the hunger strike on campus

you can't help

but laugh a little as the protestor

cries for help,

saying that

she's starving and near

death

because she skipped her 

snack between

meals while

screaming

about death

to others.

no snickers bar for her,

no bagel,

or bag of chips,

no ice cream or latte

from Starbucks,

no peanut butter chocolate

granola bar.

dinner is nearly an hour

away.

but she's doing her

part.

poor thing is wasting away.

she's faint and can barely

move her

lips.

the next new leaf

there are

many acts to each play,

each life,

there's a second

chance,

a third,

a fourth if need be

over time.

eventually all is either

forgotten

or forgiven

and life moves

on.

once more

we turn over 

the next new leaf.

we're all cats with

many lives.

in on the game

is the thumb on

the edge of every butcher's

scale?

cheating the weight.

is the world

rigged.

is there a huckster

on every

corner,

a thief, a scammer

in every 

call you take.

is nothing on the up

and up.

is anyone not in on

the game?

sometimes it feels

that way.

the common life

it's easy to rise,

to wake

up and do what you've always

done.

your mouth opens

for food

and drink,

your clothes go on.

you have a routine,

a common

life to follow.

today

will be much like the day

before.

be thankful

for that.

the prosperity teacher healing

my allergies to tree pollen

have gotten so

bad that i place my hand on

the television

and ask the televangelist

preacher

to heal me.

i watch intently as i sneeze

and blow my nose.

he says that for a thousand

dollars

i can be free of this ailment

or any other ailment

the devil has cast upon me.

begone, he says to someone

on the screen, slapping

an old lady's head,

telling her to rise from

her wheelchair and toss

aside those crutches.

someone wheels her away,

as she seems

to be unconscious.

he suggests using

a credit or a debit card,

but will take checks too,

or an envelope full of cash

slipped under his mansion

door in Palm Springs.

i write a check and send it

off with a note.

writing the words,

allergy to tree pollen.

please heal me. thanks.

i'm waiting patiently

as i open another box

of Kleenex, and spray

more antihistamines

up my nose.

i'll do or say anything to get your vote

it's nearing election time.

both

sides of the mouth

are wide open.

the flip flops begin.

what was the truth is now

a lie,

and what was a lie

is now truth.

the spin is in.

tell me what you want

to hear.

i'll say and do nearly

anything

for your vote.

we need to win.

let's save this country

together.

and please ignore the last

four years

and what i said

an hour ago.

maybe tomorrow will be different

i miss the bus.

it's raining, but i keep walking.

i have no

umbrella.

before long i am soaking

wet.

my shoes have filled

with water.

my hair is matted

on my head,

my arms are heavy,

my legs are cold

and slow down,

but i keep walking. 

i start coughing

as i lean into

the wind,

but i need to get to where i

need to go.

isn't that what people

tell you to do?

keep going, don't give up.

don't surrender.

maybe tomorrow will

be different.

they are running

they are running.

i see them

in the park, around the block,

down

the paths

and streets.

circling, doing laps

into the dark.

they are going somewhere.

they need to run.

they need

to look at their watches

and pick up the pace.

they need to ignore

the pain,

the weather.

others in their way.

they need to toss aside

the idea

of aging.

they are running, running,

most unsure of

to where, or

what from.

time for a diaper change

the babies are crying.

i can hear

them

on the campus not far down

the road.

they're hungry

and tired,

they need a change of

clothes.

their voices are hoarse

from begging,

from whining.

demanding things they

can never have.

uneducated despite

being in ivy league schools.

and now it's raining,

and they're cold.

Medusa hair

in high humidity

her

bright red hair takes on a life

of its own.

the curls

take on more curls.

it's a bloom,

it's a bouquet of flowers

and vines,

thickets and bramble.

it brings Medusa

to my mind.

the devil's work, i'm sure

it's the devil's work,

i'm sure of

that.

getting stuck on thoughts

about you

or her, or him,

or someone

else that has gotten under

my skin.

dark ruminations.

i am a dog

with a bone with these

thoughts,

unable to cast them aside,

and move on.

something i haven't been told

a best friend

is gone,

so is another friend.

another.

a lover,

a parent, people

are disappearing

from

the world.

i feel like there is 

something

more to this,

something i haven't

been told.

more came to do the same

it was a lower middle

class

neighborhood, with average

children,

average

men and women.

factory workers,

hair stylists

and secretaries. blue

collar folk.

two cars,

a dog, a cat.

and a yard

captured by a chain link

fence.

duplexes

stuck together

with a flat tar roof.

everyone waved

and barbequed on the weekend.

they shoveled

snow together.

some went to church

on Sundays.

they borrowed things

from one

another.

became friends.

the women gossiped

while

hanging their wet clothes

on the line out back.

the men

bowled

on Friday nights.

wearing shirts

like Marlon Brando.

some moved in the later

years, went south.

some died

in their homes.

eventually they were

all gone.

but more people came

to do the same. why not?

leave the moon alone

i want the moon

of my

youth, the milk glow of it,

the poetry

of its face,

it's dark side.

i want the footprints

erased,

i want the junk removed,

the surface

cleaned and swept

free of

earthly debris.

please, leave the moon alone,

it's never hurt

anyone.

missing one another is never equal

as the train

pulls away from the station.

i see you

out the window,

standing on

the platform with

tears in your eyes,

hand

raised.

disappearing slowly

from view.

your blue coat

a dot now.

a blur.

a mirage.

i go back to my book.

missing one another

is never equal.

on the return trip things

will have

to change.

no change tomorrow

the window

is clear

with the green outside,

the red

bird on wing.

your life is up for grabs.

tomorrow

a mystery.

but what else is new?

has there

been a day

or an hour gone by that

you haven't

felt this way?

i see no change tomorrow

or the next

day.

compulsions

he had a thing

with cleanliness, washing his hands,

a dozen times

a day.

i'd see him over the sink,

with soap

and a scrub brush,

the hot water steaming,

fogging

the room.

slowly, he worked at his.

fingers and palm,

the nails and

knuckles, all the way

up to his wrist.

it was like a surgeon

before

the scalpel cuts in.

i always wondered what sins

he was trying to

wash away and push down

the drain.

i'm not really here

you can be somewhere,

physically

in the room,

in a seat, and yet,

not be there.

you're going through

the motions

of being there. you're polite,

and nice,

you shake hands

and make small talk, 

but

you aren't really there.

you're elsewhere.

you wonder if your smile

gives you away.

strange to feel this way

most of the time.

that's what friends are for apparently

because she belongs

to the country club,

friends and relatives

appear out of nowhere

and think they

belong too.

when are we eating in

the restaurant, drinking

beer in the pub?

they have a happy hour

that we'd love

to go to.

can we play a round of

golf and use

the pool, the gym?

can you take us there

again?

weekends are best for us.

please get us a tee time,

we love you, you're the best.

and don't forget parking

passes, that's a must.

maybe it's time to take down the tree

because

the trees are green again,

we go on.

we part

ways with winter,

gladly.

we put the heavy

coats

away, the boots and gloves.

the scarves.

and at last

we take down

the Christmas tree.

lights, then ornaments

packed.

May seems

like a good time for that.

the new tenant

the room

begs for light, for a chair,

a rug

centered in the middle.

it talks to you

as you stand

there in the emptiness

of walls

and hard floor.

it asks

you to make it

yours.

to bring it life. who

lived here

before won't mind.

they're curious too

as to what

this space could be.

sometimes you may hear

them

walking

around at night.

Saturday Heaven

it was always a double feature

at the Atlantic Theater

next to the Rexall Store

on Atlantic Street in southeast DC.

cartoons and previews too.

there was an enormous

burgundy curtain that was

slowly pulled open

as the show began and the

lights went down.

we had popcorn and candy,

sodas as we settled in.

we'd spend the entire

Saturday in those hard

seats with the air condition 

blowing down.

it was heaven.

nothing quite like it

has ever been found.

heading to Florida

everyone

it seems of a certain age

is moving

to Florida.

collecting

their pay and heading south.

cashing in.

i see them packing

their cars,

their trucks

and vans. loading things

onto the roof.

the kids are grown,

the dogs

have died.

now it's our time they

say with

a weary smile.

golf clubs and fishing

poles hang

out the window

as they take off, 

but they don't get far,

they have to stop 

to pee

before the second mile.

tilt, game over

what's bothersome

about

catching someone in a lie,

is not that

they lied,

but that now you will

never believe a

word they say anymore.

there's no going

back. tilt, game over.

leave none

the exterminator

asks me

if i want all the rats

taken care

of,

each and every one

that's

been chewing up

the wires,

causing chaos

and fires,

do you want them all

gone?

yes, i tell him, of course.

leave none.

killing the bee

the bee,

after striking it with a large

book,

the latest

biography of Sylvia Plath,

called

The Red Comet,

struggles to stay

alive,

to take flight.

the anger is apparent

as the wings

flex and stinger

protrudes out.

the irony of it all does

not escape me.

seeing that Otto Plath,

was a beekeeper

for most of his life.

again i drop the book

down upon

the bee.

swiftness

is better than lying

there in

misery.

ants in their pants

as the pool opens,

i look over

at the blue squared

concrete pond

surrounded

by a chain link fence

and barbed

wire.

maybe this is the year

i finally go in.

take a dip,

go for a pleasant swim

in the neighborhood

pool

but then i see

the line of children,

dancing

with ants in their pants,

at the door,

and i cringe. i know

what children do

once they touch water.

there's a cricket in the house

there's a cricket

in house,

listen,

hear that? 

he's rubbing his little

green legs

together

as he hops about.

what is that, music,

morse code.

is he trying to tell

us something?

is he hungry, thirsty.

maybe i should

put a bowl of water

out,

a sandwich

with some chips

and a pickle.

dear Abby again

sobbing, she tells me

the story

of her ex-boyfriend, their six

year

relationship.

he was cheating the whole

time,

she tells me.

lying to me with a straight

face.

how can i ever move

on with my life.

i wake up every morning

with him

on my mind.

drinking doesn't help,

therapy

is a waste of time.

please, you've gone through

this a lot,

can you give me any

advice on how to move on?

delete, block, and no contact,

i tell her.

take back your life.

have a bonfire in the back yard.

burn everything

that they gave you.

then be thankful

you came out the other side.

the portrait painter

do people

sit for portraits anymore.

presidents

and big wheels,

dictators,

and movie stars?

are there people dressed

up and holding

the pose

just so,

being still so that the artist

can capture

the essence of who 

they are,

or who they're

pretending to be?

or is it just the phone now.

click

and before sending,

edit

to clean up the wrinkles

and bags

under the eyes.

maybe do some reverse

aging with AI.

peeling off some Benjamins

i click

the dials of the safe

and pull

open the door.

i need

some money,

some paper money, some

hard cash

in my pocket.

i peel a few Benjamins

from the stack.

i feel like buying

something

frivolous today,

something

i don't need, but want

just for the hell

of it.

i'm open to suggestions.

but by the end

of the day i'm

opening the safe again

to put it back.

there's nothing i want,

something

i'd never thought i'd say.

finding the strange world

what magic

these

bugs were, these fireflies

on the hands

of children,

unafraid.

slow winged

and easy to catch.

captured

in mason jars

with perforated lids.

what a strange world

it was

to be discovered

back then

and still is.

the woman in the French bikini

while tanning

himself in the backyard,

stretched

out on a plastic lawn chair,

cradling

a cold beer

in his hand.

i cautiously asked my

father if he'd

like to play

catch.

he squinted at me in the blazing

sun, 

and said, what?

it's a little hot for that,

isn't it?

maybe later, okay.

then i looked over at the yard

beside ours,

and saw

the woman

in a French bikini putting

coconut oil on.

sure dad, i said.

sure.

banging pots and pans together

he sends

me his poems.

i cringe, i can barely get through

the first ten,

two hundred

more to go.

if he was a musician,

this would be the equivalent

of banging pots

and pans

together

and calling it music.

how do i tell him this?

how do i break

his heart,

when all his friends

tell him it's gold.

the inheritance

my mother

would hide money in books,

under

plant pots.

mad money,

rainy day money.

sometimes she'd dig

a hole

in her garden

and put a box full

of tens and twenties

beneath the dirt.

maybe she thought it

would grow.

my sister took a shovel

out there after

she died,

digging the whole

yard up,

searching desperately

for her inheritance.

in rain and snow, and hail

the old mailman

is gone.

retired?

maybe. transferred

to the back room,

his feet and back no longer

strong enough

to carry his bag,

and complete his route?

perhaps.

did i know his name?

no.

did he have a wife

and children,

did he live nearby?

i have no idea.

but i saw him nearly

everyday,

in rain and snow.

always pleasant, always

a tip of the hat

and casual

wave.

sometimes i see the ghost

of him

coming up the street,

leaving his truck

at the top of the hill,

his mustache wet

with sleet.

his body all in grey.

now go flip that burger

jobs are hard to find.

good paying

jobs.

no matter how smart

you are,

how bright, 

no matter which school

you went to.

being expelled

and arrested,

might make

things even a little

bit harder.

was it worth it?

baying and marching

like sheep

all day, all night,

being a

brainwashed masked

marauder?

did it end the war,

bring back

the dead,

release any hostages?

cause more love

and less hate,

no, not really.

now go flip that burger.

in the dark

in the dark,

silk

feels good, your skin,

your hair

against my shoulder.

your

lips against mine.

the air

is cool,

the sheets warm.

in the dark,

there's nothing more

that i need,

just you.

it's too early for the likes of you

some people

are fun their whole lives.

the moment

they wake up,

they're funny and bright,

ready

to tackle

the day with goodwill

and cheer.

they hardly need a sip

of coffee,

and they're off

to the races.

there's never a cloudy

day with them,

positivity oozes from

their pores.

i don't like

these people.

you don't look your age

it's nice

to get a compliment.

such as

you don't look your age, or

you're

very smart,

have you ever thought

of being

on Jeopardy?

where did you get those

muscles,

and oh my God,

this soup

you made is divine.

but at some point

you become suspicious

and wonder

what they really want.

the old friend drawer

there is the big drawer

in the kitchen

full of useful,

but rarely used things,

rubber bands

and nails,

screws and strands

of cut string.

there's glue of course,

and matches,

small tools for glasses,

a compass,

a watch,

a ring.

a few old friends are

tucked away inside,

as well.

the sky is never blue

you can't argue with a fool.

an unread

and uneducated

person

will never change

his mind.

they have no use

for reason, for logic,

for truth.

save your breath,

and move on,

to them the sky is

never blue.

the loves that choose you

even

the rotted apple,

with

the soft

brown spot, turned

away,

can fool

you

in the summer

sun.

bite carefully

the loves

that choose you.

fixing the world with a hot cup of cocoa

as the world

goes to hell in a handbasket,

you shrug

and turn the tv off,

then go to the kitchen

to make

a nice hot cup of cocoa.

you top it off with an

enormous swirl of

whipped cream,

then grab

a few cookies

from the bin.

with an old book

in hand, you go

to the porch

and stretch your legs

out in the sun.

oh well, you think,

what a shame.

the coin jar online

finally

i enter the current

century

and sign up for online banking.

now

i check

my retirement plan,

stocks and bonds,

my

checking 

and saving accounts

with the click

of about ten

buttons

on my keyboard,

including passwords.

i look at the latest tallies.

the losses

and gains.

the interest.

most of it money

that i'll never

spend.

it's like the old coin

jar at the foot

of the bed.

filling slowly, and to

what end.

bright yellow rain coats

as a kid

we had rain gear

stuffed in back

of the hall closet.

rain

coats and hats,

galoshes,

umbrellas, rubber

boots,

a whole assortment

of bright yellow

rubberized

clothing to keep

us dry

as we went off to

school.

we never seemed to grow

out of it.

did we find the biggest

puddle

to step in,

yes, of course we did.

when we were young

dry mouthed

and hung

over, i look over at my

new lover,

Jeniffer? maybe,

as she sleeps.

i stare at the strange

room,

i see my clothes

on the floor,

my watch

and keys on the nightstand,

one shoe.

i tap her on the arm

and ask her,

how do i get to the beltway

from here.

she says, go down

New Hampshire Avenue,

and you'll

see the signs,

thanks i tell her.

umm, okay, well. 

have a nice day,

call me, she whispers,

yeah, sure.

i give her a friendly tap

on the shoulder,

then i gather my belongings

and slip out the door.

going to Happy Nails next time

as i lean

awkwardly on the chair,

the light

placed

just so, so that i can see

what i'm

doing, i painfully twist

my foot closer

to trim the nails.

with tools and buffing stick

in hand,

i go to work,

like a welder in a factory.

dear lord, i'm turning

into tree bark,

or a tortoise shell,

it seems.

the callouses, the jagged

edges, hardened,

and now the blood

dripping to the floor.

the metal lock box under the bed

who doesn't

have a metal box tucked

away

somewhere, locked

tight

by combination.

stored

in a closet,

or cellar, or tucked

beneath a bed

with secrets stashed

within.

there might be a stack

of money 

in there, gold coins,

a will perhaps,

stocks and bonds,

a pistol,

certificates of importance,

letters

received or not sent.

there are pictures too.

mementos.

touchstones, if you may.

sadly though,

there's nothing saved

regarding you.

mystic dan by a nose

as the horses

round

the track at a blazing

pace with

the little men

on their backs in

pink and yellow

silks,

blues

and greens, like wildflowers

in a field,

whipping with

frenzy

their steed.

we sip our mint

juleps

and have a good old

time.

placing our bets.

what a glorious day

it is as we

observe

all the painted ladies,

in their new

and audacious hats.

like a prairie fire, it dies

like a prairie

fire,

eventually it goes out,

the flames die.

people

go home,

get on with their lives,

it was

fun for a while,

a short

few months of yelling

and screaming,

wasting

precious time,

but solving

nothing, while in the air,

the ashes swirl,

the fire

extinguished.

ah, the stories they

will tell their

children about how

once upon a time,

they saved

a cruel cruel world.

everyone thinks they're Abraham Zapruder now

everyone

is Abraham Zapruder

now.

phones up

recording their own

angle

of history. memorializing

their own take on

whatever

is going on,

whether floods, or in

flame,

riots

or murder.

protests.

death and decay.

everyone thinks that they're

recording

the most important

moment

of their short lives,

taking digital aim

with their Samsung phones.

but few actually

read books

about the past.

they're living in the now,

and who's

to blame?

find another savior

don't tell me your

secrets,

your inner longings

and desires,

don't 

make me your

confessor,

your priest in the booth

listening

as you list your

sins one after

the other,

i'm not the one to trust

with things

like that,

or forgive you.

what goes into my ears

eventually

comes out of my mouth.

please, find another

savior. 

coffee snobs

does your

coffee define you?

perhaps.

are you straight up

with no

nonsense,

taking it black, or 

with just

a dash

of sugar and a dollop

of cream,

or do you need soy

milk,

skim,

do you need a double

latte,

vanilla,

with cinnamon?

are you the person in line,

taking your

time

deciding

on what size.

do you say things like,

i want an 

extreme white mocha, or a

Trenta iced coffee,

or a venti soy green tea

latte, a hundred and eighty

degrees,

no foam?

if so,

back of the line.

is there a place like this

is there

a small town to retreat to?

a village,

a glen

of sorts

to fall

back on, and escape.

is there

a place

untouched by the madness,

a place

where the people

are calm

and full

of manners and grace.

goodwill

towards others.

is there a place

like this

left on this earth, or

is it too late.

i let out a sigh and said Next

i let the dog

jump

off the bed once

using my

back

as a stepstool.

his nails

dug into my skin,

ripping

open a long scratch

that bled

in the shower.

a day

later the wife looked

at it

and asked me

who she was.

who was i sleeping with?

i'll be sleeping in the other

room, she said,

until you confess

and i know the truth,

and even then, i think

it's over.

she slammed the door

and left.

i looked

at the dog

at the foot of the bed,

shrugging

his shoulders then burrowing

under

the covers

to curl into a warm ball.

oh well, i sighed.

next.

i'll get to it one day soon

the weather

and age,

has taken it's toll on the white

fence,

the gate,

the hinges rusted,

the latch

no longer latching,

people

and pets come and go as

they wish.

even the mailman

with his boot pushes

through

to come up to the steps.

one day,

one sunny day,

not too hot or cold,

or breezy,

i'll carry the tools out

to the fence

and work on it.

i'll straighten out

the post,

replace the rotted wood,

and tighten the screws

in the latch, but

not today, mind you,

or even tomorrow, but

one day,

one day soon, for

now i'll sit here on

the porch and read,

relax.

Wednesday was Spaghetti

as if to gain

control of some sort,

as her life unraveled

as a single

mother with

seven kids,

my mother

designated

certain days of the week

with the same meal.

creating a set menu.

spaghetti

on Wednesday,

fish sticks on Friday,

chicken

and mashed potatoes

on Sunday.

the rest of the week

involved

wonder bread

and either peanut butter

and jelly,

or bologna

with American cheese

and mustard.

grown men weeping

i watch

at the old folks home

for soldiers,

grown men

crying,

sitting in wheelchairs,

weeping

as they watch on television

the burning

of the American flag,

and the rising

of another

country's flag

on American soil.

the lives lost,

the battles for freedom,

the saving

of democracy,

the rows and rows

of white tombstones

at Arlington,

and around the world

marking heroic deaths,

and for what?

for this?

children playing at

terrorists.

a day without being brainwashed

let's go a day

without watching the news,

or reading

the paper,

or looking at our phones.

let's see if

we can make it through

a full

twenty-four hours

of not being

brainwashed

by some side of the aisle.

let's give it

a try,

let's pretend that the world

is still a wonderful

place to be in

and find that inner child.

a nest of blue eggs

the small

brown nest, of sticks

and stems,

grass

and long strands

of sea oats,

is at last full of sky

blue eggs.

i can see it all unfold

from my window.

and below,

roped around

the tree,

moving slowly, but

with intent

is a black snake

about to eat.

is it true love or not

there are clues

that inform you, if it's love or not.

do you

feel nervous,

and anxious

when around them,

do you

feel sick and have to go

to the bathroom?

are you afraid to speak up

when

they're in the room.

have you stopped

having sex,

or eating

meals together, or doing

anything but arguing.

are you searching

their drawers, or computers,

or phones,

for clues of betrayal?

do you hate them?

if so it's probably time

to get them out

of your life,

and change the locks on

the doors.

the carnival is free now, look out the window

as children

we used

to go to the carnival or to

the circus

to see the freaks.

the bearded

lady,

the illustrated man,

or the hunger

artist,

down to bare bones.

there was

the half man,

half woman, 

confused about what

they are

when born, and over

there,

someone being shot

out of a cannon, oh look,

someone's head

is in a lion's mouth.

and that girl,

look at all

the safety pins in

her eyebrows.

you had to pay to get in

to the carnival back then,

but now,

it's all free,

just look out your

window

and down to the mob

parading

on the street.

i'll have another cup please

she made

the best morning coffee 

in the world.

freshly brewed

with beans

and filtered as hot

water

poured over

the new grounds.

no tea,

no earl grey, or lemon

sassafras

like the others,

no Folgers instant,

or Joe Dimaggio's

mister coffee.

no skim milk,

but real cream.

she was the real deal

with her coffee.

and don't get me started

on her pastries.

no grown ups in the room

the sadly

misinformed mob of ingrates,

students,

activists,

off campus agitators,

and dumb bells

of all sorts

invade

the campus,

they put a dress on George

Washington.

then paint

the name

of a terrorist group on

his face,

a group that murdered,

tortured and raped,

and took

hostages while they

hid under schools and hospitals.

they burn

this countrys flag,

then raise the one of hate.

no police,

no parents,

no adults in the room are brave

enough

to speak or step forward

to stop this.

the asylum is now run

by the inmates.

they talk at night

do books

on the shelf know who

they lean

against?

Darwin

and Billy Graham.

Freud

and Didion.

Bukowski.

Plath and Salinger.

Chekov

and Mickey Spillane.

do they have a clue

as to who

they share the room

or floor with?

do they talk

into the night, all these

poets

and writers,

self-help gurus,

psychologists and chefs?

what lively

conservations they must

have when the lights

go out,

and i stumble off to bed.

dog love

the dog's

cold wet nose,

is nice.

you can see the joy

in their eyes.

the health

of youth in the springing

about

when you arrive.

the lap

of tongue,

the wag of tail.

the bark,

so short of life they

have

you wish that none

of them,

would ever

die.

a postcard in the mail

delight

is rare these days,

but it can

appear in the form

of a sweet

kiss,

or a kind word from

anyone.

a long distance

call from

a friend.

a post card in the mail.

the gentle

touch of a hand,

the smile

and the politeness 

of others.

a shared book,

or thought.

a day without an

argument,

or chaos.

savor them. 

these rare gems,

when they come 

your way.

just wasting time

after being arrested

and released,

exhausted

from rioting, i see the young

man,

college age,

reading a book

on

the graffiti painted

steps

to the library.

his signs are

on the ground,

his mask off,

the kerchief in the wind.

it's no fun

anymore, he says.

i just want to go to school

get a degree,

find a girl,

and get on

with my life.

this has been all a waste of my

precious time.

keeping the trains on time

i like

to see the men

at work.

the garbage men,

the landscapers,

the store

keepers

opening their doors

at 5 a.m.

i like to see women

at work.

hands on the wheel.

factory workers.

steam fitters.

electricians.

street cleaners.

they keep the world going,

they keep

the trains

on time,

and seek no glory

for doing so.

selling out

it felt like a soft

wriggling fish in my hand.

as the protester,

all of thirty-two,

forever in school,

wearing a mask,

reached out, asking me

to join him

in the march for freedom.

he was foaming

at the mouth,

his eyes wild with revolution.

he wanted me to help him

save the world.

i told him, i had

to go to work, to which

he laughed and said,

you've sold out,

haven't you?

yeah, pretty much so.

keeping the power on

when the collection

officer

would call our home,

and my mother

wasn't there,

we'd take turns faking

a deep voice

and tell them that the money

was on the way,

the check is in

the mail,

please, wait a few more

days,

and keep the power on.

she was covering all her bases

she was part

new age,

part Buddhist, part Catholic

and a vegan

to boot.

she was into things

like

crystals

and Ouija boards,

astrology

and seances and yet went

to church every

Sunday,

taking communion.

sometimes

i'd see her

in the back yard

doing yoga

wearing an orange robe,

staring at the clouds.

she told me she was into

tantric sex,

one night.

delaying pleasure.

she'd been delaying me for

about nine months 

now.

after she was gone

there wasn't enough

sage in the store

to burn

and cleanse my house.

too early?

it's a mistake

at this age to start buying

Christmas

cards or gifts

ahead of time.

there are too many months

ahead

before it arrives

and everyone you know

is very old,

and about to die.

the keys to everything

strange

to find a stranger's set of keys

on the trail.

house,

car, what

else are among

the silver

chain, the fobs, the ring?

will their

life go on

without these things,

or will it end

when they

can no longer turn

the locks

that start their days.

maybe they're not

far up ahead,

searching

with head in hands.

let's see.

circling the lake one last time

i need a new

lake

to walk around. this

one is

cluttered

with yesterdays.

fond

and cold memories.

every

season i've found

it welcoming,

but no more.

enough.

enough with this 

old trail.

i need a new path

to the waterfall.

everything must go

once i'm done

with

a relationship, or it's done

with me

i purge

like crazy.

it's napalm season

all over

again.

i scour the earth which

includes

every closet and drawer

for the smallest

of memory

attached

to who came before.

nothing is worthy in keeping.

clothes,

or books,

rings, cards

and letters, emails

and texts,

not even her recipe

for chocolate chip

cookies

survives the fire.

what's with the chickens

i can't help

but chuckle with bemusement

when i see

a few chickens

running around

a fenced in yard

in the city.

they seem so out of place,

so fat and alive,

so feathery white

and clucking like

they do,

pecking at the ground

for bugs and seed.

there used to be a scar right there, but i can find it anymore

i know

she hates when i talk about my

ex's.

rambling on

about

who did what,

and how crazy they were,

but i give

her credit for not

rolling her eyes

and saying oh boy,

here we go again.

finally though,

i've picked the scabs

and old wounds

so often

on my skin

that i no longer can find

where they

begin and end.

there's light in the dark

not everything

is poetic

in nature, but if you twist

it hard

enough,

bruise it,

turn it inside out,

shake it down

and kill it,

you can find something

to write

and agonize about.

not again, how can this be?

it's the breaking

of glass,

the arm

in arm blocking of businesses

and schools,

the shouts of death

to all Jews,

that makes

one weep.

makes the old survivors

with numbers

still inked on their wrists,

tremble

and say, not again, how

can this be?

the bongo is a good choice for protest marches

something

about a bongo at a protest rally

on campus

that makes

you want to dance.

up and down,

up and down,

spinning all around.

it gets the blood going,

the heart racing,

putting everyone in

a demonic trance

as they invent

Dr. Seuss like chants.

bongos work well

at campus rallies,

whatever the cause is.

not so much the banjo,

or harmonica.

finding Sylvia

it's the wrong number

again,

the third time this evening.

someone

asks if Sylvia is home.

can i please talk to her, they say.

it sounds urgent.

may i ask

who's calling?

a friend, the person says.

can you please put her on the phone.

okay, i say. okay.

i yell out across the room,

calling her name.

Sylvia, Sylvia, i say loudly.

throwing my voice

across the room.

but there is no answer.

hold on, i tell the person.

let me go see what she's doing.

i come back to the phone,

and tell the man

she's busy in the kitchen.

she's baking me a cake.

tomorrow is my birthday.

she's making a good home here

for the both of us.

can i take a message

and have her call you back

when she's free?

the pretty fruit

you have

to add

a lot of sugar to a lemon

to make

it edible,

drinkable, or whatever

it is you

are about to do

with the pretty fruit.

you can't just take

a bite

and enjoy it.

there's work to do.

hard work.

beauty has

a way

of tricking us into

thinking 

otherwise.

the rudderless ship

without

a captain at the helm,

without

a rudder,

without sailors

patching the holes

in the boat,

bailing water,

trying to keep

the country

afloat,

we will stay adrift

and lost,

without

hope.

soon to sink,

down goes

a once

mighty ship.

the world will gloat.

three cups by noon

i make

a vow

to only have one cup of coffee

today.

but then,

i fix another,

by noon,

i've had

three cups and i'm 

jittery

and nervous.

i'm at the bottom

of the pot.

shaking

the bean bag,

which is almost empty.

i need to go to the store

soon.

zoo mornings

the dog

comes over to have his head

rubbed,

his belly

scratched,

the cat joins in too.

jumping

into my lap.

pushing her

head 

into my hand.

here comes the turtle,

slow as

always to join in,

then the bird

flies

onto my shoulder,

chirping

for food.

when did this place

become

a zoo?

where are the grown ups?

as the protesters

take

over the buildings

on campus.

smashing

windows,

breaking

and entering.

wearing masks as criminals

and cowards

often do,

the president hides under

his desk,

weeping about how

this might effect

the election.

there is no law

and order.

there is no peace, no

solution.

no justice.

just hate speech

and mobs

of unruly

and uneducated children.

spoiled

rotten,

privileged

and dumb as rocks

attending 80 thousand

dollars

a year schools.

the inmates

are running the asylum.

where are the grown ups?

necessary Rx

we need

nonsense, the frivolous,

the mindless

numbing

of brain.

we need a good dose

of comedy.

a laugh

track,

a belly laugh,

a pie in the face,

a wry joke,

we need the prat

fall,

we need a little 

insanity

to make it through

these days.

the fish fry

i see the family,

their friends,

children gathered around the fire

at the edge

of creek

that runs

through the park,

along the rocks and

sand

but the dry woods

are nearby.

this is what they've done

every day

of their life.

catch fish, then fry.

play music

and dance while the hot

embers scatter

into the darkening

sky.

flames lick the trees.

before long

the police are there,

the firetrucks

have arrived.

how quickly they have

learned that

life is different here.

summer margaritas

from the small slab

of the apartment

patio,

we'd listen to the harness races

going on

at the track,

just through the woods,

down

the stone path.

we could see

the broad

bloom of high lights

across the way

and hear the call

of each race.

we could hear the stamping

of the hooves,

the roar of the crowd

in joy

or disappointment.

we're we in love,

not really, but

i wonder if she remembers

those summer

nights, in our cheap lawn

chairs,

the tiki lights lit

to keep away

the bugs,

margaritas in hand,

while we listened

to Jimmy Buffett

sing

his songs on the turn table

inside.

strangely, we get along

we disagree

on almost everything.

she's a night owl,

i'm a morning person.

i take cream

in my coffee, she's straight up

black.

i like to sing

in the shower,

she's more of tub person,

with the radio

on.

we differ on politics,

she's left, i'm right.

and on art,

i'm more of a Hopper

fellow,

while she prefers

the splash art

of Pollack.

abstract.

she likes the lights on

when we make

love,

i like to turn them off

and plug

in the lava lamp.

and yet despite all of this.

strangely

we get along.

patching things up

the cracks

in the concrete have been

there for a while,

you can stick a finger to

the other

side,

into the dark shallow

slot

between step

and stoop.

a place

where chameleons

scurry.

this cold wet mix of cement

should

shore things up,

though.

patching is a part of life,

as the poor

things caught

inside must know.

the marching sheep of ignorance

when young

we all

do stupid things, say ridiculous

things,

act in ways

that will make us laugh

as we get older.

slightly

bewildered at our

lack of common

sense,

cringing with shame

at our behavior.

we're we really

that dumb

back then,

that uneducated, marching

like sheep

for reasons we don't even

understand

or really believe in?

trying

to change what we have

no power

to change.

we've all been there,

but leave quickly

once we age.

shrinkage

will

they shrink, i ask the clerk

as she

rings up

my white t-shirt

and boxer shorts.

she takes a look at the tags

and says

one hundred percent

cotton,

but the shorts have a little

stretch in them.

so yes, it will

shrink.

but how much?

will it shrink to half

that size,

a quarter,

a third?

will it be too tight to wear,

after i wash

it?

will my lower region

get chaffed

because of the shrinkage?

hold on she says

and gets

on the store loudspeaker,

we need

a manager

in the men's underwear

department,

and maybe security.

the baby in the stroller

the baby

in the stroller is crying.

but for

understandable reasons.

it's too hot,

or cold.

the kid is hungry

or tired.

uncomfortable.

it wants affection,

wants to be held.

wants love

and protection.

it's scared,

it feels lost.

we've all been there,

and most

of us, still are.

deciding our future through dodge ball

it wasn't so much

as learning,

as it was

weeding us out

in school.

deciding what we

wouldn't become.

we found out early that

we weren't meant

to be a mathematician,

or a scientist,

a biologist,

or economist.

what we were best at

was playing

in the playground.

improving our

skills at

tether ball,

track and field,

dodge ball and what not.

and so here

we are 

lacing up our sneakers

and going

for another run.

we're still here

somewhere

warm

and calm, we say to each

other

as we dig

the car out, scrape

the windows

and let it warm

up.

anywhere but there.

slowly

the ice melts on the windshield,

we clear

the driveway,

we sip

on our coffee

and wait.

years go by,

we're still here.

the wind blows hard

and gives

the car a shake.

the faces of hate and fear

strange,

but not unusual

to see

two voices

screaming at each other.

each with

their own signs

and flags.

each

as sure of themselves

as the other.

one is right,

one is wrong. there is no

middle

ground with either.

it's controlled

hatred.

ready

to burst.

it's not love, but hatred

and fear,

that makes

the world go round.

sailing towards morning

gladly sleep

arrives

as we step

onto the boat

from dry land,

we drift away

on the water

of dreams.

alone,

but not alone,

taking

the world with us,

the wind

of memory

filling our sails,

as we push towards

morning.

captured in time

i find an old

photo between the pages

of a book.

it's me and you

in happier times.

we both have long hair

and are very

skinny,

but happy.

we're wearing the clothes

of the time,

we're full of hope

and love,

it seems.

we were young then.

i pin the photo

to the wall.

a pin in each corner

so that it will

never get lost or fall.

the bird cage

they don't

have newspapers at the coffee

shop

anymore,

the man shakes

his head,

and asks why

do i want a newspaper,

he points at my phone

and says,

use that,

that's what it's for.

all the news

from around the world.

i tell him i know thaht,

but what about my bird

cage?

i need to line

the floor.

the dogs are barking

the dogs

are doing what dogs do.

they are at

the window

barking,

running back and forth,

thrilled

by a truck going

by,

a squirrel staring back

with a nut

in it's mouth.

they bark and bark

all day,

when the postman comes

by,

when the rain starts,

long into the night,

at the hint

of sound.

the dogs are barking,

it's what

dogs do.

my grandmother's protests

i love a good protest,

my grandmother tells me,

as she

sips her earl grey tea

and nibbles

at her Melba Toast.

she puts her knitting aside

and sighs

while

her grey blue

eyes look off into the distance.

did i ever tell you about

the time we burned

our bras and marched

down 5th avenue,

jiggling all the way

to Central Park

with Gloria Steinem leading the way?

no, i tell her, and please,

stop there,

i don't want that image

in my head right now.

oh, it was a glorious time

for protest marches,

gay rights, people of color,

the women's movement.

the war in Vietnam.

i met my first husband on

one of those marches.

he was a policeman from

the Bronx.

part of the riot squad.

we got into a tussle, and fell

onto the ground,

where he protected me from

the rushing mob.

he lay on top of me

with his Billy club on my neck,

until the crowd moved

on, then he pulled his plastic

visor up and kissed me

on the lips.

he told me that i was the most

beautiful creature

he'd ever tackled on the street.

it was history after that.

sometimes when i smell

tear gas and mace in the air,

and smell buildings

burning,

or hear the breaking of plate

glass store windows,

my knees go weak

and i wish he was still around.

just a rock

the rock,

a glimmering shred

of granite

of some sort

catches my eye in the ray

of light

shooting between

new green leaves

in your woods.

is it gold or silver?

some exotic gem, lost,

of course not,

but still it makes me stop

and gaze at it,

admiring its beauty,

before i press on.

why go to Mars,

or back to the moon,

when there's so much to

look at,

in our own back yards.

old people gambling

my father's addiction

to buying

lottery tickets

from the vending machine

at Kroger's

has finally ended.

his macular degeneraton

has made

him unable to read

the numbers anymore

on his daily purchase

of ten twenty-dollar tickets.

he doesn't trust anyone

else to read them 

to him,

but suddenly

after a few months or so,

he has five thousand

dollars in the bank

that wasn't there before.

my daughter's champion basketball team

my daughter's 8th grade

basketball

team

has gone undefeated this year

since allowing

four transgenders

onto the squad.

a girl named Barbeque,

who plays center,

can dunk

the ball and defend

the middle

is the star.

she used to be called Frank,

but changed her

name when she grew

her hair long

and started wearing dresses

and lipstick,

then stuffing her sports bra.

we should win

the championship this year,

although the other

best team in the league

has five

starting players that are

transitioning.

all of them six foot four

with goatees and

beards. my daughter is

so excited, although she

doesn't get to play much

anymore.

wish us luck.

social warriors

my son calls

me from the police station.

hey dad,

he says, can you bail me out again.

i glued myself

to the road

and got arrested.

we're protesting the war,

he says.

which one? i ask.

i guess all of them.

he sends me a picture of himself,

his head wrapped in

a checkboard kerchief

that he stole from a table at Fridays.

what about classes, are you

still going

to school. working, maybe?

oh no, i don't go to school

here, i graduated fifteen years ago,

remember?

he skips the work part of the question.

yes, i do remember that hundred

thousand dollars

i spent on your tuition.

why are you there?

it seemed like fun to

come down

here and be on tv, harass

the cops,

and scream chants about things

i have no clue about.

something about Israel,

wherever that is, but

i'm making a lot of new friends.

and by the way,

we need some new rhyming

slogans, so if you can think of

any that rhyme

with river and sea, and free,

it would be helpful.

plus, could you order me a

megaphone on amazon and have

it shipped

to a tent here on the campus of

Harvard University?

breaking the silence

she finally breaks

her week long silence

and asks me to slide the butter

dish over

to her

so that she can butter

her toast.

the blueberry jam too.

so i do.

thank you, she says,

still not looking at me.

i listen to her knife

scrap along

the dry toast, then the clink

of it against

the jar of jam.

we're making progress.

i get up and fill her coffee

cup without a word,

then tell her about

the rain.

normal day on a city street

it used

to be, if you were standing on

a street corner

having an

energetic conversation

with an invisible

person,

gesturing wildly,

with crazy eyes

and hair,

angered and

threatening,

a danger to self and others,

you'd be scooped up

by the authorities and taken

somewhere.

but we don't do that

anymore.

and so there you go, it's

all downhill

from there.

to somewhere we will go

to

somewhere we will go.

a place

unseen

unknown.

we're on that path,

despite

all planning,

despite

all good intentions,

ambition

and ego.

we're headed there.

slow steam

ahead, regardless

of everything

we think

we know.

making themselves at home

i get home early,

before the maids are done.

they don't

hear me

coming through the door.

one is in the bathroom

taking a bath,

she's singing a happy song.

Milagro is asleep

in my bed.

a book resting in her hands.

her apron still on.

Rosie is in the kitchen

heating up

enchiladas, sipping

on a margarita,

and Esmeralda

is on my computer

browsing and shopping

for things

she already has while

talking on the phone.

make some noise

sometimes

words aren't enough to get your

point across.

you need to stamp

your feet,

slam a door,

bang your fist against 

the table.

throw a glass across the room.

you need punctuation

beyond talk.

a shout, a scream

animals do it all the time.

we pay attention

to the roar.

hey mister

occasionally

someone will come up to me,

usually

a young girl,

a twenty-year-old

or more,

perhaps a college

student,

and she'll say to me,

excuse me, but

you look like my father

did before he

got old and died.

your hair,

the clothes you wear,

the way

you walk and smile,

the color of your blue eyes.

it seems like yesterday

that i'd be having

a different kind of conversation

with someone

so attractive and spry.

modern convenience

would i eat

less off a plate, drink

less

from glasses and cups,

use less

forks and knives

if i didn't have a dish washer?

the black

Bosch marvel

that sits between

the stove

and refrigerator door.

perhaps,

perhaps not.

but maybe i'd use my

fingers more,

holding turkey legs

and grouper

in hand, maybe i'd

drink from the jug

of milk, or water,

turn the box of cereal

to my mouth

and pour.

the back page war

as the war

drags on, the news puts

it on

the back page,

a small blurb with stats.

so many wounded,

so many dead.

there are fewer and fewer

pictures,

or editorials.

it's old news now.

the protests have died

down,

kids have returned to school,

the world is weary

and wants

things back

to normal.

if we look the other, maybe

that will be true.

37 percent chance of rain

i married

the weather girl on channel

seven.

she was pretty

and dressed well,

articulate and charming,

but the maps

and doppler

radar,

her always looking

out the window

testing the wind,

observing the clouds,

taking the temperature

drove me crazy.

she was better at long

range forecasts

than the daily ones,

telling me things like,

i think it might rain today,

i'm 37 percent sure, so

take your umbrella

just in case.

she had soft hands

she had

soft hands.

i remember that about her.

a tender

touch

one might say.

a way

of making you feel

good

as you lay upon

the bed,

her nails gently scratching

where it

itches.

rubbing your shoulders,

your neck.

that she was doing

this to others

though,

is what you want to forget.

someone to look up to

we want them

to be more than what they are.

heroic

in some way,

because they catch a ball,

or run fast,

we want heroes

to believe in,

to look up to and model

our lives

by their example.

and yet few are. if

lucky

a parent will fill that void,

not some

outfielder for

the Red Sox's or bleeding

hockey star.

don't fall asleep just yet

for no reason,

i used

to bound up the stairs.

two at a time.

leaping

upward to where i wanted

to go.

especially if she

was home

and waiting,

but now.

as i grip the rail, and go

slow,

measuring my steps,

protecting

my knees,

i yell up and tell her,

i'm almost there.

don't fall asleep, just yet.

wait for me.

living on the edge

i used

to sleep with one eye open,

leg half

off the bed,

living on the edge,

ready to run if necessary.

tense

and lost in bad

dreams,

i could never quite

get to sleep

with her beside me,

and then,

at last

she was gone, and now

i'm deep in slumber,

all over

the wide

open spaces,

spreading my legs

and arms.

the new flame

we remember

the burn,

the heat when the hand

touches

the flame.

we don't forget.

singed

and scarred,

it's in our brain.

and yet when it comes

to love,

and bad endings,

we forget,

and find a new flame.

we start all over

again.

Wally and Beaver

why does

nearly everyone under the age

of twenty-five

look like they

belong in a gang.

or in some

protest march, or something

rebellious.

anything to make them

feel alive.

the head

gear,

the shirts and signs,

the secret handshakes.

the menacing stares

as they look

into your eyes.

i miss Wally

and the Beaver,

Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver,

and even

Eddie Haskel too.

i miss those black 

and white

times.

trouble at the dentist's office

it's not a good idea,

but i can't help myself 

when sitting in the dentist chair

and being

probed

by the purpled hair hygienist

with tiny surgical pitchforks

and rakes,

grinders

and spears.

i can see the tattoos of dragons

and devils

on her hands and arms

as she works on me.

your gums are bleeding she says,

in a strangely cheerful

voice.

she puts a dixie cup

under my mouth

to spit into

and says, there you go. spit.

i spit, but miss the cup

and hit her white

smock. she doesn't seem

to mind.

yes. i tell her, i know i'm bleeding,

i can taste it.

it's running down

my throat.

maybe if you'd stop

piercing my skin

with those sharp metal

instruments, my gums wouldn't be bleeding.

come on.

go easy, who are you

the Marquis De Sade

in drag?

this makes her start crying

and run out the room.

i  can't work like this, she screams

leaving tubes

and drainage pipes

in my mouth.

a tiny air blower spinning around

in wild circles.

finally the dentist comes in,

and says,

what the hell is going on in here?

what did you say to Raven,

and why did you

refuse to get x-rays

this year.

oh, i don't know, beats me,

maybe

because you're billing me six

hundred dollars

for thirty-nine x-rays,

and i haven't had a cavity

since i was twelve.

i barely have 28 teeth in my mouth,

so what's with all

the x-rays?

what are doing?  buying a new

yacht? you're killing

me with these prices.

i'm still wearing the sunglasses

that they give you

and lying back

in a vulnerable position

on the pleather recliner,

feet up in front

of a 32 in tv screen

with images of my teeth.

out of the corner of my eye

i see her coming towards

me with a syringe,

she's aiming for my jugular vein,

but i'm able to kick it out of

her hand.

unfortunately it stabs her in

the eye.

quickly, i take my bib off,

grab my hat and keys,

my wallet off the counter,

the free floss and toothpaste,

and head out the door.

bill me, i yell out.

next appointment is in six months,

the girl

at the desk says.

hopefully this will all

blow over by then.

a strand of your hair

thankfully,

home

is as we left it.

the scent of coffee long

ago brewed.

there is the sofa 

with the imprint of me,

the imprint

of you.

the cups

and saucers

still waiting for the sink,

the newspapers

not viewed.

open books, and letters

on the made

bed.

pillows propped

just so.

the window is

open

to let in the spring air.

it's home.

it's not much to others

but to you,

it's gold, and over there,

there's a strand

of golden hair, yours

i suppose.

i can barely speak English

we're lame,

most of us. we know one

language.

and barely get that one

right half

the time.

grammar and spelling

seems to be

a lost art

on several generations.

most of the world

knows two or three

languages.

crossing borders is no

problem

for them.

my friend Rimute in

Switzerland

knew five,

French, German, Italian,

Russian and Dutch,

but sadly, not mine.

return to sender

the one thing

wife

number two taught me, that

i still do

till this day,

is that i keep the receipts

to everything

that i purchase.

clothing,

electronics, even shoes.

the box

and bag too.

sometimes i want to call

her and tell her

thanks,

but i don't.

it's best to don't look back,

when you're

really through.

i read the news today, oh boy

my neighbors.

Joe and Jill,

and their three children,

Biff, Mary and Skip,

are survivalists.

they've dug an enormous

shelter under ground

with a steel door,

and have stocked it with

ten years worth of non

perishable food.

they all wear camouflage

clothing, with canteens

strapped to their

belts, and bandoleros

of bullets

across their chests.

from my window

i can see that

each is very adept at handling

barbed wire

and archery.

they're very quiet, but

nice, waving to me each

morning as they raise

the American flag,

and say the pledge of allegiance

when the sun comes up.

i'm thinking about making

them a cake today,

and introducing myself,

becoming one of their friends.

bluebird on the sill

if i watch the news,

scroll

through my phone,

i truly believe that the world

is on fire.

that chaos reigns.

death and violence is

everywhere.

and yet,

when i look out the window

and see the bluebird

on the sill,

beautiful

and still.

it's almost like all is well,

and i have no cares.

sugary persuasion

as a child

i was persuaded by candy

or a soda.

a sugar cone

of ice-cream.

something sweet.

and now

at this age,

i'm still

a sucker for her

treats,

though they're

so different now.

forty feet up

as i push

the ladder up against the old

house,

then climb,

and rise

between the trees, up

to the roof,

up to where the tiles

are loose,

the bricks,

the wood rotted,

the chimney,

i realize

how different the view

is from

up here.

how the world is reduced,

beautiful,

made smaller.

but is it worth

the falling, this fear.

the lunar seas

somehow

the moon aligns

so that

the full view of it, a white

plate

of lunar

seas

is my eyes.

it falls between

the crease

of curtains and blinds

as i lie

in bed,

between

the blankets and sheets.

do i wish

that you were here?

yes.

sometimes.

there's no fixing you

you can't fix

people.

you can't turn a dog

into a cat

in a hundred sessions

of deep

talks.

the therapists know this.

they listen,

they

let you babble, but there's no

fixing here.

they give

you a hint or two,

a clue.

they make you turn

back

the pages

and find out

where you went wrong,

or if you even

did,

but in the end you learn

that it's

all on you.

you are who are for

the most part.

you either bark

or meow.

see you next Tuesday

at two.

dear diary

every girl

i ever knew kept a diary.

usually

it was stuffed under

the mattress

in the far corner

of the bed.

i read everyone that i

could find

wanting to find out

how a girl's

mind worked,

but they all held the same

story.

boys boys boys.

tears and fears.

friends

and school.

parents.

tame stuff for the most

part.

it was long before everyone

was undressing

their lives

online.

she's in a taxi

she goes

to new York without me.

to walk

the park,

to drink her coffee

and stand

in line

for an everything bagel.

she shops,

she goes to a show,

she's

in times square,

on Broadway,

5th Avenue.

she's buying perfume

and shoes.

she's in a taxi,

look at all the bags,

her arms

are full.

she's having fun without

me,

sitting home alone

with the cat,

feeling blue.

eggs before the nest

the instinct

is to build

when young when early

in life.

it's what

the animals do,

it's what we do,

taking a husband,

a wife.

we build the nest

before the eggs

arrive.

preparations

are needed.

doing it differently

will bring

trouble

and a long hard life.

Saturday night at the hardware store

i see the young couple

in the big

hardware store. it's Saturday night.

date night.

sweatpants and jerseys on.

half young and

newly married.

they have

a shopping cart.

a home project

perhaps.

but when did it change?

when did

it go from festivals,

and weekend trips

to the shore,

from dancing and wine,

candlelight

dinners?

will there

ever be more?

or is this it now?

spackle and caulk,

a knob,

a wrench for the leaky

toilet,

paint for the doors.

the breakfast decree

who

decided what breakfast

should be?

what high and mighty

leader

of the culinary world,

decreed,

that we must

eat eggs and bacon,

oatmeal

and cereals with bananas

sliced?

when did waffles

and pancakes

become

morning fare.

link sausages and scrapple.

who dictated that

we must drink

orange juice, coffee

and tea

in the early morning

hours?

and what rebel decided

to put

the sign up,

breakfast all day.

i want some answers here.

solving the carjacking pandemic

the city

has decided to do something

about all

the car jackings

that go on,

day and night

in Washington D. C.,

cars being stolen

by the threat of murderous

gangs with

guns pointed

by masked men

to the heads

of drivers.

they're giving away free

tracking stickers

and steering wheel locks

to help

the helpless keep and track

their cars.

problem solved.

fifty percent chance of anything

can

we depend on the weather

report

to be right.

that it won't rain,

that the

sun will shine.

can we bank on the promise

of snow

and wind,

will

the temperature be

low

or high?

thankfully

we have windows

and door

to stick our leg out

to determine

which

clothes to wear,

and get it right.

sugar and spice

no one

likes to be handcuffed

and taken

away

to a dark

cell.

but she did, which

surprised

me.

her with

her black hair,

her dark

eyes,

her cat like

presence.

i was under her spell.

but that got

old too.

too much spice as with

too much

sugar

will make you ill.

frayed friendships

the politics

have

kept us apart. sadly.

the news,

the wars

and protests.

crime and immigration.

we just

don't see eye

to eye

as we did

when we were

young

and ill informed.

it's better i suppose

to just

not talk

anymore,

although i miss the catch

of bat

and ball.

the jerseys

that we wore.

hopefully with a scar

as a kid

with a new cut, or scrape,

a bloody

wound, fresh,

but washed and covered 

by your mother

with a weak

Band-Aid,

how long could you

go before peeling

it back to take

a look.

ten minutes maybe,

as you sat on a can

in the alley

and gently

pulled at the edges

to take a peek.

the poet laureate delayed

the phone rings

and i lose

my train of thought.

i put the pen down.

there's

a knock at the door,

there's a bird on the sill,

the smoke

alarm

is going off.

i eat my lunch,

staring into

the screen.

i hear children in the street,

a baby crying.

the neighbors

are fighting again

before they

make love on their

noisy bed.

i'm distracted, delayed.

how will i ever

become the poet laureate

of this great

land

with all of this going on?

the clang of a cow bell

like the gong

of a large

metal cow bell, my body

longs

for an ice

cold glass of whole milk.

it comes out

of nowhere.

the thirst is that of

youth,

i imagine, when milk

was plentiful,

not worrisome.

not thinned,

or made of almonds.

with

every meal

there was a glass in

my small hand and

a pitcher on the table

sweating

from the ice box.

standing tall

beside a stack of white

bread and butter.

finding clues to a disappearance

i stare

at the silver ring she's left

behind.

it sits

rounded

in the puddle

of soft

sunlight.

but most everything

else is gone.

it's a message of sorts

i imagine,

a clue.

i look in the closet

her bag is gone,

her favorite

shoes,

her hat

and gloves,

all of them have

disappeared too.

beauty is fading

beauty

is fading in the light.

youth

being a blink

of the eye.

we are

all

gathering lines.

growing

smaller

with time. retreating

towards

the shadows,

the inevitable after-life.

getting it out of their system

mostly

children with unformed

brains

and intelligence

are lying

in the road

chanting,

protesting.

they have no clue,

they don't

yet know

what needs to be known.

but it's fun.

it makes them feel

alive

and worthy

to rant and rave

about

the world

they don't quite understand.

in time though, they'll

have jobs

and children,

bills to pay,

and less time to act 

crazy.

the little things

thankfully

we can't see the microscopic

bugs,

the germs

that are lurking

around us.

on our hands,

our bodies.

in the dirt stuck to our

shoes.

we can't see

them floating in the air

around us.

as we breathe,

taking them in

with gulps,

taking rides

on our forks full of food,

we swallow

them whole,

as they sit on the edge

of a cup

or glass

and hope for the best.

the side arm fling

she sends

me a poem.

then another. little postcard

images

of sea

and forest.

small animals.

birds

and bees.

sugary things.

everything rhymes.

everything

sings.

i'm getting good though

at tossing

them

towards the bin,

with a side armed

fling.

fatherly advice

there are those

in your

life who always give

you

sound advice when

going through

troubling times.

telling you to reflect,

to be kind,

take time and heal,

and then there are those,

who smile

and laugh and toss

it all aside,

make it right by telling

you that there

are more fish in the sea.

be brave,

drink up,

check out that blonde

over there,

you'll be alright.

i love them all equally

as i tip toed

down the stairs in my socks,

i heard

whispering

in the kitchen.

there was an argument

going on.

he loves me most of all

the oven said

to the group.

thanksgiving, Christmas,

i'm the one.

no way,

the toaster offered,

i make bread warm.

then the coffee grinder

in a growl, said

no, it's me.

he uses me

every morning,

without fail.

pffft.

it's me, the air fryer added.

no grease,

no oils,

and i make everything crispy

and clean.

i stepped into the kitchen,

and raised my

hands.

they all went quiet.

i love you all equally, i said.

pulling the plugs

on everyone,

but the coffee grinder.

take two of these and call me in the morning

my doctor

is honest. i'll give him that.

most of the time

he'll say

beats me,

when staring at a rash

on my chest,

or looking

into my mouth and exclaiming

what the hell

is that?

sometimes he'll

get out a book, or google

my ailments.

scrolling until

he finds

the right pill, or remedy

that he thinks

might work.

here, he'll say.

try two of these and

call me

in the morning.

if you start to shake and vomit,

lose your

vision,

911 might be your best bet.

the hourly gas price fluctuation

the way

gas prices move up or down

at the flick

of a wrist

or news blurb,

fluctuating by pennies

or dollars,

reminds me

of her,

a past unfortunate

love.

how fickle she was.

how she

ran hot or cold, depending

on her mood,

what pills

she forgot to take or

were on.

low one second,

high the next.

leaving me guessing

where to

buy gas.

where to get my oil

checked.

legs up in the easy chair

some

need to swim the channel

to make their

life

complete,

wrestle gators,

or swallow fire,

some need to

swim the shark infested

sea between

Cuba

and Miami.

while

others need to climb

Everest,

their lungs

sucking

the thin air,

and then there's some, 

like me,

who like

to relax with the remote

in hand,

legs up

in the easy chair.

hands on the wheel

is this the reward

for hard work?

for struggle

and pain at the wheel.

blisters on

my hands, dust in my hair,

an ache

in my back?

is this paltry sack

of coins

at the end of a week

worth all of that?

the feather bed,

the drink,

the crust of bread?

tell me the secret of life

and be quick

about it.

i'm late for work again.

she was ready for anything

my mother

carried everything in her purse.

from Kleenex

to combs

and brushes, make up.

bandages,

Chapstick

and lipstick.

nail clippers,

handkerchiefs,

pencils and pens.

sunglasses and tools.

recipes.

a notepad

full of phone numbers.

mints and gum,

peanut butter crackers.

keys

and jewelry.

an array of

pictures too

along

with a checkbook,

credit cards

and ID's.

she was prepared for

the apocalypse

long before

it became cool.

i know your favorite color

we don't

know each other. not really.

sure

we're familiar,

we know

how we talk and dress,

what we like

to eat or drink.

our favorite color.

we know the surface

of the earth,

the sea,

but what lies below,

what we think,

for the most part

will always be a

mystery.

get over yourself

when young

you spend

a lot of time looking into

the mirror.

who am I?

what do i look like?

am i too fat,

too skinny,

why is my mouth shaped

like that.

and my ears,

so strange,

why is my hair this color?

maybe i should have

a nose

job, maybe i can

change.

look better,

make it easier to be

accepted,

to find love.

to be more attractive.

eventually though, if

you're lucky.

you get over it.

what is a woman?

while

watching another endless

stream

of short videos with

people asking the question,

what is a woman

and 

people not being able

to answer 

the question,

afraid of being wrong

and canceled by

the blue

haired woke,

i'm amazed.

i think i know how

we can solve this

mind numbing problem.

lift up your dress,

pull down

your trousers.

count your chromosomes

go into the kitchen

and look

at your mother

at the sink

or stove,

or hanging clothes on the line

in the back yard.

or go to a maternity ward

and see who

gives birth.

there you go.

the first job

to have

a job, was everything.

a check

at the end of two weeks.

money

in your pocket.

a car,

a place to live,

clothing and food.

a clock to punch

and work.

everything came after

that.

love too.

what will end it all

weary

of the middle east.

the news.

the wars, the eternal

conflicts.

i'm exhausted

and i

don't even live there.

who's right,

who's wrong.

how far back can we

turn the pages

of history

to find out

who's at fault?

but why

the hate?

why so much hatred?

love isn't what makes

the world

go round,

it's this.

it's what will end

it all.

true art

when you observe

fine art,

not the paint cans splashed

onto the floor

of a canvas

in Jackson's garage,

or a tomato

can,

replicated tenfold,

but true

art,

the masterpiece of

hand

and brush,

the light and color, delicate

or bold,

life come to life

with precious

infinite strokes.

you see in the faces,

the eyes,

the muscled arms and veins.

joy and anguish.

stories

told.

after the Park Hyatt

once you stay

at the Park Hyatt, 

with a view of Central Park,

lush

in all its amenities,

it's all downhill

from there.

the Comfort Inn

is shabby,

Motel Six

is hell on earth

with their thread bare blankets,

and thin

curtains,

pictures of cowpokes

on the wall,

not to mention

their so called

continental breakfast

of stale

donuts

and mister coffee

in the lobby.

cream in warm

little

plastic buckets.

you shouldn't be able

to hear the people in

the room

beside you,

chewing their food,

and tossing chicken bones 

into the waste basket,

missing as they hit the wall.

what if life was a bowl of cherries?

what would there be to write

about 

if everything, every

day and moment

of your life was peachy keen?

hunky dory.

what if

there were no bad relationships,

no broken hearts,

no being fired

from jobs?

no one ever dying,

no pets being

hit by cars?

what if you never got sick,

or that your

parents loved you without

conditions.

never drinking or angry,

or causing a ruckus.

what if it never rained,

or that you never got a flat tire,

or cavity in

a tooth.

what if every day was a bowl

of cherries.

what in God's name would there

be to go on about

and write,

no much, i presume.