fighting off the curses

we could

hear when the Gypsies

arrived,

the sound of hooves

and wheels on the street,

in Castelldefells as their wagon pulled

up behind two

sagging

horses.

the man out front

would stiffen the reins,

then they'd stop.

out from the tented

trough would

come a woman

draped in a black sheet,

holding

up a crying naked

baby towards the sun.

it glistened like

a raisin.

we watched from the window

as my mother

would go to them

with money in her hand.

trying to fight off

the curses

that eventually still

would come.

artificial sweeters

one kiss

from her 

saccharin lips

and i was suddenly

diabetic,

in need

of a shot

of some sort to revive

me.

i embraced this sickness

with both

arms. it

nearly killed me,

she sucked

the blood and marrow

right out

of me

until i was a puddle

of male

goo on

the slippery

hospital floor,

bleeding sugar,

the artificial kind.

my list of saviors

the first hard

frost

kills the battery in

the truck,

i say a word that

closely

rhymes

with such vehicle.

with the turn of the key

there is

no whirring

of engine,

no turn

of the motor, i got

nothing.

i get out my laminated

list of

saviors and begin

to dial..

resistance is futile

as Oscar

Wilde once said, i can

resist everything

but temptation.

so true.

we are surrounded by

candy,

visual and otherwise,

the shiny

things,

the bling,

the sweet the savory,

the skin.

how can we not live

our days

in this world, without

an occasional

sin.

finding your sweet spot

as

the sun begins to set,

it suddenly

occurs to you

that you've become somewhat

of a recluse.

a veritable greta

garbo.

rarely going out

to do anything

of a social nature, happily

sequestered

in your house

with your things, your

books

and shows,

your food and drink.

so this what peace

and true happiness

is all about, you think.

you've found your

sweet spot.

testing your faith with a snake

it was one of those

churches

where

they throw snakes around

to loud music

and shouting.

there's a line

in the Bible that a snake

won't kill

you if you truly believe,

but don't quote me on that.

luckily i'm wearing my

long sleeve

thick Christmas sweater

that my mother gave me,

and a leather coat

with leather gloves.

i see a lot of parishioners

with scars on their hands

and arms,

their necks and faces

having survived

the testing of their faith

with venomous bites.

the Jezebel i'm with tells

me, go ahead, go ahead

and grab that big one there,

that giant copper head.

no thanks i tell her.

maybe i'll start with that little

green one over there.

that garter snake.

oh, she says, i see what 

you're all about, you have

no faith, do you?

to which i respond, you know

what i'm out of here.

a coupon to the gym

i get a coupon

to the local gym, a three

day pass

to try it out before signing

up for a year

long membership.

so i go to lift some weights,

pump some iron, yo.

do the treadmill,

and pull on wires and pulleys

to tighten up my flab.

but it's too distracting.

there's too many women

in there running around

in skin tight clothes.

bending over, jumping 

around and causing havoc

to the tubby men in there,

as they drop five pound

bar bells onto their toes.

i suddenly realize it's the only

reason that any of them go.

blowing in the wind

my neighbors have

started to complain about 

the clothesline i've strung

from fence to fence

in my back yard.

when they see my

clothes, wet, hanging there

drying in the wind and sun,

they say that it's a blight

to see, that it's bringing

the neighborhood down.

causing real estate grief.

i tend to disagree.

other things on the table

when you take

economics out of the equation

when

the struggle to survive

is no

longer the first thing you think

about in

the morning, or the nuisance

of love,

what changes?

you find other things to worry

about,

putting, smaller things

on the table.

going to hell in a handbasket

is hell

a real place?

fire and brimstone

and all

that jazz?

can there really be eternal

damnation.

and if so, who deserves

to be there?

right away

you go to the top of the list.

Hitler.

of course,

and then work

your way down from

all the evil

leaders of the world

that have come

and gone.

then the serial killers,

prosperity preachers,

a few priests

and boy scout leaders,

but then you start adding

in people like

that pillow guy

who is on tv all the time

selling pillows,

used car salesmen,

and that woman

in your neighborhood

who runs the HOA

board.

by the time you're done

with the list,

you realize what a crowded

place hell

must be, if it does exist.

my brain needs a break

sick of the wars,

the protesters,

the gab fest of newscasters,

the pundits,

the politicians, the stupidity

and ignorance

of the world

i change the channel

and begin to watch a marathon

of Twilight Zone episodes.

i make a giant bowl

of popcorn

and push the recliner back,

and settle in.

my brain needs a break.

SOS

i take a steamy

hot

bath, but i fall asleep in 

the warm soapy

suds,

the water

is cold

when i wake up

an hour later,

and the book i was reading

is floating

next to the bar

of soap.

i'm shriveled

and shivering, my knees

knocking together.

i feel seasick, sloshing

around

in this cold tub.

almost frozen.

i wish had one of those

rescue bracelets on 

like my mother used to use

when she fell down.

i could send out

an SOS for help, maybe

there's a local lifeguard

on duty nearby.

he could throw me a rope.

we went to Italy last week

when they

come back from Italy,

in their tan

clothes, black

hats and red

scarves,

they can't

stop talking about Italy.

the food,

the people,

the museums

the art,

the gondolas,

it's a blah blah blah

fest about Italy,

it's so different there,

you really

should go,

then the phones

come out

and here we go again,

from the finish,

the pictures, the videos,

around and around

then

back to the start.

i'm making homemade.

raviolis

for dinner,

you're staying aren't you?

let me get the wine.

you look tired today

we're fragile.

let's admit it. were skin

and bones,

we wear

our hearts on our sleeves,

words hurt.

snide remarks,

off handed comment

about our looks

or clothes,

our choice of style

our art.

we're children

deep inside, never truly

growing up.

a casual

comment saying that

we look

tired,

will break our heart.

why exactly are you here?

the reporter asks

a few protesters, who

are taking

selfies,

what they're protesting

about.

mostly young

college age kids

cutting class

and then painting their

faces green,

putting on a checkerboard

mask.

they shrug and smile,

they laugh.

it's fun they say, 

all my friends are here

and later we're

going out for pizza

and beer.

can you hold my flag for a minute

i think my mom

is trying to call me.

the baloney we worry about

should i order that new

toothbrush

from amazon,

and have the truck arrive

tomorrow morning,

to put it on my porch?

maybe i should get some

other stuff too,

to make it worth their while.

let's see.

socks? yes. a dozen

stretch socks,

black, brown and grey.

what else?

maybe a new applicance

of some sort.

a new microwave.

that should do it.

that should 

ease my guilt about gas

and the carbon footprint

and all

the other baloney they make

us worry about.

the broken shoe

funny

how the shoe you wore

all day

yesterday

is suddenly no longer

of use.

the sole

separated from

the binding

and glue.

so much falls apart

like that.

with parents,

with kids,

with loved ones.

friends, even,

strange how they

were so comfortable

to slip into, but

now 

no longer fit.

finding true love

i go to the dermatologist

slash Harley aficionado,

to have

him scrape off a tattoo

i had inked

on my arm

last year.

Sally Mae.

i really thought

she was the one.

he's done work for me

before.

and scolds me on the newest

tattoo.

how many times have

i told you,

love is ephemeral,

just a temporary phase

you're going through.

next time put something

on your skin that you

truly love and will never

change.

tomorrow i go down to

have a slice of chocolate

cake tattooed on my arm.

there's space now.

like it's 1939

i see a bonfire

down the street near the public

library

and school.

they're burning

books again

and roasting marshmallows.

To Kill a Mockingbird,

most of Mark Twain,

Of Mice and Men,

and Catcher in the Rye.

favorite books of mine.

why does it feel so much

like it's 1939?

so much has wandered off

i can't

find anything lately.

a flat head

screw driver for instance,

or the hammer

and box of nails.

the tube

of glue.

so much has

wandered off.

even you.

hiding your true colors

i want to run

the flag

up my flag pole, 

blue and white

with the star of David

in the middle, but

i'm worried

that it might hurt someone's

feelings,

the neighbors

might get angry

if their beliefs and flags

are different,

so i keep it bare,

i keep the flag

folded and hidden

and pretend i just

don't care.

whose land is it this century

was it simpler then,

it feels

that way, but you aren't sure,

each

era to its own

problems and mistakes.

each man

and country to his

own way

of believing

what's right for him.

the lines and boundaries

of countries

and souls,

imaginary at best,

just chalk

on a chalkboard

so easily disposed.

the tv repairman

we couldn't adjust

the horizontal

button on the tv 

to make it stop rolling,

so my mother

called

the tv repairman

from the yellow pages

book that she used

as a door stop.

this dude

showed up with a case

of tubes

and wires, tools

and pulled the tv

away from the wall, 

warning us kids to never

try this on our own.

he fiddled with it for

awhile, the plugged it

back in,

lighting up the inside

of the box.

but the screen kept

rolling and rolling.

finally he took his shoe

off and hit the side 

of the tv, which made

the rolling stop.

after that we all became

tv repairmen.

you get used to crazy

when i found

her curled up in a dark ball

of runny

make up

and tears

in the lightless room,

i asked

her what's wrong?

bad day at the office?

she said that she wanted to

end it all.

i said, what do you mean.

us?

you want to move,

to leave?

no, i want to leave the world.

scared of what she might do,

i called her therapist,

her doctor,

her mother and sister,

her father,

social services and the law.

then nothing happened,

but when she did it

again and again,

night after night,

finding her in a nervous

rocking ball

on the floor

i got used it and would

open the door

and ask her if she wanted

a salad with

dinner, and if she wanted

her salmon cooked

or raw.

connections at the zoo

as a teenager,

the Bucy brothers always

had a new

supply

of dope.

weed for the most part

and a few

assorted selections

of pills.

uppers, downers, etc.

the green

dried weed that they sold

was sifted for seeds

and wrapped in

little plastic baggies.

nickel bags

they called them,

some dime bags too.

they were quite

the entrepreneurial couple

of guys.

selling rolling papers

and pipes

from a small suitcase.

the weed in this bag

is good,

very good, one would say,

this one, milder.

and this one we laced

with elephant tranquilizer.

careful with that one.

kaboom.

i always wondered who they

knew

at the zoo.

catch and release

when the fish

aren't biting, we move

to the other

side

of the lake.

maybe the fish are

hungry over there.

we find a rock

to sit on

cast out, then wait.

we look at the box

of worms,

feeling somewhat

sorry for them

squirming in the black

dirt.

life is a mixed bag

of give

and take.

ordering the special

i met her

in a greasy spoon

near

the airport where the planes

would rattle

the cups

and saucers

as they lowered

their wheels and landed

on the runway

nearby.

she had

kind eyes

and small hands.

slender in her pink

dress,

black apron,

and running shoes.

i could have married

her on the spot

when she brought out

my waffles and eggs,

then gently refilled

my coffee mug.

setting down

a tin of cream.

strange what we fall in

love with

over and over again.

a brush full of paint

it's not much,

hardly

a brush full of cold paint

on the cold

door

to make

it stick.

hardened overnight.

locking it tight

from within

and from

out.

a warning perhaps,

of the little

things

that can do us in.

sorry, but i already have plans

someone asks me

what my

plans are for the holidays.

i shrug my

shoulders,

i don't know yet.

maybe buy some eggnog

at some point

and pour in a few jiggers of

Southern

Comfort.

that's it? they ask.

yeah, why, what are you

doing?

oh, i'm having the relatives

fly in from

Chicago with

all their kids

and dogs,

and we're going down

to the Mall

to see the big tree,

and then

we're all going caroling.

on Christmas

Eve

after church, then have

some hot chocolate

by the fire.

we like to light some candles

and listen to all the Christmas

classics by Bing

and Andy Williams.

Debbie will put the turkey

and the ham

in the oven in the morning

and then

we'll gather around

and start opening presents

in our pajamas.

if there's snow on the ground

we'll probably go out

and have the annual

family snowball fight.

you're welcome to come over

if you want, if you're not too busy.

nah, nah. no thanks, as i said,

i already have plans.

maybe there's a plan

the clock

dies

and the light burns out

on the same

day

in the same room.

a bird

flies into the window.

coincidence?

perhaps.

but

maybe there's

a plan

of some sort in

place.

picking up a dozen donuts

give me

three of those chocolate

covered,

no not the cake,

the glazed,

two

cinnamons,

two

cream filled

and 

how about three

of those

plain.

how many is that?

two more?

okay.

squeeze in a couple

of eclairs,

and a napoleon too,

separate bag,

i want to eat it

in the car on the way

home.

sluff it off

it's okay

to fail. really it is.

trip,

fall, break a leg

a tooth,

embarrass yourself.

so what,

get up

and move on.

stop worrying about

what others think.

make a mistake,

it's okay. sluff it off

and be strong.

i can't find the latch

i used to add oil

to my car

after pulling out the stick

and wiping it,

then putting it back in.

a quart low,

no problem.

i had cans of 30 weight

quaker state

on a shelf in the garage.

sometimes i changed

the oil,

sliding under

with  wrench and a pan.

i'd change

the shocks,

the water pump,

the oil pump

when it went bad.

i used to

put in new spark plugs

and set

the points.

the frayed belts, no problem.

i'd replace all the filters,

or the battery

when needed.

i used to add

anti-freeze and fluid

for the wipers,

change the wipers.

fix a flat

with the spare

and tools in the trunk.

and now

i can't even open the hood,

i can't find

the button

or the latch when i pull

into jiffy lube..

taking the scenic route to work

i take the scenic

route

to work,

the one downtown,

straight

up the middle of the city.

i want to see

the decay

and destruction,

the shake downs,

the drugs and hookers,

the carjackings

and violence.

i want to hear the crackle

of syringes

under my tires.

i want to smell

things burning,

see the broken windows,

see the police

in their cars

with their party

lights on.

i want to hear the screams

and the cries

of those

barely surviving,

partially alive.

everyone should 

take the scenic route

downtown, and see for

yourself,

the underside.

the pretty privilege

beauty

gives you a head start in life.

you have

the pretty privilege

that the average

boys and girls don't

have.

you always get your way,

going to the front

of the line,

but in the end,

it's over

and you're no different

than the wrinkled

and old,

minus the beauty,

leaving you distressed

and sad, once having

the world,

but losing your soul.

spinning tires

we get

stuck sometimes.

stuck in the mud,

in the snow,

in a bad job,

a bad neighborhood,

a bad friendship,

a bad marriage.

we spin our wheels

trying to get out,

we put a board

under

the tires and hit

the gas.

people come

by and try

to push you from

behind to free you.

sometimes though

you just

have to walk away.

slap your hands together,

throw down the keys

and say fine.

are you sure you want this job?

my eyes

glaze over as i watch the debate

pondering

who

should be the next

president

of the united states.

who would even want that

job?

half the world

hates you,

and the other half puts

you on a short

leash,

if you don't do what you 

promised to get their votes.

it ages you,

keeps you up at night.

a thousand voices in your

ear

telling you what's wrong,

what's right.

even your wife.

there are so many other jobs

out there,

why this?

dancing in the kitchen

as we

cook together.

chopping vegetables,

sautéing

meat, pouring wine.

we say little.

it's a dance of sorts

in the narrow

kitchen.

the flames on,

the oven hot,

knives and forks

in hand,

seasonings standing by

as the salad

gets tossed,

then somehow

it all comes together

and ends

up at the table,

with a vase of flowers

in the middle

that she cut in the garden.

all her cardboard boxes

she was

a box girl. tape and scissors.

the magic

marker

to indicate which room

which box 

would go into

on her next inevitable move..

she stacked

them

where she could, lived

out of them.

she was alone.

never staying anywhere

long enough

to call it home.

she dipped in and out

of her

memories, all of her

life stored

in boxes.

time was running out.

where to next?

one more than two

strange

how

the cat owner

never

smells what cats do.

oblivious

to the eye sting.

the scent

that startles you.

they're used

to it

with windows closed

and furniture

torn,

the litter box

in every room.

the cat

on the counter looking

for food.

one more than two,

is too

many.

why nothing changes

the reason

nothing ever really changes

is because

we all die

and everything we

learned,

all the wisdom we

acquired

is gone, like ashes

in the wind, away

it flies.

and the next generation

is left

to start all over again.

the unfinished

nothing

is ever really done

completely,

finished.

the poem, the painting,

the book,

unfinished,

our thoughts

and words

never end, there is always

something

we should

have said back then.

but it comes to us

at night, too late,

as we bend towards sleep

and dreams.

finding high brow literature

walking home

from school, or church, or somewhere,

it doesn't matter,

i was always walking,

i stumbled upon

a stack of old Playboy

Magazines

from the sixties.

they were set out on

the curb for trash pick up.

they were in pristine

condition i discovered

as i quickly flipped

through the glossy pages,

while looking other my shoulder.

i was thirteen or so,

and couldn't believe my luck.

i carried as many home

as i could in

my small arms

and stashed them in

the closet behind

my ball and glove,

a bat and tennis shoes

and smelly socks.

i couldn't wait to begin

reading all the fine

articles and poetry,

short stories

in the magazines when i

got home

from school the next day,

but no,

they were gone, my brother

who was studying to become

a Baptist Minister

had found them, and tossed

them out.

i've never forgiven him.

rubber floor mats for Christmas

i see the ad on tv,

repeatedly, for

rubber mats for one's car.

front and back,

the trunk too.

and then it's Christmas

morning,

and the glow of faces

on the gift recipients

is heart warming

as they

unwrap their car mats

from the pretty wrapping paper.

this is what Christmas

is all about. such joy,

such wonder.

wipeable, durable,

stain resistant mats, fits

any car or truck

on the road within

the last three years.

celebrating the birthday

of Jesus, the savior

of the world with rubber

floor mats.

saving those valuable things

in the corner

are plastic bins, from the floor

to the ceiling

filled

with valuables,

such as diapers,

and then

next to them are

blankets folded and stacked

upon each other,

all colors

all blends of fabric,

a dozen, perhaps more,

and then the cups

and saucers,

the shoes lined up

along the floor,

clothes from the 70's

on racks,

empty boxes that one

can't live without.

receipts 

and cookbooks,

empty cans of soup,

washed

out and saved upon

the counter.

three or four cats

parade through the jungle

of it all.

a few mice are snared in

a few traps.

divorceparty.com

i start a new company

for divorces.

divorceparty.com

why should a divorce be so sad.

why

shouldn't there be a cake

and balloons,

with just the bride on top

or a groom.

why not celebrate the freedom.

have a party,

the unchaining

of a heart,

the shackles thrown

to the ground.

music and dancing,

carousing.

a dart board with the picture

of the absent

spouse stuck in the middle.

why not have fun with

this disaster?

thankful, that at last 

you're out.

i miss my stalker girl

i sort of miss

my stalker, the woman

who

followed me,

who

dialed my number

in the middle of the night

and said nothing.

i miss her texts

and e mails,

seeing her car drive by,

or catching a glimpse

of her

in the shrubbery

when i lean out

to grab the morning paper.

i miss her

disguises.

the black hat

and hoodie,

the sunglasses.

showing up in random

places

and crouching down.

i wonder where she is

these days,

a knock on the door,

or peek

through my window,

would be nice.

i could use a shiver down

my spine.

heart shaped hands, please stop

i know

it's petty, it's ridiculous

to care about

such mundane

things,

but i so thoroughly

dislike

and judge people

as fools

who make hearts

with their

fingers and hands,

or draw such

shapes in the snow,

or in the sand.

hoping for rescue

some mornings

i don't have

the strength or the ambition

to try

and gnaw

through leather

straps

that tether me to this

life.

i twist and turn,

but it's no use.

i'm too old to escape,

to start over.

so i roll over

and play dead, hoping

for rescue.

flipping the pillow

the dream

is startling, so real, so

true.

so

part of who you are.

what's buried within

you.

that longing,

that

confusion, that lack

of closure,

the absence

of reason.

you wipe the cold

sweat

off your brow, flip

the pillow

and try to change 

the channel

as you drift back

into sleep.

starting over

we can

change our names,

alter

our face,

gain or lose weight,

we can

become another person

and disappear

into

the city where no one

knows us.

we can start over.

become who we were

meant to be,

not this,

this soul who lost 

his way,

adrift in the sea

of humanity.

vegetable magic

i could

eat about two pounds

of my mother's

Zucchini bread

in no time, washing it

down

with a cold glass of

milk.

it was succulent,

sweet and laced

with icing.

i had to get out my

stretch pants

when she'd put two loaves

in a bag to go.

all vegetables should

taste that good.

free at last

there used to be a woman

in the office

that we called

the executioner.

if you saw her coming 

up the hall,

you shivered with fear,

was this the day

they saw right through you,

that you didn't have

a clue, numbly shuffling

papers at your desk

for eight hours.

did they at last find out 

that the only thing you cared

about was coffee in

the morning, chit chat,

lunch, then happy hour

when the clock struck five?

and then, the soft knock

on the cubicle came.

grab your belongings,

my friend, she'd say,

today is your last day.

give me your badge and parking

pass. good luck,

oh, and leave the stapler.

swinging a dead cat

you can't swing a dead

cat

by it's tail

without hitting a narcissist

or psychopath

these days.

who isn't

self-absorbed, rude

and lacking

of empathy?

the world is full of them,

not just hell.

flying monkeys

like

monkeys we would climb

the black

cherry tree

and clean it out.

filling our

pockets,

our mouths with the dripping

of cherry blood

slipping

out.

and then the headlights

of the car

would pull into

the driveway,

and we'd fly away

on our little monkey wings.

our bellies

already aching

once again.

what kind of a day?

do i wear

the heavy coat that hangs

in the closet,

or is it too

early

for that, not cold enough.

perhaps a light jacket

will do, or

the windbreaker

that doesn't get out

very often,

maybe a sweatshirt

that i can remove

if the sun comes out,

the button up, or pullover,

or perhaps the zipper one.

should we go black,

brown

or grey?

maybe i should open

the door and dip a leg out,

see exactly

what kind of a day,

it is.

black and white

because people

don't listen

anymore, or read,

or take

the time to examine

all the facts

on both sides,

they become purposely

stupid

in what they believe,

painting

the world in black

and white.

as the lemmings march

as you

age

crowds bug you.

you don't like

the marching mob

elbow

to elbow,

cheek

to cheek.

you don't want to be

one of them,

the lemming

heading

for cliffs edge.

one of 

the mindless

gaggle

of geese honking

with blurred reason,

confused

heads.

there used to be a book called the phone book

there used

to be a book

called the phone book.

a thick

enormous book

made of thin

parchment paper

not unlike the Dead

Sea Scrolls.

it would land

on your porch

once a year with a thud.

everyone was in it.

the black print

was tiny, you had to squint

or get out

your father's

magnifying glass

and a ruler

to locate someone you

wanted to call.

you had one number

back then.

one address.

that was the complete

1970 version

of social media.

the phone book.

what a glorious time

it was.

i can't hear you

she spoke so

softly

i could hardly hear her,

i'd move

closer

but she'd whisper even

softer

as i slid

my chair towards hers.

it was almost

as if she didn't want

me to know

that she really had nothing

to say

of interest.

but i tried, i really did,

turning my good ear

towards

her moving lips,

fluttering like feathers

on a bird.

the short long life of Alfred

the boy,

Alfred,

the one with the broken tooth,

and shaggy

hair,

always in trouble,

with a perpetual

black eye,

a delinquent from day one,

he liked to throw

rocks

through apartment windows.

come on, he'd say.

pick one up

and on the count

of three

let's throw them

together, then run.

but i said no,

and was already

halfway

down the street,

my ears listening to what

he had done.

almost anything for you

i'll do anything

for you,

but that,

climb the highest mountain,

swim

the deepest sea,

go to the moon

and back.

carry you across

the threshold?

no.

i'll do anything for you,

but i'm doing

that.

the cold glass of water

shade

is what you're looking for

in this

hot sun.

this arid heat.

a cool alley,

a cold step to sit

upon.

a cold glass of water

to drink

before you go on.

maybe over

there,

maybe the next corner

i'll turn

and there

she'll be

waiting as i've always

dreamed,

just for me.

Winstons

a bar

used to be a bar.

a dark

hole in the wall, where

you could go

and sit,

and have a drink, or

a bite

to eat. a place

to ponder your life,

out of the rain,

done for

the day.

maybe there was one

old tv

on a shelf,

with rabbit ears,

black and white

with a fight on.

the volume turned down.

no one was on their phone.

the menu

had hamburgers

with American

cheese. French fries.

no salads, no spinach dip.

no calamari.

the words gluten free

weren't on there.

in front of you was a bottle

of ketchup

and mustard

and packs of sugar.

salt and pepper shakers.

the bar tender was

friendly

but he didn't want

to be your friend

and left you alone after

pouring you a drink.

no one explained for ten

minutes what

the specials of the day were.

there were no specials.

people would sit

next to each other and

talk or not talk.

silence was okay.

there might be a juke box

in the corner, playing songs

you knew all the words to.

the place

smelled like old smoke,

old beer,

old men and women

lost in their thoughts.

and when you got up to

go to the bathroom,

no one touched your drink,

or took your spot.

the floor creaked when

you walked across it and

the bar stools were

made of wood, strong and

sturdy.

they could hold you all night.

and sometimes did.

men o pause

i tried to help an old woman

across 

the street the other day,

taking her arm

to navigate

the puddles and traffic,

but she slapped me

hard against my face

and clobbered me

with her umbrella.

get your hands off of me,

she said,

i know what you're up to.

sorry, i tell her. i was just

trying to help you

across this crowded street.

men, she screamed. you're

all the same, you just

want one thing.

well, i'll have you know

i'm not that kind of woman.

you remind me of my ex

husband. always trying

to be helpful and kind.

the nerve of you.

i don't need men anymore.

thank you.

i can do it myself, i alone

can get to the other side.

let them play

the kids

in the alley throwing

dice

against the brick

wall,

playing stickball

in the street,

don't care about what

we care

about.

it's always been that way.

but they'll

have their turn

soon,

one day, but for now,

let them play.

don't vote

good news

is coming, he says from

the podium.

you'll see,

a vote for me will solve

all our problems.

i'll turn

this ship around

and make everyone

happy

like it was in the olden

days, before

we hit the rocky shore

and ran

aground,

vote for me.

pull the lever, push

the button,

scribble in my name,

let's smile

again

and remove

the frown.

making the u-turn

do i turn

around and go back home

to see if

i left

the iron on,

the doors unlocked,

something

in the oven?

or do i just proceed

to the beach

and forget about it?

do i

stretch out

on the warm sand,

on my enormous towel

and listen to the ocean

roll in?

of course

i make the first you turn

i can.

circling with a knife

i'm at a friends

house

playing parcheesi

in about 1973 when i get

a call

from my little

brother,

panting frantically, telling

me,

to hurry home,

my sister is chasing him

with a butcher

knife around

the room.

i didn't ask why,

i just took my last turn

so i take my last turn,

then ran

the ten blocks

back to the house,

hopping fences along

the way,

a short cut through

the alley 

where i dodged barking

dogs

and bums

crawling out of dumpsters.

it was just another

day

while my mother lay

in a hospital having yet

another baby.

the bar in Grand Central

it's a bar,

a speak easy of sorts,

tucked deep

into a corner

of Grand Central Station.

dark and loud.

we're the only people

over the age

of thirty in this

gyrating, phone

addicted crowd.

it's twenty five

dollars

a pop for

a short tumbler of

vodka and tonic on ice,

for the slice of lime,

no charge.

it's an old

bank of sorts from

the gilded age.

the safe

on the wall is as large

as a barn door.

no word of sound,

or note of music

escapes

from these thickened walls.

we'd like

to stay and eat and drink,

but we only have

five hundred

dollars between us.

the illusion of sight

we see

more

without our eyes.

we sense

and feel our

way

about the room,

the braille

of walls and tables,

people

standing near,

passing by.

the eyes deceive

us into

thinking

we understand and

believe

all that lies before us,

selling us on what

we see,

which isn't true..

the Sunday New York Times

in another age,

another era, which feels

like a century

ago,

you'd sit out back

in the sunlight

of fall

and read

the paper.

no phone. just you

and a pot

of coffee,

perhaps a bagel

toasted with butter.

and blueberry

jam.

you'd start

from A 1

and work your way

through all the news,

saving 

the Book Review

for dessert, savoring

it all

until the end.

imaginary lovers

your love

has not dwindled

for

what the mind's eye held

as true.

your imagination

has

been saved

in the vault of your

soul,.

your dreams prove

that, but

your waking hours,

say no.

doing cartwheels

as a kid

i could do a cartwheel

with no

problem, i could

stand on

my head,

on my hands,

i could jump

the backyard fence,

or run

a marathon.

my fingers could

reach the rim,

and i could throw

a ball

with ease

from one end to

the other.

ah, those were

the days my love,

now take my hand,

let's travel the last road

together.

give it up

put down

the weight,

the immeasurable

pounds of

worry,

lay it on the floor.

no longer

carry

the burden

with you.

year after year.

just stop,

no more.

give it to a higher

power,

if you believe in

one,

if not,

pick it back up,

good luck,

and carry on.

a ring in the nose

i've never

understood the ring

in people's

noses.

it looks so painful.

before the last decade

or two,

you usually only

saw a ring

in the noses of animals,

mostly

cattle

to lead them around

by a rope.

strung through the 

circular piece of iron.

making

them submissive.

or to wean them off of milk.

but now

it's decorative.

it's rebellious,

it's an artistic expression.

lovely.

but i can't help wonder

about metal

detectors

and getting a cold.

and blowing their nose,

what about allergies?

hay fever.

is it difficult to kiss someone

who also has a ring

in their nose?

do they ever snag it on

their clothes?

like a mohair sweater?

more than she loves me

she loves her dog.

she calls it

my baby.

she gives it a hundred

strokes

of the brush each

morning,

and trims its nails.

there goes the yellow

ribbon

around her neck,

then the walk,

the treat,

a wipe down

of the paws, then

into the basket for

a ride along

the trails.

she takes a selfie

of them

together and posts

it daily.

i have the sneaking

suspicion

that she loves her dog

more than she loves

me.

sick of this story

i'll tell the rest of the story

sometime

later, i tell her, stopping

suddenly

in the middle,

not quite having reached

the good parts.

i've grown weary of the story

having told it

so many times,

and for what reason?

who cares,

not I.

maybe one day, i'll pick up

where i've left off,

or maybe not.

perhaps i'll have a new

story to tell by then.

the apple orchard

it's crisp out.

a hard

blue sky over a field

of changing

color.

the drop

of stiffened leaves,

by frost

becomes our carpet.

we say little to

one another,

but smile

as we hold hands

marching

towards apples

in the orchard.

blow on it first

we have

to be careful with

what

we put into our mouths.

the hot

spoon or fork,

the bitter

or sour

dollop of something

gone wrong.

the ice cream

that

spikes

your head.

our tongue knows

what's

good for it, or not.

take the kiss

for example.

mini Hannibal lecters

i like

kids, i have one of my own,

but when

they start

crying

and fighting,

and breaking things,

and won't shut

up,

i don't like them anymore

and i want

their parents

to lightly beat them

with a paddle,

or at least threaten

them

with some sort of punishment,

but that's not

allowed anymore.

you can't even yell at

them

these days.

it might hurt their feelings.

but they seem to be working anyway

i find out

that my doctor has been charging

me full

price

for medications,

but each pill is a placebo.

i had my chemistry

girlfriend

Marie Curie

put them under the microscope

for me.

she shook her head

and said,

nope.

ain't no medicine in 

these pills,

Jimbo.

she calls me Jimbo,

but it's

not my name.

too tired to go out

this soup,

a thin

broth with a bone,

a few

carrots,

with slender slices

of celery,

afloat

won't fill me up.

but it's all

i have for now.

no bread and butter,

no milk,

no meat on the table.

it's just

this soup to get me

through

the hour.

gravity is not our friend

you see

the battle against the law

of gravity,

but it's of no use.

no doctor can stop it

for long,

sure, they can pull

and tuck

the sagging skin,

raise the breasts,

and brows, smooth

out that

turkey skin

on your jowl, but

in the end gravity wins,

that's why

thankfully, they bury you

lying down

and not standing up.

gravity is not our friend.

the white flag of surrender

it's a very political

neighborhood

with graduates from the Ivy

League

Schools.

they all display a flag

over their porch

and fine trimmed lawns.

the rainbow flag,

their political persuasion

flag,

the flag representing who's

side they are on

in the latest war.

there's one for climate change,

and one

for no borders.

another one for a country

you've never heard of.

a flag stating who's life

means more.

i run my white pressed 

handkerchief up

the flag pole.

i surrender.

red paw prints

the enormous cat,

paying no mind to the wet

paint

signs

scurries down

the red steps

to do his business

in the far

corner of the laundry

room

where a bin

of sand awaits.

then he comes back up

with a la dee da

sort of air.

there are red

paw prints everywhere.

on the rug,

the table cloth,

the kitchen counter,

the big

white chair.

i fill the tub

with warm water,

but i can't catch him.

the urgent telegram

i've never

had a telegram, but think

what a nice

thing that would

be.

the piece of paper,

importantly typed,

with

a few short sentences

from over seas.

something you could

frame

and hang

in your den.

the dot dot dot thing.

urgent, it might read.

wish you

were here, but we got

sick

eating some bad

oysters.

urgent, send Pepto

Bismol

soon. please.

family sized

the food is not that good,

but there's

a lot of it.

it's what we do here in America.

the land

of plenty.

just look around,

and around

and around.

so easy to over eat

when everything is processed

for addiction,

fried and

full of seed oils

and sweet.

the terrorists are here

already,

they're called General

Mills,

and Coco Cola,

Aunt Jemima,

Pillsbury

and that witch

who's making

Little Debbie cakes.

eat eat eat,

no worries, we'll make more.

suck it up

i give my

neighbor a handful of self-help

books

and psychology

manuals

that i used to read

when i was

going through

the depths of hell.

she's crying when she takes

them from me.

can i stop by later

to tell you what

happened, she says.

i tell her no.

that's not a good idea.

i can't save you. these

books can't save you.

the therapists can't save you either.

forget the priests

and friends too.

all of it can help, but

in the end

you have to suck it up

and grieve.

then go through the long

journey alone,

to heal.

we need name tags

rarely are names

mentioned, instead the news

will say,

others are

saying this, some are speaking

out.

those, and they,

them.

protesters are marching.

it's all very vague.

some wearing masks,

apparently

ashamed.

crowds and mobs

all

in alignment as if one

brain controlled

them all.

you never hear them say,

Bob, Joe and Jane,

and their

friends Mary,

and 
Evelyn are on the street again.

disappearing letters

the keyboard

is losing letters, worn off by

my fingers,

applying

light, but firm pressure

searching

for coherency, or

some

sort of rhyme and reason.

there goes

the a, then the l,

the enter bar

is fading too,

not to mention

the delete button,

and backspace.

oh well.

the working life

it is the glazed

eyes

of travelers off to work

that i

observe

from my car window, in

no particular

hurry to get where i

need to go.

it's mostly youth

and those

caught in the middle,

filling up

the road.

i see a young woman,

dressed

for business

purposes beside me,

applying makeup

in her rear-view mirror

and can't help

but to think,

she has thirty more years

of this

to go.

small yellow taxi

like angry bees

smoked from their hives,

they swarm

and one at last pulls over

to our waving arms.

it's cramped,

it's dirty and smells of fish

or lamb,

and the tempered glass

that separates

us is smeared

with either ketchup or blood,

but it will

get us there in record

time as we fly down

Broadway in the bike lane.

we hang on to

the straps and each other,

as we pray, dear lord,

get us to our seven hundred

dollar room.

no gates at the zoo anymore

we used

to incarcerate the mentally

disturbed.

we weren't taking

away

their rights, just helping

them,

with three squares

and a cot,

and someone to talk to

other than

themselves.

but now,

they're everywhere.

arms deep into garbage

cans,

screaming at demons

on the street that aren't

there.

buying guns.

becoming congressmen

and women

speaking at the podium.

the world

has come undone.

calculations

in our heads,

we do calculations.

do i have enough gas to get

me there

and then back home

again.

is there enough

cream

for coffee in the morning,

or do i need

to run out tonight.

do i have enough

money

to last me, before they

turn of the lights

and haul

me away on a

gurney?

we should have a party

insisting that we

have a small

gathering of close

friends over

to the house for the holidays,

i tell her,

i can't have

a party, 

i don't have a cheese board

or one of those

little

cheese knives.

plus i don't know American

cheese

from Roquefort.

why do so many cheeses

smell so bad,

i ask her.

and wine.

i don't drink wine.

i have no candles or cloth

napkins either. and

i haven't figured out yet,

how to sync

my Bose speakers

to the Spotify on my phone.

can't we just go to the movies

instead?

in the devilish kind of mood

i know

how to push his buttons,

and kind

of enjoy doing so,

when i'm

in that kind of devilish

mood.

sick, i know.

but he's so easy to play

with.

a cat with a mouse,

tossing him

up into the air by disagreeing

with his

hyperbole

about movies and politics,

money

and women.

he asks me why i haven't

evolved yet?

i try to disarm

his grandiose

proclamations, his

worship

of sports teams,

and all things far left,

by shrugging

and changing the subject.

i can feel

the steam coming 

through the phone

when i do that.

fun.

the dwindling class of 73

Becky

emails me about the upcoming

high school

reunion. then follows up the unanswered

email with a phone call.

she's been doing

this every five years, bugging

the hell out of former

students to attend

another reunion.

fifty years ago we all

graduated

from that stupid school.

she asks me if i know

where

Marvin Marowitz might be.

i say, who's that?

she says, well, he was

our class president and most

likely to succeed.

check Sing Sing, i tell her.

you're still so sarcastic

she says,

you haven't changed since

i sat next to you in Mrs. Moaks,

French three class.

oui, i say.

so, she says.

are you coming or not?

it's a day picnic, bring your

pickle ball paddle.

so far we have

four commitments and

ninety-seven no

responses.

we were going to invite

some of our

old faculty, but they're all

dead now.

do you mind bringing the hot

dogs and buns, kosher only,

and the mustard.

one pack should be

enough.

i'm bringing the deviled eggs,

and by the way, there's

handicap parking

and ramp access 

to the park grounds.

what about Holly 
Portobello?  do you know

where she is.

as a matter of fact i do.

yeah, i saw her online

the other day.

she was doing a class on face

yoga,

and selling wrinkle creams.

she has a web site,

so look her up.

i have to go now, my socks

need ironing.

finding the last stop

it seems at times

like

you've had nine or so different

lives.

not unlike

the proverbial

cat.

living in different houses,

apartments,

being in love,

being out.

moving and shuffling

your feet

in the sand.

finding

different ways to make

a living,

carrying your

possessions with you as

once again land

at the next stop,

wondering

where and when it will be

the last one,

pulling the line on the train

to get off.

her stash in the rafters

as i twist

the knob to the outside water,

hoping

that the pipes

won't freeze,

i remember

how she used to hide

her cigarettes

and lighter

up there 

in the dusty rafters of

the laundry room

where the pipes

run to the back

of the house.

there's a pint of southern

comfort too.

i've left everything there.

her doctor told her not

to smoke,

not to drink because

of her heart, but she didn't care.

it was so long ago,

since she died.

nearly twenty years.

but the water

is off again

as Christmas nears.

the foot long sub

not everything

is good,

i confess to the priest

as he waits

for my next sin.

i want to expand on

how my

life is going, but

i hear him on the other

side of the mesh

window,

gulping,

as he takes a drink

of soda,

then continues to eat

his lunch.

a sandwich i saw

him bring in from Quiznos.

go on  my son, he says.

then the crunch

of potato chips.

i can smell the onions.

go on, he says again.

what other sins have you

to confess?

i feel resentful, i tell him.

i feel anger towards

those who pretend

they really care, but don't.

he unwraps the pickle,

takes a bite,

then tells me, i understand

my son.

go on.

do you have a napkin

over there,

by any chance, he says.

just got some mayo

on my frock.

walking the last five miles

there are some

people

you won't get into the car with

if they're driving.

they seem

drunk or distracted

despite

being sober, they seem

confused by

lights,

by other cars beside

them,

and behind,

startled by horns,

their white knuckles

tell you

everything there is to know

about their state

of mind.

drop me off here, you

tell them,

i can walk that last five miles.

three feet of love

welcome back you say

to the winter wind

that curls

around you, 

trying

it's best to get in.

what have you brought

us this time.

i see you've shaken

the leaves

clean,

i see the frost on the windows.

i feel your

sting.

what will it be

this year?

three feet of snow

in January,

the lake frozen,

how much wood 

and love will we need?

maybe she'll call back

it's here

somewhere, i know i wrote

the number

down.

saved it

in ink on the back of an

envelope.

it's where i keep

all my important

notes.

i search the table,

the drawers,

i shake the pockets

out of the three

pairs of pants that are lying

on the floor.

it's not taped to the fridge,

it's not in

the trash bins,

it's nowhere

to be found.

maybe she'll call back.

maybe,

tonight, or in the morning.

if you no longer want sex, get married

i remember when

one of my

ex wives

cut me off from having sex.

i think it was

the third wife.

she was punishing me

for having caught

her in a lie,

which was about as easy

as shooting

fish in a barrel.

she slept on the far edge

of the bed

for three weeks,

no kiss goodnight,

no words, no nothing,

just the cold shoulder.

if the bed had been a water

bed,

her side would have been

frozen solid.

in time i learned

not to call her out on

her lies, but to pretend

i didn't know

the truth.

i made out like everything

was hunky dory.

before long, she was

back to once a week

on Saturday night,

reluctantly,

if she didn't have a headache

or if her phone

didn't ring.

just say no

we reach

the age when we can say

no

and not feel guilty about it.

we've earned

the no's

that are coming from

here on out.

you've done the birthday

parties,

you've met

all the parents,

you've gone on the roller

coaster ride

when you didn't want

to and you've

ate a lot of food

that

you didn't want

to eat.

so it's no now to the wedding

invite,

no to Sunday

morning church,

no to the three day

seminar on positive thinking,

or the retreat

where you

can't talk for a week.

it's no to karaoke,

no to ice skating,

no to soy beans or kale.

no to watching a movie

on the hallmark

channel,

or driving to the mountains

to pick berries,

or see the leaves change

color.

hard and caring

in the moment.

when

she set

the test upon my desk,

making eye contact,

i didn't like

her. i didn't like

her glasses

on her nose,

the curl

of her hair,

the plain jane dress

of a school

marm

not hiding her stout

figure.

i didn't appreciate

the way she shook

her head

in disgust or dismay

at a wrong

answer.

i didn't like the C

she gave me,

and the little note

that read,

try harder,

read and study,

you aren't that dumb.

you're smart.

come on.

you can do better.

i didn't like her then,

but in the rear

view mirror

i love her for being

hard

and caring.

a quick stop along the way

in the cold April rain,

in thick traffic, the lights

on,

you get stuck

in a funeral procession.

you can't get out,

so you

go along.

it circles into the cemetery

where you

get out of your car

and follow

the crowd

to the graveyard.

people smile

and pat you on the back,

giving you

comfort for your loss.

they ask

you to say a few words.

so you do.

quoting a poem by

T.S. Eliot.

April is the cruelest month,

you say,

breeding lilacs out

of the dead land,

mixing memory and desire,

stirring dull roots with

the spring rain.

let's us pray, then

you shake hands

with the mourners and 

off you go.

when it all hits the fan

as the world

darkens

with more and more

of the same.

you say things you heard

your parents say.

i'm glad

i'll be gone when it

all hits the fan.

good luck

to all you have no choice

but to stay.

the Saragosa Sea

tranquility

at times will still the pen.

so what is this

calm

you suddenly find 

yourself in.

is it a wide swath

of fertile

ground, or

the Saragosa Sea

you're floating

upon,

with another storm

to come?

falling away

at arms

length then further,

we

keep

away from the rude

and toxic,

the angered

and 

low.

keeping

conversation short.

what we

put up with in youthful

compromise,

we no longer

have use

for.

visiting her dead rescue dog

i took

her to the cemetery

once

on a cold wintry day.

she said that she wanted to visit

an old loved

one

that died several years ago.

i looked at her

and thought, maybe i was

wrong

about her.

there is a human being

inside

the monster

that she is.

a real empathetic

person.

it was raining ice water,

i took her hand

as i held the umbrella

over us.

finally we reached

the grave

stone.

it said, Rex.

who's Rex, i asked her, and

she said

it was my beloved pet,

a rescue dog

i had for two weeks.

i still have the scar on my

arm

where he bit me. then

she began

to cry, as i rolled my eyes,

and mumbled,

yikes, what's next.

the three of us in bed

quietly

the dog comes up the stairs

on this frigid

night, he

leans

his head

over the side of the bed,

to look at me,

then hops onboard.

quickly

he finds me, and curls

against

my body

beneath the blanket.

nudging the cat

out of the way with his

long nose.

is it love?

is it the call of the wild

in him,

a primitive instinct,

the safety of the pack?

or is it none of that.

perhaps it's just

a nice

soft place to rest.

the road trip up north

i can

still taste the wonder

of that soft

roll

filled with the white

meat

of lobsters

just pulled from

the North Atlantic Ocean,

when we stopped at

the roadside

shack

near Cape Cod.

fifty years ago.

the three of us in a van,

driving north

to Boston

to see the Red Sox play

at Fenway.

sleeping

on the side of the road,

eating

and drinking along

the way,

talking about life

and love,

school, what lay beyond

our youth.

having no answers, no

clues,

but unworried

by it all.

we were bound to press

on.

tapping out

i guess

i should get a pumpkin

for the porch,

join in.

be part of this, whatever

this is.

maybe

put a candle in the window,

buy a few

bags of candy

for the kids,

or maybe

i'll just pretend 

that i'm not home,

pretend that none of

this is

happening, and turn

the lights off,

take a book

the basement once

again.

big bad Ruth

my neighbor

Ruth,

who used to look like

Olive Oyl,

started lifting weights at the gym.

she's enormous with

muscles bugling

in places

you had no idea muscles

could be in.

i'm a little scared of her

now,

because of her temper

and strange steroid induced

growl,

but if i have a pickle

jar

i can't open, she's quick

to come

over and give

the lid a twist.

tomorrow she's going

to help

me carry bags of paving

stones

to the back yard.

hatred back in style

hatred

for no reason

other than

faith

or skin color,

ethnicity,

seems to be back in style,

just when

you thought it went away

after world

war two,

or the delusional sixties,

here it comes again

in full

moronic

holler.

so much and yet so little

i don't know

who you are she says to me,

leafing

through books,

rummaging

through my closet,

opening

the medicine cabinet

and holding labels

up to the light.

you're all over

the place

with clues and missteps.

sadness

and joy

blended together.

how can i ever love someone

i know so much

and yet 

so little about?

chasing leaves

i see the man

with his

loud leaf blower chasing

a handful

of red

and yellow leaves

down the street.

he has his earphones on,

oblivious

to the noise

to the neighbors

looking out their windows.

i go out

and hand him an old

rake

and a dustpan,

then tell him, shhhh.

please.

quiet.

this is a hospital zone.

going the extra mile

my old

boyfriend would shovel

my car out,

she told me angrily,

as i sat reading

the morning paper

in my pajamas.

he'd

scrape the ice

off the windshield and

start the engine

so that i could drive

away in a warm

car.

you mean

the married guy?

i ask her.

i believe that.

they always go the extra

mile for

their mistresses.

in your own world

you

can't watch the news all day.

you'll

become depressed

and sad,

almost beyond

repair.

you can't sit and question

the world,

asking why this,

what that, what's wrong

with these people.

you can only

live your own

life

peacefully,

and try not to hurt

or get hurt,

but staying aware.

the green stuffed frog

the man

who had the corner office,

the man who

hired me,

a large

man

with a beard and

every hair in place,

was fired

the other day.

i watched him

walk past

my cubicle

with tears in his

eyes.

carrying his box

of personal items.

a picture

of his wife

and children. his framed

degrees

in computer science,

and his green stuffed

frog

that he kept

on his desk.

maybe that was it.

coo coo for cocoa puffs

our addictive

nature

keeps us in our phones,

keeps

the sugar

on the table,

the eye candy at

arms

length, or closer.

we can't help ourselves

to the worlds

dope.

we need our fix.

our morning coffee,

our dopamine,

our trix.

be patient

as i sit

in the waiting room,

there are no

magazines anymore,

no People,

or Life,

or Popular Mechanics.

no Sports Illustrated

swim suit

issue,

not even a single 
Readers Digest

can be found.

we are all staring into

our phones

or out the window

at nothing,

waiting

to called in by a nurse

who will

mispronounce

our names.

at least for the moment

ice cream

will

fool you, make you think

that all

is well.

taking

the time on a shady

bench

to lick a double

scoop

of rocky

road and chip mint.

there is no

arguing, no fight in

you,

no cares,

at least for the moment.

the world

needs

a gallon

or two.

until we know who

we like

our mysteries. 

the tense drama of what

if,

of who done it.

we like

the shadowy

figures,

the ebb and flow

of plot,

the mixed messages,

the tease

and cryptic

clues of glances

and whispers,

red herrings,

but in the end, we're

not satisfied,

until we know

who.

pumpkin time

i buy a pumpkin pie

because

i feel as if i have no choice.

a pumpkin latte,

a pumpkin

loaf of bread.

pumpkin cookies

pumpkin ice cream,

and pumpkin flavored

milk.

i even buy a giant

pumpkin to carve

and set upon the steps.

i'm brainwashed

once again

by the pumpkin people

wearing

their pumpkin hats.

forcing pumpkins

down my throat.

Halloween all year

it was Halloween

all year

with her.

her in her masks,

her stirring

the boiling cauldron,

full of spells,

and me

doling out

enough sweets to keep

her near.

a horror show

at best.

a tangled ugly mess,

and me

caught

within the web.

the slow trickle

she trickles

her love

towards me, a slow

drip

from the faucet

of her

heart.

a warm flow of drops.

i bend

over the faucet

and drink

and drink, not wanting

it to stop.

land of the giants

these grapes,

green

and sweet are enormous.

i wonder

what

they did to create them.

what mutations

did they

undergrow to get so

so large.

who's messing with their

dna?

but i think that way

about the players now

when i watch

sports on tv.

what if?

what if

Mexico was lobbing bombs

and rockets

over

the border into crowded

cities

for twenty-two years

not to mention

fentanyl.

they want Texas back.

would we

respond, or let it go?

just shrug and say,

oh,

they're just letting off

a little steam.

and what if they invaded,

crossed over

the line, through the fence

uninvited

and killed

people in their sleep,

slaughtered

children

and the elderly, raped

and pillaged. took hostages.

would we be upset?

i hope so.

but right now we look

increasingly

weak.

turning down the invitation

i turn

down the invitation to a wedding.

i tell the bride

to be

that i'm bad luck

with such ceremonies.

using my fingers

to count off three.

but i'll be at the party though,

afterwords,

as long as the meal

and drinks,

and the three tiered cake

are free.

high winds are coming

high

winds are coming.

i know that because the little

blurb

in the left hand

corner of this screen

has told me so.

rarely though

do i ever get more useful

information

than that.

no list of numbers

for the next lottery

drawing,

i have to pull those

things

out of a hat.

the communication network

the Verizon

man at last shows up

having given me a window

of hours and days

between

nine a.m. and three p.m.,

Wednesday through Friday.

i see him get out of his truck

and pull

his pants up, weighted down

by a tool belt,

and a mess of wires

on his shoulder.

he walks past the front

door, 

where i stand waving,

and goes to the back

of the house, so i run down

the stairs to go out

and unlock

the gate for him.

he asks me my service

number and i show him the printed

work order.

he says nothing

then gets to work.

no pleasantries at all.

i ask him if he wants water

or coffee,

and point towards the house

if he needs to use

the bathroom.

he says, ok,

squinting and rubbing his beard.

i say something like, nice weather

we're having, which gets no

response, then I

go back inside and

look out the window.

i see his hands buried

in the wall box, he's mumbling

to himself,

then he leaves for an hour

and comes back.

i ask him from the window

if everything is

okay.

he shrugs and says, no.

i make myself a lunch,

then try the tv, the phone,

the internet.

black, nothing. dead.

i pace the room

for awhile then

i go to the window, but he's

gone again.

the gate is closed, his

tools are gone,

his bundle of wires gone too.

i try the tv once more.

it's on.

everything is working

once again.

then i get a text from Verizon,

asking

me to rate the visit.

leave it as it is

there is no

going back, no apology, no

words

of comfort

to those

left behind.

no awkward

reconciliations.

they have their lives

to live,

and i have mine.

let's leave it as it is.

keeping all the candy

should

i buy a pumpkin

and set it on my porch

for the holiday?

or should

i let the neighbors do

their thing,

with spider webs

and white

sheets

draped across the hedges,

the voice

box

emitting screams.

should i leave the light

on

or turn it off and lock

the door

keeping all

the candy that i bought

for myself.

it would make my

dentist happy,

i'm sure.

three nuns walk into a bar

why aren't you

laughing,

she says. don't you get it?

let me tell you

the punch

line again. maybe

you didn't hear

me correctly.

no, i tell her raising

my hand.

it's okay.

i'm just not in the mood

for levity

today. but your

delivery was great.

where does it go?

where

did the hours go, I wonder,

rising from

a long

nap on the long couch

on the long

summer day,

stretching like

an old

cat in the sun.

what have i done with

all that time?

all those years, 

so much of it

has just

slipped away.

pass me the popcorn, dear

it's theater,

it really is all theater.

the drama

unfolding on our screens.

the actors on stage.

each

taking his or her turn

at speaking.

each holding

a weapon

in their hand, a few

with the red

button,

threatening to push it.

how will it all end.

are all the clues

really

all there in Revelation?

pass me

the popcorn dear, it's

heating up

again.

the garage sale on Primrose Lane

it's Saturday

in the

well groomed neighborhood.

the doors

have been lifted

and inside

the hollow caves of garages

sit men

with their wives.

everything must go.

half

or less than the price

boughten. 

she's wearing a flowered

dress,

he's in a short sleeved

white shirt

with a simple tie.

is that a dab of perfume

on her wrists?

so civilized they are as

they dispose

of the no longer wanted

or useless

things

that filled their short

lives.

there goes the tennis

racket

and balls, 

from the lesson not taken

in July, the scuba gear

when he almost

learned how to dive.

the bicycle built for two.

don't ask

or the wooden canoe

with a pair

of hunting boots.

a bow and arrow set,

tucked inside.

burn baby burn

it's probably

a mistake, but i give

the man

on the phone my social

security number,

my name

and birth date, my

mother's maiden name,

my checking account

number,

and my address.

he sounds very nice,

and promises that he

won't share my

information with anyone.

he's selling me,

Emily Wilson,

an end of life

insurance policy.

i think i can trust him.

he asks me if i prefer

burial or cremation.

i tell him, burn baby burn

like we used

to chant in the streets

in sixties.

he doesn't seem to get it.

the Royal Cruise Ship

it's a large boat,

nine stories tall, longer

than the empire

state building

in new york.

we go up the gangplank

with our

luggage

for the seven-day cruise.

where's the food i hear

the man

behind me yell out.

i look back

at him and his wife, she

has her mouth

open, like a baby bird

in a nest waiting

for a worm.

a gaggle of waiters begin

to throw

lobsters at us

and pads of butter.

pork chops

and ham sandwiches.

from the poop deck,

a man in a chefs hat is tossing

pizzas at us

like Frisbees.

a small catapult shoots

scoops of ice

cream at us while

someone puts a cake

into our faces.

welcome aboard,

the captain says and puts

a giant bibb

around our necks.

peep peep peep

i suppose

we were as equally stupid

when

young.

how quickly we forget

how

dumb we were

with so little knowledge

in our heads.

you cringe

at them as they tie

themselves

together

on the street, yelling

for peace.

clueless

small birds of a feather,

still living

in the nest,

going peep peep peep.

the early morning tiff

i hear

the neighbors arguing

in the morning.

what is it this time?

did he leave

the seat up, or leave

the butter out

all night on the counter.

did she overspend

the money

on things they don't

need,

will they ever take

that vacation to Italy,

or is it

the beach again

this year?

she asks in a muted

scream,

ah, love and marriage.

such a wonderful

thing.

maybe stripes this time

i spend an hour

online

searching for a new shower

curtain.

who knew

there were so many to choose

from.

do i go polyester

or cotton,

maybe a blend.

stripes

or plain, abstract,

flowers?

the world is full of too

many choices.

i miss

the times when you

married

the girl next door,

and there was only one

milk.

and a friend was really

a friend,

not this Facebook

malarky.

maybe stripes this time.

Apollo Blue

i want

this blue, this can of paint,

he says.

Apollo Blue

by Martin Senour.

i've been using it for fifty years.

i want the same

thing,

it's the paint my children

grew up with,

my deceased wife

picked it out.

in 1965. 

the shiny kind,

but, i tell him

they don't make it any more.

that company is

out of business.

it's nowhere to be found.

please, he says. please

try,

it would mean

the world to me.

if i don't get the color

i want,

i may die.

frosting the cake

if lucky,

you were in the kitchen

when

your mother finished

frosting the cake.

the spatula

was all yours

for the licking.

and the bowl too.

the others,

in the other room

doing children things,

were too late.

hesitation

the animals know,

they know.

they just

know, as we do. but

we're too

smart for our own good.

we intellectualize

each moment

of danger, blinking

in the eye of fear,

not trusting

our instinct,

our most vital organ,

our gut.

all is lost in hesitation.

remember that guy?

what was his name?

do you remember him, i ask

Bill.

who? he says.

you know, short

guy

with the jump hook.

bald.

traveled all the time,

threw his elbows around,

hot temper.

he was a lawyer.

he used to play up at the court

with us for about fifteen

years.

oh yeah, that guy, Bill

says.  i can see his face,

but i can't remember his name.

hated playing with that guy.

yeah, me too.

what about that tall skinny

guy,

we called him slim,

or string bean,

something like that.

Left handed?

yeah, but couldn't go to his right.

oh yeah,

i remember him. he was

a doctor or

something.

what was his name?

beats me. he was only up

there for about

ten years.

the card game

we play

cards deep into the night

for mere

coins.

nothing we can't afford

to lose.

it's about

laughter and food.

stories.

old tales of love and youth.

a second or third

wife

might pay a visit.

we are working

stiffs,

collars of blue.

if we make it until midnight

i'll be surprised.

we don't even

drink anymore, 

it's been decades since

any of us have

seen the sun rise.

the insanity

apparently

anyone can buy a machine gun

now a days,

and enough

ammunition

to fight a war.

mental illness, no problem.

crazy as a loon, pfft.

welcome

come on in.

do you want a scope

for that

gun, maybe a few

more cartridges.

hey, we just got in some

hand grenades,

and plastic

handguns.

two for the price of one.

night vision goggles?

there's a special on bundles

of TNT.

how about a helmet

and a bullet proof

jacket too?

we just got in a shipment

of knives

too. good for throwing at

bears and what not.

come back soon, we're

open all night. tell all your

friends

at the asylum, tell them

to bring

a friend too.

tomorrows breakfast

i crack some ice

out of a metal

tray,

spilling the cubes into

a glass.

i pour myself some well

water.

i look out

the window at my cow,

and think

about the milk

i'll need in the morning.

there's a chicken

on the table

out back looking in.

eggs.

and the there's Alfred,

the pig,

trying to hide himself

in the mud,

bacon, minus

the nitrates.

who is she exactly?

I'd never heard

of

Taylor swift

until she started dating

a football

player, and her mug

was on the screen after

every play, but i'm sure

she's a wonderful

person.

i've never heard

her music,

her songs,

or been to one of her

concerts.

they all come and go so

quickly these

blonde divas.

Madonna and Miley,

Brittany,

and the rest.

i wouldn't know her

if i bumped into

her on the street.

do i care?

not really.

i've always leaned more

towards

someone like Flannery

O'Connor, or Madam

Curie.

hold on tight, it's going to be a bumpy night

everything can

be lost,

money, your fortune, 

love,

houses

and cars,

all of it can be gone

on the turn

of a dime.

cats and dogs. even

children can

be in the wind,

lost and gone.

but hold on tight

to that funny bone.

don't let the bastards

do you in.

the circle is getting smaller

my social

circle is decreasing with

each

passing day,

each

new death

that appears on

the back page

of the metro section.

she's gone,

he's gone too.

and good Lord,

down goes

Sally Mae Mcgillicuddy,

from my old high school.

so now it's down

to the mailman,

and my barista,

the garage mechanic,

and you.

her flowered gloves

i see my mother

in the yard,

hunched over her garden.

her knees deep

in the black dirt.

she's wearing her old pants,

her large brimmed hat.

her flowered gloves.

i yell out to her

from the porch.

she turns and waves,

then holds

up a bright red tomato

in the sunlight.

i go down to help her up,

to give her

my hand.

i turn, but no

the nose

leads the eyes, 

where have i smelled

such a rose

before,

or what's

on the stove

that's making my

mouth water,

my feet to slow..

who just walked by

with the scent

of an old love upon her?

i turn, but no.

Indian Summer

it comes

in a bright blue flow

of clouds

and sky,

a dress warm with

sunlight.

a spell of sorts, called

Indian summer.

it won't last for long.

we know that.

but

we show her in,

ask her to sit

for a while on

the wide

front porch.

we're in no hurry for

what comes

next.