not a single word spoken

there are days,

when

not a single word has left

my mouth.

not a greeting,

no conversation,

no polite

hellos

or goodbyes. just the quiet

of time

slipping by.

the solitude i've longed

for, has

at last

come about.

concerns of youth

concern

with things that once mattered,

have taken

up much

of my life. too much.

the clean car,

the wax

and shine of it all.

the pretty girl,

the home.

the right

look,

the hair styled, 

the clothes.

image is a cruel

master,

when you look into

the mirror

and realize

you've grown old.

one of many mistakes

a glimpse

of you, in this shadow,

this

half dream

at three a.m.

startles me awake.

i peer

out the window

to see

what's out there,

who's

out there.

i  lie back down

in the darkness.

i have made many

mistakes.

finding the sunlight

the dog

chases his tail,

around

and around, then finally

exhausted

with this impossible

feat,

lies down in a puddle

of sunlight.

he finds sleep.

as i have

done,

at last, with grief.

no limits to evil

why

would someone kidnap

a baby,

hold children

or the elderly hostage

for months

and months

at gunpoint.

who's changing diapers

in the tunnels,

feeding

old people

with dietary needs,

tending to broken

limbs and

disease,

who's

raping the women

repeatedly.

who are these sick

animals?

what good does

this do

for some cause or

religion?

how crazy can people

be?

there are no limits to evil,

it seems.

kayaking near the city

the river

stinks, there are dead fish floating

everywhere.

the water

is green and brown

except for the rainbow

puddles of

spilled oil

and gasoline

from boats going by.

it needs to be skimmed

and flushed

with a fresh

filling from the skies

above.

we slip into our wobbly

kayaks

and paddle.

trying not to get splashed

getting water

near our faces, into our

mouths

or eyes.

in the distance we

see the city.

the monuments,

the obelisk,

the dome gleaming.

the cherry blossom trees.

we're trying to stay

afloat,

trying to stay alive.

giving up too soon

bored

and confused

with the thick book,

this Russian book, full

of names

i can't pronounce,

a story

that goes on and on,

forever,

i throw it

across the room.

it flies through

the open

window

out to the sidewalk.

later i see my

neighbor on his porch

reading it.

laughing

and crying. maybe

like i've done with you,

given up too soon.

brother can you spare a bit coin?

through the years

i've told

my broker, Sheila,

at Fidelity

Savings

and Investments

to take care

of my dough, but she

bungled it,

stole it,

bought expensive

houses

and cars,

many luxuries' things.

and now

i'm out in the cold,

in a cardboard

box behind

the liquor store

on Hollywood and vine,

not far

from the In and Out 

Burger.

it's raining.

she convinced me to buy

crypto currency.

she exclaimed with glee,

it's the newest

and greatest thing.

easily replaced

i wonder

if my dog loves me

for me,

or is it just because i feed her,

and give

her a place

to sleep.

i brush

her hair, and scratch

her belly when

she rolls over.

am i putting too much

into her tail

wagging when

i get home,

and she greets me at the door,

wanting to lick

my face?

is it really love,

or am i

easily replaced?

i ask my therapist about

this,

and she laughs.

are you talking

about your wife, or your

dog,

she says to me.

both i guess, i tell her,

straight faced.

1958 Cheverolet

i find an old

picture

of my father waxing his Cheverolet

Impala,

circ 1958.

it's turquoise,

like his eyes.

he's wearing plaid shorts

with his shirt off,

his muscled body

gleaming in the Cape Cod sun.

i'm standing beside

him,

with a cowboy hat on,

a holster

and two cap guns

around my skinny waist.

my sister is licking an ice

cream

cone beside me.

refusing

to give me a taste.

happy birthday month

i see

her birthday announced

on Facebook.

hundreds

of her five thousand

friends

have already

congratulated her,

with hearts

and thumbs up

and words of encouragement.

it's a month

long celebration

that she absorbs

with self-indulgent

pleasure.

i refrain

from clicking on the like

button,

she knows

how i feel about her,

why stir things

up again.

the long ride from Guatemala

it's the first

whole

melon of the summer.

i've tapped

it thoroughly

in the store, getting that

hard

hollow knock

in return.

but you never know

what lies

inside until you

take the knife to it

when you

get home.

will it be a bright

red,

juicy and sweet,

or already

yellowed and mealy

from the long

ride

from Guatemala.

the hot yoga girl

she fancies

hot yoga.

not cold yoga, or tepid

yoga,

or luke warm

yoga,

but hot yoga.

no ceiling fan,

no air-conditioning,

no windows open,

just twenty

bodies

writhing like snakes

in a tight room

trying to escape

their skins.

she likes to sweat,

she likes

to make herself

exhausted

and dripping like

a pink rag doll

in the rain.

she's all muscle

and bones, now,

a sinewy map of

veins.

parting ways at an Exxon Station in Missouri

was it was a mistake

leaving

you at the gas station,

in Missouri,

after i

filled up

and waited in the car

while you used

the restroom

around back,

taking the paddled

key?

i should have waited

longer.

i know, i know,

but it was

time to end things,

time

to leave.

i set your luggage

on the curb

with 

your small dog on a leash.

at some point

karma will come around

to bite me

i suppose.

but at least

at long last i no longer

hear the barking

of the both of you,

i'm free.

the meaning of life

i finally,

after a long day of reading,

and pondering,

doing nothing

but meditating,

i figure out

the meaning of life.

it comes to me

in a calm flash

of light

as i lie

on the couch,

staring out the window,

at the blue

sky and trees

blowing about.

then the phone rings.

express gardening

i throw

a handful of wildflower

seeds

into the back

yard,

and say good luck.

i leave

it to nature,

to the rain,

to God,

to destiny or fate,

to do the rest.

i can't spend all my

time

worrying

about such things,

the front yard

is next.

sharp as a rubber ball

sure,

do i forget where i put my keys,

my wallet,

my phone,

have i left

the stove

on after

boiling water,

have i left the door

unlocked

all night.

have i left a bag 

of groceries

in the car?

of course i have.

but it doesn't mean

a thing.

i'm still as sharp

as ever,

and those sunglasses

on my head,

no worries,

i'll find them soon

enough.

tightening the screws

at certain points

in your life, you take out a sheet

of paper

and take stock

of your finances.

what's coming in,

what's going out.

the electric bill.

the mortgage,

food, gas,

insurance,

miscellaneous items,

and Betty.

but then 

a smile comes

to your face when

you figure you can save

two thousand

dollars a year if you no

longer go to Starbucks

for coffee and a scone,

and a newspaper,

and another thousand

if you cancel

Showtime, 

Hulu, Peacock,

SiriusXM

and HBO.

the asthma attack

as your

lungs squeeze themselves

together,

wheezing,

trying

to gulp in air,

and your heart

begins to beat

like a rabbit on the run

with fear,

you

you realize

the importance

of oxygen

in your life.

you've taken it for

granted

for so long,

like many things

that you now

hold dear.

a basket of laundry

you forget

about the wars, and crime,

and inflation

for a moment,

you put aside

the political turmoil,

the marches

and protests,

the climate, the environment,

the price of gas,

the homeless,

the mentally ill

and disease.

you have a basket of laundry

you need to wash,

then dry,

then fold, then put

away

before you leave.

let's get this out of the way, i'm sorry

i start every

relationship off with a long

list of apologies.

it's good to get

that out of the way

before things go any further.

i'm sorry i said what i said.

it was the gin talking.

i'm sorry i forgot your birthday,

our anniversary.

i'm sorry about these daisies,

they were out

of roses.

i apologize for not remembering

how you like

your tea or coffee

and that you're

a vegetarian

after i only bought red meat.

i'm sorry for not holding

the door open for you,

as you fiddled with

your phone.

i'm deeply sorry

for not calling when i said

i would.

i'm sorry i don't know your

shoe size.

your dress size, or your favorite

color.

i'm sorry, for not wanting

to meet your

parents and children,

and aunt and uncle

in Philadelphia.

i'm sorry for not going to

the parade,

or the amusement park

to ride the roller coaster. 

i'm sorry about my snoring,

for not putting the seat down

on the toilet.

for leaving the butter out

overnight

on the counter.

i'm sorry that 

i refused to hold

your purse while you tried

on another dress

in the changing room,

and for calling out some

other woman's

name in the middle of the night.

i'm sorry.

i'm very very sorry about that.

to be continued, no doubt.

she's comfort food

she's comfort

food, meat and potatoes.

gravy.

sweet corn

and biscuits, a peach

pie for dessert.

a tall glass

of milk

poured from a 

cold sweating pitcher.

there's butter on her

table,

salt and pepper.

candles, maybe.

grace will be said.

less and less Magellan

you're less

and less Magellan

set out

on some course 

with a vague

map,

out to sea,

sails full of 

youthful wind

taking

you somewhere

where you've never

been before.

that's you not,

not anymore.

feet on land,

at home is where

you prefer to be.

reaching wise

it's in

their eyes, they know.

set deep within

the landscape

of furrows

and lines,

the plowed field

of a face

long lived, reaching

wise.

it's in their eyes.

straight down route 50

i wake up

thinking about Boardwalk

fried

chicken

from ocean city.

Thrasher's fries,

with little tubs

of vinegar and ketchup.

i can feel

the hot boards of summer

on my feet.

the blistering sand.

i hear the ocean,

smell the salt in the wind.

i can hear

the pin ball machines

in the penny arcades,

the crowds,

the auction house,

the swing of the Ferris

Wheel.

gulls are in the air.

it's July.

it's crowded, but peaceful.

a home

away from home

at seventeen.

i'm laying

my towel

in sand

then diving into the cold

water, that's the plan.

he's grumpy, jealous and stubborn

my father's latest girlfriend

calls me

and tells me

that my dad is grumpy

and jealous,

and very stubborn.

he gets mad at her when

she's sick

and can't visit.

he's jealous that she goes

to a funeral

every week for her male 

friends

that have passed on.

it's interfering with their

weekly rendezvous.

stubborn, i say with a laugh.

really? you've got to be

kidding me, right?

he'll be 96 in two weeks.

nothing has changed

since the day he was born.

get used to it, or

move on.

number eleven

it was a long

drive

to Baltimore but my number

had come up

for the draft.

the bouncing ball

said eleven when it shot

out of the tube.

i had hair past

my shoulders and weighed

nothing

soaking wet.

i wasn't made

for the army,

for killing, for whatever

it was they wanted

me to do while

wearing

their drabby green uniforms,

would i be sharpening

my bayonet,

peeling potatoes too?

i stripped

and bent over, i coughed.

they looked

in every opening

of my young body

and asked me

questions about my loyalty

to the country.

was i red white and blue?

luckily the war ended

before i had

to kill someone,

or be killed

in a jungle far from you.

the Jesus Vitamins

i call them Jesus

vitamins.

the ones you see on tv

chock

full of every known vegetable

to man.

fruits too.

all the juices

and nutrients

squeezed into tiny pills

that you

swallow two

at a time.

suddenly you can see

clearly again,

the pain is gone,

you're no longer lost for words,

your hands

no longer tremble.

you're running marathons

and having

sex three times a day.

you're walking on water,

your mind is clear.

you're solving quadratic

equations,

you're suddenly

a philosopher,

a scientist,

you're saving not only

yourself,

but the world.

the little red sports car

the little

red sports suddenly appeals

to you.

it's an age

thing, i suppose, grasping

for some

youthful straw.

retrieving

what is lost.

it's a shiny bauble you'd

like to drive

with the top

down.

maybe throw a slinky

blonde

in the seat beside

you,

just for fun.

small quakes

it's a small

earthquake, nothing to write

home

about.

but the walls

shake,

and the birds leave

the trees.

no damage

is done,

but it's thrilling

in a strange way.

it's over in seconds.

like so

many interesting

things.

foreign movies

the hard

thing about watching a foreign

movie

at home,

are the subtitles,

you have to read while

watching.

you can't look at your phone

and answer texts,

or emails,

or scroll through

cat videos,

or peruse

hotel rates for New York City

near the park.

if you take

your eye off the screen for

one second,

you might miss

the whole reason

for the movie.

bleeding money

there are months

when

you bleed money. more goes

out than

is coming in.

you have to dip into

your rainy-day stash to

put a tourniquet on

it all.

the car

needs tires,

the roof needs shingles.

the dog

ate a dead bird

and is in intensive care.

the dentist wants

x-rays.

lights are flickering,

pipes

are leaking.

girl scouts are at the door

wanting money

for the thin mints

you ordered

in May.

zero reciprocating love from rabbits

she had a pet rabbit,

then two,

then suddenly

five.

she kept them in her living

room,

fenced in

with baby gates

and bowls

of water,

pellet like food.

newspapers were strewn

about,

the unread daily

news.

but i saw no 

reciprocating love from

those bunnies

despite her fawning

and cooing

over them, giving them

nick names

like girlfriend, 

and boo boo.

opening the yearbook

you wonder

will they miss me, when

i'm gone.

friend or foe.

will they wonder

what happened,

where did i go,

where

have i disappeared to.

did i fall

or leap,

did i get old and die

in my sleep.

will they search

the obituaries to try and

find out

some truth

about me, my demise.

or will

most of them be gone

too?

apple martini cowboy

she liked

cowboys. men in tight jeans,

boots

with spurs,

bolo ties

on an embroidered

shirt.

the belt with a big buckle

stamped

Texas.

she liked the big hats,

white or black,

the way

they talked

with a long

piece of straw hanging out

of their mouth,

chewing

on a wad

of Red Man stuck between

their cheeks.

she liked the way

they danced

in a line, kicking their

boots 

against the floor,

and drank whiskey.

she adored

how they'd say clever things

like this

ain't my first rodeo, or

giddy up.

i didn't have a chance,

sipping my

apple martini

at the bar, reading Hamlet.

but the rent is cheap

the railroad

tracks

are close by and when

a train

passes,

the whole room shakes

and 

the pictures

rattle against the walls.

i peek

out the blinds and see

the silver

blur

of the train rumbling by.

i can almost reach out

and touch it.

Mary looks

at me from the bed,

smoking

a cigarette and shakes

her blonde curls,

damp

from sweat.

you have to move, she says.

i don't know how

you live like this.

this is your final warning.

get a better place,

or we're done.

kaput.

finished.

now come back to bed.

Zombie Hygiene

there's a lot of talk

about zombies

these days.

books

and movies, television

shows. Zombie

this,

zombie that.

it's a fun craze in a way.

the dead

coming back to life.

they want to eat us,

but fortunately they

are slow of foot

and have limited brain

function, and for some reason

they've lost the ability to talk,

emitting grunts of some sort

in a guttural

foreign language.

they don't seem

to be enjoying

they're second shot at life 

and living.

which is sad.

their hygiene is pathetic.

they don't shower or

brush their teeth anymore,

or dress properly.

God knows if they're even

lifting the lid up

on the commode.

i wish they could find

a way to relax

and take it easy, and perhaps

stop trying to bite

people.

maybe read a book, or go to

the beach.

get some therapy.

we all really need to get along,

the dead,

and the living.

the Saturday adventure

my neighbor

just returned from climbing 

up

Mt. Everest.

part of his nose

is gone,

he's limping.

and there's something

wrong

with his arms.

his face

is red behind

the long scraggily hair.

he can't stop

talking about

the mountain,

the snow, the wind,

the crevices

and fear.

he tells me about the three

sherpas

that helped him

up the steep icy inclines,

and nods sadly

at the one that died.

they're still looking for my wife

up there.

but enough about me,

he says,

with a smile. so what have

you been up to

lately,

and i tell him about my

trip to Costco

on Saturday. the crazy long

lines.

the best days

some days

are more productive than others.

some

days you don't want

to get out of

bed.

you don't want to deal

with the world

at large.

and all the trouble

it entails.

sometimes 

you just want someone

to come

up the stairs

and bring

you coffee and eggs.

the baby bump

a few years

ago

there used to be a exotic

dancer

who lived

two doors

down.

a long-legged beauty

with black

hair.

i'd see her come home

late at night

in her high heels

and satin

robes.

she'd be drunk sometimes,

or with

someone

trying desperately

to kiss her.

they were noisy,

laughing,

carrying on.

then i saw her one day

with a belly

bump.

and carrying into

her house

a stroller

and a crib.

she looked at me and

smiled,

shrugged her shoulders

and said

something like, oh well,

things happen.

i won't be dancing for awhile.

the plan was

the plan was,

that your parents

raised

you

in a warm

supportive household.

you went to school.

you lived

in a nice neighborhood.

you had a dog

a cat, maybe.

maybe you got the measles

too.

or had your tonsils

removed.

that being the worst of it.

there was a swing set

in the back yard,

a pool.

you went to church

on Sundays.

you played ball.

you made friends.

you kept your nose clean.

you delivered papers 

in the morning.

you went to college,

met a girl.

fell in love,

got married, had kids

of your own.

you kissed your wife

goodbye

every morning and took

the train into

the city.

where you worked

for forty years.

then you retired and took

up gardening

or golf.

it all went by so quickly,

you say

to yourself, looking back.

wondering

what went wrong.

a grilled cheese sandwich

i look

at the bill that the waitress

has brought me

for a grilled

cheese

sandwich and a coke.

the food

and drinks are there.

then a fee

for 

something

i don't understand,

an added

gratuity.

taxes,

city, state, local,

federal.

some other hidden charges

are added on

as well.

something to do with

Covid

and the board of health.

twenty dollars should

do it,

but it leaves

me nothing for cab fare.

pretend to get along

don't say

that word, or that one either.

don't point,

don't judge

or act

confused.

don't roll your eyes,

or arch your

eyebrows,

don't say oh my.

don't have a mind

of your own,

or express a contradictory

opinion.

follow the lemmings

off the cliff.

you have your marching

orders.

don't

show an inkling

of amusement,

or befuddlement

at a world

gone wackadoodle.

pretend

it's normal, that it's

all okay.

then go home and lock

the doors,

pull the shades.

the people are angry

the people

are angry. they are out on

the streets,

hands raised

to the sky,

voices chanting.

what do they want now?

what is that

they are displeased with.

they are holding

up their babies,

with tears in their eyes.

they are wearing

sack cloth

and ashes.

they wail and march.

they circle

the city streets.

from dusk

to sunrise.

they have nowhere else

to be,

no life,

no jobs.

they are displeased.

permanently,

it seems.

the hot tamale

one small bite 

of this pepper,

this hot green jalapeno pepper

makes

my brain boil,

my head

sweat,

my heart skip a beat.

i begin

to tremble and shake,

my tongue

burns,

my nose aches.

like you, it seemed

like a good idea

at the time.

a bouquet of balloons

somewhere,

at some point in history,

someone

decided that

balloons would make

occasions

more festive.

that it would be 

a good idea to

fill a small plastic

bag with air,

then knot

the bottom

so that the air

doesn't escape.

you can write

a message on them,

happy birthday,

happy anniversary,

congratulations,

or tie a few

together, making

a bouquet of sorts.

they come in every color

of the rainbow,

nice, but

please don't get me any

balloons.

hero of the month

they put

up pictures in the big

box

store.

on the wall

as you enter

for everyone to see.

it used to be employee

of the month.

but they've

changed

that to hero 

of the month.

i sort of agree, you'd

have to be

heroic to work

there these days.

it's never enough

i visit

her in the hospital.

i bring

her flowers,

a book to read

and

a box of candies.

but i eat

some on the way.

the chocolates

with nuts

in them.

my favorites.

this angers her when

she takes

the lid

off the box.

she curses me,

and tells me to

go away.

i need to take this call

live long

enough and you can compare

fifty years

ago to now.

even further back.

are things better, are things

worse

than they ever were?

are there still wars,

still inequality,

still crime and injustice.

still poverty

and loneliness,

yes, tenfold and more.

so what's the deal?

what have we learned

with these

precious phones in our hands?

pretty much

nothing.

it's the same as it ever was,

maybe worse.

hold on,

i need to take this call.

i'll never fall in love again

when she breaks

her arm,

falling off her latest horse,

she tells me

that she'll never ride again.

i'm done with

horses, if i come

across another for sale

i'll just walk

on by.

it sounds like

a Burt Bacharach song

as i listen to her

sing the words,

i'll never fall of a horse

again.

and then she heals.

add more sugar

is it truly

all about money?

nearly everything we buy?

of course it is.

life

is a business.

it's always been

commerce.

they add more sugar

to the mix,

more sweetness,

more curves

to cover,

more skin, more cream

to the desserts

we purchase,

why settle for the wallflowers

when there are so

many queens

covered in meringue

to eat.

the artist's rendition

was Jesus

that handsome, that attractive

with movie

star looks,

the blue eyes

and long

hair. the clean

flowing robes.

was he that muscular,

that strong,

jaw squared.

his long arms

and clean hands

reaching out to comfort

the world,

or was he more like us,

not ready

for his close

up.

disheveled and tired,

sitting down at the well,

drawing words

in the dirt,

with

a worried

stare.

get your house in order

as

a doctor, she tells the sick

patient

to get his

house in order.

i'm sorry, but

you need to

make arrangements

for

the future,

which is short.

best do it now

and not wait.

get a lawyer,

a pen and a piece of

paper,

write it all down

as you slip

away.

make life easier on

those left

behind.

hard words, but kind.

the doll collector

was she mad,

crazy,

a loon of some sort.

perhaps.

or maybe she just liked

collecting

life like

dolls of her favorite

stars

from the past.

there on the table stood

Lucille Ball,

and over there,

the brother and sister duo

Donnie and Marie,

when they

had a show.

is that Dolly Parton

in the corner

staring at me?

leaning forward, almost

ready to fall

down?

I see Andy Williams

in a glass enclosed

shelf,

next to John Wayne

wearing a gun belt.

and then the centerpiece

on the table,

Dorothy from the Wizard

of Oz,

next to the scarecrow,

the tin man,

and the cowardly lion,

holding his tail.

the stuck napkin in a pocket

why buy

one?

a tuxedo, when a rented

suit will

do for the occasion.

it's so rare

that you're required

to put on

such a monkey suit,

but you can't

help but wonder who

else

had the same

idea and wore

this

sleek garb before.

renting it for a weekend,

but why and

where to, what for?

perhaps

a wedding, some

important gathering

of well to do's.

the pictures preserving

it all,

maybe this napkin

stuck in

the pocket

with old cake icing

will provide

a clue.

the scent stays with you

when i get on

the elevator, it's crowded.

young and old

together.

but i smell my grandmother's

perfume in

the air.

i casually look

around.

it could be any one

of these

women.

i listen for the clanging

of jewelry

around a wrist,

a small dog

in someone's arm,

a thick Boston accent

telling someone

what button

to push for her floor

to get off on.

a gravelly voice

damning the Kennedys

for a world

gone wrong.

i need you too

i don't fear

the blank page, the empty

room,

the quiet.

i live better alone,

in silence.

i'm free

to think and do as

i please.

but don't worry.

i need you too,

okay?

life remains the same

i like the old lady's house.

i like what

she hasn't done with it for

the past

sixty years.

she hasn't let it go, she

just let it be.

i like the chair that no

one has sat in

for years.

the lamp on the sideboard,

with the yellow

shade.

the heavy drapes

embroidered with blue birds.

the cabinet tv

with rabbit ears.

the old fridge, lime

green like

the dishwasher.

and over there, a real

stack

of life magazines.

it's home.

it's a trip into the twilight

zone.

i love it.

a better education

bored with school

we would

skip school

and take the A-2 Archive

bus into downtown

DC

on a cold

winters day.

with a pocket full of change

we'd

peruse the pinball

arcades,

take in a movie at

Lowe's Palance, eat

fried

chicken at the International

Safeway.

we'd sit in on congress,

take the subway

from 

the supreme court to the Capitol.

have a bowl

of bean soup

and be on our way.

we were all the over 

the place.

down to the monuments,

to the Museum of Natural History,

then the Portrait Gallery,

we'd peer into

the doors of the Blue

Mirror gentlemen's club

before being

chased away.

we'd go into the magic shop

on 9th street

across from the FBI building

and buy loaded

dice and

gum that would turn our

tongues black.

then at last, 

with all the money gone,

but bus fare

we'd head back.

i wasn't invited again

the neighborhood watch

is having

a cookout on the corner.

the board

members are all present

with clipboards

on their laps.

they've gathered

like a gaggle of geese

in a circle.

a hibachi is going,

their plastic lawn chairs

are spread open.

i see cakes and pies.

potato salads.

they have drinks,

they have music,

they stare me down

as i drive by.

some are hissing,

shaking their heads.

pointing at me.

i wave just the same.

but once more

i didn't get the invite.

excuse me, but

she tells

me i have spinach in my teeth.

that i

have toilet paper

stuck to the bottom

of my shoe.

my shirt is unbuttoned,

my zipper down.

the screen is open

and the flies are

getting in.

the rent's overdue,

the milk

is spoiled,

the toilet unflushed.

how have i made it this

far without you?

why bother

i should take

down

the Christmas lights,

put away

the tree

and ornaments,

i should take the pumpkin

out of the window,

take the Easter

baskets back

down the basement.

perhaps it's time to

take the clover leaf flag down,

put away the Irish

mug and hat, take

the wreathe off

the door,

deflate

the new years balloons,

box the confetti,

but why

bother,

the years are rolling

by so fast these days,

my God, it's already June.

the phantom texter

the phantom

texter,

a coward of sorts, texts

and insults,

writes to you with

a smugness

you've known before.

who she is, 

doesn't matter.

it never did.

some worlds are

smaller than others.

nothing better to do

than

stalk and hover.

i guess she's bored.

i'm sure

she'll write more,

it's what she does,

to others and you.

get out of my way i have a seven eleven to get to

the bully

car

or truck flashing his lights

an inch

away

from your bumper,

from taking someone's

life

as you cruise

the highway

in the slow lane,

is a small reminder

of the world

you're in. making

you realize

once more, that

so far zero have

survived, move over

or i'll bring you

to an end.

stepping into it

i sit on the front stoop,

and with a sharp

stick i scrape

off the day

now over

from the bottom of my shoes.

the evidence of

where i've been,

what trails i've taken,

and who i've

been with,

are apparent.

i see the weather, the terrain,

the relationships,

words said,

everything i've

stepped into.

so much evidence

stuck in

the treads.

new shoes are on 

the horizon, again.

another flagrant foul on Caitlan Clark

there's basketball

and then

there's thug ball. prison

ball,

every man or woman

to themselves.

no refs, no rules,

no fouls called.

it's the new professional

way.

kill the other player,

no sportsmanship,

no joy, just hate and bullying,

for the win

and self-glory.

pure jealousy of a girl

because she's an amazing

athlete and her skin

is light.

it's become a sick

world

and the game reflects

it on so many levels.

held up as

a savior to the sport?

it won't 'happen.

she should quit and get

on with her life.

let the league go back

to what it was.

a failure.

unwatchable on any

given night.

early may and late december

it seemed like a good

idea at the time,

for the young pretty girl 

to marry

a man twenty

years older than

her, or older.

the money, the prestige,

the comfort

of not having to worry

about such things as

where to live,

clothing and what to eat.

the vacations being grand,

the bling, the baubles,

the cars, the pool,

the country club.

all fine and dandy until

the end.

you see them from time

to time, still attractive

in an older way, but

pushing the old men,

the old husbands

down the ramps in

wheelchairs,

wiping oatmeal

from their chins.

the old building

was the old building sold?

no sign

went up. no word 

heard on the street,

but the brick is painted,

the rotted windows

with broken glass,

replaced with new.

the old signs are gone.

new bushes, cut grass,

expensive lights too.

i miss the old building.

it's wide shoulders,

its leaking roof,

its sadness of color.

the peeling paint, the rust

the rot,

the smell of it all.

when walking by.

an old friend to be

admired, now gone,

rehabilitated

by a world

that loves new.

the double door garage on Saturday

men, middle aged men

and older,

some young,

but most with grey

in their hair, and bellies

over their belts, they

love their garages.

their tools and restored cars.

the work bench

with a broken drawer

waiting to be fixed.

they pull up the double doors

on the weekends

and turn on their radios.

yes, radios.

they have an easy chair

in the corner.

maybe a lamp and

a small fridge with beer.

there might be a flag

on the wall,

tin posters of retro girls

with long legs

and come-hither smiles.

the men wave to anyone

that's passing, to the beeping

of horns. to neighbors

stopping by.

somewhere a wife

is out there in the world

shopping,

or maybe on the phone

inside.

they're turn at the rage

it's less about anger,

these days,

on how things are. 

there's little or no rage,

no fire

in the belly anymore

to change

what can't be changed,

human nature

being what it is.

leave that to

the young,

the inspired, the unwise

but strong.

let them carry the flags

and wail despair 

deep into the night.

they'll learn soon enough,

to grow up

and move on.

the primrose lane

retirement.

what is that? what is the strange

land

i see over the fence

of work,

of structure

and responsibility.

the clock set

at six to rise.

the routine of decades

gone by.

what is beyond

the gate?

are those

flowers over there,

greenery,

trees and trimmed hedges,

beside the hilly lawn?

is it the primrose

path,

with stones engraved,

is it the fast

walk down to the cemetery?

am i too early,

am i late?

the familiar

we are,

as the cliche says,

creatures

of habits.

we find what we like

and stick

to it.

we find comfort

in the familiar

and resist change

despite

the benefits of

doing so.

we're stuck, sort of,

but so it

goes.

a hair brained idea

i decide not to shave

for a month.

let nature take its course.

go the Hemingway route

with facial hair,

or that guy on

the corner with the cardboard

sign and bucket

of change.

i run it by my significant other.

she looks at me

and frowns.

okay, she says reluctantly,

lifting up one of her

sleek long legs,

but only if i do the same.

and stop shaving

for a month too.

i quickly see what a bad

idea this has become.

when cows run free

there used

to be a time when we worried

if the cows

got out of the barn,

or field,

the fence broken

on the lower forty.

that was everything.

we had the world

tied up

in cows,

but now

it's when the power

goes out.

what the hell.

how can life continue?

i can't log on.

where are we going to keep all these people?

they're building a new

prison

for the convicted felons,

former and future presidents

and congressmen

judges and lawyers,

cabinet members

and the like.

it won't be like Attica though,

it will be more

like the Roosevelt Hotel

back in its heyday.

it will be comfy

and nice with

queen sized beds,

wi-fi and bluetooth,

pickleball courts and with

conjugal visits

on weekend nights.

talk to the hand

you often mistake

me for someone

that cares.

someone interested in your life,

your problems.

your situations,

your penchant for crying

over spilled milk,

and the rain.

do you think i really

care about all your

unsolvable crisis,

your imaginary pains?

maybe i used to,

back when i didn't know

who you really were,

maybe then,

when it was

early in the game.

but that was then,

but no more,

so talk to the hand.

take me to your leader

everyone wants to see

the manager

when things go wrong.

this is intolerable.

get me the manager, we

scream.

i want to talk to your

supervisor,

someone in charge here.

i demand satisfaction.

take me to your leader.

do you know who i am?

flash back while lying in bed

so what's going

on

in the world today, she asks

me

as we lie

in bed.

no radio on,

no phone in hand.

no television

blaring

from the nightstand.

who knows, i tell her.

let's pretend it's 

1960 again.

the rising of bread

it's easy,

baking bread.

there's little science to it.

just a matter

of following a few

simple

directions.

flour and yeast,

water,

having a stove.

a table,

a knife, a plate,

butter.

and a long

morning ahead.

opening the windows

it's cool enough

to open

the windows around the house.

nice

to not have the buzz

of air conditioner

humming

in the yard.

it's a spring wind, full

of hope and promise.,

new beginnings,

but like many

times before,

i've often been wrong.

what's the worst that could happen?

a man knocks at the door,

a stranger

wearing

a utility company vest

and hat.

a tool bag around his

waist.

he wants access to the yard

to fix or replace

something

that doesn't seem broken.

he wants to install

an energy saver,

who doesn't want that?

i let him in.

he seems to know what

he's doing.

what's the worst that could

happen?

something i've said

several times

while standing

at the altar.

the end of the world as we know it

you love his movies.

but

you've changed your mind

about him

when you

see him standing out on

the streets of the city,

ranting and raving

about how it will be

the end of the world

if someone

is elected president again.

he sounds insane,

a rambling madman,

senile and old.

his true self revealed

without a script in hand.

he's become

an incoherent crazy person

preaching lies

and fear. 

no matter who's side 

you're on,

it's all very weird.

but you still love his

movies just

the same.

Sinatra may have been 

a dope too,

but you still like his music.

you're not gonna hurt her, are you?

her mother

made

me sit down with her father,

Angelo

from the old country,

and ask

for his permission to marry

his youngest

daughter. Delores.

i gulped and sat down

in the dark

corner of his little

man cave.

he put down his girly

magazine,

and his

Ballantine beer can,

and stroked his mustache.

he lit a cigar

and offered me one.

i said, no,

but he insisted.

i choked on the stale air,

my eyes watered

and my throat felt like it

was bleeding.

so tell me, boy, he said.

what do you want to ask me?

oh, nothing,

really.

i was just thinking that maybe

Linda and i could

get married

in the spring.

he sat up from his chair

and put his hand

on my knee.

you're not gonna hurt my

little girl are you?

because if you are i have

friends that will want to talk

to you.

capiche?

we stood up and he shook

my hand. don't worry son,

he said.

we'll get you a job down

at the docks

before the wedding.

then her mother called us in

for a plate of gnocchi and sausages.

no more little don rickles

you have to be careful

these days

with your words.

you can't call anyone

fatso anymore,

or string bean,

or tubby, or even big boned.

you can't

point at someone and say

look at that scarecrow

over there.

that rack of ribs.

you can't say i smell

a hint of mint,

or that fellow is light

in the loafers.

no one teases each other

anymore.

how do little 

wise cracking kids survive

in this world

with such

restrictions.

they're cancelled before

they're out

of the first grade.

the chemistry teacher

Mr. Reid,

a former marine,

who stormed the beaches

of Normandy,

taught chemistry

at our school,

G. Gardner Shugart.

he wore thick

shop glasses

and a bow tie

and brought his lunch

to work

in a paper bag.

he used to throw unruly

boys

up against the lockers

and put

his hands

around their neck and warn

them

that the next time

they bully anyone

again

or cause a ruckus

in the school

there would be

consequences of a painful

kind.

it was a peaceful

year,

that year

in the seventh grade,

thanks to him.

don't answer that

we send things into space,

satellites

and cameras,

instrument laden balls

of metal

with probes coming

out of their skin

to see

if there's anyone

out there

amongst the stars,

any living thing.

maybe there is, maybe

there isn't.

or maybe 

they're just like me,

not answering the door,

when the bell rings.

sage advice

i call the broker

to see

how long the money will last

if i quit

working today.

she tells me,

another fifty years

or so,

if keep living the way

i do.

but there's no guarantee.

there could be a war,

you could get sick,

you could do something stupid

like get married again

and give it all away,

but if you keep your nose clean

and don't buy a boat

or a beach house.

or get involved again with

some bleached blonde

bimbo chick.

you've got fifty years of

savings under

your belt.

just remember,

whatever you do, don't live

like you're rich.

i don't trust you

i don't trust

you

with that knife in your hand.

sure,

you're just slicing

a bagel

to toast

and then slather on

a swab of

cream cheese, but what

could happen

between then and now

if you wanted

to?

let it be known,

i'm keeping my eye

on you.

the indigo earth

let's blame

it on the rain, the overcast

day.

the indigo

earth,

the shadows

and shade.

let's not go to the real

reason

for your darkness.

let's not

talk about

the past, your age.

the boredom

of the repetitious day.

let's turn

it all sunny side up,

and smile.

why let them know

your pain?

communion

it's a congregation

of feathers

in the back yard.

a gathering of birds

on the fence.

they've arrived to worship

at the swing

of the bird feeder.

a green tin steeple

hung by a wire.

they are at peace

with one another,

waiting patiently for

their turn

at the seed.

lingering in the past with coffee

when i finish

my coffee i go out and get another

cup of coffee.

i can't read

the newspaper without

coffee.

how is that possible?

although

it's a smaller cup

and a thinner

paper now.

both costing five dollars

minus the tip.

sweat pants and crocs

are there any

sharp dressed men left

on the planet

with

crisp shirts

and Italian suits,

silk ties,

and shined shoes?

has that style

and look become

a thing of the past,

a costume of sorts

worn for weddings

and funerals,

award ceremonies?

the world is awash

in sweatpants and crocs,

it needs to come back.

under a spell

it's the devil, no doubt,

that makes

me

ruminate and think back

on

troubles

long gone.

what healthy mind

does that,

keeping me stuck

in the mud

of past

mistakes.

surely it's demonic

forces at

work,

making me feel guilty,

uneasy,

uncertain

about my life,

wondering if i should

have gone

left

and not right.

dumb bells

i ask my personal trainer,

Amber,

who has arms

that bulge with muscles

and veins,

i ask her

why they call them dumb bells,

these weights

attached to bars.

why do they attribute

a negative

adjective to an inanimate

object?

what's up with

that? i ask her.

she looks at me

and laughs.

who cares, she says, now

get on the floor fat boy,

and give me twenty.

then she puts her boot

on my back.

cigarettes

cigarettes.

the ashes

delicately dropped

into squared crystal

glasses, the suave

coolness

of the smoke,

props 

of a different era.

the way it lingered in

the air

filled

with words 

deftly spoken.

a drink in

the other hand.

sexy and intelligent,

smart and brave,

pick your brand.

and now

you think the opposite

when seeing

the likes of 
Audrey on the silver screen,

or the Marlboro man.

she sends me a picture of a flat tire

she sends me

a picture

from her phone of

the flat tire

on her car.

no words, no explanation,

no, i'm sorry but i won't

be able to

make it tonight.

no apology whatsoever.

just the picture of 

a black tire

flat as a pancake in someone's

driveway.

i send her a picture

of a roasted

chicken, with small

potatoes

and green beans, 

and a bottle of red wine.

chocolate mousse

in ramekins. then

me with a fork

in hand

by candlelight.

i forgive you for whatever it was you did

at last i get an apology.

but

i've already

let it go.

i can barely remember

what the problem

was,

what happened between us.

it's ancient history now.

but i accept

the apology and say

something

like, 

you're forgiven,

for whatever you did,

but

just don't let it happen again,

okay?

or we'll no longer

be friends.

you're overdue again for x-rays

i ask

the dentist why so many x-rays.

every other

visit

is 400 hundred dollars

plus two

hundred

for cleaning

and making my gums bleed,

nagging me

about flossing,

and grinding my teeth.

and for what,

there

are no cavities,

no issues to be dealt

with.

i lie there with the lead

vest in my lap

and listen

to the click click click

of the x-ray machine.

it sounds

like the meter

in a cab lost in New

York City, then I peer out

the window

at the new Land Rover,

she owns,

pristine and clean.

it's all very clear now.

cha ching.

the disappointments

the disappointments

add up

over time.

the one you didn't love enough

expresses it

with words and a cold

sigh.

you see it in her eyes.

your boss,

is disappointed

in your effort, your

lack of enthusiasm

for the job.

your neighbors look at

your lawn

and shake their heads.

even your dog, is sad

about

how it's treated.

the short walks, 

the hard

food in bowl is no

surprise.

when you look in 

the mirror you're 

even disappointed

in yourself at times.

the splinter

a tiny

splinter, a slender

pointed

chip of wood

embedded

in the skin, will change

your life,

stop

the trains.

nothing much will

matter

until this is made

right.

two scoops of rocky road on a sugar cone

i see one of the activists

working

at the ice-cream store.

he's wearing

a little cardboard

hat,

and a pink smock with

the strings

tied around his back.

the last time i saw him

he was on the news

wiping tear gas

out of his eyes, being

handcuffed and shoved

into the back of a squad

car. expelled from school.

finally after perusing all

the bins,

i make my decision and

i ask him for two

scoops of rocky road

on a sugar cone.

he complies.

he's one of us, at last.

a movie star death

when a movie star dies,

we gasp.

how is this possible, this

idol

of the silver screen,

this singular

empire

of riches.

handsome and charming

beyond reason.

how can a person like

this die?

impossible it seems.

uncle Louie,

with his cigars and drink,

yes,

but not this guy.

walking without shoes

when

you remove your shoes

and walk

across

the earth in bare feet,

sockless,

without leather

or leaves

to protect

the soles of your

feet

you realize how far

away you are

from reality.

how unscathed you are,

how out of touch

you are

with what's

really going on.

closed at dark

as the woods

darken,

and you have three more

miles to

get back to your car,

the animals come out.

their eyes

flashing

in the lowered sun.

they're surprised

that you're

still here, walking through

the park.

with no weapons

in hand,

no flashlight.

they look

at each other and shrug,

they discuss

amongst themselves

who

gets the first bite.

the tv guide

there were

four

channels back then.

you knew where the game

was

being televised.

what time,

what day.

it was all documented

in a thing

called the TV Guide,

which was

printed daily.

but now,

it's an Easter egg hunt

trying

to find the channel,

the network,

the day

and time.

they want more money

for your

viewership,

they want you to subscribe.

how quickly

i've lost interest 

in things that I've

loved watching

all my life.

not enough aspirin

a third

of my day is spent trying

to synch

a phone

to the car, the truck,

pairing it

to speakers

in my house.

to the television,

the computer,

to the world at large.

good lord

how i miss

the phone hanging on

the kitchen wall.

and the turntable

with an lp

spinning

out a song.

the mailman's pouch

i do my best complaining,

my most

true

admonishing by

word,

not by word of mouth,

but by

taking pen to paper, or

clicking away

on this keyboard,

then sending

said letters

out.

regret comes later, of course.

but there

is joy

and a delicious taste

in my mouth

once the stamp

goes on, and the mail

is in the mailman's

pouch.

small bumps in the road

it's disappointing.

the flat tire,

being out of milk,

the power

going out

during a favorite show,

and the rain coming

down.

but all is well.

not setbacks or bad

times,

just

small bumps in a road

that's been

quite smooth

lately,

very straight and calm

since you've

been gone.

another brown egg

how many

eggs

have i cracked on the edge

of this black

pan.

scrambled, or

turned over easy.

how many dozens

of eggs

have i eaten

in a lifetime?

with toast,

with bacon, with

hash browns?

washed down

with orange juice

and coffee?

who knows, who's counting?

i drop

the butter in

the middle,

then crack another.

the villages

she tells

me about her new golf cart

that she bought

after moving to

the villages in Florida.

she goes

on and on about pickleball

and dancing,

bowling

and concerts

at the park.

she's doing tai chi now

at the crack

of dawn.

it's a house like

all the others

she tells me, but i put

up my own

art.

i'm happy here,

although i wish there

were more

men

who weren't in walkers,

men who

fall asleep as soon as

it's dark.

you must come down

to visit.

hospice 101

she was

turned, every so often

in her narrow

bed,

fed

through a straw,

by infinitely

small spoons

meant for babies,

a soft gruel.

they kept

her alive

despite all wishes

for her death.

i can still hear

her

asthmatic whisper,

the squeal

of springs,

the bird at the window

pecking

at the glass

to come in.

my new sailboat

i stop buying coffee,

the bitter

six dollar a cup coffee

with

the fancy cups

and logo.

i stop

buying the stale bagels

and pastry

they sell too

at five bucks

a pop.

next week i'm buying a sailboat

with all the money

i've saved

from going there.

after that i'm cancelling

the newspaper.

i don't like the news.

flying in for the weekend

i think

she had several lives going on.

the flight

attendant.

i'd ask

her how she got

the bruises and cuts

around her wrists

and why

she had a black eye,

a swollen lip.

she'd smile and wink,

and would tell me

it's none of my business,

then give

me a long hard

kiss.

limitations

i forgive you,

and you

and you,

and of course you.

and let's not

forget about you, too,

but no,

not you.

my empathy has its

limitations and

i have to draw the line

somewhere.

the carousel horse

am i dizzy from

lack of sleep, or food,

or water.

or am i at the age

now where

getting up too quickly

makes

me feel out of sorts,

the world

spinning madly

like i just got off

a carousels horse.

ready for my close up

as i age,

i prefer the camera to be at a distance,

the shot

taken

with friendly

lighting

as i sit in the shade

of an old oak tree,

i pray there's still

a good side

to my face.

i'm reluctant, but

ready

for my close up after

telling

the photographer

to please

step back,

just a few more

yards away.

it's the olives in me

we like

to tell people we're part

this or that.

prideful

of our ethnicity.

it's the Italian

in me,

the Greek,

or the Hispanic

blood

making me cook

or think

the way i do.

it's the salsa in

me,

the rigatonis,

the olives

from some ancient

tree.

turn the music up.

where are my canastas?

my Bocchi ball,

my burrow from

Santorini.

watch me dance,

today i'm Zorba

the Greek.

avoiding hard labor

i don't want to fix

things.

rebuild,

save or rescue,

or to

have directions telling

me what

screw to use,

what nail.

i don't want a box

full of parts

anymore

with a picture of

the finished

product.

come to me whole

and ready

to go.

same as it ever was

as a child

church bored me.

the preaching,

the mystery of it all.

the robed

priests, the altar boys,

the nuns.

the smoke

and mirrors, 

the mass in Latin.

pressing us to fear God.

the horrible songs.

the collection box.

i felt bad about

myself,

the things i was doing

at ten, at eleven,

at twelve.

my thoughts,

my heart always filled

with guilt,

and never despite confession

and penance,

free of it all.

my knees still ache

from trying.

nothing has changed,

church still bores

me.

it's exactly the same.

don't be on their menu

we forget

the nature of animals.

wild beasts in the jungle.

even the ones

in the zoo.

they will bite

and kill you, 

they'll even eat you

if it

comes down

to that.

don't feed the bears,

or hold

a snake in your hands,

don't put your head

into an

alligator's mouth.

don't swim

with the sharks,

or wave a shirt

in front of a bull.

it's a mistake.

the end of you.

bring something to eat or drink to the picnic

bring something

to eat

or drink, the invite says

for

a picnic

on the holiday.

wear something red

white and blue.

i open the fridge,

then

the cupboard,

i'm down

to peanut butter

and

saltine crackers,

dill pickles,

or some

grapes going soft in

a bag.

i do have a jug of

tap water though.

maybe that.

i've always thought that

when you

invite people

to your house,

just bring yourself

and a friend.

that should do.

the scary ex-girlfriend

she tells me

in another letter,

another email,

another text,

that

just because

i check your

social media constantly,

and that

i drove by your house the other

day,

or dialed 

your number

and hung up, or

went by your work,

or visited the park

where

you like to walk, doesn't

mean i still

love you.

in fact i never did.

i hate you.

i'm just a psychopath

and love

to stalk.

bird brains

the bird

has found a home in the small

hole,

the unvented vent

in my

soffit.

a safe place above

the ground below.

i see her in the morning

worried

with her

eggs.

have they cracked yet.

have they

broken through

their shells to begin

their short

journey into the world.

but

the neighbor wants

them gone.

the noise and flapping

of wings

is bothering

their dog.

again i'm reported to

the condo

board.

animal children

some people

take

their dogs, their cats,

everywhere

they go.

to the store, the bank,

the coffee shop,

to the beach.

they want to share

their lives

with the animals,

not having

any kids.

they put hats on them,

clothing,

small jackets

and shoes on their

paws.

sunglasses.

the leash

was bad enough, but

now this.

it changed my life

when

i buy anything

anymore,

i look at the number of stars

attached

to the item.

i read the reviews,

the complaints,

the praises.

i get the inside scoop

from Linda

in Idaho

about how she loves

her new

mattress cover.

the one i'm perusing.

queen sized

and made of cotton.

it feels cool and comfortable,

i sleep

like i'm on a cloud,

she writes.

it's changed

my life.

i don't believe her.

political hair

the barber,

who gave me haircuts from the age of ten

until i was seventeen

used to stop

me on the street and

laugh

as he looked at my

long hair

down to my shoulders.

all of it held

back by a decorative

head band.

are you ever

getting your hair cut again?

he'd ask.

remember how

i used to part it on

the side

for you

and put Bryl creme

in your hair.

you were such a handsome

little boy.

i smiled and said,

we'll see.  maybe, 

once that war mongering

Nixon is out

of the white house,

maybe then.

unprivileged

am i spoiled?

yes.

i am.

i buy whatever i want

or need

at any given moment.

i eat

what i want,

drink what i want.

travel anywhere

i desire.

i have a roof over my head,

a car,

furniture and enough clothes

to last

a lifetime.

am i spoiled, yes.

but am

i privileged.

no.

after having nothing

and growing

up dirt poor

i worked my fingers

to the bone

to have

any of it. please don't

say i'm

privileged.

you have no idea what

you're talking

about.

cleaning the ice box

i remember my

mother

standing on a chair,

with old towels and sheets

on the floor

to collect the dripping

water

as the ice melted.

she chopped away

at the ice in the box,

the thick

layers of white frost.

slowly she chipped

away at

a small version of

the north pole.

she seemed to enjoy it.

a meditation of sorts.

getting it all

clean and shiny once

more.

tossing in the bags of

peas

and carrots

and ice trays at the end.

Tupperware containers

full of red sauce,

stuffing

the cold bin full

of wrapped meats,

before she closed the door.

cleaning the mail box

i open

up the mail bag,

the endless collection of new

and old

mail, whether

received or sent,

whether

spam

or significant.

slowly i sift through

the weeds,

the communications

of years gone

by.

people once in my

life,

and the ones

still nearby.

i take a cycle to the high

brush,

the low vines,

i clean house.

there's so much i save

that i really

don't need.

monkey uncle

i don't believe

we came

from monkeys.

or one

cell

electrified somehow

and then

a billion

living life forms

appear,

no matter how

many eons

or years

go by.

evolution is crazy

time.

explain to me the

evolution

of the human eye.

start there.

muscle less

tighten

the screw too much

and it

breaks,

the pipe

will leak, all hell will

break loose.

go easy

on the turn, the twists,

less is

more sometimes.

go soft

on each other,

muscle

less.

they can't let it go

they can't

let color go.

the pigmentation of skin.

black

brown, a shade

of white,

yellow.

every conversation seems

to head

that way.

whether in sports

or crime,

politics.

they can't let it go, 

they

need it to validate

some

convoluted point

with race.

and because of that it

will never

go away.

it's no longer about

the content

of character,

but the color of one's skin.

each generation

has to start all over

again.

i need some cutlery over here, please

the entire

restaurant goes silent,

the staff,

the waiters,

the customers at their

tables,

even the kitchen

goes quiet.

not a pot

or pan can be heard,

not a rattle,

or burst of steam.

you can hear crickets

chirping.

all because i asked for

a fork and knife,

not chopsticks

at Hunan West Peking.

who are these people?

somehow

i'm caught in a web

of group

texting.

plans are made, arrangements,

destinations,

rooms

are saved.

do i go,

or stay?

who are these people

anyway

and how did they get

my number?

forever young

who doesn't

want to turn back the clock

on age,

remove

the wrinkles, the sags,

the pain?

who doesn't want to return

to that golden

age

when youth was held

in hand.

when

immortality

was a reasonable thought

to have.

when tomorrows

were endless,

when love was easy

to find.

when the world seemed

new

and kind.

it's what i expected

the wall

takes four coats of red paint

before

the bleeding

stops.

one dries

and i roll out another

tray

of paint

onto the long

flat wall.

by late afternoon

it's finished.

but do i like it?

can i live with one

red wall?

maybe not.

maybe tomorrow i'll

go to back

to blue again.

coins in the fountain

i make a wish

and toss

a coin into the fountain.

she does

the same.

an hour later, she's on

the bus

heading home,

i'm traveling

in the opposite direction,

sitting on

a train.

dark attachments

let go.

that's the only phrase

you need

to know.

let go.

let go of toxic people.

let go

of bad jobs,

bad relationships,

bad houses,

bad

clothes, bad food.

bad music.

bad habits.

purge and burn.

let go of all things

that tie

you down,

dark attachments

defeat you.

let go. at last

be you.

retirement plans

the man

next door has retired.

i see

he's dyed his hair.

he's getting a tan.

he's

jogging.

he's doing jumping

jacks

in the courtyard.

he's in his garden,

he's raking

leaves.

he's power washing

the porch.

he's playing

music

and now he has a dog.

there's a red

sports car

where his truck used

to be.

the top is down.

i see women

coming to visit him.

bringing

him trays of food

and flowers.

they don't stay long.

they visit,

then they leave.

he's joining meetups

for hiking,

for cooking,

for bird watching.

i've never seen a man

once grumpy,

so happy

and free.

the first time

the first

taste, or view of anything

magnificent,

sticks

with you

for all your days.

the first time you step

upon the sand

and see the ocean,

the waves.

the first taste of love

knocking

you over.

your belly full of 

something you've never

felt before.

the stars at night, the first

time you really

lay in the summer

grass

and look up

and see

the sparkling lights.

you think it will pass,

but it doesn't,

it lasts.

another town all the same

you have a window with a view

of this

earth

as you speed by,

is any of it true?

is it a stage, are these

houses props,

these cars,

these people.

whose dog is that 

tied to a dying tree?

so many vines from

pole to pole,

to give light

to flat roof houses with

no shades

on the windows,

there's no shame,

or fear

as they towel themselves

looking into

mirrors.

just lives living out

the string.

living out the years.

around the next bend lies

another town.

all the same.

packaging

it's all about the packaging.

the plastic

wrapping

around

the treat

of sweets, and you.

the sheen,

the shine, the way the light

catches

the bright

paint

and hope of what might

be inside.

it's all a mystery

until

you unwrap it and take

a bite.

saving all the fool's gold

we save

and back up everything

as if it's all gold.

download

download,

click,

save.

data,

documents, texts

and numbers, pictures,

contacts

and all other forms

of human

debris.

into some cloud it all

goes.

into the box

at your feet.

somewhere it all

gets collected.

saved

regardless

of what it was.

a foreverness is promised

despite the fact

that the sun

will one day burn out

and all of it

and us

will be gone.

the best wedding ever

bored

with the day, with

the usual.

i go to a wedding

at the local

church.

it's a Catholic proceeding

so i have time

i put on my suit

and

spruce up.

i slip into the church

and when it ends

i follow the cars

to the party

at a fancy hotel.

i dance all night

with the bridesmaids.

i drink

i eat, i tell jokes

and make

new friends.

i help myself to a second

slice of cake

and wrap up a third to

take home

at three in the morning

after falling

in love with some

girl named Willow.

it may be the best wedding

i've ever been to,

including

all three of my own.

a picnic in the park

i feel encouraged

when

she suggests that we

go on a picnic

for our

third date. i have high

hopes,

and the butterflies

take off

in full flight.

i think not only of the birds

but of the bees too.

she tells me

everything she's bringing,

all the little sandwiches

and cakes,

the full menu.

strawberries and cream

for dessert.

and candies

wrapped

in gold jackets from

a store

i can't pronounce.

she has a basket and a

blanket,

a bottle of wine

and real glasses.

i ask her what i should bring,

she winks

and smiles

and says, 

just you and maybe an

umbrella in case it rains.

a short poor time

there was

funny tasting water from

the spigot

to the mouth

by hand.

an old apartment

building

with ancient pipes

full of rust

and

time.

three flights up

by stairs.

not to mention

the bugs that came

out at night,

the rattle

of pots and pans,

and music

from the floor above.

strangers

in the hallway, lurking.

it was far

from heavenly

appointments but

it served its purpose

for a short

poor time.

on a roll

sometimes you're

on a roll.

the car

breaks down,

your dentist visit

is today,

your annual

physical tomorrow.

it's someone's

birthday,

it's mother's day.

it's get the oil changed

in your car day.

renewals of all

sorts ding

you on your phone.

the rent is due.

the trash truck has come

and gone.

the dog needs her shots.

i'm out of seed

for the bird

in his cage.

the neighbor needs

a jump start on his car,

and the maid

is coming

at some point today.

i'm forgetting something,

but it doesn't

matter.

no funny bones

did she ever

laugh?

barely, but only at the expense

of others.

i wasted

my best material

on her.

my hours 

and hours of freshly

hewn jokes

and observations

went for naught.

hardly a chuckle came

out of her

pretty mouth.

not even a smile

crossed

her face,

just a wince, a sigh,

and a

roll of her doll

black eyes.

find a home

if you can,

if it's possible, have a home.

have a place

to go to,

a sanctuary of sorts,

a nest,

a house

to retreat to.

a place where you

know the walls,

the floors,

the creak in the steps,

the rumble

of pipes.

you understand

the cold and hot

of it,

how the doors lock,

how the windows

rise.

make it yours, it will

comfort you,

it will save your life.

more daily news

i follow

the box scores of last nights

games,

then

the wars,

then the protests,

the political chaos,

trials

and arrests,

then the

climate

change. i keep up on

what's going

on,

not that there's a single

thing i can

do about any

of it.

but i like to stay relatively

informed.

even if most

of it is baloney

on a hard roll with

a swab of mustard

from

the right or left.

jimmy and sally

it's a bad

time to have an argument

when

you're in the middle

of making love,

but when

she called me jimmy

and not

my real name, i questioned

her.

no, no, she said.

i didn't say jimmy,

i said,

it's supposed to be windy

out today.

windy.

we should really take the umbrella

down off the deck.

i distinctly heard

you moan the name jimmy

when i bit your neck,

i tell her.

no, no, she said. i said windy.

so, while we're in the middle

of hot romantic

love you're thinking

about the wind?

about damage to the porch

umbrella?

kiss me, she said.

let's not talk about it anymore,

okay? let's move on.

my leg is starting to cramp,

plus i have a

hair appointment at noon.

okay,

Sally.

lamenting a lack of dinosaurs

people lament

the extinction of animals,

bugs

reptiles

and what not.

the sea is losing fish,

the sky

is losing birds.

they wonder if we're not

next.

are we on borrowed

time

like the brontosaurus,

like T-rex?

will we go the way of

the do doo bird

at some point?

probably is my best

guess.

when the lake evaporates

when the lake

retreats

from the long hot summer,

the year long

drought,

everything

that was thrown

into it

comes up for air.

cars and bikes,

bodies

are everywhere.

disposable things

and lives,

guns and knives, microwave

ovens.

even refrigerators

have somehow

been tossed

into the muck.

i look for you, but

you're not there,

somehow you got out,

you survived.

the jackhammer blues

the power

is out,

the water too,

they're digging in the street

again.

a dozen

men

in orange vests

and white

hats

are standing with

their shovels

about to begin.

the machinery purrs

beside

the cracked road.

it's a days work

for them,

thankful,

grateful for the watermain

break,

the power lines

being snapped

in a violent storm

last night.

whereas

i feel differently

about it

pouring bottles

of spring water upon

myself

for a shower

by candlelight.

do you have any references?

i'm amused

when people ask for references.

having been

in business for thirty-five years.

should i give

them the good ones,

or the bad ones,

the ones where paint spilled,

where the wallpaper

curled off the walls?

should i give them the number

of the job

where the ladder

fell, or the fire

started, or how

i flooded the hall?

i choose the happy people,

which are most of

the jobs, the ones

i got paid on, i give out

those numbers

for them to call.

where did everyone go?

where did everyone go?

the old

school,

the old friends

from the old neighborhood.

the lovers,

relatives?

where are they

now.

which state have they

flown to?

which country,

which city

are they resigned to live

out their days in?

which cemetery should

i visit to see

their names

on gravestones?

the daily crime report

there's the weather

report on the news channel,

giving wind

and rain predictions,

changes in

the temperature,

and then

there's the crime

report

which gives you

an update on where

to go

in the city.

what blocks are having

the most

carjackings,

murders,

assaults and robberies.

they use

red dots

for severe crime areas,

yellow

for moderate,

and green for all clear

at the moment, but

things could

change, so be prepared

and have

on your running shoes

when visiting.

a veritable grouch

when she

drove the car,

i was nervous.

when

she was

in bed,

i was nervous.

at the table,

on the couch, i was a bundle

of anxiety.

i was walking

perpetually on eggshells,

afraid

to open

my mouth.

how did this happen

that i ended

up with

someone i didn't

even like?

a veritable grouch.

water lilies

with time

on my hands, 

waiting for the phone to ring,

for my ship

to come in, 

i open the box,

the large puzzle box

of a Monet painting.

two by three feet.

it's another water lily number.

apparently

he had a thing

for water lilies. 

i wonder if he had to fight

of the mosquitos

when doing his paintings.

flies and bugs,

ants. bees.

there's a lot of bluish

and greenish

tiles.

yellow and pinks.

i start with some edges.

it's ten o'clock

in the morning, but by noon,

i've started to drink.

each piece

looks the same.

my eyes blur and a headache

starts to come on.

this is torture, madness.

i sweep it all up

into the box.

maybe tomorrow i'll

start again, but

i doubt it.

a failure to communicate

i read

the results of my CT scan.

i have

no idea

what they say.

i have no clue what opacified

means,

or polypoids.

just tell me doc

how much

longer do i have to live,

and if so,

will i eventually

be able to breathe again?

paper and pen

we still

need paper and pens,

pencils,

don't we?

please tell me that

these

have not disappeared

not yet.

i won't

surrender.

i won't keep notes

in my

phone,

my laptop,

i need a pad, a clean

white

sheet and a good

ink pen

on my desk.

a spiral notebook

is best.

i stop and look back

i can't help myself.

i look back

despite

all urges to keep walking.

no.

i turn

and stop

and look back.

but why?

what is there left to see,

what is there

left

to know?

i pause and take a long

last look.

what is it?

regret, remorse?

i just can't

seem to let go.