

shoot each other,

rob,

we're too tired to deal

with it

anymore.

maybe if they could

just get the criminals

to do their

deeds late at night,

while we're all asleep.

like between the hours

of 2 am and 4.

what's up with babies?

what's up with babies?

when do they

start dreaming?

is it after a day or two

of being born, 

does it begin once

they've got

some life under their belt?

do they dream

about the nurse or doctor

who pulled them

out of the abyss and into

the light.

do they have nightmares

about their bottoms being

smacked.

the audacity

here for one minute

and already

they're being attacked.

do they remember the drive

home strapped

inside plastic seat.

the strange world out

the window

going backwards.

they've got nothing,

no clothes, no money,

nothing

but a diaper and some

lousy shirt

the hospital put on them.

at what point do babies

get annoyed

or worried and start thinking

about the future.

when do they get

sick of apple sauce again

and again, with

no teeth to bite down

on a rib eye steak

or a ham sandwich.

and mother's milk,

how embarrassing.

the left, then the right?

no chocolate or strawberry?

it's tough being a baby.

having to cry

out every time you wet

your pants, or

worse.

you spend all day

staring at the mobile

over the crib making

you sea sick.

you don't even know what

the sea is yet.

there's nothing you can

do when you're too

cold or too hot.

you can't even sit up and

rattle the cage

they've put you

in, or crawl out.

why are they passing me

around,

pinching my cheeks.

everyone looks like giant

monster.

it's no wonder that we have

no memory of those

beginning years. it was

horrible.

making sense of it all

the window

seat is best. i want to see

what's

going by

as we travel.

i want to see how others

live their

lives.

i want to see the abandoned

houses

and buildings.

chain linked fences

around empty lots.

i want to see the estates.

the golf courses,

the rusted out

hulks of cars.

the wealthy

the poor.

i want to see children playing

in the streets,

screaming with joy.

i want to see

banks

being robbed.

dogs off their leash.

i want to see the lights,

the water,

the dirt.

the newborn and old.

i want to see what's out

the window, take

the world in,

and try to make sense

of it all.

the jails are full

as the looters

steal

from the stores.

breaking windows

and glass

cases full of phones

and jewelry,

whatever isn't nailed

to the walls,

they scream

and holler,

it's fun. it's exciting.

they are wild bees

in a violent swarm.

there are few parents

anymore.

they know how to make

the babies,

but that's it.

where did this chicken go to school?

i thought i knew

what an egg was.

a white fragile orb

that fell

out of a chicken

in the coop.

but not anymore.

i'm confused.

brown eggs, large,

extra large,

small,

medium.

pasteurized.

organic. some white,

some farm raised.

caged or uncaged.

the history

of the chicken

is on the crate.

were they treated right,

did they go

to good schools,

did their parents

hug them and read

to them at night.

i just want a few to

scramble in

the morning.

the rest i don't care

about.

new in town

we're new in town.

happy to be look at

a house

on this tree lined tree.

birds are chirping,

and the sky is blue.

it's a sunny bright day.

we like the Zillow estimated

appraisal.

the pictures are wonderful.

we ask

the agent, are the schools

good here?

how far a walk

is it to the library,

to the store.

is there much crime?

do we need to lock

our doors?

the agent laughs

and says,

obviously you're not

from around here.

run, don't walk,

anywhere you go.

send your kids to

parochial school

across town.

and always lock your

doors.

i suggest bars and a

camera

on each one. maybe

get a small hand gun.

creative facial hair

when men

go bald they feel the need

to grow

hair elsewhere,

the devilish goatee,

or the seventies porn star

mustache,

with sideburns,

no less,

a full beard, maybe,

ala Moses.

or the rug burn look,

just a half an inch

of whiskers

that makes the girls scream.

they might dye it,

or style it accordingly, 

depending

on which male

actor has one

in the latest movies.

you've got the Salvador Dali

look, or

the young Burt Reynolds

to go by.

maybe Grizzly Adams,

or that strange Amish look,

creative but

unfinished.

i'm working on

the handlebar stache,

like in the old

westerns.

boy oh boy those were the days

sometimes

i reminisce,

although my therapist,

calls it ruminating.

whatever.

but i go up

into the attic

and see the old straight

jacket, size petite,

hanging from

the rafters.

a few long strands 

of blonde

hair still attached.

boy oh boy, those were

some crazy days.

i look at

her gnaw marks,

fresh as they day she

chewed them

trying to get out,

her teeth bites

denting the straps.

a world without sugar

without

sugar, it occurred to me,

that there

would be

no holidays.

no pumpkin pies,

or cakes, no candy

to hand out on Halloween.

no Christmas

candy in

grandmom's little

plates,

or  mince meat pie,

or fruit cake.

no easter bunnies

made

of chocolate,

or statues of Jesus

or Mary

with almonds imbedded

inside.

no jelly beans,

no peeps.

no valentines box

of sweets,

no candied yams

at Thanksgiving or

cranberries soaked

in sugar.

no more caramel apples

to break out teeth.

Sansa belt and stretch

pants

would no longer

exist.

dentists would all

at last die.

her security door bell

after we broke

up

and i put all her

belongings

on the curb in trash

bags, she found

another place to live.

she put a camera on her doorbell

to catch anyone

walking by,

or near her front door.

how sad

and disappointed she must

have been,

when no one

approached her apartment,

no old boyfriends,

or burglars,

no peeping toms,

not even me.

carnival occupations

i get a job

at the carnival guessing

ages

and weights

of

people walking by.

if i'm right they

get nothing,

if i'm

wrong they get a stuffed

animal

from a box

of stuffed animals

we bought from

Indonesia

made by little slave kids.

it's only a dollar per

guess.

so well worth it.

my goal is to work

the concession

stand next year. it's located

near the tent of

the fat lady

with  a beard.

i feel a vibe

between us.

if there is no God, then what?

as the plumber

fixes

the leaky

pipe, with grease on

his face, he expounds on Kafka,

talking

about our

existential plight.

what's real,

what's an illusion.

he tells me that

if there is no God,

then

what's the point of life.

to eat and drink,

work,

find love, or misery,

then die?

i want him to stop

talking

and turn the water back

on.

i need shower.

i hand him a wrench

and hold

the light.

make yourself at home

my father's new girlfriend

has her

whole

family

over to his house

on weekends.

rummaging

about.

examining his check

book,

and clicking the dials

on his safe

trying to open it up.

her son is asleep on the couch

after reading

his books and magazines

and helping

himself to candy

and nuts.

on a pad of paper he's been

practicing

signing my father's

name.

her daughter is in the bathroom

taking a shower,

and dying her hair

after going through the medicine

cabinet and

looking for drugs.

meanwhile

my father is in his big easy

chair,

at 95 now

unable to see or hear.

he's eating from

a Styrofoam

container of chicken

and mashed potatoes

delivered by meals on wheels.

he calls out

to his girlfriend, i need some

salt and pepper

dear.

chicken soup, sort of

i'm into

reading labels now on packages

and cans of food.

trying to eat right,

not putting poisons into

my body.

i'm one of them

now.

the guy standing in

middle of the aisle

holding

a can of soup up to

the light,

my glasses on the tip

of my nose,

trying to pronounce

words i've never seen

before on the list

of ingredients.

chicken soup is no longer

chicken soup.

it's a conglomeration

of chemicals,

gathered together

in a lab by men in white

coats.

a little chicken flavoring

is present, and then

some of this,

some of that.

don't shake the can,

it might explode.

one two three four

we used

to go down to the mall

and protest the war, chanting

hell no

we won't go, or

one two three four we don't

want your fucking war,

and other little ditties

like that.

on the fourth of July

one year,

Bob Hope was there

entertaining

the  crowd.

we kept it up with our

loud teenage

voices

not wanting to, 

when we came of age,

go fight

in some jungle

for something we didn't

want or understand.

our screams and yelling

interfered with Bob's

dead pan lines,

the dancing girls,

the Mormon Tabernacle

Choirs mind

numbing songs.

then the tear gas flew.

and we ran.

the war continued

for another five years.

at least

another twenty thousand

died.

they just spit it out

despite

being a baby, a relatively

new born

infant.

babies know what they like

or don't like.

put a spoon

full of something

in their mouths and either

their eyes will

light up,

or they'll shake their

heads

and grimace

and spit it out.

there's something there

to be learned

in that.

i'll pass on the lima beans,

thank you.

and you can give my slice

of carob cake

to someone else.

you don't want to see

what happens

if i take a bite.

sowing the old oats

in my

younger days when

they were juggling

me,

and i was juggling

them.

Christmas was never

fun.

always shopping

for at least four or three.

leather gloves for her?

is it time

for jewelry

for Nancy,

a ring for Sarah,

a television for Jean,

she loves tv.

do i dare

give Ruth

lingerie? is it too early

in the game

for Victoria Secrets?

and what about Donna.

a book again

on the culinary history

of Italy?

maybe gift cards this year

for everyone.

make it easy.

the new Ellis Island

we stayed

there once, the Roosevelt Hotel

in New York

City.

a grand old

building

with history.

Guy Lombardo

used to welcome in new years eve

from there.

there was a wedding

going on

when we arrived.

the lobby was

lit up

with bright lights.

there was music and dancing.

i could see the bride in the back

room

in white,

the groom.

young and both happy,

champagne alive,

and now,

with the hotel closed for

business,

it's the new Ellis Island.

a wandering family

from Guatemala

is in our room.

enjoy

your new life.

getting road ready

i spin

the cap off the wheel

and align

the pump accordingly.

attaching one

to the other.

i pull up,

i push down.

i fill the tire with air

until it's hard

and tight

and road ready.

coffee works for me,

most mornings,

except when you're

here.

the business man

he's neither

sad

or happy. he just is.

sitting

there with hands

folded in his lap,

waiting for his flight.

the small

bag beside him.

he's wearing a thin

grey suit

with a blue tie

and white shirt.

black shoes.

perhaps a business man.

no wedding ring.

no phone

in his hand to call

his children,

or ex wife.

i make his story up

as i watch him

over the edge of my

magazine.

is he lonely. is he lost.

rich or poor, or

is he just an average

man.

in the middle

of life.

where could

he be going.

will things turn alright?

under the autumn moon

in the dark

we ambled along

the side of the cemetery

road,

carrying out shoes.

a slight yellow

moon

as if an eye, visible

between

the floating clouds.

the grass

was wet

on our bare feet.

i remember it well.

her hand

in mind

as we read

the carvings

on the stones, tilted,

or on the ground,

upright.

born then died.

was it love, or something

else.

too young

to understand

these desires.

about to be fulfilled.

a box of donuts diplomacy

if i was

in the debate, i'd have a drink

at my

podium

with a long straw

to make a

crazy slurping sound,

and some snacks.

maybe some chips

or nuts.

a box of donuts.

i'd used them

as props, throwing

peanuts at the person

who says something

i don't agree with.

i'd make a point with a 

glazed donut in my hand

and clear my throat

as i choked

on a peanut shell or two.

as a piece offering

when the debate heats up,

i'd reach out

with my bag

of junior mints and say,

hey friend.

go on, take a few.

we can save the country

together.

him her they them

as it buzzes

around my head

i try

to get the fly out of the house.

chasing

him with a newspaper,

not to kill him

or her,

i'm not quite sure

of it's pronoun,

but to persuade it to

fly towards the open

window,

where it's

nice out.

it finally does, but

another one

flies in.

only the faces change

it's out of control,

the debate.

nine

well dressed men and women

babble on

and on and on

about their solutions

to crime,

and immigration,

inflation,

wars

and strikes,

abortion and whatever else

is on their minds.

it really doesn't matter

who wins,

who loses.

nothing every changes.

just the faces.

old age looting

inspired by the news

and lack of law enforcement,

i call my friend Betty

and tell her,

let's go shopping. 

but my social security check

hasn't come yet, she says

i laugh, forget about that.

i'll pick you up

in ten minutes.

so we put

on our hoodies,

our covid masks,

grab a hammer or two

and set out

to the local mall in my van.

Betty calls up her

knitting club

and face yoga class to join us,

advising them

on what to wear.

sketchers will help

you keep your balance

when it's time to skedaddle,

or ortho shoes.

her friend Sally wants to

go too,

but she's in a wheelchair

and can't roll away

fast enough once

the smash and grab begins.

she requests some canned cat

food for her cats

and a bottle of witch hazel,

whatever that is.

we start off at the vitamin

store,

stuffing ginkgo bilboa and saw palmetto

into our jackets.

sleeping pills

and ex-lax.

someone grabs a case of Ensure.

we work our way over

to the heating

pads,

and Depends.

i wipe the shelf clean of hearing

aids,

and wrinkle cream,

then grab a box of Tums,

and a new magnifying glass.

Betty gets a case

of prune juice.

then we limp out of there

before the po po comes.

to be like him

we made

fun of him, of course.

we were stupid

pimple

faced kids

raised

by knuckle dragging men.

we called the boy fancy

pants,

or said that he

was light in

the loafers, there was

a hint of mint

about him.

he liked boys, not

girls. but we were never sure.

he never threw a ball,

or got into

a fight.

he knew how to dance.

he played the piano,

he could sing.

he could paint and write.

in looking

back at him

i think we were jealous

and cruel,

with no

appreciation for

the finer things.

young fools.

the dark wink

i took the wink

from her

as a friendly

gesture, a notion of that

we're in this

together.

a smile attached,

like a cat

with a mouth full

of feathers.

until death do

us part,

the preacher cooed.

what could go wrong,

i wondered

as i said with trepidation,

i do.

the bloodied knife

i'm a slow learner.

look

at the tips of my fingers,

the scars

from putting them

into the fire.

look at the dents

in my car.

the weeds in the yard.

look at the stale

bread

on the table,

the soured milk left

out overnight.

look at my heart,

the pieces

on the floor.

the bloodied knife.

more than fifty ways

we have options.

always.

there's always a choice

we can make

to make our lives

easier,

to exit, stage right

and ease

the pain.

we can leave.

we can quit.

we can end things.

we can find

another.

i can think of more than

fifty ways,

Paul Simon,

to leave a lover.

a waste of time

strange,

how we no longer know

one another.

surreal

at times.

it's like nothing

ever happened 

between us.

not a single sweet moment

can be thought of.

all of it

has become

a mirage, a vague

memory

forever fading.

all of it,

in looking back,

is lost time.

walking pieces of art

can one

have

too many tattoos,

too many

piercings,

too much red or blue

dye

in their hair?

apparently not.

it seems competitive

at times

everyone is a piece

of art now

walking about.

Salvador

Dali

and Andy Warhol

would

be proud.

Sears and Roebucks

he's smoking

a cigarette and coughing

as he sits

on his front porch.

i miss Sears and Roebucks,

he says

out of nowhere.

i used to buy everything.

there.

from tires to dungarees.

my mother's house

was ordered

from their catalogue.

we used to get clothes

there,

do all our school shopping

for the kids,

and at Christmas

they sold trees.

Santa Claus would sit

next to the escalator

and our

kids would hop up on

his knee.

my fridge and my washer

and dryer are all Kenmore.

my vacuum cleaner too.

they don't make

em like that anymore.

and if they broke down,

Sears would send a man out

to fix them.

he crushes his cigarette

under his shoe,

then lights another one

as a big blue truck pulls up

on the street.

Amazon.

my wife, he says. we get

a package nearly everyday.

she don't feel the same as

i do about

old Sears.

as the sun sets

we take

a walk after dinner.

hand

in hand. 

we go up the hill

then

around

the bend

to the lake.

we find a bench to

sit on.

i tell her what a wonderful

dinner

it was.

thank you,

she replies.

we kiss lightly

on the lips,

then get up to walk home,

we go inside.

but all i eat are vegetables

she pretty much

ate green

beans and kale,

spinach

and lettuce for most

of her life.

rabbits had nothing on

her culinary

skills.

nibbling at whatever

grew

in the ground

or fell off a tree.

so then why the clogged

artery.

the heart attack,

why the large

waistline?

could it be

the ice cream

and apple pie, 

the cakes and candy?

maybe.

cruel to be kind

he's mad,

she's mad. they're all mad

at me

for some reason.

maybe they

shouldn't send me

their poetry

for criticism.

it's their fault, not

mine.

i'm cruel when it

comes to

the written line.

theirs and mine.

Flannery's chicken

the man from New York

came

down

to report on the chicken

that could

walk backwards.

he took the dirt

road

to Flannery O'Conner's

house

in Georgia

and watched

as the chicken prowled

around in the

dirt,

pecking at bugs

and finally performing

his impossible

feat.

Flannery was only seven

and never

got to see the snippet

of film

shown in theaters

years later of her chicken

walking backwards.

but it never left her,

the amusement of what a

world it was.

strange indeed.

nothing being what it seems.

we'll see, He says

God is funny

about answering prayers

or in making

proclamations.

is it all in good time?

or is He

trying to decide,

pondering both sides

of the issue,

weighing the consequences

of a yes or no,

by the divine.

maybe he'll

change his mind

after sleeping on it

for a while.

seems He's no rush

with

any of it.

you know nothing

my boss

in my brief office days was

a tiny man

from Viet Nam.

Su Bao

was his name.

he had war wounds

all over him, scars

all over his

body.

one arm was nearly

useless.

his hand folded together

like a vise.

he used to yell at me

if i made a mistake,

which was quite often,

he'd yell loudly

so that the whole office

could hear him.

you know nothing,

you're stupid.

you know nothing.

he'd repeat this over and over.

screaming

at the top of his cigarette

filled lungs,

and stamp his

brown shoes with his clip

on tie

flopping around.

part of me wanted to smack

him across the head

with a keyboard,

and the other half

of me wanted to hug

him. and talk softly

to him, to have him tell

me all about it.

i can't imagine what he

went through,

but he was right.

i knew

absolutely nothing.

the fading blue of the day

at last

the windows are open.

how

nice to feel

the air,

to listen to the rain.

i find

the book i'm half

into

and slide

the chair towards

the darkening

woods.

but i don't read.

this is good enough

for now.

the fading blue of the day

upon me.

i used to be a cheerleader

after a few

martinis, 

and we get past the part

about her being

a cheerleader

and that she can still fit

into her uniform,

it's all downhill from there.

she begins to leak out information.

she's never

had a job.

she has no money.

she has several personality

disorders

and sees three therapists

weekly.

she's a vegan.

her second husband,

twenty years her senior,

is a convicted felon.

her son

has never worked or

had a girlfriend and has

lived in

the same room

for thirty years in his

father's house.

her last boyfriend 

of ten years was

married

and looked like Santa Claus.

her father sexually abused

her as a child.

her rescue dog bit her on

the arm.

she shows me the scar.

she doesn't own

a car

and she's afraid of the dark.

and oh, i'm not really blonde,

she says

as she digs a fork into her arm.

quickly i raise

my hand to the waiter

and yell out,

check please.

the photograph online

it was

the wrong chair for the room.

orange.

too large,

too loud.

the cushions hard.

and yet

in the store it looked

perfect.

stylish

and sexy

in what little light

there was.

even the picture

online

was wonderful.

it got great reviews.

i've made this mistake

with people

too.

the sleep over

as she

sleeps, i stare at her dress

on the floor,

a yellow puddle

in the morning light.

it's the dress

i complimented her

on when

she came

through the door.

she didn't even

bother to fold it on

a chair,

or take a hanger

and hang it in the closet.

she just threw it there

before we climbed

into bed.

i don't know if i can

live with someone

like that.

we'll see what happens

on date

four.

my show is coming on, shhhh

what is enough?

how

much

money do you need to see

you through

until the end.

who will carry you

to your grave,

what legacy

will you leave behind,

what will

others say

upon hearing that 

you've passed

away.

is there a heaven,

is there a hell.

will they

welcome you

at the pearly

gates,

or will the devil

punch your ticket at

the other place.

i don't know.

right now i'm busy

with other things.

who cares, where's

the remote,

my show is coming on.

the shopping spree

i go into the Catholic

book

store on King Street to browse

around.

i grab a cart

and push

it down the rows

of books

and crosses.

i'm the only one there.

there's

holy water in little

jars.

books on saints,

psychology books

combining God and science.

how to pray

books.

paintings of Mary,

of Jesus.

glow in the dark statues.

bracelets and rings.

rosary beads.

a wide assortment of

Holy

things.

Sister Mary Margret,

behind the counter

in her new age

nun garb,

asks me if i need any help.

to which i say.

don't get me started.

achoo, god bless you

when i wake

up stuffy and coughing,

blowing my

nose,

my eyes watering,

i know it's raining out.

a cold front

has moved in.

i don't need

a weatherman,

or doppler radar,

giving me the news.

i don't even need to look

out the window.

i put my rain coat

on, grab

my umbrella and go.

i'm a very private person

please,

the celebrity says, as

the cameras flash

and the audience

claps.

i want my privacy, i'm

a very private

person.

and after this next world

wide tour,

and interviews

on every station,

i'm going to take a break

and only

do ten shows

a year.

i want to write a book

about who i am,

what i believe.

i'm a very private person.

i love every one of

you,

and i know how you

love me,

but please respect my

privacy.

be sure to watch my

three part

documentary 

coming out soon once

the lawyers agree.

it's all about my

wives, my children

my parents and pets,

my illnesses and fears.

you'll see what a shy

and private person i really am.

i'll be signing

autographs in the lobby

after the show,

cheers.

the gold rush in jersey

shockingly they find another

corrupt

politician

hiding in plain

sight.

who has gold bars hidden

in their closet

next to high heels

and loafers?

a half a million

dollars

stuffed

in his clothes, sewn

into jackets,

the cups of his wife's

bra

filled with

jewels.

all after just returning

from a trip

to the Mideast.

and then they find that

he's googled

what a bar

of gold is worth.

and which country

doesn't have an extradition

policy.

new jersey's finest.

serving his constituents.

too tired to fight

prior to believing

this

you believed that.

forever

changing your mind

about so much.

agreeing with

a new

take on whatever

the topic

may be.

you swing left

you swing right,

but then

find yourself

decidedly

settled in the middle,

too tired

to fight.