she was very hungry that day

what's cooking?

i ask

as she stands in the kitchen,

her hands

in a bowl,

the oven on,

the counter full of fruits

and vegetables

i've never

seen before.

cuts of beef, and chicken,

pork

are on the cutting

board,

shrimp

and fish,

the fridge is open,

throwing a ray

of cold light onto

the butter,  the flour,

the sugar

and spices while

the food

processor spins

frenetically,

and she has music on.

what's cooking?

i ask again,

to which she winks at me,

and says

everything, nearly

everything.

it's fear, that's exactly what it is

is it

fear that keeps me from

jumping out

of an airplane

for no reason 

other than the thrill

of it all,

the danger,

the adrenaline rush,

or in swimming with sharks

in warm

water blotted with blood,

or bungee jumping

at the carnival

park?

being flung on large

rubber bands

off the bridge?

or scariest of all,

saying

i do at the courthouse

in front of a justice of peace.

is it fear, or just a lack of interest.

i think

it's fear.

that's exactly what it is.

the police are on their way

startled

by the cold air,

i realize

that i'm standing on the porch

reaching

for the daily news

with no pants

on,

just a thin

t-shirt

and underwear,

barefoot,

but the door has locked

behind

me

when the wind struck,

and now

what?

i see the dog in the window,

his face

pressed

against glass,

barking.

what could go wrong?

the plumber is

coming,

the tile man, the dry wall

fellow,

the electrician

and

the painter.

i've put out notes and

envelopes

of cash for each of them.

the key is under

the mat.

i'll be at church, praying.

my smoke alarm is going off

i have very

sensitive smoke alarms

these days.

not the ones

in the hall,

or going down the basement

stairs,

or the one in

the kitchen, no, not

those.

mine are in my head.

i smell smoke

long before the fire

begins.

i've been in enough chaotic

relationships

to have learned

my lesson,

accumulated enough scars,

to know when

to run for cover

before the next fire

is set again.

it's all my fault

in the middle

of the night, she stubs her toe

on the way

to the bathroom,

breaks

a nail,

then sits on the floor crying.

it's two a.m..

i haven't seen her in ten years,

but she calls me 

anyway.

why did you ruin

my life, she says, sobbing

over the phone.

it's all your fault.

who is this,

i answer?

name, please.

transactional love of the narcissist

if you do this,

and this and this for me,

then

i'll love you.

accept you into my life.

okay?

here's my list, now go

study

it,

and make a plan

today

as to how you can accomplish

all of these

things,

and once that's done

we'll do a review,

then

i'll decide

if your worthy or not

to keep around.

tossing water balloons

we express our differences

via text 

messages.

it's a disaster.

there's no

grin,

or smile, or nuance

to any of it, it's just lobbing

words

across the mile.

there's no way of telling

someone

that was a water balloon

i threw,

not an atomic bomb,

so chill.

editing late into the night

there are writers,

poets,

fiction writers,

who wake

up in the middle of the night

and wish

that they'd written

a line or two,

differently,

something that would

fit better,

shed more light on the topic

at hand.

they'd go into

book stores

the next morning,

searching out their

published works,

and with a black pen,

open copies of their books

and rewrite,

crossing out the old words,

with new ones.

how wonderful

it would be if we could

do the same thing

with our life.

a fifty cent ticket

to each his own

merry

go round. 

his own

plastic horse, blonde

with a mane braided

in rows of brown

and gold,

everything gleams

in the carnival lights,

bulbs

flashing like

candy.

the ping of music,

worn and out

of tune,

is haunting, as you 

go around and around,

staring

at your parents on the side,

waiting patiently

for you to grow.

they call when they need money

do you have

any grandchildren, the woman

on the train

asks me,

as the car

goes through the tunnel.

she's knitting

booties

for her granddaughter

in Norfolk.

i'm not sure,

i tell her.

who knows.

i have a few children,

three in fact,

one of each,

but grandchildren, i guess

at some point

they'll need money,

so i'll get a call and at last

i'll know.

the low end of the pool

being a fool

is not just for the young,

driving fast

and drinking,

overeating and being

promiscuous

or cruel

is on the menu.

the old,

yes us,

we have it down

too.

sometimes we never learn

the lessons

life gives us,

but somehow

we survive against all odds.

still diving

into the low end

of the pool.

i'll wait until she's not home

the girl,

and her attic, with the drop

down steps,

which unfolded into

the hallway

was off limits.

only she would go up,

not me.

what she was hiding

i wanted to know.

i'd hold the wobbly

staircase

as she went up

into the bloom of cobwebs,

the waft

of warm and mold.

don't follow me,

or else, she'd say.

ten minutes later, after

tip toeing around,

she'd come

back down,

carrying nothing in her

hands.

Sylvia has arrived

the new

AI robot has arrived

in the mail.

my personal assistant.

the batteries are in

and already

we're fighting.

Sylvia is her factory name.

sir,

she says, knocking

on my den

door, you've left the seat

up in the bathroom

again.

you left the milk out

and the butter,

and you left

one burner on the stove

on.

can you please be more

careful.

are you going to make

your bed,

or do i have to do

that too?

i look for the remote control

to turn her off,

but she miles in that metallic

way she does,

and says,

mischievously,

is this what you're looking

for?

showing me the remote

in her high held

hand.

being crushed with pieces

falling to the floor.

get used to it

at first,

when something bad happens

to you,

you sulk,

you get depressed and sad.

you grieve

the loss of a loved

one, a pet.

the job the you didn't

get.

the pipe that breaks,

the house

that burns down.

you're downcast

and can't

get back up.

your mind is stuck in

victim hood.

is it karma of some sort,

is God punishing you

for something

you said or did,

or is this just the world,

and you need to

get used to it.

shivering in our leather jackets

there was

something cool and dangerous

about

Maxie Sabron,

the leather jacket,

his black hair,

greased back,

the look

in his eyes that he could kill

his own

mother if he had too.

there was a long scar

down the side

of his face,

of unknown origin.

he offered me

a cigarette as we stood

in the playground

after dark,

shivering in the cold,

in our thin coats.

i was half his size.

i didn't take it.

i was never on the inside

of our pretend hoodlum

group

after that.

no break ins, or stolen

cars,

or stealing

from stores for me.

no one inked my arm

with a needle

and blue

ink.

replacing the broken vase

i try to glue the old

vase back together,

a blue floral thing on

white, fired

in a kiln a century ago,

bought in Italy.

i hold it under a bright

light and carefully

put the pieces in place,

like a puzzle.

the edges

though, are crumbling,

dirt and dust,

the ravages

of time and air keeps

it fragile.

no sooner than i'm done,

and set it back on the sill

by the window.

i hear the crash.

i can't just go to Target

for a new one.

Italy, here i come.

my bad

i'm admonished

for falling behind on 

his status report,

not keeping up with his daily

events,

posted on a variety of social

media platforms.

Facebook and x, and

so many others

that i can't count.

i missed

his new job posting,

the new relationship

that he's in.

i missed the post telling

the world

that his

dog died, and that

his mother is getting divorced.

i missed

the move from one city

to the next

and

that he had the flu,

i was never aware of

his new haircut, and what

book he's reading

or movie he's gone to,

or how much

money he lost when he bet

on the Bears.

i've fallen behind

on all

my celebrity news

when all i had to click

and follow his life.

how i miss the telephone,

or the knock

on the door visit

to shoot the breeze

and catch up.

on the way to the Eastern shore

on the way down

route 50,

straight east,

before Cambridge,

we stop

at a small roadside shed,

open on the front

with boards that are

hinged above

with odd nails and screws.

there's a wooden sign 

planted on the roadside,

waist high, saying

lopes and strawberries,

melons

and tomatoes. sweet corn.

LOCAL, is in large

caps.

the ink looks etched on by

a hurried hand,

house red, left over perhaps

from the door

and shutters we passed

a few miles back.

there's a fat man sitting in a 

folding

chair, fanning himself

with an oriental fan seen last

in an old movie,

with Robert Mitchum

or Richard Montgomery

circa world war

two in Japan.

his eyes are closed, and his skin

is a burnished color,

that one has

from a lifetime of field work.

the bright greens and yellows,

the reds

of the fruit and vegetables,

are in contrast to everything

around us,

the dry flat field that once

held corn looks tired,

with endless rows

of bent stalks,

suffering under the boil

of a sun and the long summer,

now over.

the man's wife,

we guess that,

is arranging her produce

in boxes

on a folding card table,

and turns to greet us,

not with a smile

but with the worried look

of hard times.

help yourself, she says, bags

are over there.

and if you have to go, there's

a bathroom

around back.

she's holding a large green

apple in her

hand, that she

wipes with her checkered apron,

before taking a bite,

which makes the man sit up

and open 

his cold blue eyes.

slings and arrows

the second

i send the letter out, i have

regrets.

damn.

it's not that i regret sending it,

it's that

after further

thought, i left so much

out that i could

have said,

to eviscerate

the intended target.

it's hard to do a part two letter,

once the first

part is in the mail. 

it's all about the rewriting,

and letting it

sit and marinate

in the drawer

before the stamp goes on,

and off it goes.

i need to remember that

the next

time i sit down with

my bloody pen,

my slings and arrows.

no money, no problem

no money because

we don't work, no problem.

short of cash,

short of dough to buy

a car,

or take a vacation, no funds

to have a wedding,

or to take a honeymoon

to the south of France,

no worries.

we'll start a GoFundMe page

and watch

the money roll in.

it's all for a good cause

and what are friends for anyway?

it's the bank

that keeps giving.

hand me my phone, let me

check our account and see

how we're doing.

a dog with a cigar

we used

to go to the big flea

market

in the enormous Quonset hut

in Chantilly.

two bucks

to get in, to peruse the rows

and rows

of other people's

gold,

or junk, depending on

who you

talk to.

dolls from the 19th century,

posters

and books

full of dust

and mold, shoes from

the civil war,

a musket, a jacket with

a bullet hole

in the back,

and over there, by the newspapers

wrapped in

plastic,

is a porcelain statue

of a dog smoking

a cigar

wearing

a ship captain's hat.

a thimble full of knowledge

the more

you know, the more you realize

how little

you know.

despite all the schools and books,

and inquisitive

research,

you can fill all of that

knowledge

into a thimble.

there's more,

always more, and 

still after all

of that,

you're not a bucket

full.

will i fit into the box?

is it the gummy bears, doc?

the processed foods,

French fries

and vegetable oils,

the sugar,

the carbs, the grease and fat

from lays potato chips?

the bacon,

what is it doctor

making

my tummy stick out like

i'm in my second trimester

of giving birth?

what is

making my cheeks puff out

like the jowls

of a chipmunk

eating nuts.

is it genetics,

society,

peer pressure that's making

me buy a donut

every morning,

and eat

a nutty buddy ice cream

bar before i go to sleep

at night?

help me doc,

help me, before i die

and i no longer

fit into the box.

group hug

it used to be,

there were good people,

and bad

people.

but now we give them sophisticated

labels

from the DSM.

narcissists,

covert or grandiose.

they're toxic now,

not nuts,

or lunatics,

or Wack a doodles.

they're borderlines,

sociopaths.

trauma bonded

lost souls,

with cognitive dissonance,

needing treatment and pills,

hug and kisses,

and despite the crimes

and trouble

they cause,

not jail.

taking the long way around the globe

you see on the news

hundreds

of Chinese people coming across

the border

in Mexico to 

Arizona or Texas,

California.

people from Iran,

Iraq, 

Nigeria.

dragging

their luggage

and children along.

how are they getting into

Mexico

in the first place

with their bags packed

minus a work

visa, or passport?

what are they

fleeing from,

taking the long away around

the globe.

apparently they know

where

the leaks are,

where the fences have holes.

who are these people?

the news

loves to broadcast the latest polls.

the percentages

of who's for

or against anything

or anyone

across the board.

who are these people

answering these questions?

being marked off

as yes or no.

undecided?

i've never known anyone

who's been

in poll,

including me.

a little mischief

we all need a little mischief

in our lives,

a slight

bent way

of causing a ruckus, but

doing no harm,

perhaps a sarcastic

swipe

at politics or life,

the grave.

we need a little dark humor

sometimes

to carry on.

the blue line

it's a deep

blue,

this streak of dried paint

on the back

of my hand.

a thin line reminding

me of

work.

not done today,

or yesterday, but of a week

ago.

in time i'll take

a bar of soap

to it,

i'll scrub hard,

and wash it away.

some memories take longer

than others

to be rid of.

some Canadian coins as well

the penny

jar is nearly full.

not just with pennies 

but with

silver coins

too.

i pick up the enormous

green jar to judge

its weight

before carrying it

to the car.

how pleased they'll

be at the bank

when i pour

it all into the machine,

and let it

noisily crank.

running in the rain

i saved her life once.

she was running

across the street in a dark

rain,

her head down,

covered by her coat

and hands.

she didn't see the car 

coming towards her,

or did she?

so i screamed as loud

as i could,

and the car stopped

inches from her body.

she looked back at me

in anger,

and i had the strange feeling

that i had done

the wrong thing.

a drawer full of watches

it's a drawer

full of watches, some

cheap,

some expensive,

blue

faces and white,

a few with

diamonds encrusted,

others of

the digital kind.

gifts

from birthdays or Christmas.

some

still ticking,

others dead

and stuck forever

in the hour they died.

not unlike us,

i suppose.

after the rain stops

does this

rain

remind you of anything,

i ask

her.

as we huddle

under the storefront.

yes, she says.

it reminds me of so much.

of so

many things

i've yet to do in my life,

i think

of what hasn't been

done,

maybe

when it finally stops,

and the sky

clears,

i'll begin

to fix that.

a cult of one

so what

will make you happy,

dear one?

more money?

a check in the mail.

a visit.

a car,

a new phone?

what will put a smile

on your face,

pay your bills, 

should i tell you

how wonderful

you are?

do you need more

praise and adoration?

a crown for your head?

a pedestal 

to set you upon?

others are doing 

that already,

sorry if i don't join in

on your cult of one.

the worst arguments

the worst

arguments are with those you love.

gut wrenching

quarrels

that never

seem to get solved.

nothing said

or done,

gets you anywhere,

grudges are held

forever,

same blood,

same

parents, same house,

it makes no

difference,

there's no peace, no

solution,

just like the world we

live in.

there's walls erected,

and

barbed wire fences.

how the government works

a bill in the house

or senate won't pass until

everyone

gets his or her

slice of cake.

you want the border closed,

sure,

but first we need

to supply arms

and money,

weapons and missiles

over seas.

you want to stem the flow

of illegals,

okay, sure,

we can do that, but first

how about

a new chair

in my office and a gourmet

meal from down

the street.

i'd like a cappuccino

machine

and fresh bagels with

cream cheese

every morning

in my suite,

you want to curb inflation,

or to solve

the homeless

problem, sure, we can do

that. easy, no sweat,

but first read my list of

demands,

give me those,

then will negotiate

the rest.

new love

the first

step into the cold water

is hard,

the waves

lapping further

and further

up the thighs,

to the waist.

the sand

between your toes

pulling

you.

the chill

on your skin, your

chest,

eventually

there's no other way

around

it,

you have to dive in.

so easy to figure out

the dog

will tell you what he needs,

what

kind of love

he desires,

the ball in his mouth,

the chase

in the yard,

lying on his back

presenting

his warm

belly to be scratched.

the lick,

the bark and playful

growl.

the tail wagging, 

unlike us,

they're so easy to figure

out.

lost in translation

texting

is baffling, there is very

little

nuance

in the words,

no wink

or smile, or grin, just

the weak

imposter

of an emoji.

but what is truly said,

if important,

gets lost

in translation.

the key under the mat

i leave

the check out for the plumber.

the number

unfilled.

but i've signed it.

he's a good

man.

i leave

the key under the mat.

the note

on the counter.

i trust him

with water, pipes

and washers,

toilets

and traps.

the check.

it's good to have a plumber

like that.

it's too new to get rid of it

if only

that chair was frayed,

or the color

faded,

or if i could find some

sort or rip

or stain,

a wobbly leg,

maybe then i could find

the excuse

to get a new one.

i should really sit

and eat

on that chair sometime.

it bugs me

how new it is.

it hasn't aged a single

day, even

with ten years gone by.

takes two to tango

i regret a lot of things

in life,

the list is long, so don't

get me started,

but at

the moment

it's the burrito

i ate last night with

chicken

wings

i think it was the hot

sauce

mixed with the beans,

or that third

margarita with salt

on the brim, and then

later dancing

the tango

until dawn

with Ginger Lynn.

Cardinal at the window

this persistent

red bird

won't leave me alone.

there he is

at the window

nearly

every morning. sitting

on the sill,

looking in,

flapping it's crimson

wings.

a pretty little

bird.

you'd think he'd have

other things to do,

than checking in

on me.

down goes Jorge

my old friend Jorge

who i haven't seen

in ages,

is going

through a divorce.

he doesn't know

what hit him.

suddenly, he says,

out of nowhere,

my wife was unhappy and living

in a motel

with her new

boyfriend, Jimmy,

and her red BMW

parked outside.

she wants half of everything

he ever earned

and saved.

that's a shame,

i tell him.

been there, done that.

and by the way,

what's her name?

oh no.

not her again.

tell her i want my

vinyl records back.

and by the way,

you know, she bought

that car

with my divorce money

and alimony?

prenup, Jorge, i tell him.

i told you

so many times,

prenup, but did you listen.

nope.

the ten commandments

my grandfather

told me the story about how 

Moses came down from the mountain

with his tablets,

holding the ten commandments.

supposedly he went to high school

with him, 

and were on the same

sports teams, and

the chess club.

but after that they got thrown

out of school and Egypt

for throwing spitballs.

so they left.

he said, they

were exhausted hiking

around the desert all the time

and finally took

a break while waiting for Moses

to come back from wherever

he went to.

there was

no shade, hardly any water,

and we were sick of eating goats and olives,

he said.

we didn't even have a pot

to pee in, not to mention

the king of Egypt was hunting us down

because of his crazy wife.

and here comes Moses, he said.

all smug and what not,

in his long striped robed

and shocking white hair and beard.

grumpy doesn't even come close

to the word to describe him.

he had cotton mouth

and these little burrs stuck

in his beard.

he started yelling at us, and giving

us a whole new set of rules

to live by.

no lying, cheating, stealing,

and no killing anymore.

can you believe that. no killing, what

the hell.

and get this, no more sleeping around

if you were married.

he had it all written down on

these two stone slabs.

anyway, more later.

i need a nap.

4 star service again

the barista

pushes the receipt towards

me

as i pick up

my small black coffee

and bagel

with cream cheese.

she points

at the website

printed at the bottom

of the small slip of paper.

she wants me to do a survey

online,

telling the company

how well she did

in serving me

this morning.

describing how she put the cup

under the nozzle,

pulled it

and filled my cup 

to the brim

with a nary a spill.

and then taking the bagel

out of the fast

oven

and placing it in a bag,

with two pads

of butter.

kerry gold and a plastic

spork and knife

tucked in.

she even spelled my name

correctly

on the side

of the cup.

4 stars again.

was she ever happier than there

was she ever

happier

than there, with her three

meals

per day.

the old world

fenced out.

her favorite chair near

the far

window

overlooking the yard,

and others

at play.

it seemed so,

the lines on her face were

less.

her age going

backwards

as each care

flew away like the bird

on the sill,

at last 

out of it's cage.

gluten free lentils and peaches

i stop by

the old church to drop off some

canned

goods i bought

a few years ago.

none are dented so i'm

not too worried

about botulism.

mostly beans and fruit

in heavy

syrup, peaches and pineapples.

i toss in

a few package of gluten

free lentils

and gnocchi too.

it's my good deed for

the day, i suppose.

but as i'm leaving i catch

Father Smith

out of the corner of my eye.

running in his

red cape.

he starts waving,

and saying

hey, hey, hey.

where have you been?

see you Sunday?

but it's too late, i'm already

in my car

and driving away.

the Bloomsbury group on the corner

there's a new

group

of homeless people on the street

corner.

drinking tea

and smoking pipes.

the ivy league

set.

poets and writers, philosophers.

they have well crafted signs

asking

for food,

and saying things like,

will work

for money,

or crypto currency, God bless.

they've attached copies

of their college degrees

to the cardboard

lids they carry.

PhD's, master degrees,

bachelor of arts degrees,

philosophy

and theology. calligraphy,

gender studies, etc.

their poems and essays,

and half

written novels

are held to their chests.

the handwriting and spelling

are excellent.

and most are in fine

linen dresses,

tweed jackets

and vests.

observing without judgement

on the train,

on the long ride to the city,

it's hard

to observe

without judgement.

it's a continuous

why,

when you look about

at the passengers

in front

and beside you.

you question them

eating

crackers

and pretzels, guzzling

down sodas

and energy

drinks. talking loudly

on their phones.

that one there seems to be

dancing in

her seat

and her friend

beside her,

should one scratch themselves

so vigorously

down there

in public?

and that man by the window,

he's up

for the fourth time to

go to the bathroom.

bumping against

every seat.

why is she wearing a mask,

like it's Halloween,

and why

is the mother

changing a diaper 

on the floor between

us.

it's best just to close your

eyes
and not ask.

suckered slowly into three hundred per month

my television

bill

is three hundred dollars a month

now.

i have HBO,

Hulu

and Netflix,

Peacock

and Prime,

i've got channels i've never

heard of before,

sling and disney,

philo,

fubo, paramount plus,

ESPN,

Sundance, AppleTV,

and AMC,

and so many others

i don't know.

i'm on the fence with

the Food Channel,

should i get it?

oh what the hell,

it's just

one more.

falling into the new world

what a world

it must be

as the calf leaves

it's mother,

falling onto the cold

grass in

the field,

no longer safe in

the warmth

and kindness of it's mum.

how strange

the air

must feel, the brightness

of the blue sky

and sun.

do they ever

get over it,

or are they like us,

a little bit

and forever undone.

everything we used to do

lonely at the shore,

i try to do

all the things we used to do

together.

i walk 

the beach,

i lick an ice-cream

cone on

a bench by the 
Ferris Wheel.

i ride a bike,

then take a dip in

the ocean,

telling myself, just

jump in,

it's not too cold.

i get a room with a view

of the water.

i get room

service,

then soak in

the enormous tub.

i do all the things we used

to do

together.

everything but make love.

you can't be the golden child

it's hard

to be a celebrity's child,

or a politicians,

the presidents

son,

or brother.

you've got nowhere

to go

but down.

drugs find you.

corruption,

money and power.

fast women

and fast lives.

how can you not

over drink,

and abuse yourself,

and flounder

around.

you'll never be,

no matter how hard

you try,

the golden child.

plants are trying to kill us

there must be a reason

raw plants

taste so bad.

the toxins

on their skin and within

fending off

the mouths

of animals and us.

irritating our taste buds.

they want to live.

nature has a way

of putting

defensive

mechanisms into

play.

even in plants.

they are trying to kill us.

but we say no, not

so fast.

we boil and braise,

chop and bake,

fry

the hell out of them

until we can at last take

a bite, chew and swallow.

of course seasoning

and butter, sauces

and gravy

also help to take the sting

off.

now see here, my friend

when someone says,

look

my friend,

when addressing you

about

a disagreement

you might have,

really, you are not their friend.

in fact

you're quite the opposite.

but i guess it's better

than saying,

look here, you

stupid idiot.

stay in bed a little while longer

some greenery

has shown

itself

in the yard, ambitious

little

sprouts,

ready to start

another season,

but snow

is on the way,

the wind

and cold.

brittle times are in

the forecast.

my advice is, 

is to stay in bed a little

while longer,

what's the rush

in starting

the day.

the bullies are everywhere

every playground

has a bully,

a red-faced fat kid,

pushing

the smaller

children around.

every

classroom, every

school,

every work place

has one too.

the world is full of them.

they're in line

next to you

at the grocery store,

in restaurants,

barking orders

loudly,

they're at

the post office

they're on the condo

boards,

they're senators

and congressmen.

doctors and lawyers.

they're in their cars

blaring

their horns

behind you.

the bullies

run the world, or so

they think.

sometimes there's 

even one

in bed

lying next to you.

she never heard the last argument

the sister

and brother

quarreled over the grave site.

the marker

and stone

bench.

they went cheap on the coffin,

negotiating as they

had been

since the age of ten.

and the final fight was on

the place

where

she'd rest for eternity,

her bones

at least.

a last argument, fortunately

unheard

by mother, who at that point

was fast asleep.

i'll sleep on it

i'll sleep on it.

i'll ponder what

to do or

not do

on this complicated

issue.

somehow, sleep

and dreams

have a way of sorting

things out.

hopefully, by morning,

the knot will be 

unraveled.

we can't find him

i tell the man

on the phone, i don't know where

he is.

i have no

forwarding

address and he's changed

his number.

he's in the wind.

but, the man says,

he owes us money.

a lot of money.

is there any clue you can give

us

as to his whereabouts?

try Florida,

i tell him.

lying in the sun, on the white

sand,

drinking a lemon fizz.

given the chance

a decent

man wouldn't do that.

a kind

man, a religious man,

a worthy

man.

he wouldn't do such things

as that.

or would he?

aren't we

all a little bit like him

inside,

given

the chance?

staying out of harms way

we learn

early that the stove is hot,

that

the electric

slot will shock you

went wet,

that the knife

is sharp,

the pool deep

and

from the roof it's

a long fall down.

we learn

to be careful in so many

ways in this life,

avoiding the pitfalls

that it has to offer.

we learn and remember

so much,

we learn

how to stay out of harms

way 

in nearly everything,

everything that is,

but love.

defrosting the frozen neanderthal man

the artic explorers find

a man frozen in the crevice

of an iceberg

around the north pole.

he's been there

for over a ten thousand years,

which they

can tell from the id's

in his wallet,

and his mastodon vest

and hat.

his beard is caked in ice,

and his extremities are blue.

carefully they carry

him back to the Quonset

hut and slowly defrost him

by the fireplace.

they lie him down on the couch

and take his knee high

leather boots off.

the cook makes him a steak

dinner and hot bowl of

chicken soup.

finally he comes around

and sits up,

getting the cricks out of his

neck, stretching his long

arms and legs.

whew, he says. what the hell.

how long have i been out?

all i remember is this woman

was chasing me,

trying to hit me over the head

with a frying pan

because i kissed her sister.

then he starts eating,

and asking for the chef.

a little too much salt he says.

can i send this back?

and a little ketchup, if you

have it.

so tell me, everyone, what'd i miss?

Ginger says she's all better now

i get

an email from Ginger.

she says.

i'm cured now.

i'm all better.

the pills and electroshock

therapy

has worked.

i'm a hundred per cent

better.

i've realized

my past mistakes

and i apologize for

my past behavior,

the cheating,

the lying,

my dark moods and lack

of intimacy.

all the BS i put you through.

it's all on me. please forgive

me.

i've seen the light and have

come to know

the lord.

i'm out of my straight jacket

forever.

let's give it another

shot, okay?

this is followed by emoji

kisses and

a hundred x's and o's.

immediately

i pull the shades down

on the windows

and bolt the doors.

ransom of red chief

my son,

when he was six used to throw

food

across the table

in restaurants,

hot dogs, burgers,

a Salisbury

steak.

he hit an old lady

in a wheelchair once,

with a chicken nugget,

which got us kicked out.

we'd tie him to a chair

like a small

animal

and let him lick 

the butter

out of the little plastic

packages

and spill

sugar from packages

into his open

mouth

making him rattle

like a snake

about to strike.

sometimes he'd hoot and holler,

whooping it up

like a wild Indian

after

putting ketchup stripes

on his face.

my wife at the time blamed

his behavior

on me,

and my upbringing,

saying that i rubbed off on him.

she may

have been right.

how long have you two been together?

the marriage counselor

asks me,

so,

how long have you two

been together,

i look at my

watch

and say, nine years, six months,

three weeks,

four days

and six hours, give or take

a few minutes.

but who's counting.

the clock

surprisingly

keeps ticking.

is that true, he asks my wife.

what?

she says.

i'm sorry i didn't hear you,

i was looking

at my phone.

what was the question?

how not to eat an orange

we're different

in many ways.

for instance,

i cut

and eat my oranges in

four

pieces,

geometrically sound.

two cuts

of the knife

and there you go.

four quarters

sitting on the plate

waiting

for you to bite.

she's more like an animal,

lowering

her teeth

into the rind

and then like a chimpanzee

ripping

at the skin,

before biting and slurping

at the juices.

if only that was our

one and only

difference.

is a thousand dollars okay?

it's a small

leak,

a small puddle

gathering on the bathroom

floor.

so i twist the knob

on the back

of toilet to turn everything off.

i lift the lid

and jiggle things

around.

i YouTube

American Standard

toilets,

the guts of it all.

i realize i'm no Einstein,

or Oppenheimer

when it comes

to commodes so

i call the plumber.

it's a washer

he says.

is a thousand dollars

okay?

and i can be there in two

weeks.

schedule me,

i tell him.

sweating and holding

a monkey wrench

in hand.

Elon's new robots for sale

i have on

order

one of those new fangled robots

Elon Musk

is working on.

it's the Sheila model,

the one with long black

hair and

the body of Sophia

Loren

in her prime.

they've finally

solved some

of the over talking

issues

they were dealing with.

Model number 7,  Musk

calls it.

although,

i'm wondering if i shouldn't

have gone

with the number 9.

the slinky

blonde

with blue eyes, which

goes three

hundred days

without a charge.

my barber, Alfonso

my barber,

Alfonso, or rather

former

barber, used to cut

my hair

once a month.

a trim and a shave.

he'd ask me

how the wife was,

the kid,

work.

we'd go through

the news,

the sports page.

it didn't take him long,

but he dragged it

out,

with the clippers,

the scissors and the brush.

then tapping

my face

and neck with something

from a blue bottle

that smelled

like lilacs.

at the end, he'd shake

the striped

sheet off of me

then spin

the chair around,

so i could see myself 

in the long mirrors.

okay?

he'd ask. okay, i'd tell

him. thanks, again.

see you in a few weeks.

are we not moldy cheese, i ask her

no,

we do not age like fine

wine,

i tell her,

getting better

over time.

no.

get that thought

out of your pretty little

head,

my dear.

we're more

like cheese

left out in the sun.

pungent

and moldy, 

curled and waiting 

for the bin,

close to being done.

skeletons in the closet

i get a jump on spring

and start

cleaning out

the closets

of old things.

clothes, and books,

boxes of electronic

junk.

wired and wireless,

computer

hard drives, and

tv screens.

i brush the tumbleweeds

out of the way

and see a few skeletons

in there too,

hanging on the rack.

rattling bones of old.

i take them out too,

it's time to take out

all the trash.

the stupor bowl party

with the big game coming up.

the super bowl.

prices

have been raised across the board.

markets

are gouging sports fans

and revelers.

beer cost

more, liquor

and wine,

chicken wings and potato

chips.

little bottles of Texas Pete

hot sauce

are a hundred  dollars

a pop now.

everything has gone up.

spare ribs

and hot dogs,

pizza and deli meats.

even the drug dealers

have jacked up

their prices on fentanyl

and weed

and other assorted drugs,

found over or under

the counter

at the pharmacy stores.

crack pipes are two for one

now,

but hurry up, buy soon

before the kickoff,

before the first score.

running into the ex wife

i run into

one of the ex-wives

at the post

office,

but i can't tell which one it is.

they all

look the same

from behind.

the horns and tail,

and the cleft hooves

are a dead

give away.

i can smell 

the burning embers

of fire and brimstone

in the air.

carefully, i tip toe away,

backwards

and slink

into the shadows,

before running away

full speed.

i can mail this letter tomorrow.

what's the best place to get a bagel in this town?

as we walk

down the streets in 

NYC,

early morning,

we can't decide on which place

to stop in 

and get a bagel.

there are so many

to choose from.

on this street alone there are

forty-one

bagel shops,

and

nine pizza joints

selling by the slice.

all proclaiming to be the best

in the city.

i point, at one,

Joe's Bagels, and say, let's

try this one.

the line is only half a mile

down the block.

it must be good

and

there's a steam grate over

there,

let's get warm while

we wait.

no longer having it your way

they

closed my favorite hamburger

joint

along the boulevard.

Three Guys and a Girl.

i've been eating

there forever, but

it's been

robbed a thousand times

despite

security cameras and watch

dogs.

the place

has been looted

for ketchup

and mustard and napkins,

long red straws,

over and over

again.

last week six pounds

of American cheese, singles,

were stolen

from the fridge in back.

and the employees

were tied up

and left in the cold.

the cops sort of shrug,

and say oh well.

time to make burgers

on your own.

virtue signaling in the cul de sac

it's not unusual now

for

people to put signs in their

yard,

or hang flags

in front of their house,

telling everyone

their political

or cultural feelings.

they feel the need to tell

the world,

who they are and what they

stand for.

it makes them feel good

to contribute

to whatever cause

they're leaning towards.

but i like to keep

things to myself. i don't

even put a pumpkin on 

the porch

for Halloween anymore.

we need to have a talk, she says

we need to talk,

she tells me, after we make love

in the morning.

almost rolling off the bed

in the frenetic

tumble.

about what?

i ask her, lighting a cigarette

and blowing

a set of smoke rings

towards the ceiling.

about us.

what about us?

i don't think it's working out,

she says,

untangling her hair,

and

wiping the sweat off her brow.

but,  i tell her.

we just made love

for over an hour.

my heart is still beating

like a rabbit.

i know, she says. i know.

but i was thinking of someone

else the whole time.

i reach over and put the cigarette

out in an ashtray.

yeah, i tell her,

me too.

you're right.

maybe we should split up and

go our separate ways.

i'll take the dog,

and you take the cat, okay?

deal, she says,

and shakes my hand before

getting up to take a shower.

digging a ditch in winter

as we were digging

this ditch

one day,

in the middle

of the winter

for Miller Construction,

the four of us, knee deep

in mud,

and sewage water,

searching

for the broken pipe.

we started talking about

the big bang theory,

and whether or not 

the universe was expanding

or contracting.

is it possible

to count the stars?

does it go on forever

and if so,

how did it all begin?

is it all an accident, or by

intelligent design?

we have no answers,

but we keep digging just

the same.

i slide over to let Jimbo,

use his pick axe

on the drain.

as a species we're doomed

there's not enough pills

in a bottle

to take away

the headache

you have once your start

wondering

why people do the things

they do,

why do they drive like that,

act like that,

behave in such ways

as to make you wonder

if as a species were doomed.

it's nothing new, of course,

there's just more of us now,

and everyone has a camera

in their phone.

pants pressed in five minutes

it may have

been our first date, our first real

date,

after meeting in a bar

in the city

and exchanging numbers

on the back

of napkins.

i had hair then,

but very little money, strange

how things

balance out.

it was off Richmond

Highway,

the notorious route one south,

where hookers

and drug addicts

walked about.

no tell motels on every block.

the place was

called Steak and Ale.

dark, and old.

with red table cloths,

and real candles in the middle.

a quick horse and buggy ride

to Mt. Vernon.

i think there was a sign

on the wall 

saying George Washington

slept there. doubtful.

but maybe the feather beds were

upstairs, and

maybe he took Martha there

for their first date too.

but anyway.

you could get two

steaks and two baked potatoes

for twenty-five bucks.

all the bread and salad

you could eat, too. draft beers.

and if you said it was your birthday

the ancient waiters

brought you out a slice

of cake with

a scoop of ice-cream on it

and one lit candle.

but as i drive by the old

restaurant, i see that it's a dry

cleaners now, called

Fast Eddie's, 

in red,

the fluorescent lights read

shirts and pants pressed in five minutes,

all stains removed.

for sale,

wedding dresses, used.

and already it's

under new management.

put it over there, in that corner

i'm surprised by

the weight of things, or lack

of weight.

the mind

waits a split second to figure

out the pounds

of what you're

about to lift

off the ground.

this enormous plant pot,

for instance.

full of dirt

and dead leaves.

which muscles will i use?

will i bend

the knees, will i grunt and groan?

and once

it's in my arms,

will someone quickly tell me

where to set it, please.

oh, it's you again

i call

the Super to tell him about

the lack of hot water.

i tell him about

the bugs,

the neighbor's music

being too loud.

i let the Super know about

the mailboxes

in the lobby

being broken into,

and how the floors are slippery

in the trash rooms.

when he answers

the phone, he says, you again.

but he says that to

everyone

in the building.

even the ones he doesn't know.

strap on your boots and bras and go to work

there was a time

when

self-esteem existed. 

when there was

pride in oneself,

when people

went to work, doing

any job

to make ends meet.

they didn't whine about

how tough life was.

crying like babies

about the economy,

or politics, 

perpetually a victim of some

sort.

people

strapped on their boots

and bras

and got out there and earned

a living.

they shut up about

the rain, the traffic, the cost

of eggs,

the color of their skin,

or what country they were

born in.

they didn't

line the streets waiting

for a handout.

they set the alarm, got up,

and went to work.

when buying things finally stop

i think it's around

the same

time i stopped buying furniture

and things

for the house

that i stopped buying

music.

what was there left to buy,

or hear?

i succumbed to what

many parents

and grandparents have done,

leaving

the interior of their houses

as they are.

it all 

stopped somewhere.

they are now

like archaeology digs, 

stuck in some century.

portals to a different time

and place.

a mirror to a

far away year.

even the magazines on

the coffee table,

have Liz Taylor on the cover.

ignoring the alarms

a few car alarms

are set off in the early morning.

smoke detectors,

there are fire engines

and ambulances

blaring their sirens as they

race down the road.

but no one seems alarmed

anymore.

police helicopters

are in the air.

we put our pillows over

our head and ears.

and try to sleep a few

minutes more.

a small black coffee to go

the barista

tells me that i look tired.

she's observant.

you look

tired, she says, as she stands behind

the whirring

machine

making

lattes and cappuccinos,

whipping up

frothy drinks

of all colors and ingredients.

milkshakes and juices.

i squint up at the board

and order what

i usually do.

a small black coffee, hot,

to go.

i am tired, i tell her, as she

slides the drink

towards me,

and i drop change into 

the tip jar.

they know, of course they do

they know,

the doctors do, the people in charge,

the scientists,

they know

that sugar

is bad for you,

fried food,

that cigarettes kill over

four hundred

thousand people every year,

with no end

in sight. poisons are for sale,

in alcohol and

processed foods.

they know.

of course they do.

but

they let us get fat and sick

and cough

our lungs

out with cancer, 

drunk and blue.

it's part of the plan,

part of what

makes the world go around.

money.

money is holding everything

in place.

it's the toxic glue.

old, but better times, they were

you hear

the old people up at the coffee

shop

talking

about old things.

me too. we talk about

how the mail

came twice a day,

milk and butter,

cream and eggs,

were on your doorstep

in a metal box,

at the crack of dawn.

the newspaper came too,

thick

with news.

we had a phone on 

the kitchen wall.

and one in

the bedroom.

the tv was in the living room

and looked like

an antique box

carved by the hands

of a local

Michaelangelo.

there were four, five,

seven and nine,

and channel twenty 

if you turned

the rabbit ears just right.

and to fix the picture

when it rolled,

your sister stood by,

to slap her hand

against the side.

there was no remote,

so we took

turns on whose turn it was

to get up

and change the channel.

old, but

better times.

what we don't want them to see

what should

we do

with these windows.

some facing

the road, 

others facing the woods

and stream.

shades or blinds?

i ask.

curtains, drapes?

perhaps a set of sheers

to offset

the light?

nothing, just let them be?

what is it that we don't

want others to see,

or what we

don't want to look at 

when peeking

outward

at the street?

we have this when hard times come

we could be here

all day.

that would suit us just fine.

this long

stretch of

cool grass, the river rolling

by.

our chairs

facing the sun.

our books in our lap.

eyes closed.

there is nothing and

no one

that can spoil this golden

moment together

and

alone.

to be savored and remembered

when hard times

come.

Rome is Burning

over and over

again

they play the video of five

illegal

migrants

beating up two policemen

in Times Square.

they kick

and punch,

and wail upon the men

in blue.

there's nothing anyone

can do.

and the boys,

from down south,

living free at the Roosevelt

Hotel,

needing no bail,

will be out of the jump

by noon.

today it's blue

we find

a color and stick to it

for the most part.

it becomes

our favorite color,

when asked.

we don't why, but it

appeals

to us,

whether pink or blue,

or brown.

we fill the house

with things

of that color, we

strive to include

various shades of it

in our clothes, our art.

our rugs.

it's who we are

somehow.

nothing is ever our fault

it used to be the Russians,

in the golden old

days

of the cold war.

Krushchev and Kennedy.

East Germany.

the wall and all that.

the KGB.

they were coming to get us.

to drop bombs,

and take over

Disney World.

eavesdropping on our calls,

infecting our children with

the red plague.

socialism

and communism

and all the isms found in history.

but now it's China

that's at fault.

we blame them for nearly

everything under

the sun,

from weather balloons,

to viruses.

to cyber attacks and pollution.

and yet on New Years Eve,

here we are at

the Peking Duck restaurant,

drinking mai tais,

eating spring rolls and crispy

beef.

cracking open

stale cookies to read

our fortunes.

would you like a cigarette before you go?

i like

the generosity of the captain

leading

the firing squad,

rifles aimed

at the poor man's heart.

asking the prisoner

if he'd like

a cigarette before dying,

or to say a few words

before the guns

go off.

how kind we can

be as humans,

sometimes.

brushing back her green hair

she tells me to come over

after breaking up

with her latest boyfriend

who was constructing the Scrambler

and other

rides at the mall

parking lot.

i find her, 

on her front porch,

head buried in her hands,

a ring on every finger.

i sit down beside her.

there's a half-eaten

ham sandwich

on the stoop

and a jug of mountain dew.

a package of

Debbie cakes beside it.

what's wrong?

i ask,

putting my arm around

her shoulder,

and brushing back her green

dyed hair,

what's the matter,

why are you crying?

i can't, she mumbles between

sobs, with tears

dripping off the ring in her nose.

i can't.

you can't what, i ask again.

what?

i can't find my soul mate,

my one and only

man.

i've been searching my whole life,

ever since i watched

Cinderella

on television

at the age of seven.

why do i end up with losers?

God has let me down again.

be home by dark

we used to go into the woods

down by

the water

and lift large stones

off the ground.

wanting to find snakes

burrowed in

the cool shade of dirt

and moss.

it was a strange thing

that children do.

testing the world of what

we're afraid of, 

of what we're told not to do.

climbing trees and walking

along the train

tracks, sniffing glue.

i've won again

after a dozen

calls or so from the man

who works

at publishers clearing house,

who sounds suspiciously

Jamaican,

i manage

to whittle him

down from two thousand

dollars

to sixty-seven dollars

to register my prize

package

and cover the taxes on

five point two million dollars

in winnings

and a Mercedes Benz.

i have him listen

to me empty the change

bowl on the table,

counting out quarters

and dimes, nickels and

pennies.

i just need a ride now to go

to the Dollar Store

get him a gift card

and then the deal is done.

i ask him

what those clucking noises

are in the back ground,

roosters crowing,

and cows mooing.

are you on a farm?

blow me a bubble mr. president

i'd like

my politician to have a big

wad of bubblegum

in his or her

mouth, chewing

and blowing bubbles while

talking to the press,

or giving a speech.

snapping away

at the gum while talking.

i'd trust someone like that.

someone

holding out

a pack of spearmint,

and asking if anyone would

like some.

the deciding factor

you left

a bar of chocolate

on the table

last night, so when i woke

up this morning,

i unwrapped it

and ate it.

it was sweet of you

to do so

though i know we'll

have words

about it later.

words that will have 

less to do

with chocolate

and more about the future

of us and where

we're going.

you need to floss more

on the back

of the bus, i see her face,

my dentist

on a billboard sized

ad

smiling at me.

all thirty-two of her teeth

are aglow with

a polished light.

i can almost hear

her voice

saying you need

to floss more,

and

feel the needle

wriggling

into gums and cheek

before she starts

drilling

for gold again.

there she is,

branding herself on

my dime.

not forever

school mates,

pals,

tight friends for years,

from

grade

school on, you think

it's a forever

bond,

you believe that

neither of you will

ever

disappear.

but it isn't true,

sadly, nearly

everything and everyone

finds a way

to move on, 

while few stay near.

mirror mirror

so much

time has been spent in front

of mirrors,

trying to determine

who exactly is this

face

looking back.

is this how others see

me?

for better or worse,

i turn my head to the

right

then left and

examine the lines that

have arrived,

the folly

of the follicles, combed

for years

just so, the scalp,

now bare and reflecting

the bathroom

light.

the mirror doesn't love

me anymore,

i sigh, but others do,

i think,

as i return to bed 

to kiss

a loved one goodnight.

which pepper spray is right for me?

the news

and personal accounts of criminal

behavior,

have sent

me to the store to purchase

pepper spray.

so many to chose from though.

they come in

many styles and colors,

manly black, or the not so

manly mint,

pink for the girls, i suppose.

there is the gel type that

sprays twenty percent further

than the regular

brand.

some have a flashlight attached,

or a gps,

or a whistle of some sort

to alert whoever is still around

after you've been

accosted. some are

pocket sized,

or there's one to dangle 

on your key chain. 

police certified and guaranteed

to incapacitate

whomever you desire.

but i need a subject to test it on 

before i make

my purchase, i tell the clerk.

she, laughs and folds her arms

in front of her,

and says wait a little longer,

the looters come in

right after six.

we call it happy hour.

give me some space, please

we need room.

space.

we have to breath

without

another looking over our shoulders.

we don't

like the lingering waiter,

the impatience

of a clerk

leaning in.

we stand

back on the subway

car,

nudges away are made

in mere inches,

and yet we need them.

the approaching fingers

of the dentist makes us

cringe.

we need

the separation. a hand

on our shoulder

is an irritant if not invited.

even in the grave,

we need some room,

six feet under,

and at least arms length

from side to side.

the smarter sex

when we

went out dancing, the fellows

and i,

clubbing before

the word

clubbing was in style.

it was more

like bar

hopping,  going from

one pub

to another,

hoping to catch a smile,

or a dance

with some damsel

in a dress.

we were rough around

the edges

and always

counting our money

so we were often rebuffed

by the smarter

sex. they'd be

laughing at our boyish

charms,

always leaving with a taller,

bloke,

more monied,

more sophisticated,

winking at us as they left,

holding the lucky boy's

arm.

she was telling me something

she wore

her black stockings on her first

date.

they were ripped

and torn,

as far as i could see.

thigh high.

they weren't new.

but they

interested me.

why

would she wear them

on our first date.

and her shoes,

the leather stripped of color.

a pair

of fingerless gloves

caressing her drink.

what message

was she sending. was she poor,

was her vision

slight,

was she telling something

about her

shabby chic

fashion, the orphan Annie

look, or was it more,

something darker

about her life?

fame is easy now

we don't have

to be smart anymore, or clever

or be a good

conversationalist,

or writer.

we have

these metal boxes in our hand.

all knowing,

all wise.

filling us with directions,

and recipes.

news around the world.

some truth,

some lies.

in a split second everyone

will know

the moment we keel

over and die.

fame is no longer a struggle,

it's no longer

a lifelong challenge.

it's very easy now

to come by.

the scaffolding on 5th avenue

these scaffolds, 

reaching up

into the sky,

attached

to buildings

with fifty floors,

are never gone

from this city. they

are never removed.

once up,

they stay.

anchored in place until

the end of time. but

they give us shelter

from the storms,

the traffic.

give us shade in the summer.

made of steel

and wood,

the workers climb or

are lifted upwards

with their

tools.

just this one side,

the worker's job,

on the north side,

on 5th avenue will feed

a family of four

for a lifetime.

getting busy in the bramble

at night

i can hear the foxes

out back,

making

love

in the woods. screaming,

yelping.

thrashing about

in the bramble.

getting it on.

i turn a little Marvin

Gaye

on the stereo and open

the windows.

to give them

a little

mood music. but within

two minutes

they're finished.

who hasn't had those nights,

too?

keep it as a book

i'll get back to this book.

an intelligent

story,

a page turner from

start to finish.

i slide

the marker

between the pages.

and close

the cover.

it's a good book, one

i don't want

to end.

i hope they don't make

a movie

out of it.

with the current

box office stars,

and ruin things again.

Salinger had it right along.

i'm Barbie, what's up?

i try

to watch the Barbie movie,

but three

minutes in,

i can't take it anymore.

it's a cartoon.

i can't figure out the message

they're trying to give.

men are dumb?

maybe,

some. but so are women too.

but this is what movies

are now.

we've lost

our way.

from Citizen Kane,

to Chinatown,

to it's a wonderful Life,

to this.

plastic dolls,

imaginary icons,

without male or female

little bits.

her high school reunion

we go to her

high school reunion, 

not mine, hers, but no one

seems to recognize her.

she's blonde

now, bone thin.

and had a little work

done on 

the cheek bones

and thighs.

enhancements

with monthly injections

of Botox and collagen.

it's been fifty years

since she did a cartwheel

and screamed

go team

on the sideline

and was queen on the float

waving at

her adoring crowd.

she has to keep introducing

herself to 

all her former best friends.

pointing at the name tag

and yearbook picture.

on her low neck sweater.

i'm Debbie, don't

you remember me?

but they don't. although

they seem to think

i was once the senior

class president

and captain of chess team.

it's a tai chi kind of thing

you see them

at the park, when the weather

is fair.

men and women,

mostly old folks in tights

and casual wear.

they float with one leg

on the ground,

arms in the air,

like flamingos,

swaying

this way and that.

it's some sort of tai chi thing,

i guess.

there must be something

to it.

they look so peaceful,

so at rest,

never breaking a sweat.

no angst or pain,

like at the gym,

i could see eating a sandwich

while doing this.

maybe it's what's next.

this is the end, but in awhile

with

years under our belts,

we shrink

in size,

the bones, the flesh,

at last

giving in to gravity.

we downsize

our homes,

scuttle

the clutter,

box and bin all things.

we find

a room somewhere

in a building

were others like us,

are let in.

the days grow shorter,

the Sundays

so far away,

when visitors arrive

with flowers

and smiles,

but everyone is on it,

everyone knows that this

is the end.

not right away,

but in awhile.

what lies below the surface

we are all

ice bergs set afloat

in this

cold sea,

just a small part of us,

is ever seen.

few, if any

ever know

what lies below.

who we really are,

until they hit us

the wrong

way

and then they sink

and down

they go.

the feminist loophole

i used to hold

the door open for women,

or pull

out a chair,

or tip my hat,

assisting them with luggage,

putting it up

on the rack,

until they got angry at me,

cursed me

as if i thought

they there weren't capable

of such things.

demeaning them as 

the weaker sex.

so i stopped.

the only thing they approve

of now

is for you to pay

the bill when going out

for drinks

and dinner.

that's okay.

it's acceptable,

as they run

to bathroom at the first

glimpse of a check,

keeping the cobwebs

on their purses, still intact.

trial without jury

i rub

and scrub with soap

and a bristle brush,

a clean

cloth, putting muscle

into the stain,

but with no luck.

i try every

spray beneath the sink.

is there a reason

to have a yellow couch

in front of the tv?

there will be hell to pay,

when the wife

returns

with her mother in tow.

it will be another trial

without a jury,

all over

again.

maybe it's the mercury

i've lost

all interest in eating fish.

tuna,

cod,

Chilean sea bass, flounder

and trout.

i can hardly

look at an oily can

of sardines,

or anchovies

without running to the bathroom

to lurch.

i don't know

what happened.

even a sauce won't help

things,

or having potatoes cuddle

up next to

the fins and gills,

the stiff body absent of a head.

somewhere along 

the way,

dead fish fell off

my list of eating

categories.

i avert my eyes whenever

i pass a Red Lobster

and speed on.

Cupid must die

as i walk into the store,

i begin

to tremble,

sweat, i start getting nervous,

the tic

returns to my left eye.

my heart

is palpitating.

it's back.

Valentine's Day has

once again

returned.

three weeks in advance.

the pink boxes of candy,

the flowers

the endless rows of

cards.

balloons, and heart

shaped chocolates

and gifts.

dear lord, why O why?

who started this mess?

i see the fat cherub

at the cash

register,

his wings, his arrows,

his French fry

greasy lips.

Cupid must die, we need

to end this.

that's not funny

what's funny

to some

is not funny to all.

i think Abraham Lincoln

said that,

but i may

be wrong.

humor is a dividing line.

you get it,

or you don't.

you're offended or you

aren't.

to each his

own cup of laughter.

waterfront property

when the fire

hydrant broke

after being struck by

a car, and spewed fifty

thousand

gallons of water in the street,

suddenly taxes

went up.

real estate prices increased.

we were suddenly

designated

as waterfront property.

we brought out

our lawn chairs

and took pictures, basked

in the sun.

dropped lines

into the water to fish.

it was a joyous time.

turning the other cheek

my cheek

is sore from turning it so

often.

look at the red marks,

the blue

bruises.

the blood.

i don't know how much

longer i can go on

being good,

and not

strike back.

but go ahead, try me.

a break in the weather

as the clouds

break

and a sun appears,

there's

a glimmer of hope

in your eyes.

you take my hand

and say,

let's get out of here.

Tai Kwan doe

i run into the woman who used

to be partners

with 
Avi, the man who ran the Tai Kwan doe

studio

that my son

was suckered into joining

twenty five years ago.

how's Avi, i ask her.

oh, not good, not good.

he's back in Israel, but he has

Parkinsons now.

he's not well.

luckily he made millions off

that tai Kwan doe racket.

and how's your son, she asks,

your wife?

i tell her my son is on the west

coast,

he became a lumberjack,

after learning

how to chop wood

with his hand.

my wife and i divorced

after she had an

affair with Carlos, the black belt

at your school.

oh my, she says.

he was quite the lothario.

yup, he was giving her personal

lessons

behind the dojo, after the kids

were gone.

he dragged one of the sweaty

mats

out behind

the dumpsters and gave her the

monkey business.

i came home one night and she

put me in a choke hold,

and kicked me

in the groin

with a vicious round house kick.

and she was only a yellow belt

at the time.

anywhoo,

nice to see you again.

tell Avi, i said hi.

long distance dating

we should

meet sometime, she tells me.

maybe lunch,

or over coffee,

i think we'd hit it off.

but you

live in Puerto 
Rico,

i tell her.

we're a long way apart.

if you loved

me, you'd hop on a plane

and be here.

my mother wants

to meet you,

my children

and my uncles. they think

you are the one.

she sends me a picture

of her legs,

with two chickens beneath

around her feet,

pecking at corn

on the ground.

can i sleep on it, i tell her.

i need to

think this through.

i give you two days, she says,

and then you must decide.

you know

you're not the only man

around.

the winter wind

sometimes

her voice

was like the wind, present

and cold

ruffling

my coat, my hair,

filling

my ears with words

i didn't

want to hear.

i pressed on though.

as if each

mile was further away

from her.

but she wouldn't

let me stray

too far,

the rope of marriage

kept her close.

there she was, blowing,

blowing,

rippling

the flags, whistling

through the empty

hole in my heart.

getting away from it all

i start browsing

states

to see where i want to move

to get away

from it all.

low crime with fair weather

would be nice.

less traffic.

don't ask me what

the phrase

it all

means exactly, it's more of a feeling,

an existential

thing.

there are fifty states,

but a lot more countries

to peruse.

i could easily pack up

and go 

anywhere,

easy to hit the road

and be off into another direction.

what's keeping me here?

friends, family,

most of them gone.

will i miss the yard, the woods

out back.

the stream i can

hear from my window?

will i pine over

the neighbors left and right,

will i miss the fear

of crime

or having my car hijacked?

the adrenaline rush

of a knock at the door

at midnight?

sure i'll miss those things,

but

it's now or never, where's

my suitcase

time to start packing 

things.

the AARP stripper

people are living longer

and longer,

what with

modern

medicine and 

better living through

chemistry.

so they are getting married

three and four

times

as the spouses die.

i went to a bachelor party

the other night

and the stripper was sent

over from

AARP.

it wasn't her first rodeo

as they say.

she was wearing a first alert

alarm

bracelet, a blonde wig,

and

limped in wearing

crocs on swollen feet.

she danced in the middle

of the room

for about 

two songs,

until she passed out

and someone had to open

up a box of Ensure,

put a straw in it, and let her

sip.

her poetry box

she brings

me

her poetry in a small wooden

box.

flowered

red and yellow.

with silver hinges.

a clasp

to keep it closed.

she carries it with two

hands

and presents it to me

as if

there are secrets within,

her story,

not told.

i tell her no.

i don't want to end things

this way.

please,

take it home.

thirteen steps up or down

you've counted

steps,

thirteen in all going up

or down

the stairs,

to the 2nd floor, or to

the cellar.

you know how far

it is

from the door to the car.

from

the car

to the office.

it's the same distance

nearly every day

to everywhere you go.

no less, no more.

so much

of living is set in stone.

let's move past that

why are we

surprised at anything

in the news.

a cop gone

bad,

a priest, a politician.

a corrupt

mayor

or president.

scandal

after scandal.

sex, money, power,

lies,

whatever.

no one gets away with

anything

anymore.

but strangely no one

really cares.

having the sex talk

i remember

sitting my son down to have

the agonizing

sex talk.

he was young,

maybe twelve at the time.

a shaggy dog

kind of a kid.

he sat there patiently

slapping

a baseball into his

glove.

i rubbed my face

and forehead,

and struggled for the words.

son,

i said.

and he put his hand out

to stop me.

dad, is this the sex

talk?

i said, well, yes. your

mother wanted

me to tell you about

the birds

and the bees.

then he proceeded to tell

me about

my wife,

and the butcher 

and the milkman.

(apologies to Rodney Dangerfield)

bring out the fire hoses

traffic is backed up

on the 110

this morning. oil protesters,

war protesters

and 

improper usage of pronoun

protesters

have all converged

on the bridge,

unbeknownst to each other.

they are fighting

over the limited

space to lie down on

and glue themselves

to the pavement

in order to block traffic.

it's a cat fight.

i can hear the screeching

from one mile away

as i step outside my car

and peer into

my binoculars.

where are the fire hoses

when you need them?

nineteen hours of football

as i stare

at the screen, having watched

nineteen

hours of football

and football analysis

over the weekend.

i brush the potato

chip crumbs off my Lion

Jersey,

pick up the beer cans,

and squeeze

the pizza box into the fridge.

i let the dog out,

let the cat in.

smoke a cigarette, then

close the door

once everyone is in.

lights off, and up the stairs

i go,

letting clothes

call to the floor.

i should brush my teeth,

but no.

tomorrow

morning, for that.

this is why i'll probably

never be married

again.

writing is rewriting, they say

they tell

you in class, creative writing,

or poetry,

fiction

or nonfiction,

that writing is all about

the rewriting.

don't move

on too fast.

crack the whip and

go back, go back.

reword,

restructure, add and

subtract.

but before long you lose

the idea,

the inspiration

you once had.

it all falls flat.

there is no now

live in the moment,

in the now,

whatever any of that means.

the new age

gurus

tell you over and over again

to be present.

but there is no present,

there's no

such thing as now.

it's gone

the instant you try

to hold it in your hand.

there is yesterday

and tomorrow.

there are memories

and there are plans.

that's it.

that's the list.

the now is a wish

that will never come true.

living on easy street

the young,

uncalloused and lazy,

not all of course,

but many,

are waiting. you see them

on the street

going nowhere.

they are resting

in their parents

homes. staying

in schools until they hit 40

years old.

they don't really want

to join this world

or accomplish anything

of value.

work is below them.

punching the clock for wages,

please. get real.

they're waiting

for the old to die,

for the politicians to help

them,

for the trust fund

to kick in,

they're waiting

for the inheritance.

they're

living on easy street until

the end.

read the room and get out

leave

the room when

the gas

leaks,

when the fire breaks

out,

when the floods

arrive,

or lightning strikes.

get out

when the roof falls

in,

when the pipes break

and 

the avalanche

tumbles down.

when the earth rumbles,

and the volcano

erupts.

read the room and get out.

it really isn't love.

faux kings and queens

i used to love sports.

playing

them,

watching them in person

or on tv.

each morning

i'd check the box scores

of my favorite

teams.

whether hoops,

or baseball, basketball.

i'd check the medal

standings

of the Olympics.

and now i hardly bother.

money and egos

have taken

over things.

it's a business, the fun

taken out

of it.

there are no heroes

anymore,

just faux kings and queens.

set the oven at 350

was she a good

cook?

i don't know.

i never saw

her that close

to the oven.

but could she twist the can

opener

on top of a can

of beans

or tuna.

sure she could.

could she peel a grape,

or remove

the seed from an

avocado without

injuring herself.

of course.

but beyond

that she had no skills,

the stove was

a mystery

to her.

the next stop on the train

my stop

on the train is coming up shortly.

but i stay on.

i remain in my seat.

i want to see what

lies beyond

my stop.

what kind of people

live there,

what kind

of homes do they have?

what does the future

look like

on the next stop,

stepping off

onto the platform.

is that grass greener

than mine?

grow up

the victim

line is long and wide,

three deep

circling

the planet.

too young, the wrong

color,

the wrong gender,

the lack

of funds,

weight or height.

what isn't keep you

down,

keeping

you beaten,

keeping you forever

a fragile

child?

fading beauty

as

the snow goes

grey

and melts

into

the gutters,

keeping

the street wet

and black,

the beauty of it all

fades.

just yesterday

the world was 

a postcard

waiting

to be sent,

today

a cold grave.

waking up in this world

you can

decide on being

Christ like,

on being holy,

on becoming

completely

moral,

completely honest

and loving.

you can try, and try

and try

to be compassionate

and kind

as hard as you

might.

but waking up in this

world makes

it difficult.

still, despite all,

go ahead

and try.