pull the loose threads

she had a lot of loose threads.

but i ignored them.

for the most part,

or snipped them away

with a sharp

pair of scissors,

not wanting to pull

on them.

i didn't want to see who she

really was once

the whole cloak unraveled.

lesson learned.

pull early and often, i suggest.

get it over with.

what you see

is what you get.

there's no moral here

there isn't always

a moral

to every story, sometimes

stuff happens

for no reason at all.

there's no lesson learned,

no wisdom

gained.

it just happened.

this awful thing,

and now you have to get

the dent out of your

car, or life,

and start again.

where's the Mrs.?

for some reason,

some bird decided to pick my gutter

off the second

floor to be his

home.

all day he's flying

in twigs

and leaves, dried brush

building, working hard.

fluttering his wings and giving

off sighs of exasperation.

he's a noisy fellow.

getting the nest ready

for the wife and family.

and where's the Mrs.

out shopping probably.

the miracle of the sun

miraculously

the sun

came back out after

it left for the night.

it was pitch black outside

for hours.

but nobody

panicked,

no news team

was on the scene 

reporting about how

the temperature

dropped

and we had to turn

our lights on.

it was way more than

just four minutes,

which was the length

of time in darkness

for the solar eclipse,

but it seemed to be no

big whoop to anyone.

smaller thinking at the think tank

my neighbor belongs

to a non-profit think tank

in the city.

it seems like a great job,

he doesn't go to work

until ten a.m. and he gets

home by two.

he has a nice house, a nice

car, a lawn service

and i see that there are

four delivered newspaper

on his front porch.

i ask him if there are any

openings down at the think

tank. he looks at me,

and says. hmmm,

then takes the pipe out of his

mouth and brushes

his beard with his hand.

i tell him, look, i can think

just as good as the next

guy. give me a subject.

any subject and i can

think about it for hours.

if someone cuts me off on

the highway, i think about that

for days.

i'm a dog with a bone when

it comes to thinking

about stuff like that.

it's not like that, he says.

we're trying to solve

the worlds problems.

like what?

well, crime and war,

homelessness, the climate.

big issues. the rising ocean.

artificial intelligence

and the future of life on this planet.

but maybe that's the reason

nothing is getting done,

i tell him.

we need to think about the

little issues. i could be that guy.

i could think about pot holes

in the street and why

it takes so long to get them

fixed, or how come it costs

so much for coffee now.

and why don't they use the words

small, medium and large

when you order.

umm, okay, i'll think about it,

he says. and i'll let you know.

great, i tell him.

i'm going to the store now 

to see if i can find any

button down sweaters

with patches on the elbows.

everybody knows

i see him

coming up the street, so i quickly

cross over

and dip my head

down so that i'm unseen.

but he does.

he yells out my name

and comes over to greet me.

he wants to talk

politics,

race and religion,

immigration,

the homeless.

money and disease.

he wants me to believe

what he believes.

he puts his soap

box on the ground

and hops aboard.

i can't get away from him

fast enough.

he asks me who i'm voting

for, i smile and say

nothing.

just we'll see. we'll see.

what's another few billion

we've forgotten

that there's nothing up there,

but rocks.

even after having made

six or seven

trips to the surface

of the moon.

somehow

we've lost our minds,

and don't remember

all those trips

bringing back nothing

but stones.

so, let's go again.

no need to spend money

here, we're good shape,

just look around

at how everyone is happy

and everyone

has a home and a bowl

of soup,

a bone.

he's happy when i come home

i'm wearing

my scone sweater today.

the one 

that captures all the crumbs

of the hardened

maple pastry

that snows

upon me when i nibble

at the edges

and take a bite.

i'll shake it out later

when i'm done.

it's my dogs

favorite piece of

clothing. he's happy

when i come home.

thank you for your cheap labor

how is it

that nearly everything is made

in China

these days.

turn it over and there 

it is,

the stamp of a far away

country staring

at us in the face.

the dishes,

the computer,

the clothes, the trinkets

and gizmos

we use every day.

shoes,

lamps

and stoves.

all wonderful things, 

but

how much are they paying

these little

slave kids

to keep us

in ribbons and bows?

bring back the old west

in the old west,

if you tried to steal a man's

horse or cow,

or wife,

or robbed a bank,

you got a bullet in you

immediately,

or you were hung

quickly from

the nearest tree

after a quick but efficient

trial.

justice was served

on a silver platter,

making everyone a little

more civil and courteous

to each other.

we need a new sheriff

in town.

more trees.

conversation with a turtle

as ponder the old

green turtle

sunning himself on

a log

in the lake,

tossing him a piece

of bread

as i sit on the bench.

i try not

to look at the crepe skin

on my

arm,

or leg, but there it is.

grandpa

has arrived.

i look at the freckles,

the dots

and blemishes.

the strange

barnacles

that have attached themselves

to me

over time.

i stare at the turtle

and his

neck, his piercing eyes,

and whisper

i understand

the shell now. 

he smiles and nods

his little head.

i used to be a fun guy, really

i tell her,

holding her hand. you might

not believe this

but i used to be fun.

i used to like

to do things, go places,

enjoy life

in all its strange and wonderous

ways.

i'd be the first one on

the rollercoaster,

or to jump

out of a plane,

or to suggest Indian food

for dinner.

she looks at me,

and pulls her hand away.

really? she says.

so what happened?

where should i start, i tell

her.

Donna, Stacy,

or Dianne?

don't look at the eclipse Moe

i try to tell

my seeing eye dog, Moe,

not to look

at the solar eclipse,

but does he listen,

no.

he's incorrigible ,that dog,

so now we have

another

dog, two actually, one for

me and one

for him.

keeping one eye open

it's not a crime,

a mortal

sin,

her leaving the milk out

overnight on

the counter.

it's not worthy

of an argument,

or in filing for

an early divorce,

but maybe it's a portent

of things to come.

a callousness

of some sort

in knowing what's right

or what's wrong.

but it all adds up, so

i'll sleep with one eye

open

from now on.

the slippery floor

we are all trying

to get in

or get out of something.

we're pulling

on doors, opening windows.

crawling

running,

limping towards where

we want to be.

sometimes

we never know if we're

coming or going.

the floor is often

so slippery.

just one book

who knew?

who knew these things would come

to pass?

what Nostradamus

type

character

predicted this.

what soothe or sayer

saw it all

in his or her

crystal ball

from the outset.

the way we live, who we

are,

the shape that the world

is in

from start to finish,

how it all ends.

what book

holds the answers that we

seek?

just one.

i believe.

so far, i haven't heard back

i write a letter

to the IRS and address it to

whom it may

concern.

i hope you're happy now!

and that you're

enjoying

my ten thousand dollar

check again.

i'm thinking about migrating

out of this country,

and maybe

heading to

Spain or France, maybe

Costa Rica.

someplace

where they don't rob

me with a fountain pen.

you'll miss me then, won't

you?

so far i haven't heard back.

the confessional booth

my friend Jimmy,

feeling glum and

in a confessional mood,

tells me that

there was a bad

stretch of time in his history

when

he woke up with fast women,

most nameless,

and drank

too many martinis,

danced the night away

until the soles

of his shoes broke.

it was a rollercoaster

ride of hangovers

and fragile hearts and visits

to the free clinic

for a healing dose.

i'm not proud of those days,

he told me,

but in truth they were

a lot of fun.

each night a mystery,

the mystery solved, and then

doing it all over

again. i sort of miss looking 

for my pants 

in the early morning fog

of a strange house,

and clicking on my key fob

to find my car.

tap, spring, sparkling or hose?

having grown

up on

warm hose water from Mr. Green's

back yard,

the long

black hose wound tightly

and neat

against his brick home,

and line of

gorgeous roses, i'm taken aback

by the waiter's offer

of tap,

or spring, or sparkling.

asking me which one he

should bring.

such a luxury these days

to have choice

and not have

to run the hose for five minutes

to get the bugs

and snakes out,

and to cool it down.

PCH in Kingston Jamaica

of course,

it's a weekly thing, winning

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes

award.

five point five million and a pearl

white Mercedes Benz.

Mr. David Sayers

calls me

everyday to convince me

delivery

is coming soon, all i need to do

is purchase him

a five hundred dollar

Vanilla Gift card

from Safeway

to register my claim.

i tell him that i love his

Jamaican accent, that he denies

he has.

he's a Christian, he tells me.

a pastor

with a large flock

of followers,

and that the Lord has blessed

me with this money

today.

after a few weeks or so of

wasting

his time and mine, we become

friends.

i look forward to his calls,

and hearing

the chickens

and roosters, the farm yard

where he lives,

on the other end.

marry into money

i read where

five million should be enough to retire

on.

that should

do it

so that you never have to worry

again

about food, shelter, the necessities

of life.

i think i need to live

a few hundred years

more to get there,

or find a wealthy wife.

the benefit of old age

he gets away

with murder, not literal murder,

but public

displays

of anger because he's

old

and crotchety.

there is no filter anymore.

he's paid his dues.

close the damn

door he shouts in the restaurant,

do you mind

moving over,

i have to sit down too,

he says on the bus.

he says what he wants,

not to himself,

but so everyone can hear.

he doesn't care, he's plum out

of niceties.

there is no fear.

the price of business

it's the price of doing

business

i tell myself, as i write a check

and then another,

whittling down

the account to bare bones.

the unexpected is bound

to happen at some point.

it's what the rainy funds

are for, and yet. 

it still stings as i write

another check before

closing the desk drawer.

the straight road

give me the straight road,

the boring

stretch of highway.

the smooth pavement

of black top

through the fields.

let it go on forever with no

curves, no turns, no detours

to navigate.

keep the mountains

in the distance.

give me the road of

no drama, just maybe a

stop along the way

to eat and drink.

that will suffice.

we were never friends, she tells me

i forget

that she's having a hip replaced

and a week goes by.

she texts me and tells

me to never

contact her again.

we're not friends, we never

were friends,

you obviously don't care about me.

no card, no flowers, no

best wishes

no emoji prayer hands.

nothing.

i stare at my calendar

on my desk.

i see a dentist appointment,

and a visit to the vet

for my cat.

i see no mention

of her hip replacement.

i have to figure out how to

use my phone at some

point to remind of things

like this.

Stand by Your Man

there was a dive

bar

around the corner, called Moe's.

breakfast all day.

the specialty was

creamed beef

on toast.

there was the same

fat woman

behind the bar, standing

at the gridle

for nearly thirty years.

who Moe was no one ever knew.

the juke box

played music. five plays

for a quarter.

mostly country. 

songs by men named Earl,

or Dwight,

or Buddy,

or women with names

like Loretta

or Tammy.

somehow there was no

observenance

of the smoking code.

the place was blue with it.

it was an older crowd 

at the end

when they shuttered the place.

tears were shed,

rats were let

out the back after being

fumigated.

the floor washed of

blood stains.

urine stains.

a few teeth too.

beer and whiskey spills.

the toilets

at last were fixed and flushed.

love was made

and lost in that old bar

on those slippery booths.

lives were spent.

marriages occurred,

divorces

celebrated,

and now,

there's nowhere to go, 

but home.

suddenly

it's a dry cleaners with a bright

white sign.

overnight for a shirt

and pair of pants, pressed

and steamed clean.

twelve dollars.

Lucky's it's called.

cracking a few eggs

to show

us what ants we really are

mother

nature

throws us an earthquake

or Sunami,

or a cyclone

once in a while.

she cracks open the ground

shakes up

the buildings,

swallows whole

some lives,

some cars. and then says,

ha.

there you go.

she can be a bitch when

she wants to,

she's not all sunshine

and lollipops

all the time.

the retirement community over 60

the lawns are perfect.

manicured,

trimmed, and emerald

green.

it's as beautiful as any

cemetery i've ever seen.

there are two fountains

in a circle

of stone

embracing water.

the clubhouse is grand,

it sits in the middle with

French doors

and gables.

did it somehow slide

down from Alps

and end up here

in Dumfries Virginia?

to the left is the Olympic pool,

to the right

are the courts for pickleball.

twelve in all.

reserve early. don't be late.

the golden

haired ladies, bejeweled

in white

shorts and dresses,

with their hair and nails

done are aglow in a light

sweat,

and silvered men

with richly tanned

bellies run gently from

the side to side with paddles.

it's not over, not yet.

so what's the deal with her always being late

is she purposely late?

again.

is this

some sort of message, some

weird

psychological

game

of cat and mouse?

is she being passive aggressive,

sending me

signals

between the lines?

is she narcissistic,

wasting

my time?

a sociopath? or am i reading

too many

personality

disorder books again,

and not realizing

that getting dressed

and putting on makeup

just takes

a lot of time?

chasing money

the awkward

call is

when someone forgets to pay

you,

and you have to text

or email, or

get them on the phone

after a few weeks

have gone by.

would

you go into a store

with a cart

full of groceries

and not pay,

would you sit in a restaurant

eat a meal,

have a drink or two,

and then say oops,

i don't have

my check book or money

with me?

and yet

when someone works in

your house

for two weeks, it's okay

to let it slide, to let

the worker chase 

his money.

it's raining again?

i go for a short

visit

to Portland. it's raining.

it's cold

and damp.

the homeless are everywhere.

fragile

tents and cardboard

houses line

the boulevard.

jobs are scarce.

crime is rampant.

the sky

is a grey wet

rag

dragged across

a dirty floor.

there is no sun, no light.

it's a permanent solar

eclipse.

i see him

sitting in his chair

in front of his college

degree,

rolling a joint.

he's weeping.

i put my hand on his shoulder,

and tell him.

i get it.

i see why you're depressed.

the first job, stop whining

the first job

was always the worst job.

the one with

the lowest pay,

the one where you bent

over backwards

to get things done

to please the boss.

waiting tables,

mowing lawns,

painting house, 

washing cars, or

sweeping floors. but

it was a job.

minimum wage.

a few bucks trimmed

down by taxes and fica

and whatever the hell

else there was.

you didn't go on strike,

you didn't protest

about the hours, about breaks,

the hardships of it all.

the indignity of it all.

no, you kept quiet

and worked and was

grateful for your pay

at the end of two weeks.

and you saved.

sweeteners

the real

thing isn't working anymore,

so we seek

the artificial

life,

the artificial sweetener,

plant meat,

AI.

the recorded voice.

we absorb the fake

news,

the lip sync,

the implants

and plugs, the skin 

stretched and smoothed.

we can't handle

the truth.

no need to worry yet

it's good to crave,

to want,

to lust,

to desire.

to be hungry

and thirsty,

to want to fill

all your human appetites.

it means you are alive

and well.

all things

are clicking together.

be worried

when it all stops.

it's just not the same

i'm happiest

when i'm

alone

or asleep, she tells me.

i'm content

with my life,

but what

about when you're

with me,

i ask her.

well, she says.

i'm happy then too,

but it's not the same.

distant worlds in light

where

is all this dust from.

these tiny particles, like stars

afloat

in the air,

alive

in the sunlight.

i'm breathing them in

right now,

exhaling them.

worlds of

dust

galaxies of foreign

life,

alive in this single ray

of light.

my lungs are full

of distant

worlds

and yet, i seem to be

alright.

give me real milk

i don't want the latest thing,

the newest fad,

the hip

fresh way

of doing things.

give me the old, the used,

the forgotten.

something high

off the back shelf.

give me the stamp

and envelope,

the land line phone,

the clerk at the bank,

the soda fountain,

the pay phone,

give me books,

newspapers,

the milkman,

the clothesline and

the pledge of allegiance

and our father

before class.

give me the chalkboard,

the paddle,

the dunce hat.

give me real meat

and milk from

a cow, not

some plant,

not some almond crap.

give me all 

of that.

helping out the sketch artist after being robbed

the police

ask me in to try and identify

the thief

who stole my watch, my

phone, and

my wedding ring.

snatched it right off my hand.

to which i replied

to the thief,

you're doing me a favor, my friend.

this made him smile before letting out

a hearty laugh as he ran off.

but the police sit me down

and ask me

to describe the man 

while the sketch artist tries

to convey on paper the image

i remember.

he had blue eyes. i start off.

blue, not like the ocean

or a robin's egg.

but more azure,

deep and mysterious, like

maybe how

the lake looks before

a storm. a summer squall.

the artist shakes her head

and says, okay, go on.

they were kind eyes, i tell her.

and when he smiled

and laughed, they lit up.

full of mischief, i might add.

his face was long, perhaps a

Norwegian bone structure,

with a high forehead, giving

me a sense of intelligence.

and his chin had a dimple,

not too deep, but just a soft poke

by God's finger.

if he hadn't taken up a life of crime,

i think he could

have modeled for Calvin Klein

undergarments in Vogue.

go on, go on. jeez.

was he black man, a white man?

no, no, his ethnicity was beyond

my comprehension. he was everyman

in my minds eye.

however,  i'd say he was well tanned,

perhaps a little burned

on his nose where he should have

applied a better zinc cream,

but sadly he smelled

much like a cheap brand of coconut oil

that i've come across

while slumming at beaches

on the eastern shore.

Ocean City, for example.

oh my God, the sketch artist says.

was he

tall, short, fat, skinny?

what color was his hair?

come on, give me something.

i don't know about the hair, he was

wearing a nice

dark cotton hoodie, with the strings

tied in a bow under his chin.

but i'd say he was medium in stature,

and i could tell he was fit by the way

he ran off in a very nice sprint.

his gait was very athletic. his arms

swung effortlessly from side to side

as he disappeared into the night.

he had a certain, how shall i say,

a je ne sais quois

about him,

stylish without trying,

and when he looked back, and gave

me that smile again,

i noticed how white and healthy

his teeth were. almost blinding

in the dim glow of street lamps

that lined the boulevard.

i don't believe he ever had a cavity

in his life.

okay, we're done here.

you can leave.

and by the way, you're never

getting your stuff back.

and what have we here?

the woman in line

at the grocery

store looks me up and down

with curious

interest,

not of the romantic kind,

but one of what

have we here.

me covered in paint

from boot

to hat,

dust and debris,

drywall mud,

a thumb bleeding.

caulking on my sleeve.

you have paint on your face,

she says,

hold still, then takes her hand

and with a nail

flicks off a speckle of

dried flat white

paint

away from my eye,

then another off my cheek..

there you go, she says.

now you're fine.

the mood we're in

so much

is the mood we're in, 

the side

of the bed

we get up on.

the gloom

of rain, or the smile

of sun,

so much of what we

do and think

relies upon

where we are in heart

and head,

when taking

that first step out

the door,

to get things done.

the shoe always fits

sometimes

you put on a pair of pants

or an old

shirt

and you say, what in the ham

sandwich is going

on.

the shirt or trousers are too tight.

you've gained weight

or the clothes

have shrunk

in the wash and then the dryer.

you can't

get them on.

you can't

zip them up or button them.

but with your

shoes,

that never happens. 

lose a hundred pounds or

gain a hundred pounds,

the shoes always

still fit.

after about the age

of twelve, that's it.

more than half the problems

i used to read

the dear Abby column,

trying to understand the problems

other people were

dealing with.

the problems with

children,

jobs,

pets, and neighbors.

wedding

invitations. lying

and cheating.

funerals and coupon

clipping.

all had

interesting issues

that old Abby would

fix with a snappy

line or two, but

mother in laws seemed

to be involved

in most of the letters written in.

i'd say more than half.

which i agree to.

solar eclipse options

we're warned

not to look at the sun during

the solar

eclipse.

it could burn your eyes

out jack.

you'll be blind as

a bat.

but what you can

do is

turn on a light,

take the shade off then

slowly

drag a saucer

in front of it.

there's your eclipse.

got it?

the wire cutters

there seems to be no

law

and order

anymore.

commit a crime and go

to jail

and get out

in a hour or two.

lawyer up.

there are other reasons

why they

arrested you.

you have a boatload

of excuses

as to why you're

the victim,

not the actual victim.

it's your gender, your

color,

your faith,

the way you look.

your blue

hair, your tattooed face

sure you killed someone,

but you didn't

mean it.

so go on your way, have

a nice day.

no wonder people are

crawling

across the desert,

swimming oceans

and cutting barbed wire

to get in.

the snack king

when i worked

in an office

for a few miserable years,

stuck in front of a computer

between two rug like cubicle walls,

i became the snack

king.

i used the bottom big

drawer on the right

to keep my bounty,

locking it up when

i left for the night.

the work, whatever that was

was piled up on the desk

like snow drifts.

some sort of esoteric mess

dealing with telecommunications,

data bases and billing.

whatever.

i had no clue what i was

doing, or why.

for some reason they hired

me. i guess because i interviewed

well and they sensed

some sort of boyish charm.

but with the snack drawer,

i controlled the office.

if somebody wanted nuts, i had nuts.

honey roasted, cashews,

pistachios. i had candy too.

chocolates, licorice,

skittles and gum drops.

i added in

potato chips, granola bars,

and beef jerky for the more

healthy crew.

it was a good living for awhile,

until all my reports

became due.

trifling muses

it's nearly dead,

or close to it, but

its on its last legs, 

on life support.

we're talking poetry here.

no slam

or internet, or performance

poetry, not

nursery rhymes, or

dr. Suess on crack.

we're talking the real stuff.

the cold hard

poetry

of our elders, most now dead.

Larkin

and Strand,

Bishop and Plath,

Lowell

and Berry.

Sexton and Frost,

Carver and all the rest.

they etched their words

into stone,

not trifling muses on

the web.

end of the world food

who bought those frozen

peas,

i do not know.

that bag

of cauliflower,

those shanks of meat,

the unmarked

freezer

bags, full of what?

bread in foil.

fish asleep.

why can't i get rid of these

things.

Armagedón food?

perhaps.

we'll see.

almost home

it's a mile away,

keep going, keep driving.

one more mile

until you're home.

don't stop.

keep going.

you'll be safe and sound

again soon.

behind

the door, asleep

in your room.

don't stop for anything

or anyone.

it's a mile away.

you're tired, but go on,

go on. go on.

you're almost home.

the msg shaker

i used to love

their food, the crispy beef,

the chicken,

the duck,

the rice.

the egg and shrimp rolls

were out of this

world.

the won ton soup was

supreme.

all of it greasy and filling

for an hour or two,

but then someone

got a hold

of the shaker of msg

and now

i can't breathe.

this could be trouble

it's one of those houses

where

you have to take off your shoes

when you come in

and put on

cloth booties

to protect their floors and

rugs.

they give you a mask

to where.

and surgical gloves.

they tell you to hold your

breath

and stay away from the dog.

these are all red flags,

as you proceed to make notes,

on your little

notepad.

reminding yourself to

not take this job.

we'll be right with you

i call,

i write, i leave a message.

but there's

no one in the office.

no human

being

on the phone. press one,

press two,

press three.

we'll get back to you,

or hold on,

you're forty-five minutes

away from

talking to an assistant

in Delhi,

or Bombay.

if it's an emergency

call 911,

if not, 

make a tourniquet

to stop

the bleeding.

day in day out

there's a day

for everything. a peanut butter

day.

mother's day,

father's day.

jelly bean day and soup day.

secretarial day.

there's a day

for children,

a day

for your religion

or sexual orientation

or skin color.

some days have a month,

or a parade.

there's a day for pies,

for cakes,

for being Irish, for

steaks.

there's even a narcissism

day,

which makes more and

more sense.

pillow talk

after we

make love and roll

away

from each other once the afterglow

has dimmed,

and the sweat has dried,

we fall into

a pattern of pillow

talk.

what are you doing today,

i mean later,

when you leave here?

i don't know,

maybe go to the store,

i need some

screws for the back gate,

it's loose again,

and i need some weed killer.

have you seen my

back yard,

jiminy crickets, it's a jungle

out there.

what about you?

what are you up to for the rest

of the day?

not sure,

maybe take a nap,

bake some bread, i think

there's a game

on at three.

i should really do a load

or two of laundry

though.

you want to take a shower first?

sure, i'll save

you some hot water.

Susan's Trans Am

i was nervous

with her behind the wheel

of the car,

an engine that powerful,

more nervous than a cat

in a room

full of rocking chairs.

if she saw a red light up ahead,

she increased her

speed trying

to time the green.

she ate and drank when

she drove,

texted

and sang to songs

on the radio.

she did her make up in

the mirror.

the windows were always

down,

no mater the weather,

rain or snow,

or in the desert with

the wind blowing sand.

sometimes i'd crawl into

the back seat,

and curl up into a fetal

position, take out my rosary

beads and pray.

she laughed at me and made

clucking noises,

as i listened to the police

sirens on the way.

stay awhile

we arrive

in a new town,

not to stay, not to eat or

browse

the general store,

but to get directions out

and gas up

before the storm arrives.

there's a water tower

over there,

a farmhouse,

we see a horse in the field.

the man

checking our oil

and wiping our windsheild

asks us,

what's the hurry.

why don't

you go over to the diner

and get yourself

a meal.

Edna is on the grill today.

so we do.

April 15th

ah, the tax man.

the invisible

man

somewhere in an office.

white shirt

and black tie

with knife in hand.

how hard

it is to send him money

at the end

of each year.

not knowing where

it goes.

to which country,

to which new

fear.

what trivial bill will

i endorse,

where will the dollars

go, so much

unaccounted for.

what joy there is

the immeasurable

joy

of the dog

off his leash

and collar, over the fence

he goes,

looking

back with tongue

and tail

wagging.

free at last, what joy

that is.

believe me,

i know.

all the weeping has been done

it's an old

cemetery. 

one squared off

in a different century,

barred in black iron,

tall oaks split by

a curved road

and grass.

but even the ones

who religiously

visited

the tilted stones

are gone now, 

flowers

are rare, the benches

are empty

near the tombs,

there's no more weeping,

all the weeping

has been done.

Ernie's Deviled Eggs

Ernie used

to bring his famous deviled

eggs

to the Easter Dinner.

three dozen

of them on a silver

tray.

cut in half, yellowed

and red

with sprinkles

of paprika and pepper.

God knows

what was in them,

but they

were quite delicious.

He never went to church

with us though,

being the atheist

that he was, instead

he'd sit back in easy

chair,

wearing his black beret

and sunglasses while

eating his eggs and say,

you'd better hurry up,

you're going to miss

the first act.

making new friends

my coat

is stolen, or given away to someone

else at the end

of the play.

it's freezing out,

and the only thing left

on a hanger

in the coat

room is a long pink 

coat, embroidered

with leopard fur.

it's been there for a few

years,

unclaimed.

it's cold and it's raining out,

so i tell

the clerk, okay,

i guess i'll have to take

that.

i put it on and leave the building.

immediately

i'm surrounded

by a group

of young people

telling me how hip

i am, how brave

to come out like this,

especially at my age.

they want me to be on a float

this weekend

at the LBGQT plus 3 parade.

grudgingly,

i accept.

it's good to be loved though,

and make new friends.

can you hear me now?

it was a mistake

pouring

that over the counter goo into

my ears

to loosen up

and remove six decades

of sweet potato ear wax.

now i can't hear

anything.

i'm underwater,

i'm in outer space,

i'm not quite Helen Keller,

but you get the picture.

it's kind of nice

though, not hearing 

what your saying.

what?

each day a gamble

i question

the words, "good luck

to you".

good luck?

what are you talking about?

am i going

to Las Vegas, or to

Atlantic City, or Monaco?

why do i need luck?

are you telling me 

that in every

moment of life

i need to be rubbing a

rabbit's foot

in order to get through

the day

to be safe and

successful?

forcing me into a barbeque

the neighbors

are complaining about my chickens

in the back yard,

the clucking, not to mention

the mooing

of my cow.

and the snorting of my pig

and her

little baby piglets.

you can't have a barnyard

in this neighborhood,

they tell me.

the board comes around

and threatens me

with fines

and eviction.

i have no choice but to 

have a barbeque next week,

but the complaining neighbors

will not be invited.

the eyebrow convention

i see her bags by the door.

going somewhere? i ask her.

yes, she says.

i'm going up to NYC for a few

days,

for the eyebrow convention

at Madison 
Square Garden.

huh?

i'm thinking about reshaping

my eyebrows.

expert eyebrow ologists from

all over the world

will be there.

do you know you can knock

off two years of

aging, with the right eyebrow

alignment,

and coloring?

no way, i tell her.

so what are you going for?

the Pelosi look of constant

surprise or the Brooke

Sheild look, the one stroke

unibrow?

i'm not sure, i'm thinking 

Marlene Dietrich maybe,

the movie star from the golden

age of Hollywood.

subtle but glamorous.

done with California

we used

to think of California as

a mecca

of sorts.

a place to go

when young,

a long stretch of state

with golden suns,

beaches

with blue water

and warm

sand.

live and let live

we sang

as we drank our carrot

juice

and joined hands.

everyone was healthy,

creative and fun.

we were all dreaming

about going

there,

getting out of the snow,

out of the dark

canyons in the city,

heading west

to have fun

fun fun.

oh my, how things have

changed,

as we pack

the car once more

and head for the east coast 

again.

pay it no mind

you

don't need the big house,

the fancy

car,

the Prada bag

or Gucci

coat.

no need for bling

on your

finger, or toes

or in

your nose.

be smart, be kind,

be good.

and pay the worlds

false

riches

no mind. 

Nehi orange or grape soda

i can still feel

the sting

of the ice-cold water 

on my arm,

from my hand to my

elbow as i dipped

it deep

into the metal bin

at the corner

store, searching

through the watery ice

for a Nehi orange

or grape soda.

ten cents for a 

twelve-ounce pop.

two cents

for returning the bottle.

my lips are still

blue

or orange, at least

in thought.

Dasha in the trenches

i haven't heard

from

Dasha

in Moscow for ages,

months

have gone by.

i wonder if she's in the army

now,

fighting in the war.

or maybe

she's become a spy.

i can see

her in the trenches,

neck deep in mud,

not wanting

any part of this madness,

just trying

to stay alive.

the Easter egg roll

as we slow dance

around

the kitchen in a loving

embrace,

i kiss her neck gently

which makes her

swoon and say,

oh you.

you're so sweet when

you're in the mood.

but then we forget that

the stove

is on as we boil

water for Easter eggs,

and her dress catches fire.

i quickly turn on 

the faucet and fill up

a cup of water, which

i throw onto the flames.

then i tell her to stop,

drop and roll, which 

she does.

then we make love

on the wet rug, full

of ashes, but the dress 

no longer burning.

street cleaning on Tuesday

i have enough

trouble

worrying about my inner

space

to be concerned with outer space.

go to the moon,

go to Mars,

yeah, yeah.

it's interesting

what's out there,

Pluto

and Saturn

and the rest of it.

the Milky Way.

all good and well. but

i need to put

some food on the table

today,

and pay

the rent to my landlord

who's making

my life 

a living hell, then move

my car

to the opposite side 

of the street before

the city tows it away.

a greeting at the door

it's a slender

little thing,

blue green,

this chameleon,

this strange prehistoric

lizard

that greets me at the door

and slips

away without

a word,

or squeak.

all tail it seems.

between the threshold

he disappears,

skinny

enough

to slide between

the metal crease.

to where he goes i don't

know.

one of many,

and more things,

that i have no

clue about.

the sooner the better

what is this nonsense,

this empty

tomb?

we killed him,

didn't we?

who stole the body,

was he really

dead

and escaped

this hollow room?

who rolled the stone

away,

and left a 

printed rag of him?

what soldiers fell asleep

and let him out,

now see what

you've done.

you've given hope to a world

that's still

undone.

when will the second

time,

yet come?

pointless and useless knowledge

as i scroll 

through a myriad

of video shorts,

giving my thumb

a morning workout.

i'm in a trance, a daze,

i'm underwater with

all of this

pointless and useless

knowledge. 

we all need help, 

we all need to be saved.

the other shoe

i'm waiting,

waiting on pins and needles

for the other

shoe to drop.

it's in the air, i can feel

it, i can

hear the stomp

of the boot before it

strikes the ground.

what's taking it so long?'

how much more

suspense can i take?

just it over with it,

and be gone.

so damn quickly

how the hell

did we all get so old,

so quickly?

it was just

yesterday when i was playing

stickball

behind the drugstore

with Henry Sadowski

and Ike Robey.

and where are they

now i might ask.

do they too remember

the strike zone

we spray painted

on the back wall?

the cardboard box

we flattened

to use as home plate?

unlike Dylan i hesitate to go Electric

it took me awhile

to buy

into technology, i even

hesitated

with the electric razor

and toothbrush,

the only reason

i ever got a cell phone

was because i saw a bum

in a dumpster talking

on one as he sifted through

the garbage.

i still have AOL, that's how

long ago it was when

i bought my first computer,

a thing the size of an

old fashioned tv.

so when i look at an 

Electric car, i'm thinking,

no way.

i already have too many

things to plug in and worry

about power. in fact,

i've only got ten percent on

my flip phone now.

white paint all the way down

the faster

and more efficient you were

with a brush

and roller,

the longer you kept your job.

it was a rat tag group

of old and young,

men and women,

teachers and cab drivers,

cooks and bums,

all suffering from

the economy of the early70's.

you did what you

could to earn your daily

crust of bread.

we started from the top

of the new

apartment building

and worked our way down

twenty-one floors

with gallons of white paint

in hand.

i kept my job

the whole way down.

when i drive by that building

today, 

i'm still amazed at how

hard i worked,

and still do, till this day.

Easter Eggs off to church

my mother had us

in dress shirts

and ties,

coats,

polished shoes for Easters.

the girls

were in dresses,

bright yellows

and blues.

we looked like colored

eggs as she

shooed us

off to church with our

envelopes full

of change she made as

a waitress

on the night shift.

behave, she'd say

front the porch and wave,

the wind

pushing her back inside

for forty more

winks on the couch

before we returned.

emotional eating

give me

my eggs

sunny side up, please,

three,

and four strips

of bacon.

toast and hash browns,

a mug

of coffee,

orange juice in a tall

cold glass

and a bear claw.

hungry? the waitress says.

you have

no idea

i tell her.

no idea.

fish eyes

as i walk around

the grocery store with an empty

cart, one

wheel

squealing and pulling

me into

the opposite direction,

i can't find a single thing

i want to eat.

nothing.

i circle and stare at the meat,

the vegetables,

the fruit, the canned

goods,

the breads and cereals.

then i come

to the fish, whole fish

with their eyes

still intact.

why are they staring at me?

there is no such thing as free speech

you have to be

careful

with your words these days.

cautiously

forming your opinions

so as not

to rile anyone up.

you can't

say what you really feel

anymore,

at least not publicly,

and even in

private,

you're walking on eggshells,

free speech

truly does not exists,

but in the quiet

of your mind.

will a good sleep help?

when your

friends

disappear, they move or die

or are no

longer talking

to you for reasons beyond

your comprehension,

it takes

the wind out of your sails

at times.

deflates you.

leaves you with your

head down.

you feel the weight of the world

on your shoulders,

though it isn't.

will a good sleep

help

to revive your spirit?

let's hope so.

it's your turn

they can't all be good days,

can they?

you have

to have

the sour with the sweet,

the bitter

with the joy,

the smile with the frown.

it's just your

turn

this day,

it all comes around.

when the stars go out

when the stars

go out,

the lights appear across

the frosted valley,

down the road

into the city.

light after light is lit.

the world is getting up.

making

coffee,

taking showers,

brushing

their teeth.

toast is popping up.

sleepy souls are

picking the paper off the porch

and yawning,

shaking the children

awake.

dogs are walked.

snow is brushed off the cars.

simple things

that must be hung onto

if we are

to stay sane.

what they forget

when i would read

him

to sleep,

page after page of the same

story,

green eggs and ham,

or curious George

and the man

with the yellow hat,

his eyes would get sleepy

and fold

upon themselves.

i'd try to sneak away,

but he'd grab

my hand and say

don't leave yet, dad, not yet,

just one more,

one more story, please

before you go

to bed.

what you already know

despite the steel

girders,

the pylons,

the span over miles,

the years

it's been traveled

across by a million

cars,

the bridge

goes down.

shocking, but

it's telling you something

you already know

as it sinks

so easily

with one swift blow.

the reluctant horse

they say

change is hard, 

and it is.

it's hard to pull

the reins

on your life and go into

a different direction.

the comfort of home

keeps you there,

the loved ones.

the familiar

keeps you safe,

keeps you warm.

why move, why leave

and start all over

again.

why pull on the reins

of the reluctant horse

once more.

the vegetarian birthday party

for her birthday,

being a vegan and weighing

about 99 pounds,

basically a skeleton in a dress,

she insisted

that everyone go to the vegetarian

restaurant

on Maple street.

thankfully 

it's no longer there, but

is currently occupied

by Five Guys burgers

and fries.

doing gangbuster business

i might add.

it was the worst meal i'd ever

eaten in my life.

fake meat.

beans and rice. lettuce

and kale.

a nightmare of a meal.

stalks of strange plants,

weird concoctions

that all tasted the same.

a green and yellow mush,

going brown.

cardboard and seasoned sawdust.

they'd put a candle in the middle

of a fat avocado

that'd she blow out

after making a wish, then

we'd cut it and

each have a slice.

sometimes i'd sneak in a

pound of teriyaki beef jerky

and stuff it 

in my pants.

stray cats with one life left

was i more

fun

when i was younger, probably so.

i did a lot

of stupid

things, but somehow

survived them

all.

just lucky

i guess. but

i'm more careful now

about who

i kiss,

who i dance with,

where i park

my car, or body on a 

Saturday night. 

i'm a cat with

just one life left,

anymore

i don't stray too far.

finding Jane

she likes

to take risks, 

go on the rollercoaster,

climb

the cliffs,

dive with the sharks,

jump out of planes

and 

wrestle crocodiles

in her underwear,

she's a very

adventurous girl. i call her

jane.

she calls me

scared.

isn't that interesting?

it's a very sharp

knife,

i know this because of the blood

dripping

across the floor.

i hardly felt

the cut, 

the blade being that surgical

and sharp.

it's an interesting

thing to be watching

what's inside

of you spill out

into bright puddles

before you.

there seems to be no end

to it.

hopefully i'll make more.

wearing orange again

i go down

to bail a friend out of jail.

he's behind

on child support payments

once again.

a few grand

this time.

the third or fourth time

around

with this game,

but the judge

wouldn't hear of it anymore.

they cuffed him

and took him

away.

they took his belt

and shoelaces too, and gave

him a bunk

with rubber sheets.

so now it's up to me,

his only

friend

to get him out before

he goes

into the big house for

six months.

some people never learn.

ignoring the red flags

i hear

things about you.

bits

of gossip, secrets whispered

from ear

to ear,

quiet clues

of darkness

as to who you really are,

but i choose

not to believe them,

and will

see how it goes

from here.

that kisses are that good.

passing on your left

you have

to go slow on the bike path

when riding.

they can't hear

you.

the ear buds are in their

ears,

the earphones are

strapped across

their heads.

there are strollers

and dogs,

small children running

back and forth.

there is no right or left

on the path,

just a stream

of people,

meandering like fish.

ringing your bell is

useless, shouting, 'on your

left', goes unheard.

no one seems to care.

it's anarchy

out there.

better wait until

the sun sets.

get under your desks

world war four,

Albert Einstein once said,

will be fought

with sticks

and stones.

that's all that will be

left to kill each other

with.

buckle up.

it's going to be

a bumpy ride.

children, 

when you hear

the sirens,

get under your desks.

why should they have all the fun

like children

seeing what the other children

have.

they want it.

they want that new fangled

thing

like the hydrogen

bomb.

the missile,

the rocket, the tanks and guns.

let's get out of the stone

age.

we want all of that

and more,

why should they have

all the fun?

the woods behind the shopping center

boyhood

things, young wishes,

of pretty

girls

and dreams. baseball.

frogs

and pocket knives,

sticks with nails

on the end.

knee deep

in muddy streams.

stars

to wish upon,

hiking through 

the woods behind

the shopping center,

avoiding

the hobo camps.

just wandering,

picking up

rocks and old cans,

pop bottles,

emerald green,

useless

but interesting things.

opening the doors

of discarded

refrigerators, ovens

turned

on their side, rusting

in the rain.

it's a long but short

day,

before you have to go

home again.

wanting that distant land

illness

changes everything.

the blue

sky

and bright sun are suddenly

meaningless.

the day

the hour, the time

is nothing

when in pain.

you can't remember feeling

well,

it's a distant land,

a fond memory

a place you'd like to

return

again.

group therapy with Dolly

i joined the local

group therapy session at the local

Moose Lodge

to get some insight

into myself.

there were seven men

there

and one woman,

Dolly, who used to be a stripper

over at

The Paper Moon

gentlemen's club.

after everyone got their say,

going around

the circle with their

problems,

talking about their wives

and kids,

their jobs,

Dolly got up in the middle

and danced.

i guess it was therapy of some

sort, we all kind of

forgot about our issues.

feeling lost and alone on a cold night

sometimes

i like to roll over and feel someone

warm

and welcoming

next to me.

it could be a large

dog, maybe a golden retriever,

lying on it's back,

legs up,

or a person.

but just to have that contact

on a cold

night,

is nice to have.

makes me feel not so lost

and alone.

making my move

you're cute and funny,

but

you've got

some miles on you, 

the woman says

to me

at the bar

as i make my move

from one stool

to another in getting

closer to her.

do you really think you

have a shot with me?

i'm thirty years old,

and i'm a tik tok star.

you're twice my age, and you're

short and bald.

what's your point?

i tell her,

that's why there's light

switches on the wall.

birds in sweaters

still,

i say, peering out the door.

still here.

the frost

on the car.

the icing on the cake

of grass.

birds in sweaters,

squirrels

in turtlenecks.

it's almost Easter and still

winter wants

a little time more.

buy now, jump later

we liked the view

from the twenty first floor of the high-rise

apartment building

on the edge

of the city.

a grand view.

you can see the fireworks

from here

the agent said,

throwing her arms out

to the horizon

as if a maestro

in an orchestra.

free parking too, she winked.

there's a doorman,

and a salon in the lower

floor with

a small market to buy

your everyday

things.

on sunny days you can

sit out on

the balcony if it's not too windy.

who could ask for more.

but i smelled something.

something like

cabbage

fermenting in the hall.

the rising fumes

of Lysol.

oh don't mind that she said,

it's a cleaning

fluid

from the murder suicide

next door.

so what do you think?

the interest rates will never

be lower.

going nowhere fast

was there ever a yellow

light

she couldn't beat?

not that i remember when

i was a passenger

in her 1980 Trans Am

with the painted

bird on the hood.

with one hand on wheel, 

nails painted red,

a cigarette in her mouth,

and her hair poofed up

like a starlet in an MTV

video, off we went.

always in a hurry to get

nowhere fast.

why lies below

of course

the bones are gone,

the faces,

the arms and legs,

the eyes.

the heart and soul.

what remains are shreds

of clothes

and shoes.

but it's not why

they dive.

seeking some

mystery of life,

no,

it's about the gold

doubloons.

finding joy

it's a mystery

of sorts

what makes one happy.

one loves

to collect stamps, while

another

might like

to fish from morning

until the sun sets.

one enjoys

to cook, another to paint

or write,

the bird watcher

is in heaven

lying on his back,

and the pilot

in the clouds

finds his own light.

each to his own joy

in the world,

finding it is key

in keeping out the

fright.

nothing has changed

live in the same house

long enough

and you'll see

families come and go.

kids grow,

cats and dogs

by the numbers, new

and old.

strollers appear,

people move south,

or pass on,

but the street is the same.

the old trees,

the fence

that borders houses

from the stream.

looking out the window

you think

that nothing has,

or will ever change.

old friends at the park

in passing, 

i hear

a man talking

to the bird's nest

with blue

eggs

in the tree

full of blossoms.

so you're back again,

i see,

he says, looking

upward

to the bird,

so good to see you.

is there anything

i can get you,

anything you need?

step across the border

it's only

a mile or two away,

but it's a different state,

a different

state bird,

a different state flower,

a different

saying on their license

plate.

but step across the line

and it feels

different,

like they don't know

how to drive

over there.

shutterbugs

we are all shutterbugs

these days.

Matthew Brady

would be proud.

we take

pictures of our salads,

our meat,

our drinks,

where we are.

the rooms in our houses.

new cars.

the dogs,

the kids.

the parents. 

a fresh wound,

an old scar. click, click

click

all day long.

smile we say,

say cheese.

let's take one more,

just to be sure.

apologizing at 90

i hear

the old man on the bench

talking to

his wife, or friend,

or maybe

she's both,

he's apologizing

for his behavior.

i can do better,

my dear,

he says,

last year i acted like

a fool,

i did so many things

that i regret.

you'll see. from now

on you'll

get the best of me.

i'm turning over

another new leaf.

temptation

there are things

i have no

power over, things that

i can't resist,

that tempt

me beyond stopping,

the smell

of cinnamon rolls baked,

hot out of the oven

for one,

and you

in a pair of high heels

and sheer

black stockings

is another.

a fresh start for a kitchen drawer

i deem thee

now

the tool drawer, i say

to the drawer

that once

held a collection of paper

clips, rubber bands

and packets

of Tylenol.

not to mention pencils,

heartworm

pills

for a long ago dog,

gorilla glue and a dead

watch,

along with

four different

sizes of loose batteries

and a pamphlet

on poisonous snakes.

i clean it out and 

begin anew,

blessing

the screwdriver,

the Allen wrench,

the pliers,

the small hammer

and the measuring

tape.

not a waste of time

it's not a waste

of time, but a necessary

stretch

of doing nothing but staring

up at the ceiling

or blue

or grey sky.

a respite

from the world.

no book in front of you,

no phone

no tv.

just you alone

with your thoughts

going nowhere

and everywhere

all at the same

time.

the love locks on the chain links

the iron

mesh and steel

of the pedestrian bridge,

over the railroad

tracks

was a long drop

down,

your knees buckled

and your heart

sank as you

attached with hope

once more,

the engraved lock,

as lovers do,

to the chain links.

over loved

i overslept.

i overate, i overworked

myself.

i over drank,

i overthought,

i over indulged

in so many things

in life,

but have i ever over loved?

did i give enough,

did that

suffice?

a stretch of yawn

some days

have no meaning, 

there is nothing

to celebrate,

no reason

for cake

or champagne,

no need for gifts or cards,

or songs

to sing.

it's just a mundane

day, a forty-degree day

without 

a second of importance,

just a long stretch of yawn.

there is nothing

worth noting,

or remembering on

this calendar page.

it's just another day,

soon gone.

bargain prices

we want the better deal,

the sale,

we want

to catch the savings of

this week only,

three hours to go,

the clock is ticking.

we have our coupons

about to expire,

our clippings,

our receipts.

we bargain and negotiate

nearly everything

in this life,

it's how i ended up

with you,

and you with me.

tomorrow i'll begin

it's easier

to buy a larger pair of pants,

and shirt,

than it

is to walk

and exercise and not put

that third

slice of cake

into your mouth,

washing it down with

a large drink.

it's hard

to fend off this

emotional hunger,

this perpetual

thirst.

maybe tomorrow i'll

begin.

not about you, is it?

it's okay to give.

to give

to the blind, the poor,

the needy,

the sick.

but no need to put

a sticker

on your car,

or window,

your door. give quietly,

no need

to broadcast

your generosity.

just give more.

it's not about you?

is it?

it's time to go

the children,

almost grown,

each holding a few balloons

clutched in 

their hands

begin to fly off,

lifted off the ground,

away from the yard,

the party,

off into the sky they go,

as parents stand

below and wave.

red and yellow,

green and pink

balloons carry them

off into clouds

built like pillows.

taste like chicken

everything

does not taste like chicken,

the squid,

the rabbit,

the snake, the strange

fish

you pulled

from the lake.

the turtle,

the snail, the goose

sitting

smug on your plate.

it's not chicken,

but call it

what you may.

spin the bottle

in the basement,

with the lights dimmed

low,

we'd put on a stack

of 45's on the box turntable,

and listen to her mother's

old records,

the Everly Brothers,

the Platters,

and Peggy Lee,

we'd spin

the bottle, boys and girls

in a small

circle and peck our

lips together,  barely

touching.

we'd play post office too,

but quietly.

slamming the door

there's something

satisfying

about slamming the door

after walking

out of the room,

saying nothing, just

letting the sound

of the slam

say everything you

need to say.

we're done here.

same goes for hanging

up the phone,

the old phones, 

the ones on the desk 

with a cord attached,

black and heavy.

as if they knew

early

learning, is less about what

your mother

and father

tells you to do,

or not to do.

it involves pain.

touching

the stove, the fire,

playing with matches,

picking up

sharp things,

pulling a bone from

a dog's mouth.

bee stings.

the head stuff comes later,

as the parents

explain

and explain

the way life works, as

if they knew.

the weary road home

having spent

too long

in an English pub in town,

i come out

five pints later

in the dead of night

talking

with a broken British

accent.

i start rambling on

about butter pies,

and royalty,

the king and queen,

cricket

and lady Di.

if only there were

a cobblestone

street to guide me,

as i stagger home

reciting Larkin,

and Shakespeare, Dylan

and others,

not Dylan Thomas

though.

her P.O. box

don't trust

anyone with a P.0. box

down at

the post office.

when you see

the little

key on their key ring

go the other

way, don't make

it a thing.

they're hiding something

or someone

from you

behind that little metal

door.

dastardly old age

when you don't remember

the exact word

you want to say,

the phrase

that will sum it all up,

you blink

your eyes, and shake

your head,

but

it decides to stay,

strangely

not wanting

to leave your brain,

you think for a brief

second oh no,

it's begun at last, 

dastardly old age.

keeping us down

we know it,

but we don't know it, 

the pull

and force

of gravity,

it's on us

everyday, keeping us

on the ground,

the weight of

the unseen

laws

of nature,

heavy in its airless

ways,

keeping us down.

being followed

you know

when you're being followed,

being watched.

stalked.

you can feel it.

the hair on back of your

neck rises,

your heart speeds up.

you are the prey,

not the hunter.

like a deer in the thick

of woods,

with the bowman

disguised in the trees,

you smell the scent

of danger,

and run away.

reduction therapy

with a hammer

and a foot,

a shoulder and an elbow,

thrown

into the side,

you reduce

the cabinet

into pieces.

so easy. so strangely

fun to take

out what troubles

you on

boards and screws,

nails, taking apart

what's old

and bothersome,

until its done.

infected early

does it start early,

this religion

inside you, this questioning

faith

that lingers

from childhood until

death?

did all the prayer

and kneeling,

the guilt

and sin, sink in.

do some

get it early, or do some

wait until

near the end,

to find

a savior, the holding hand

of a loving

friend.

falling off a Ferris wheel

after his

wife fell off the Ferris wheel,

after waving madly

from the top chair,

he got an enormous

settlement

from the carnival.

i'd see him

in his new car, waving

from the window.

beeping the horn.

his new suit

on, his new hair,

and new skin.

sure, he missed her.

but from the looks of it,

it was a win.

the wiggle of the line

the wiggle

of the line, the bounce

of the bobber

in the water,

says

we've got company,

someone is

about to bite the hook

and be

reeled in.

texting can be like that,

sometimes.

we've all been there

the man

on the street having an

intense conversation

with someone

in the air,

isn't crazy,

isn't off his trolley,

he's in the moment.

he's telling her what

he always

wanted to say,

but couldn't,

we've all been

there.

appliance paranoia

the printer,

the one in the corner, that rattles,

that has

a mind of its own,

is trembling

as i mention

throwing it out the window.

the paper

stuck,

out of ink.

the connection weak.

i hear it talking to the vacuum

in the morning,

to the toilets

that leak,

to the refrigerator

that hums,

and won't freeze.

yesterday

i swear i heard the toaster

speaking

to the air fryer,

whispering

conspiratorial things.

i think they're planning

something against

me.

i sleep with one eye open

now, and a hammer

under my pillow.

the traveling salesman

when the fuller brush man

would knock

at the door,

and my mother would let him in,

because she was

lonely

and poor,

we'd gather around and stare

at him

in his cheap suit,

and bow tie,

his polished, but worn

shoes.

we'd listen to him go

and on

about the products in his

satchel, 

smoothing down his

mustache while 

gazing at my

mother's

Sophia Loren

sized cleavage. 

but it was no sale

on either end of the deal.

she was just lonely, 

and the poor salesman

seemed nice.

truthful ponderings

it's shallow,

i know, so sue me,

cancel me,

but give me the skinny girl.

the in shape gal.

the pretty girl.

the smart

and funny

girl

with wit and charm.

i admit it's harsh

and cruel.

but it's what i prefer,

and if you're

truthful

with yourself,

so do you.

hang on and enjoy

for some reason

the ticking

clock offers no fear

or anxiety,

nor do

the mound of years,

the leaves

of calendar

pages

turning in a cold

wind, burned

brightly

in a memory barrel.

who cares?

just hang on and

enjoy the ride

for a few

more years

the nincompoop

my nosy

friend, Jimmy, asks me when

was the last time

i saw Cruella.

i look at him and shake

my head.

why, why on God's good

earth

would i want

to see that nincompoop?

nincompoop?

he says, laughing.

i haven't heard that word

since

1970.

you've softened up when

you use

words to describe her,

haven't you?

eating bread all day

i could eat

bread all day. toasted,

with butter,

with jam.

sandwiches, rolls,

croissants.

sourdough,

cinnamon, cheese

and jalapenos.

French bread,

Italian bread.

name a country and i like

their bread.

but i can't.

i don't want to go back

to my sans a belt

stretch pants.

and my oversized

sheet i call

a shirt with a hole

in it.

the thinning grapevine

through

a thinning grapevine

we catch

wind that my father's latest

love interest,

is chipping

away at his bank account,

her 65 year old

son is coming over to the house

too,

to assist my father

with his ear

wax removal,

and to adjust his hearing

aid.

are they bad

people?

we're not sure yet,

but we should be there

in a hour or two

with a new

set of keys and locks

for the doors.

Karen and her dead dogs

for the most part she

wasn't a nice person.

she could be mean at times

if she didn't get her way,

or had to wait in a line,

or was jealous of someone

prettier and smarter

and richer than her.

she was

hell on the roads

when in traffic. she was

a snarky kind of Karen,

but when

it came to her pets she was

all lovely dovey.

and soft as a jelly donut.

nearly every

week she went

to the pet cemetery to visit

her dead dogs

and cats that she rescued

on their death beds.

sometimes i'd go with her,

and steady

her as she broke out

into trembling sobs

and tears, but she always 

made a point to yell at

the grave diggers

before we left, telling them,

to turn off their

music and to not make

such a mess.

the field trip to Gettysburg

i was surprised

when the girl, the girl

everyone called

mouse.

came up to me on the school

bus

and asked me

to go steady.

she told the kid sitting

next to me

to get out, or else.

she sat down and proceeded

to tell me

that she liked me,

and wanted me to take

her to the ninth grade

prom

on Saturday night.

we were on our way to

the Gettysburg battlefields,

a school

field trip.

i was staring out at the cannons,

and wooden

fences,

imagining the dead

bodies

in blue and grey across

the fields.

the blood and gore of it all.

the mistakes each side

made, and then

the final surrender.

hey, the girl, said,

are you even

listening to me?

did you say something, mouse?

i'm trying to sleep

if you want

to make the nosy woman

on the airplane

sitting next

to you, to stop talking,

you roll up your

sleeve

and your pant leg and you

ask her,

does this look

infected to you?

if that doesn't work,

you ask her

for a kiss.

the least of things

the cat

or dog easily adjusts

to the new

environment after

leaving

its mark in the corner.

but the basics

are met.

a window

in the sun, food

and water

in bowls in

the kitchen.

a bed to sleep on

at night.

a ball to chase, or

mouse on a string

to paw at.

the owners

are helpful

with their good cheer,

but they

are the least

of things.

it's okay to steal, we were never hugged

crime is okay

now.

no one stays locked up

for very

long.

a day,

an hour then you're back on

the street.

it's a funny

game with

these poor souls

who 

weren't hugged

enough

as a child,

never had the love

from

anyone.

they're hungry, famished,

that's why

they take

a hammer to jewelry

cases

for more gold watches

and chains.

then steal a car.

last day on the job

sometimes

you have to quit a job

before you

have another job.

you just can't take it anymore.

the lack of respect,

the low pay,

the nature

of the mundane work.

you're

taking coal out of a mountain,

with your little spade.

you hate your boss.

your boss hates you.

you hate the cubicle

you sit in.

even the coffee is bad.

it's frownville.

you're a man on a sinking

ship, going down.

finally, you pick up

your things,

put on your coat,

steal a stapler and you're

gone.

knowing your limitations

i realize

when i open the three boxes

of parts

and pieces,

boards

and screws, tools

and casters

to be turned.

unfolding the thick

pamphlet of directions

in six languages,

i occurs to me

that i'm much

better at taking

things apart

than i am at building

them.

friends on the street

i hear

you coming from

across 

the street

the jingle jangle of you.

the way

you shuffle,

the way

you speak.

i've known you for 

a long time.

years in fact,

in cold

weather and warm.

i hear

the bell around

your neck,

the meow of you.

it's good to know

that you're not 

dead yet.

what's waiting down there?

will i ever

be tall enough to see out

the kitchen

window,

i wondered at the age 

of four,

from the seventh floor,

reaching 

up with small

hands, touching

the sill,

my toes stretching

me higher.

what was out there

that i couldn't see?

what world

was awaiting me 

down below

in the playground.

it's just a matter of time

no matter

how hard you try, no matter

how

secretive you are,

devious

and careful,

in time,

it all comes out.

it doesn't matter

what's under

the bed,

or in the closet, or attic,

or hidden

in bins

in the basement. sooner

or later

the light will shine

on all

and you'll be found out.

making babies

the young father 

pacing in the waiting room.

barely shaving

at this age,

tall and lean,

just leaving

the starting gate

of life, but now 

waiting for his wife

of a year or two

to give birth

to their first child.

he's nervous, anxious.

he rubs his

face and wrings his

hands,

bites his nails.

he's wondering

as the clock ticks

down,

what have i gotten myself

into?

future diabetics

we ate

a lot of cereal growing up.

we didn't

know about all the sugar

it contained.

fructose

and corn syrup and all

the other ingredients

that we

couldn't pronounce.

we never knew

how it lacked

any nutrients.

but

it kept us quiet for a few

minutes

before school,

or after school,

devouring

bowl after bowl 

of marshmallows

and soft

candy

made to look like

rice or oats.

the boxes were all

packaged

to look like cartoons,

bright red

and yellow colors,

happy greens

and blues.

general mills loved us,

the dentist did too.

suspicious minds

it happened one

morning,

when i realized that she hadn't

called me

cupcake,

or sweet pea,

for weeks now.

i was no longer her

buttercup,

or honeybun.

she didn't even call me

by my first name.

it was suddenly,

hey,

or nothing

when asking me a question,

or in telling

me what to do.

she seemed to be looking

at her phone

all the time.

are you working late

tonight?

she'd ask, while slipping

into a new dress

and putting

her lipstick on.

this will be trouble

what's your mission

statement

for your business

the woman

asks me, 

as i 

give her the estimate

to paint

her house.

take your shoes off, please,

she says,

and don't sit

there.

umm.

i don't know, i guess it's

to do a good job

and get paid

i tell her.

are you worried about

the environment?

do you use

proper pronouns

when addressing others?

are you an

all inclusive company,

do you

recycle your old cans

and brushes.

do you use only ecologically

friendly

materials?

yeah, sure.

all of that.

but we suggest you not be

here

when we start the job., okay?

the tv dinner

ten years old

with no parents home,

we turned

the oven up

to 425, but

the picture

did not resemble what lay

behind

the tin wrapping of the tv

dinner.

they called

it a banquet meal.

turkey and gravy,

dressing,

carrots

and potatoes lumped

upon sections of the tray.

and the applesauce,

dessert.

steaming. bubbling.

burned fingers weren't

the half of it.

not unlike us

the sun,

stingy with it's yellow

bleed

of light.

not warm, not cold,

just blah.

giving

off just enough light

to get

things done.

lifting its head

upon

sagging shoulders.

it's tired

it seems.

like us.

cake on a paper plate

will i ever

conquer my fear 

of public speaking?

no.

and i have

no plans to overcome

this psychosis.

which is fine.

i have no ambition

for public office,

no plans to be the best

man at some wedding,

or deliver a eulogy at

someone's funeral.

i'll be in the back row,

eating cake

on a paper plate,

near the door

with the sign over head

in red,

saying exit.

no milk for you

when

you call and i pick up

and say

hello

and you don't answer,

with your

number restricted,

and i just

hear 

you breathing into

the phone,

making strange

cat like noises,

meows

and scratches,

don't you think that

i know who it is?

but it's too late dear,

no milk

for you.

perpetual strangers

we're all strangers

to each other,

even after twenty years of marriage,

or a lifetime 

of friendship,

we still

can't figure out

who someone really is.

sure, we know their habits,

how they like

their tea,

and toast, 

their eggs over easy.

how they like to read

at night.

we know the sounds they

make

when they sleep,

the position they lie in

when the lights go out.

we know

where they like to walk

during the day,

which path

to take and

which bench to sit on

when circling

the lake,

but the truth of the matter is

is that we

have no clue

what they're all about, 

we think we know them,

but it's often

a mistake.

a long way until 7 a.m.

the three

a.m. wake up is annoying.

there is nothing

going on in

my life that warrants

a three a.m.

wake up.

i stare

at the clock

and sigh,

really?

now?

i punch the pillow,

and roll

over.

i roll over some more.

i lift my head

and look

at the clock again,

five minutes have gone by.

it's along

way until 7 a.m. .

and suddenly everything

is on my mind.

dr. feel good

as i sit on the examination

table

waiting for the doctor

to arrive

i notice

behind the locked glass

cabinet

bottles of pills, all marked

with labels

and ready

to go.

one says happy pills,

the other

says, crazy pills, another

says,

fat pills, fear pills,

and on and on.

skinny pills, depressed pills,

lonely pills,

blurred vision pills,

upset stomach pills,

confused pills.

and then there's a large

bottle that reads,

everything pills.

give me one of those

i tell the doctor when he

comes in with his

stethoscope.

the newcomers

the condo board

has agreed to an open door policy

for all

the residents living

in the community.

no more locks on your doors,

no more bars on your windows.

anyone from anywhere,

criminal or not can come

into your home,

front door or back,

night or day,

eat, sleep, drink and live

in your house for free,

for as long as they want to,

without paying a

single penny.

come one come all.

it's the right thing to do.

slide over for a family

of five,  let's all make room

St. Patty's Day

i forgot it was St. Patty's day,

until i saw

a group of trashed

men

and women

wearing shiny emerald

colored

derbies and throwing

up green

beer

and bangers and mash

in the alley

behind Murphy's Pub

on King Street.

then it occurred to me,

oh yeah.

it's St. Patrick's Day again.