the Christmas card list

i go through

the box holding years of

Christmas

cards

received.

some with snow falling,

decorated trees,

elves

and Santa Claus.

reindeers on rooftops,

sleighs

in the sky.

nice thick cards with handwritten

notes enclosed.

some where the glitter

trickles off.

love,

with affection, miss you,

happy holidays,

from

so and so.

friends and lovers, 

family, once close,

now

almost unknown.

i used to have a list

of them all, names and

addresses.

where is that list?

the unexpected visitor

it's unexpected.

most

illnesses are. we don't hear

them

coming up

the steps,

they don't call, they don't

knock at the door.

there's no

notice in the mail.

it's a visit

you're never prepared for.

but here they

are, with their heavy luggage,

anticipating

a long stay, moving into

your life

for weeks, or months,

maybe more.

old school

it's paperwork

with bills

to pay.

envelopes and stamps, a good ink pen

to write with.

the clear desk

to stretch out with,

sunlight is nice.

a ticking clock

in the corner.

no laptop.

a check book for personal

use,

the business one too.

the ledger,

the calculator.

the return address stickers.

old school.

carry out General Tao

you know

it's bad for you, you know

that you'll regret

it later,

that it will only

temporarily fill you up.

but you're starving.

it's been a long day

and there's nothing in the fridge

at home but

bologna and grape

jelly.

you may

even get a headache

and a stuffy

nose from the MSG,

your lungs

may seize,

the grease will give you

indigestion,

the oils,

all that fried meat and rice,

noodles drenched

in an unfamiliar spice.

but what the hell,

you call the order in

and pick it up,

the plastic fork in the glove

compartment will

have to suffice as you

put the hot white box

between your legs,

eat, and drive.

all these men

how

dare men be men.

look at them wrestling,

singing,

telling jokes in a bar,

flirting with women,

exercising,

flexing their

chests

and arms.

sports sports sports.

howling

in the wind

on their bikes,

driving fast

in their cars.

how dare they be who

they are.

put a dress on boys and

shave your

beards.

a little lipstick perhaps.

we've had enough of you

and you're testosterone.

go home

and leave us alone.

we don't need or want

you anymore.

alone but never lonely

alone

but never lonely.

it's a good place to be.

up on a hill

in the sun. green grass,

and a cool

breeze. so many

books

yet to read.

worry free for the most

part.

except for the damn ants,

and bees.

the mythical city

there was

a time, maybe it's a myth,

a movie

created

version of what the city once

was.

the glamour of it all.

the tall

buildings,

the jazz, the art, theaters,

the music

of traffic and throngs

of ambitious

men and women,

come to make their stand.

the romance

of central park.

the carriages,

the bridges linking the island

to the rest of the

mundane world.

impossibly busy and hard.

writers,

actors, singers

come to make their mark.

this was it.

the place you had to be.

the jewel

of capitalism, home of

the brave,

home of the free.

a tree fell in the woods

it was

my father's favorite joke.

he used

to tell it to me on the phone about

every year or so.

i'd listen and laugh

as if it was the first time

i had ever heard

him tell it.

a tree fell in the woods, but

no one

heard it because somebody's

wife kept

talking.

i just told it yesterday,

again,

and got a short

laugh.

dumb and dumber

not unlike spoiled

toddlers

in the back seat of the car,

holding their

collective

breathes until they get

their ice cream,

they finally come to their

senses and say, okay,

uncle. we give up

with not breathing.

you win. we were dumb

to hold the country hostage

like that

just to get our double scoop

of ice cream.

our bad, oops, sorry

about that.

to be continued

i live

with the watery dream

all

day.

i don't leave it

on the pillow, no.

my bones are cold

with

the dark

waters i swam

in last night. 

i can feel the pull

of each

wave.

i'm going where?

to what end?

maybe

tonight i'll find

out.

everything is to be

continued

these days.

the beauty has turned on me

i've

been here too long.

too many

years

have passed in this same

house

at the ocean.

the sand

is in everything.

all

is salt

and wind, brine from

the relentless sea.

my skin has hardened,

weathered.

what once

was beauty

has now turned on me.

my eyes have

paled,

less blue now, less green.

i need

the inland,

the forest of trees.

the quiet,

i long for a gull

free morning.

i don't want to see a new

blue storm

rising across the curve

of the watery

earth.

it's time to flee.

i need grass under my feet.

civil disobedience

the condo board

puts out a notice telling all residents

to not

rake their leaves

and put them into the woods.

you will be fined

if caught and reported.

the leaves that have fallen

from the adjacent park,

and blown

into your yard are your responsibility

now,

they should not be raked up

and thrown back into the woods

to the trees they came from.

you must bag them

and dispose of them properly.

we have hired a special leaf

removal company who

will come by weekly to remove

our bags of leaves.

again,

do not put your leaves back into

the woods or worse yet,

put them in a barrel and burn them.

we're watching.

how can i resist?

waterfront retirement property

i call my portfolio manager

at Morgan Stanley

to see how we're doing.

will a few million in investments

be enough

to see me through

until St. Peter takes my hand.

am i going to be in a cardboard

box under the bridge

or in the woods across from

the liquor store when i retire?

she laughs.

she always laughs at my stupid

jokes, but then she clears

her throat and says,

it's going to be a very nice box.

maybe made of wood,

with a nice window cut

out on each side to let

the sun in.

there's a nice ho bo camp

across from the Walmart, near

the creek, you might like.

rare to find waterfront areas

like that.

drive by, take a look, tell me

what you think.

the roads are clear here

there hasn't been a riot,

or a protest

in Springfield in ages,

maybe never.

i think it's because people

are very busy,

working.

they have families

and houses, yards to tend

to, dogs to walk.

bills to pay.

taking their kids to little

league

and soccer practice.

who has time for sitting

out on the highway

blocking traffic,

when there's something

in the oven,

for dinner, and there's

books to read.

everyone is new here, again

i've rarely

seen the same person working

at the home

depot,

or the bank,

or the grocery store.

someone new is always

at the register.

walking around,

first week

on the job.

managers and clerks.

even my mail person

is new

each day.

people come and go.

what is it?

the pay, the boredom,

the hours?

you don't know them

and they

don't know you.

it's how it goes

these days.

the writer's group on Tuesday

so what's new?

what haven't we talked about here?

the man

with the silver pony

tail says,

pens sticking out of the pockets

of his leather vest.

we're all friends,

this is a safe place. welcome,

welcome.

let's go around

the room

and introduce ourselves,

tell everyone

why you're here

and what you hope to accomplish

by doing so.

tell us what you're working on.

who wants to start us off?

who wants

to be the first to share.

i glance around the room,

past the circle of

heads

and search for an exit sign.

my reams of poetry

and short stories for the class

are wet

in my sweaty hands.

why do i torture myself like this?

i've lost my mind.

why work when big Daddy can take care of us?

i see a large crowd gathered

around a brick building

with a flag

out front. tables are set up with

bologna sandwiches

and dixie cups full of grape juice.

everyone

seems to have

a five dollar

cup of coffee in their hand,

three kids

in tow,

and a nice SUV in the parking lot,

still running

to keep it warm.

what's the line about i ask the woman

in front of me,

what's going on here?

oh, she says.

we're complaining about the government.

having a protest rally.

that damn orange man

has cut us off.

i haven't had a pop tart or a Coca-Cola

in three days.

my kids are out of Skittles.

they go out of their minds when the sugar

runs out.

we're trying to get our

stamps

and food cards. get our EBTs 

full of money again.

none of us work.

some by no fault

of our own.

divorce, children, bad luck,

mental problems, 

fate, we all come from the free

lunch generation,

the welfare generation.

my great grandmother

was on the dole and she had dementia.

how can i go to work

with that lurking in the back of my mind?

not to mention,

i stubbed my toe the other night

on my Pomeranian dog,

you ever had a stubbed

toe?

who can work with a stubbed toe?

tell me that.

by the way, she tells me, winking

one giant eyelash,

the more kids you pop out the bigger

the check. listen,

we don't want to work, we don't

know how to work.

i've got things to do with my life

besides working.

i wouldn't have time to shop, or

have my nails done,

or my hair,

if i worked. what kind of life

would that be?

sure we have degrees.

some even beyond

your basic GED. my friend over there

has a PHD in gender

studies from Columbia.

my sister has a degree in something

about the ice bergs

melting,

she's right up there,

the big blonde-haired woman

who's waving.

we're not stupid, not at all,

how could we pull the wool over

everyone's eyes

for so many years

if we were?

but, i ask, looking around,

where are all the men?

how come

there's no men here? there's only

young and middle

aged women in line,

women of all colors,

white, black, Hispanic.

they all for the most part

look healthy

and strong, if not a little plump.

no one here looks like

they're hungry,

or starving. quite the contrary,

i must say.

so where are the men?

men? are you kidding me mister mister?

you wouldn't catch a real man

in a line like this.

oh, men work. men like to work

and eat,

they have this thing called pride

and self-esteem.

they like to pay their bills

and move up the ladder to make

even more money.

men and their ambition, pffft. who needs that?

i like to sleep in,

get up and watch the View,

maybe

watch some YouTube

for recipes, get some make up tips

from the Kardashians,

maybe do a little face

yoga.

our brains

are wired differently. we're women,

dammit.

they owe us.

but there's a lot of wealthy and successful

women out there,

who like their lives.

yeah, who cares.

they just don't know how

to play the game

like we do.

is that a pumpkin latte, by the way"

i ask. smells great.

yes, double whipped cream,

and two extra shots.

7 twenty-five

over there at Starbucks.

they're hiring by the way.

oh, no thanks,

i have a job.

so what are you here for, mister?

just curious. just stopping

by to say hey. wanted to see what

all the buzz was about.

before you go, do you have a hundred

bucks i can

borrow, she asks, whispering,

we're going to Mon Ami Gabi

after we leave here

and maybe a movie.

i'm not eating no damn bologna

sandwich

like a three-year-old.

i'll pay you back, promise, pinky

swear.

same line, same rally tomorrow,

okay?

ten reasons why i love her

i love

her for many reasons,

with ten of them

being her

long fingernails

that drag across my

back,

scratching

gently

until my leg shakes

like

a satisfied dog,

at last finding my happy

place.

i want my keys back, darling

when i booted

her out

of the house for about a

hundred reasons,

from adultery

to lying,

to gaslighting,

to witchcraft and basic

tom foolery,

all i worried

about was getting back

from her

the keys

to the house.

i was on pins and needles

for weeks

wondering what

wrath

would come upon me

for

kicking her down the road

like a rusty old

tin can.

i didn't want

to go through the process

of getting new locks

on all the doors.

finally, she gave in and threw

them

into the back yard,

all connected

by a rubber band.

but i always wondered

if she made

copies.

the board game of life

as children

we gathered around the table

and played

board games.

chess and checkers,

clue. candy land.

the game of life

being one

of our favorites.

we moved our little blue

or pink cars

around the board,

going to school,

getting jobs, getting married

having children,

life being

a bowl of cherries as you

rolled the dice

and moved forward

with your imaginary life.

there was no stop at the rehab

facility,

the AA meeting,

no surgical transitioning,

changing blue

to pink.

no lawyers involved,

no Snap benefits to worry about.

no wars to go to,

no catastrophes,

no divorces.

no rainbow or Palestinian

flags flew.

no one went hungry

or lived under

a bridge.

all of that came later after

the game

was put away on the top

shelf of the closet

never to be played again.

the goal is to keep getting elected

what a fine

fun

job it must be to be

a senator

or congressman.

to never not get paid

no matter

if the government shuts down,

to get

the upper hand

on stock trades.

to live

in the lap of luxury without

ever lifting

a finger

to help those that voted

for you.

what a great a job

to work 

in the capitol of the nation.

a house here,

a house there. a trip to somewhere

exciting

on the taxpayer's

dime.

rules and laws are for them,

not us.

to have

your picture taken,

your name

in news,

sound bites

always mentioned.

the buzz,

the bang, the constant

circus of it all.

what fun

even if nothing ever gets done.

the only goal

is to just keep getting elected

over and over

again.

making promises

that will never be kept.

a chicken in every pot

will

there be a chicken in every pot?

will

there be

free buses,

and frozen rents, will

the criminals

be hugged

not arrested, will

the illegal immigrants be

safe

and warm

in their beds

with free room and board.

will the statue of Liberty

raise open

her arms

and tell the world

come one, come all.

bring the worst of the worst.

the good, the bad,

the ugly.

no worries

anymore.

welcome aboard.

the fast forward button

there are

times when you want to fast forward

the day,

to hit the button

and quickly move

onward

past the boring parts.

the party you

anxiously don't want to go to,

the lecture,

the tour,

the meaningless chit chat,

the mundane

work,

etc.

you want to get home.

get away.

to reset the button,

and not be bothered by what

you're forced to

endure,

day after day.

the Underwood number 5

it's not an unpleasant

sound,

the sound of keys clicking

on

the old black typewriter,

heavy

as marble,

the mechanics of it all.

the racket

of the return,

the ding

of the bell,

the slide of a new sheet

of paper

rolled in.

where do all these words

come from,

fresh thoughts,

smudged in ink?

when will

the well run dry and this

great

machine

rest at last in the corner,

breathing

a heavy sigh?

our secret lives

everyone

has a secret life, a secret mind,

have

words

they want to say

but don't.

things they want to do

but refrain

from.

they live lives quietly.

seeking

solace

in a warm sun, a cat,

a pensive stroll

around

a blue lake.

so much of who they

really are

remains unknown.

hopefully.

can you eat rooster?

i have

to get rid of these chickens,

this rooster.

always

up at the crack of dawn.

i like the eggs,

but my God,

that rooster is a nuisance.

i look out

the window

and shake my head.

there he is

on top of the lawn mower,

crowing

and crowing.

the sun is up already,

i yell out.

please stop.

can you eat rooster?

the shutdown

she hands

me a list of demands

that must

be made

or else

no love making will occur

until

each one has been

checked off

the list and done.

she's shutting me down.

she's holding me hostage.

keeping me

at bay.

it's funny how things change.

it's a game

of who can hold

out the longest

with tomorrow being another

sad day.

finding warmth

it's a light

lick

of frost, new ice

on

the golden

field,

the window

panes.

just a hint of what's

to follow

as the months

grow

darker,

until spring, once

more appears.

come closer.

come over here.

we need your money for everything to be free

ten

minutes after the socialist

communist

mayor is elected,

based

on the platform of everything

being free,

he goes on

tv

and begs his followers

for money.

send in your

donations now.

you can't make this stuff up.

hilarious.

let the insanity begin.

the potato will save us

Idaho

is excited about the new leadership

in New York City.

just like

in any

communist country

the staple

eventually becomes the potato.

and Idaho

is king of the potato.

they've got your Russets,

your Reds,

your sweet potatoes,

your mini-potatoes in a cute

mesh bag,

your Yukon Golds,

and your baking potato

for when you

have your ration of butter or sour

cream

bought at the government store.

farmers

are dancing in the fields,

doing jigs

on their dusty roads.

nothing like a peeled potato

in a bowl

of gruel

to start the week off right.

not to mention vodka.

who doesn't

like a bottle of potato vodka

as the city goes

to hell

in a handbag overnight?

another tetanus shot

mothers

were always worried about

kids

getting tetanus shots.

as they should

have been.

they stood at the door

with cotton

balls and

alcohol.

we were always

bleeding,

scratched, cut,

bruised.

summer was all out war in

the neighborhood.

thorns

and bushes, tin cans,

splinters,

rusty nails, fist fights,

and fences with sharp

prongs,

rabid

dogs running loose

with teeth

like wolves.

the toaster mirror

you don't look well,

she tells me.

you have dark circles under

your eyes,

the skin on your face

is deep

with lines.

look at you, just look

at you,

all pale

and skinny,

bald as a grapefruit

on the vine.

you're falling apart before

my eyes.

i turn the toaster sideways

to take a look

at my face in the reflection.

oh yeah, right.

Halloween was last night.

no it wasn't, she says.

it was last week.

i think you're out of time.

we'll get through this together

as i boil

water, staring at the pot,

waiting

patiently

while listening to another you tube

video

about the world ending

as we know it,

i find

a bump

on my leg, a little bite

from a spider,

or bug

of some kind.

i find the Neosporin in the junk

drawer

and squeeze out

a dab

and rub it into the swollen

spot,

i'm good at moving

on,

i think, resilient, 

while

still staring at the water

at last bubbling

in the pot.

dear anonymous

it's a good

feeling

to write something that strikes

a nerve,

that ruffles

some feathers, 

raises the blood pressure

and gets

under the skin

of a reader or two.

it's fun.

it means you've accomplished

what you

set out to do,

you've unraveled the nonsense

and stupidity,

and revealed to them

what's true.

here's a Kleenex to wipe

away those tears,

boo hoo.

therapy business is booming

i set up an appointment

with my

therapist via zoom, i can see behind

her in her waiting

room

twenty or more clients,

mostly middle-aged women

and teenage boys and girls.

almost all are wringing their hands

and crying.

muttering to themselves.

some are rocking back and forth

as they pull on their

blue hair

and nose rings.

hey, i say, do you have any

openings for a visit?

i don't know she says, as you can

see i'm so busy.

people are nuts these days

with this TDS syndrome.

business is booming.

i'll miss the orange man when he's gone.

i bought another boat

and a house on the lake, by the way.

but you look well, happy even.

so why do you need to come in?

i don't know, i tell her,

shrugging.

life has been a bowl of cherries

since i got

free from that loony bin.

just wanted to chat for a while,

check in.

shoot the breeze, see if you have

any new recipes for

chicken.

but if you're busy, i completely

understand.

the next great Exodus

from an aerial view

it looks like

the Exodus in the Bible,

thousands

upon thousands fleeing Egypt

for the promised land.

the Red Sea has parted

and away they go,

running with their cattle

and camels, goats

and chickens,

cows and horses,

women and children,

luggage and furniture

strapped

to the tops of their cars.

all heading south

away from New York City.

full speed ahead

for Tallahassee, Sarasota

Miami.

no money to fix things anymore

i should have thought longer

and harder

before renting out the three floor

walk up

in Brooklyn, but the price

was great.

i could see Manhattan through

the barred

bathroom window.

but then the heat went off,

there was rust

in the water, mice were everywhere.

i called the super

and gave him my list of complaints,

but he said, sorry,

no dice, nothing i can do.

the mayor has cut off raising

of the rent, so i don't have the money

anymore to fix things.

sorry dude.

try some cheese and mouse

traps, maybe

bottled war

to shower with

and an extra blanket at night.

rent's due tomorrow, by the way.

we should go on a picnic, she says

when

a woman asks you to go on a picnic,

you are in

like Flint.

when she spends the morning

making

cucumber

sandwiches with the crust

cut off,

and slicing apples into

eight parts,

it means she's thinking of other

things.

there's more

to the checkered blanket

than meets the eye.

look inside 

that country basket for

that bottle of wine

and glasses,

that slice of a fresh baked

peach pie.

there you go.

at last she's on your side.

where have all the flower children gone?

so many

angry people, obsessed 

with

hate

and acrimony.

waking up bitter and mean,

so sad,

so sad.

where is the love child

of the sixties,

the kind,

the merciful,

the peaceniks, the aquarians

wanting to make

a better way?

what happened to the flower

children,

with their crystals

and 

astrology, their yoga meditations

and magic

beans?

oh there they are, back on the street

protesting

with their hair dyed

blue and green.

the girl who loves horses

i see

her coming up the street

on crutches,

a cast

on her leg,

a surgical halo around her head

to keep

it from

bobbing

left and right as she

limps

towards me.

fell off your horse again,

right?

yes, she says, 

smiling wearily,

but it was my fault.

i shouldn't have

told him

to try and jump that fence.

i think i need

to lose some weight.

maybe get on Ozempic.

but i'll be riding again

soon,

maybe a year or two

once they put

a screw in my leg, and surgically

repair

my spine.

i have a down payment

on a new horse, though,

from a breeder in Middleburg,

the last one

didn't make it

when he crashed into the fence

then ran

into the road

where a tractor trailer

full of chickens

ran him over,

but i love horses, she says,

i can't imagine

my life without one.

do you have any extra-strength

Tylenol on you? by the way.

or morphine?

just 5 more democratic votes and the government reopens, easy peasy

all it takes

is 5 more democratic votes

and the government reopens.

snap

benefits go out.

EBTs will be flush again with funds.

workers get paid, planes

will fly.

the military men

and women get their hard

earned checks.

just sixty votes from the left side

of the aisle

to pass the same bill that was

passed 13 times in a row

and things

are fine,

but they won't,

they hold the country hostage

all in the name of giving illegal

immigrants 

benefits and money

they don't deserve.

they'd rather have

citizens starve and die, go broke,

go bankrupt,

get evicted.

and why? TDS, as usual.

cry me an East River

this will be fun,

entertaining, who doesn't love a good

spine

tingling horror/disaster movie.

i've bought extra popcorn

and butter,

nuts and chips,

cold drinks

on ice,

i've set up the big pillows on the couch

to watch what

happens next.

i've thrown another log

onto the fire.

i can hardly wait

to see

what happens to a once beautiful

and prosperous city,

a city that never sleeps.

let's watch

the caravan heading out of town,

as the wealthy flee.

oh my,  New York,

now under rule

by a communist nutcake,

Mandami.

turn off the lights,

it's going to get wild and scary,

hold my hand,

let's watch and see.

let the bread lines begin

what we

need is more government,

he says

on the campaign trail, more

taxes,

more rent control,

government

run grocery stores, free

food,

free buses,

free healthcare,

free gender transitions,

social workers, not police.

we need

to help the criminals

get over their bad childhoods,

help

the mentally

insane

and hug them, set them

free.

we need to follow the ways

of  Eugene Debs

a five time

socialist loser running

for president,

the last time

from the confines of a prison cell.

we need to be more like Cuba

and Venezuela,

North Korea,

and China and the Soviet Union.

East Germany during the cold war.

we need

to be like them.

under the government's thumb.

let the bread lines begin.

careful what you wish for,

my uneducated

and naïve friend.

foot in my mouth

i'd like

to say more, but i stop

myself.

taking

a shoe

and shoving it into

my mouth to keep

the words

from falling

out.

i've said enough for one

night,

one week,

one long life.

the rest let's keep

as mystery,

even to me.

look at me, i'm here

i forget

her birthday, our anniversary,

the day

we met,

and where,

when i forget her phone number,

her address

and her name,

she begins

to worry

and wonder if i'm really

into her.

which i tell her,

of course i am.

look at me, i'm here.

your muse, the sea

when

you take a long walk

in silence

along

the beach, when you stop watching

the news,

stop

talking to people

and converse

with your dog only,

and 

your muse,

the sea,

it occurs to you that the world

isn't so bad

after all.

signing up for the dance class

i sign up

for a dance class down at the 

Elenore Roosevelt community

center.

the ad says,

salsa, rumba, ballroom, the twist,

the Charleston,

and the monkey,

as well as

the limbo.

oh and freestyle, which is my thing.

i'm limping a little

from my

arthritic left

knee

but so is everyone else who

shows up.

it's a little awkward at first,

dancing

while favoring one leg,

but we go on.

a few off us topple

over when

the beat gets faster, 

wigs and toupees go flying,

dentures are everywhere,

but we

roll over

and get up.

finally 

they take Ten Years After,

playing Going Home,

off the record player

and put on

Moon River

with Andy Williams.

now we're cooking and back

on our feet again.

zero talk about real issues

at last

the airways are done with political

ads.

it was getting vicious

and down right

mean.

did you ever

kick your dog, or beat your

wife

in the last year or so.

yes or no?

what about that late night text

you sent

nine years ago to someone

named

Amber.

as governor will you allow

men

to come into your

house

and strip down naked?

yes or no.

do you think Somalian should

be our

first language?

how do you feel about snakes,

or alligators

in our rivers

eating escaped prisoners?

and what about that Maryland

Man,

will you rescue

him

and bring him home again?

if you were a tree

what kind of tree would you be,

and would you

call your opponent

the sap in a tree?

yes or no, you have three seconds

to answer.

New York City will be a paradise now

we're so excited

about the big changes in New York City

with the election

of the socialist communist

34 year old

nepo baby,

former rapper 

and food truck worker from

Uganda. now Mayor.

we love

the city,

walking around,

Central Park, the Broadway Shows,

pizza

and delis galore.

Chinatown is a delight,

as is

Soho and Noho,

the Village and Battery Park.

not to mention

the museums

and the chaotic fun of Times Square.

and now, my comrades,

let's praise

the Lord, or Allah, or whoever

you choose

to bow to,

everything is free.

free free free

with a social worker on every

corner

to hug us when we bleed.

how blessed we

are

with rents frozen for eternity.

no need to hop

the turnstile anymore

to ride the subway,

or sneak

onto buses, or ditch the check

at Katz's deli,

or Sparks,

the Rockefellers and Gatsby's got that.

no longer do we have to bring

three of our saved

paychecks

when we get off the bus at

Penn Station.

and thankfully there will be

less policemen

there to harass us

when being robbed of the few

dollars, watches and rings

we've brought.

paradise for you,

paradise for me.

let's rejoice, let's sing.

who's your daddy?

what's wrong, Tex?

i asked my cowboy buddy

as he

sat on the front porch twirling his

rope.

i'm tired, he said,

squinting in that cowboy

way he did

even when there was no sun.

i'm tired of rounding

up cattle,

riding the trail, eating beans

over a campfire

and wearing these stupid

chaps on my legs.

my toes hurt from these pointy boots.

well then, why don't you quit

and do something else

with your life?

get an office job.

i can't, he says,

slapping his dusty

hat against his leg, a piece

of straw

dangling from his parched

lips.

everyone knows me as a cowboy.

that's who i am.

plus the rodeo is coming next

week and my name

is on a poster.

i don't know if i can handle

another broken

arm or leg, but what choice

do i have?

thanks to my daddy,

i'm a cowboy until the end.

i hear she's doing this now

it's hearsay,

a rumor, a bit of gossip

whispered

over

lunch,

from one mouth

to another,

on the phone, a cryptic

text

passed down.

maybe it's true,

maybe it isn't. whatever

it may be,

it's so much more

fun than

the daily news.

careful what you wish for

strange

how different we are.

seeing

the same set of facts and yet

believing

differently how

things should go

in deciding which candidate

to vote for.

it seems to be an

open and shut

case.

but it isn't.

common sense seems

to have lost

its once

guiding light

and 

persuasive powers.

the endless paper

so much

paper,

in boxes, in drawers,

bins

stacked

in the closet.

taxes

and letters,

warranties and decrees.

receipts

and recipes.

manuals,

postcards, so much

paper,

so much debris.

drifts and drifts of life,

a sea

of history.

still yet to be swayed

into

believing in

things received

electronically.

there's no sympathy for trees.

what's it all about Alfie?

in my younger

days,

when i thought i was Tom Jones,

or Alfie,

playing the field,

juggling

girls

like colorful balls in the air,

i dreaded

Christmas.

i had to get a side job just

for all gifts

i had to buy

to keep them

in the rotation. i spent

many nights

carefully wrapping and putting

tags on each

according

to size.

plus, medium, petite and large.

it was always nice

to find

something

that said

one size fits all.

gloves and hats were easiest

to buy.

lingerie was a nightmare.

a real dive bar

it wasn't a faux

dive

bar

that we found in the woods,

no, it was the real deal where

the servers

had severe

dental issues,

and the owner

was on probation for

serving

minors,

and stealing cars.

there was a dog

tied up

out back to a truck tire

in the rain.

they specialized in sloppy

joe's

and liver and onions,

breakfast

all day.

from which animal it all

came from,

who's to know.

there was always a man

asleep

with his head on the bar,

sleeping one off,

and a women

in the back,

with her dress pulled up

as she

shaved her legs, and sang

a song.

the floors were tilted like

a sinking ship,

and the roof leaked,

we ordered eggs and sausage

to go, not staying long,

then ate it in the car.

Julie's two bottles of beer

almost

everyday, when i open

the refrigerator door

i see on

the shelf

two bottles of beer

in green glass,

the labels

nearly worn off from age.

Julie left them here

along

with one

shoe,

a dress, a book, and an

alarm

clock.

once day i'll put it all into

a box

and call her.

but not today.

i'm busy.

all those ticking watches

i open

the top drawer to look

at all of my

watches.

gifts, ones i bought for myself

because

they looked

fancy.

a few hand me downs.

all them still ticking,

behind or ahead

exactly

one hour.

gold bands,

silver,

rubberized straps,

leather bands,

black and brown.

red.

one is engraved and says

i'll love you

until the end of time.

that one,

the battery has run out.

we never went there Kim says

we never landed on the moon,

Kim K. tells

me

as she does her long nails,

and 

studies her phone.

adjusting her

enormous bottom

in a folding chair.

what?

i say.

what are you talking about?

we went there

six times.

fabricated, she says, it's a hoax.

a movie

production

to make us look great in the eyes

of the world.

no one could possibly

go to the moon,

it would be in all the papers,

in the news.

and why would they go there

anyway.

there's no air,

no water, no food.

just rocks.

there's not a single nail salon

up there.

Houston we have a problem

i bring

a book to the car dealership,

to wile

away the hours

as they work

on my car

and its flashing dashboard

lights

saying,

get out quickly,

run,

the brakes system has

failed,

abandon all hope,

Houston we have a problem,

run far.

say goodbye

to your loved ones

and get your house in order,

or bring it in for the oil

change

and brake fluid

replacement.

you're overdue by ten

hours.

listen kid, this is what you need to do

if you

had a wise person in your

life

at an early age,

an elder

who sat you down

to give

you advice,

a teacher, a parent,

a stranger on the street,

would you

have even listened

and took note, 

adjusted the path you

were on?

probably not, but

it would have

been nice

just the same.

forever young

was she angry,

smiling,

sad,

disappointed, happy?

was she

pleased with me,

uncertain?

it was hard to tell

anymore

where she stood with

anything.

a bi-monthly

injection had

kept her inscrutable,

kept her young.

small problems along the way

it's a pebble

in my shoe,

a piece of lint

on the sweater,

something caught

between

my teeth.

these are things i'll

get to

eventually.

the untied shoe,

the button

come loose,

the door

that won't close,

and you.

as the world burns

we drive

by the scream of sirens

going

in the other direction and talk

about dinner.

we pay

no mind to the traffic

in the other lanes

at a standstill, bumper

to bumper,

the blaring of horns.

the smell of smoke

and ash

in the air.

we roll the windows up

and

we drive on,

we ponder what shall it be

tonight, 

Mexican or Thai,

or just keep

driving home and heat up

what we find.

same as it always was

i find

the broken eggs on my porch

difficult

to wash off.

i boil water,

then pour it on the dried yolks.

i get the broom

out.

the ice scraper.

it's hopeless, so i turn my

attention

to the graffiti

on the brick,

getting the power washer

out.

at last,

i start winding up all the toilet

paper

draped across my

roof and trees.

crazy kids.

you gotta love em.

same as it always was.

Sunday morning payday

around 5 a.m.

i wake up, hearing the rustling

of coins

and keys.

my belt buckle

clicking

against itself.

i look across the bedroom

to see her

bent over in

the dimly lit room,

going through my wallet

and pant pockets.

counting cash.

licking her thumb

with each

bill, mumbling

out the count.

i say nothing, and lie back

down.

maybe it's just a bad dream.

we love everyone, but you

they like

their signs, God Bless this House,

planted

in the front yard.

we like

all people.

black, brown, white

and all the ones in between.

Buddhist?

we don't care,

Catholic, Atheist, come one

come all.

Coexist.

it takes a village.

be kind,

be generous, be inclusive,

peace and love

to all mankind,

but whatever you

do,

don't be conservative

and vote

on the right.

the train awaits

it's all

glitter and glam,

confetti

and champagne at first.

and then

the hangover

sets in.

the wedding dress is saran

wrapped

in the closet.

it's the morning after.

there's bills to pay,

a dog

to walk,

bushes to be trimmed.

is this milk

sour?

what's the expiration date?

how about

we scramble some eggs

before we go

our separate ways?

no.

i have to go,

the train awaits.

i'll be home after

seven or so, no need to wait up,

i'll be

working the late.

it was Becky who smashed my pumpkin

there's

a smashed pumpkin on my porch,

a few cracked

eggs as well

splattered on the door.

large brown shells

are scattered about.

they look organic,

from free range chickens,

no doubt.

i have my suspicions

as to who

the culprit was

who carried this Halloween

mayhem out.

i think it was Becky, the comptroller

of the condo

board,

and yoga instructor for Antifa,

the eighty-year-old

blue haired

spinster

three houses down.

we've never gotten along,

not since the day i moved in twenty

three years ago

and put

the stars and stripes out.

sleep walking through the early years

strange

to sleepwalk. to get up

in the middle of

the night,

in the middle

of a dream

and stumble around the house.

to open

doors,  go down flights

of stairs

and walk about

as if awake.

it reminds me so much

of what i did

daily

in my early years

from nine

to five

when i punched the clock

for a paycheck.

the rain will eventually stop

i lost

track of time, of days.

the constant

rain

kept me home

for weeks.

i grew a long

white beard,

i ran out of books to read,

and then the sun came out.

i got in my rowboat

with my dog,

my cat,

my parakeet and mouse,

and started rowing

towards the  7-11.

i could see it's saving light

in the distance,

things

will be fine.

the toy trumpet for Christmas

eventually

we had to hide his toy trumpet.

it was a Christmas

mistake,

so were the drums

and the tuba,

the tambourine and kazoo.

eventually we taught

the boy how

to be a mime,

like Marcel Marceau,

then things were fine.

you could see it in her eyes

he was

a wild dog, you could see

it in her eyes

she was a cup

of crazy,

the constant barking,

the gnawing

on furniture

and shoes,

impossible to housetrain,

and yet i loved her.

my usual mistake.

a little Trumper at the door

only

one child knocked on the door

last night

with a plastic

pumpkin

to carry his candy around.

one small

boy

dressed as the president,

with an orange

wig,

blue suit and red tie.

trick or treat, he said,

doing a fine impersonation

for a five

year old.

he held his pumpkin out.

take as much as you want

mr. president, i told him.

we all think

you're doing a wonderful

job.

we're looking forward to

three more years.

love the ballroom idea,

by the way.

you have a way with 

the wrecking ball.

then he did a little dance

as i put the Village People

on.

Costco won't let me in

who

are these people keeping me out of Costco

and Sam's Club,

without

an ID.

without a membership

card.

how evil,

how despicable

the world

has become.

i have rights too, i'm human

and need

to eat. i need to drink,

to put clothes

on my back.

my ancestors came over on

the Mayflower, or a ship

similar to that.

how

dare they

ask me for

identification.

a driver's license, or

a library card,

a place that i bank at.

what has this country come to?

they won't let me into

their big store.

these uniformed

rent a cop fascists.

the blood is everywhere

with luck,

and endurance, after

ten thousand

words

tumble out from this machine.

i might stumble

upon

one good poem, one

structured

and 

thoughtful piece of art.

a single one

worth keeping.

it's rare, but i wait for it,

i wait to pick up

that one

diamond on a highway

of broken glass.

the blood

is everywhere.

only two more months to go

i remember

my mother standing in the kitchen,

at the counter,

sweat

on her brow,

flour on her nose,

her red apron on,

making cookies, Christmas was

only 75 days away.

she'd wipe her

glasses clean

on the curtain of the open

window.

we stood

and waited for one or two samples,

at the most.

still warm from

the oven,

before she froze the rest

in wrapped

batches, carefully

labeled and placed in the ice box.

she used every

spoon, every spatula,

and mixer, every bowl,

every long tray

she had in her arsenal.

nuts of all kinds.

brown

and white sugar. vanilla extract,

chocolate,

candied sprinkles.

all without

a recipe in sight.

so many cookies, so many

children.

none of it would last long.

this one time in band camp

live

long enough, and you'll

accumulate

a lot of ribald stories,

bawdy

tales of youth

and beyond.

many that you've embellished

over the years,

expanded

and changed, honed to a fine

a point.

you've become a modern day,

Red Foxx or

Mark Twain.

you don't even bother

using fake

names anymore,

as you scrawl with your verbal pen,

because most of the characters

in your stories

are long gone.

and they can't correct

a thing.

tinkling issues

on the fourth

visit

to dribble out pee into

the dark

bathroom,

as the night drains on,

but not me,

i figure it's time to google

web md

and investigate

this prostate thing.

to find

a supplement to unclog

the pipes,

so to speak.

google will know what

to do,

or maybe the reliable

ChatGPT.

drill baby drill

this is by all accounts

the dentist's favorite day of the year.

Halloween.

in a month

or so,

he'll reap the reward

of Mary Janes

stuck in

the molars of so many children's

mouths,

the candied apples,

the double bubble gum,

the chocolate bars,

the lollipops.

all disintegrating

those young pearly whites.

what fun.

finding a place for things

so much

of life is spent finding a place

for things.

a place

to live,

a home with

trees

near water, and

where to put the chairs,

the tables,

which wall to hang

a picture on.

should the bed be near the window,

what about the orange vase

your mother

gave us

for Christmas,

in full display on the mantle?

or is there

room for it

still,

in the cellar?

guaranteed to last a life time

the ad says,

guaranteed to last a lifetime,

but i have

my doubts.

no salesman will visit your home

it proclaims,

buy three

get the fourth one free,

able to get the most

stubborn

of stains out.

we're going out of business,

everything

must go,

no credit check, it's your

last chance

before we close for good.

promises made,

promises kept.

it'll put a spring in your step,

hair on your head,

make your wife

happy.

no sugars added,

no MSG.

everything you see and buy,

is one hundred per cent

guaranteed.

money back

if not satisfied, return

the unused portion

within in thirty days,

without

a receipt.

winter travel

it's cold

and the mice

want in, i see them

gathering

at

the small crevice in the brick,

with their

long coats on,

hats and gloves,

carrying

their luggage.

papers in hand.

the line moves slowly,

but they're patient,

one at a time

the mouse at the turnstile

says.

pointing,

turn left at the vent

and up you go

to the attic.

pj's with long sleeves

after

the cold strikes,

and the rain overnight

has ceased,

the window

is yellow

with trees.

how quickly it all changes.

once you

were young,

rushing out the door

to work,

and now this,

staring out the window

in your

pj's

with long sleeves.

maybe they don't know

maybe they don't know,

i think,

as i sit on the park bench

watching

grown men

and women, children fishing

at the man

made lake.

i watch them sliding worms

onto hooks

and casting out

into the murky water,

sinking their lines

with small lead weights.

maybe they don't know

that Safeway has fish now.

a beautiful field of mushrooms

it was exciting

in a way,

the siren wailing over the elementary

school,

us under our desks,

protected by

paper

and wood, the teacher

trying to keep

us calm

before telling us to run

home to our

homes,

our dad and moms.

we didn't understand, but

we were happy

to have

an early afternoon off.

we wondered

if doing our

homework was even

necessary once the bombs

began to drop,

creating a beautiful

field of mushrooms.

tomatoes for the road

when

i see the tomatoes

still on

the vines

at the store, i pick them

up and hold

them to my nose.

there were so many

late summers

when i took

bags of them

home.

he loved his garden, his

little plot

of land

beneath the window,

beside

the concrete patio.

it's rare

to hold one in my hand

these days and

not think

of him,

his tomatoes for the road.

there's a story here

it's a reminder,

this

ring on the wood

of the old

table, once new,

a spot where many

wet cups

were set,

carelessly left,

glasses of wine,

mugs

of beer. cold bottles,

warm

drinks.

it's a tale, a quiet story,

but not forgotten

of who

was here.

sticks and stones

it was easier

when in grade school to insult

your

childhood

colleagues

that you disagreed

with or didn't like.

you called each other names

on the playground,

like fatso,

stupid,

butthead, or skinny minnie,

but truthfully

not much has changed.

now instead of saying

we don't like

you, or that i beg to differ,

we call each other names

like Hitler or

Mussolini,

or Pol Pot, or Hanoi Jane.

this land is your land, etc.

my friend Lucy,

tells me that there should be no borders,

zero.

this land is

everyone's land, like

the song says,

from California to Long Island.

hmmm,

i say.

watching her as she jabs her

arm with a safety pin.

so at night, you don't lock

your doors,

or windows.

it's okay if someone breaks into

your house,

and sleeps in your

bed or couch,

eats your food and takes your

car for a ride?

you're good with that?

paying their doctor bills, putting

their kids in school,

clothing them, tucking

them in at night?

you don't want a fence around

your house, a wall,

a security camera? nothing?

all doors swing open?

well, that's different, she says.

i'm talking about countries,

not houses.

before you order the wedding cake

it's important

to examine someone's medicine

cabinet

before making

a commitment.

peer into a few closets,

look under

the bed,

go down to the cellar,

climb the steps

to the attic,

and when you can,

dive into their phone.

open a few

drawers,

before the ring goes on,

become snoop dog,

Sherlock Holmes,

Columbo.

Angela Lansbury in

Murder

She Wrote.

that's what love is, right?

she knew how

to push

my buttons, rattle my cage,

get under

my skin,

confuse and abuse

my mental

state.

she knew how to gaslight,

to white

lie her

way through the day,

into the night.

but i looked the other way,

because that's

what love is?

right?

taking control of my life

in a desperate

move

for order, for reason and stability,

i make my bed.

i pull the sheets

up tight

around the mattress

after shaking free the crumbs

of chips

and cookies,

then carefully

lay out the blanket,

smoothing out the creases.

i fluff the pillows

as i line them up

against the headboard.

i stand back and admire my

handiwork

after adjusting a lampshade.

i'm in control here.

this could possibly

be the beginning

of a new day.

nearly every breath you take

we see things

we've never seen before.

floods and fires,

volcanoes,

twisters

and earthquakes.

we have close ups

of animals

deep in the woods,

in the ocean,

the moon

and mars,

surgical procedures.

there's someone at the door,

in the car.

we see robberies, crimes

of all sorts,

the cameras are

everywhere.

in your ears,

your mouth.

not second goes by

without 

a moment of our lives

being recorded.

everyone's a star.

nurse on reserve

i find

a piece of broken glass

on the floor

with my

left foot

causing a small but

painful

gash.

i drip blood behind me

as i walk

to the hall closet where

the red cross

box

waits for me,

and my nurse, Jenna,

who sits

me down

and cleans the wound,

wraps it

tight.

will there be anything else,

she asks?

yes, i tell her,

dinner at eight, tonight.

the quiet majority

it's less

crowded as you go to vote early.

still

there's a line, but it

moves along

quickly.

people are polite,

both left and right.

they talk

and smile, 

stamp their feet

and rub

their hands in the cold.

there's no rabble rousers

there.

no flag burning nut cakes.

this is what most Americans

are like.

peaceful and able

to agree to disagree

before

casting their

vote, then

going for coffee as they

walk around the lake.

a twist on Halloween

it's a strange twist

for the blue

haired,

septum ring

wearing

crazies on the street protesting.

the costumes

they wear,

of blow up

frogs and dog,

chickens. men in dresses,

girls

in combat boots

will come off.

this Halloween they will

clean themselves

up, take a shower,

brush their hair and go out as

normal people,

republicans.

tit for tat

is everything

a negotiation with you, she asks.

is that how

it's going to be,

tit for tat,

a transactional relationship?

maybe,

i tell her,

and if you stop

talking for one second,

i'll answer that.

the dumbing of America

what is the word?

is it

chutzpah?

is that it, what the next

mayor

of New York has.

free buses,

free housing, frozen rents,

free healthcare.

he will build us a Shangri-La

in the big apple.

he's surrounded

by men

in turbans, and young women

with blue hair,

and soy boys

with soft hands,

chanting cult like,

all of them with low IQ's.

math and economics 101,

not being

their favorite subject.

reality is coming.

good times are coming

i rub my hands

together,

pull on my red wool socks

and go

out into the yard

for wood

to build a fire.

there's snow on the ground.

i should have

put pants on,

it's cold.

i feel like a farmer

in 1929,

though less depressed.

i'm sure good times will

come back

around.

two lips pressed together

she kisses

me with her red lips

and leaves

an imprint

of lipstick on my cheek

and neck.

she's marked me

for the day.

i'm hers,

i'll have no chance

with the rest.

so that's what lipstick

is for,

ah ha.

the new year book edition

the obituaries

scare

you.

these people are younger

than you.

much younger.

why are they dropping like flies.

look at them

in their suits

and dresses,

their fine shirts with

ties.

it's a new yearbook edition

for the next

school

up there in the clouds,

higher learning

in the skies.

lemon chicken, no, come on now

i see on

the news an ex of mine at the Portland

Ice

detention center

in a gas mask.

she's throwing

rocks,

and chanting, spitting,

saying

words i never heard her say

before.

it's the angriest

i've seen her

since

we were married and i told

her i can't eat

this lemon chicken

anymore.

Sugar Town

i wouldn't know

Bad Bunny, the performer

who will be playing at the Superbowl,

if he came hopping

down

the street with an

Easter basket

full of chocolate eggs.

but then again,

i don't know a single song

by Taylor Swift,

or Miley Cyrus,

or Queen Latifa.

or Snoop Dog. i'm so far out

the loop

of music.

what the hell's a Drake?

i'm still putting vinyl records

onto the turn table.

singing to the Zombies

greatest hits,

which were only three songs,

really.

followed by Nancy Sinatra

singing,

Sugar Town.

vacancy, rooms available, free-wifi and a continental breakfast

with each

new

soul mate, i got a tattoo

on my arm,

along with

the painful

process of the laser gun

erasing,

the list of other

names,

the names of girls,

then women

i hooked my wagon to.

finally,

my arm ravaged with scar

tissue,

limp at my side

from love

gone wrong,

i had to go to the other

arm,

which read vacancy.

rooms available,

free wi-fi,

and a continental breakfast.

please apply.

stay off it for awhile

i know

this bister on my foot

will heal,

but

in the middle of it, red,

and sore,

oozing.

it feels as if it might

never end.

almost

everyday there's

something

like that,

a wound that hurts, 

but with time, and care,

mends.

the street opera

there's approximately

eight men,

a few women,

at the crack

of dawn,

all in green vests and white

hard hats,

digging into

the street, a nice tidy

square where one man

climbs down. the trucks are lined

up along the curb.

one person waves

you forward with his sign,

another person,

holds traffic coming the other way.

it's an all-day affair.

an orchestrated

play.

the jack hammers

hammering,

the shovels and tar,

the steam roller

at the end as the sun goes

down, and the world

is almost under

the stars.

the fat lady at last singing.

plumber Mike

he smiles,

knowingly, then pulls

down his welder's mask

and lights

the torch,

bends to the pipe

in the tightest

of corners,

fixing

the smallest of leaks.

a tiny

hole in the copper elbow

where

water springs out.

it could

ruin

everything, but there's

nothing to fret

about.

it's easy

for him, saving the world,

one weld

at a time.

satisfying, as you pay him

whatever

he wants

for five minutes

of time.

three wads of bubblegum lost in her hair

i was in the eleventh

grade

at the time, slow dancing to

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts club

band,

with Vivian

my new flame,

when i accidentally lost the gum

i was chewing

in her hair.

her long black hair that she

swung around

with youthful exuberance

when doing cheers

next to the football field.

i tried to wiggle the gum out

with my lips, my tongue,

my teeth,

but only buried it deeper.

and then she screamed.

her parents came running down

the stairs,

and the other couples jumped

from the couches

interrupting their make out

sessions.

the lights went on and the music

stopped.

ice didn't work,

her girlfriends gathered around

her as she cried.

i slunk away,

out the door. backpedaling.

the following Monday i saw

her in school, walking down

the hallway,

cold and silent.

her hair cut as short as Mia Farrow's

in Rosemary's baby.

the Macaroni Grill

she arrived

at the bar in her yellow corvette,

circa 1979.

which she parked

diagonally in the lot.

her hair

was of the same era,

stacked

high on her head,

a beehive

if there ever was one.

she wore

a purple dress,

and when

she opened her purse

for a tube of lipstick i spied a pink

handgun.

a small derringer

with her initials

engraved into the handle.

i asked her

about the gun,

and she told me that she

just got off

work at her mother's liquor

store where

she worked behind

the counter,

and plexiglass.

we're robbed almost every week,

she said.

then picked up the menu

and asked,

so what's good here?

where do i put this trash?

the green

scam, the eco-friendly,

the climate

change

activists,

the environmentally

safe

paint

and oil, chemical

additives,

the blue bin

for

tin or paper,

glass

or plastic.

stop the madness

with your five barrels

for a variety

of trash.

relax,

and have a cold one,

the world

is a bar of soap, how

long can

it last.

i don't want the winner

give me

the plain, the simple,

the ordinary.

give me

the vanilla, the same thing

over

and over

again.

spare me the exotic fruit,

the smooth operator,

the special,

the extraordinary,

those who

have personality plus.

i don't want

the four star,

or the blue ribbon,

the winner

of the beauty contest.

don't give me the overreach,

give me

something normal,

someone

i can trust.

house triage

it's a long list,

a myriad

of broken things around the house.

a key

is snapped

in two

stuck in the front door.

wind seeps

through

a crack in the window.

the sink

leaks,

only one burner on the oven

works.

the light in the hall

is burned out,

the ac

is on the fritz.

what get's fixed first,

i ask my

therapist,

which makes her shake

her head

and say,

let's start with you, then

we'll go

down the list.

we need more voters on our side, so let's open the borders

it's a theory

maybe, or maybe it's true

that the

influx

of ten million undocumented

people crossing

the border

are coming over

into the open arms of a certain

political party

for free stuff,

funded credit cards,

food, clothing, 

free room and board in fine

hotels,

medical

care and schools.

plus they get to vote with no

ID, zero identification

at all.

just a guess, but you kind of

know who

that vote will be for.

one spank on a full diaper

i remember

striking

my son once on his bottom.

he was about

to stick a flat head

screwdriver

into a light switch, which

may or may not

have burned the whole

place down.

i sprained my hand on his

thick heavy

diaper

waiting to be changed.

i iced it, wrapped it

with an ace bandage and put

the tool away.

he looked at me

with tears in his eyes,

and frowned.

no wind in my sail

there is no more

wind

in my sail

for argument, for difficult

people,

for trouble

small or large.

enough

is enough, those days

are far

gone.

a handful of loved

ones,

at peace with themselves

and world,

is fine now.

before i rest what's tired

the windows

left

open over night

leaves

the house cold

when coming home.

it feels as

if might snow

in here

at any moment.

the sink

is dripping ice.

i throw another

blanket onto the bed.

another

long onto the fire,

the kettle

whistles,

bread rises in the oven.

more wood

to chop

before the sun goes down,

before

i lie down, before i rest

what's tired.

look at me, walking without a limp

when my

knee hurts, the left one in particular,

from 50 years

of sports,

bone on bone

according to my

doctor Jimmy, i try

to fake

the pain, and try to stroll

around as if

i'm still of a younger age.

i still got it.

i'm fine,

i'm not melting or disintegrating

before your

eyes.

no crutch, no walker, no

knee replacement

for me.

see, look at me walk,

look at

the spring in my step

as i grip a shopping cart.

i got this

i tell the world as i fill it

up with prunes

and Ensure,

24 in a box.

the golden age of slow motion

the commercial

for

fine dining,

and dancing,

is in slow motion, so is

the one

for whiskey

and a cruise

across the Atlantic,

the senior

home,

elderly sitting by a fire,

laughing,

all in slow motion,

pickle ball,

and fireworks,

even

the waves arriving

on shore

from the ocean.

all of it in slow motion.

they know

what we want,

don't they?

let's slow this world

down,

we have money

and we're not quite ready

to leave.

first job as a fry cook at Bob's Burgers

so where

do you see yourself in five years,

the interviewer

asked me

as i applied for the minimum

wage job

as a fry

cook at Bob's Burgers.

close your eyes

and take your time with

your answer,

the manager told me.

a kid going to

junior college studying

yoga

and bee keeping.

umm, i said.

i see myself in a corner

office

on wall street making the big

bucks,

with a big house,

a sports car

and a hot wife named Amber

who wears

a red bikini all day.

okay, okay.

the manager says.

are you willing to cut your

hair, or wear

a hair net

as you fry the potatoes?

sure, i tell him.

great, you're hired.

the weekend social warrior blues

again

i see my neighbor,

the protest weekend warrior,

on her

porch crying.

what's up, i ask, putting

my hand

on her shoulder.

she smells like

tear gas

and jail, Doritos.

i was in the pokey all night,

she tells me,

rubbing her

eyes.

her face is red as a tomato.

i shouldn't

have punched that cop,

but he wouldn't

talk to me, or answer my

questions

about the constitution.

so i hit him.

i think my ribs are bruised

from

his Billy club pushing against

me when

i joined the crowd

and tried to rush the detention

center.

i don't think i can play

pickleball

today,

or tomorrow, not to mention

go to the shoe

sale at Norstrom's

this weekend.

my left foot is swollen where it

got hit with a pepper

ball.

the secret of a good marriage

to truly

get along, we have to overlook

our differences

and smile.

we have to ignore each

other's short

comings,

faults

and weird habits.

we have to look the other

way,

when something stupid is

said,

or done.

we have to pretend

that words

don't matter,

it's the only

way

to stay together and move on.

i just made a salad, take a look

amazed

by the new phone,

the first

phone,

not the wall phone but the phone

in my

pocket, like

most people i took pictures

of everything

then sent them along

for discussion,

or a like,

or a wow.

i took pictures of sunsets,

sunrises.

cups of coffee,

even salads.

oh look,

there's a bird on a branch,

a snake

on the ground.

don't ask me why i was

such a shutter

bug, but i've changed,

i rarely

take it out now

unless it's something really

really special,

like over there in

that field,

a cow.

don't let it slide

it sends

a chill down your back

when

you realize what's true,

what isn't.

it's a bright light within

you,

and yet

there's darkness everywhere

else.

how long

can you go without saying

a word.

without telling

the world what you know?

maybe

let it slide, let it go.

no.

betting on the games NBA style

you hear

two NBA players whispering to each

other as they

sit on the bench

adjusting their

solid

gold chains

around their necks.

both multi-millionaires.

yo,

i'm going to sit out the fourth

quarter,

i've got a hundred

grand

on this game

saying that we lose.

so it's best i don't participate.

i'm going to fall

down at half time

and pretend my

ankle hurts.

dang,

the other one says, i've got

a bet down

too with Luciano Maggiano,

that i'll get three more dunks

before the game

is over.

but i'll make sure we lose, okay?

deal?

deal, brother.

new job opportunities

there are so many new

job

opportunities these days.

you can go work

for ICE

rounding up

illegal immigrants,

or become a paid protester

on the streets

protesting

the rounding up of illegal

immigrants.

each with a sizable

salary.

it's hard to decide which one

to do.

each has a uniform,

a hat and mask,

some cool boots.

one has a green vest with

a variety of signs and

megaphone to carry,

while

and the other one has

night vision goggles

and unlimited

pepper spray.

we are all know it alls now

it's a blah

blah

blah world. talking heads

blabbering

about what's right or wrong.

what to do

next.

we are all know it alls now.

everyone has an opinion,

and have had

it always.

it's just

that now they're on the street

corner,

or online

with wide open mouths,

day into night

as the sun goes down.

synthetic oil

it's a rough

tight room at the Jiffy Lube.

the walls

are yellowed, not

from paint,

but from time.

after i agree with the pirate

behind 

the cut-out window

for synthetic oil

i pick up

a magazine

off the table with Liz Taylor

on the front,

getting

divorced again,

but keeping her weight down.

i rub my fist

against the porthole in the wall

to look into

the garage

to see how my car is doing.

the hood is up,

the doors are

open. i can see someone's

arms

sticking up from under it

with a wrench

of some kind.

a man comes in looking sad,

holding

my air filter.

okay, i tell him, then

sit back down.

i see there's a bathroom

with a sign on the door

that says,

Anyone.

but i feel that

i can hold it until i get home.

the leaves can wait

with the rake

leaning against the wall,

the winter

sun

is a good sun to sit out

in.

to have it kiss you

gently

on the face,

to warm you

as the leaves fall.

it's

nice to sit here and do

nothing

letting the low

yellow

sun

wash over you.

the leaves can wait

a little while

longer.

destroying a precious shrine

i take a sledge hammer

to the shed

in the yard,

it's full of cobwebs and mold.

old rusted

tools,

a bike with flat tires,

when the condo board

president comes over

screaming, asking

what are you doing?

do you know what an

historic national shrine

that shed is?

how dare you destroy

what has stood there

since 1968. you have

some nerve, some gall.

and what do you plan to

do once this precious old

shed is gone?

build a nicer one i tell her.

something with a chandelier,

big windows to let

in the light,

a dance floor, room for

everyone that i want to visit me,

excluding you.

saving the wildlife and being a good person

i prove to myself

that i'm

a good person by stopping

the car

and carrying a turtle

across the road.

my headlights

catch the dull sheen 

of it's green

thatched shell.

it will be my good deed

for the day.

i talk to it softly, telling it,

common on slow poke,

you have to speed

it up when

crossing the road.

i take a picture of it to share

with others.

unfortunately, it snaps

and bites me

on the hand

as i pick it up from

underneath.

i had no idea that their

necks could stretch out

that far.

angered, i fling the ungrateful

turtle as far as

i can. luckily, i hear

a splash

in a nearby creek.

he didn't hit a tree or a rock,

so he didn't crack.

so i guess i'm a good person

after all.

but now to the clinic

for a tetanus shot.

the passing of Mary Beth

there's a picture

of Mary Beth in the newspaper.

i had a crush on her

in high school.

she was once

queen of the prom,

captain of the cheerleaders,

valedictorian

and voted most likely

to succeed.

she passed away in her sleep

after a long illness,

after forty years

of working at Walmart.

if i had known

she worked there i would have

gone in once

in a while.

i can still see her in that red

bikini.

i have a picture in my wallet.

don't waste your life

i unwrap

the book that comes in the mail

without

a return

address written on it.

i don't recognize the handwriting.

it could be

from anyone.

brother, sister, parent or friend.

the book is

titled 

Don't Waste Your Life.

tips on living

your best life,

being productive and putting

your best

foot forward

in all your endeavors.

it's a step by

step manual on

finding out the reason why 

you're here

on earth.

i flip through the pages,

skim,

then throw it into waste bin.

it's too late in the game

for such nonsense.

the destination wedding

they insisted

on formal wear, on tuxedos,

gowns,

bling,

shiny shoes and done

up hair.

it was a destination wedding

to Bali.

it cost us nearly three thousand

dollars

in air fare

and lodging for the week.

gifts

and luggage,

a car rental.

it was a wonderful wedding

on the beach

with a band and unlimited

food and drinks.

two weeks

later, they got divorced.

we're having our

lawyer look into this for a refund.

shut up

it's interesting

when

someone tells you that you've

had

all the advantages

that others

don't have.

that's why you have a house

and money,

a car.

things, so many things.

the color

of your skin

got you here, your parents

and their

money.

it's hilarious, funny to hear

as i think

back 

and remember the church

leaving

food on our porch,

food stamps

and social workers trying

to split us up,

the electricity 

being cut off because there

was not a penny

to pay the bills.

we had no car.

holes in our shoes.

everything was hand me down.

there was

no air conditioning in a house

with broken

windows,

one bathroom

for eight.

but we somehow survived

and made

due.

then we went to work.

what's your excuse?

even the sky seems bluer

we're not

far from the city, maybe

fifty miles

out,

heading west when we

see cows

and horses.

red barns,

long fields of corn

and grain,

clap board houses with people

on the porch

who wave.

even the sky seems bluer

above

the wind vanes.

it's another world,

another

way.

rarely anything new that's good

it's difficult

to have an original thought

when you're

plugged in

all day,

at work,

on a jog, a walk.

there's someone in your

ear

and eyes

telling you how to think,

how to behave,

teaching you

what to say.

the absence of being silent

is killing

culture.

that's why there's very

little new

music

or books, or poetry.

everything thing is less

than what it was,

or feels

the same.

dough boys

we need

more plumbers,

more electricians, skilled

carpenters

and roofers,

painters and drywall

workers.

we need men to lay tar

on the roads

to build

with wood and brick,

steel.

we need someone

to drive

the trucks,

the cranes, the back hoes.

we need

architects

and planners.

but the young want to take

the easy way out,

sitting behind

a desk

with soft hands

and manicured nails,

turning into dough.

drug cartel boats go boom

as if in

a video game, the speed boats

and makeshift

drug cartel

submarines are being blown 

to smithereens

on the highs seas.

they appear to be

full

of sacks of cocaine

and whatever

other lethal concoctions

they've made.

some say

about time, while others cry

and say

what about their rights?

shouldn't we catch them

first

and process them to see if

they've actually

committed a crime.

maybe we can talk to them

and ask them

why.

give them safe haven,

with three meals

and a bed,

health care and a psychologist

to see what's

on their mind.

sometimes a hug is all a person

needs to turn

their life around.

meanwhile,

maybe a thousand less people

have overdosed

and died.

i have no idea what anyone was talking about, but it was fun

it's a fine group

of elderly folk, some i know,

some i don't.

the ten of us

meet up

in a Mexican restaurant

located in a building

about to be torn down.

there's a sombrero on the wall.

tin placards

of tacos

and burritos,

margaritas.

photos of old Mexico

with burros

and banditos wearing long

bands

of bandoleros.

looking for trouble

riding under movie like clouds.

i don't hear a word of what anyone

is saying,

everyone talking at the same

time and the music

being so loud.

so i just nod

and smile,

agreeing to whatever the

conversation is about.

occasionally i reach for the bean

dip and stick a chip

in, being

careful not to spill.

in case of emergency dial 911

i notice

in the far realm

of the top shelf of the refrigerator

a can

of whipped cream

left over from

last Thanksgiving

when Betty came over with a pumpkin pie.

the tin bottom

has a little rust on it.

hmmm.

can it possibly still be good.

i give it a good shake,

open my mouth,

and squirt in a large stream

of sugary sweet

cream.

i throw a maraschino

cherry into

the mix,

once i run hot water over

the stuck lid.

so far so good.

but we'll see how the night goes.

i'll keep my phone

nearby.

something has to give

it's a disheartening sign

when you

hear that gun sales

are up.

but so is consumption 

of donuts

and big gulps.

potato chips

and dips.

people are emotionally eating

whiles

packing heat

in their bulging yoga

pants and under

their ponchos

and mohair sweaters,

something has to give.

taking the bait daily

the internet

is now

the National Enquirer

as it was

when growing up.

alien babies

found

on the roof of the pentagon,

Oprah,

exposed,

exclusive photos,

Marilyn Monroe,

did she really have six

toes

on each foot.

is Hillary

really a man?

Obama gay? does his

lover

work for the CIA?

we want to buy the paper

just to find out

what the truth is,

we salivate to know,

and the same goes for now,

we want to click 

on the blurb,

and take the bait,