oh look, there's balloons over there

somehow

somewhere, someone decided

that balloons

were the tool, the right

trick,

to get people to come into a store,

tethering them

to a door,

to buy a mattress,

or to buy a car.

blowing up

a colorful plastic

balloon will do the trick

they reasoned, putting

their educated

heads together.

this should do it, they

all agreed,

balloons are the answer,

as if we are children,

which i suppose

in so many ways

we still are.

entering the end of the world junkyard

it's an apocalyptic

landscape

as you wait in line to drop

off your

junk.

to the left is a field of refrigerators,

tall

and fat,

silver and white,

black.

to the right

stoves

and microwaves are piled

high,

ovens

and other broken dreams

filled

then emptied with

decades of

memories.

straight ahead are

computers,

long strands of wires

and cables,

phones, monitor screens.

televisions

of every era.

from Milton Berle

to Gutfeld,

then into the pit are cans

of paint,

half full, half empty,

pesticides and oil.

the grease of the world

goes there.

wood and tin, plastic

and

metals of all kinds are scattered

everywhere.

there's not a seagull

in the air,

there's nothing to eat here,

it feels like it might start

raining

any second now,

as i wait my turn

at the end

of the world.

the future is not what it used to be

the future

is not what it used to be.

there's no

flying cars,

yet.

no time travel,

no Rosie the robot

doing the dishes

and making our beds.

no hotels

on the moon,

or people

on Mars.

no peace

in the Middle East,

or cure

for cancer,

nothing

they told us when we

were kids

has actually happened yet.

but they're close,

very close,

and it's scary.

her husband lives in the basement

she told

me on the first date that she was

separated from

her husband, but 

with a divorce

pending.

it was all about paperwork,

she said,

finances,

the house, the dog,

medical bills

and insurance.

oh, i said, okay. so the wheels

are in motion.

yes.

she said. we hardly ever talk

anymore.

what do you mean, i asked her.

well.

he lives in the basement,

but we share

a bathroom

and the kitchen

and television in the living room.

sometimes we

do eat dinner together, but

mostly during

the holidays

when we have people over

for a party.

so, he lives in the basement?

yes.

he has his own entrance down

there.

sometimes i have to bang

a broom

on the floor

when i hear him snoring

at night, but for the most

part,

it's like he's not even there.

hmmm,

very interesting arrangement

you have there.

so what's your estimate as to when

you will actually

be divorced?

ummm. not sure, i mean it's

only been going on like this

for seven years.

so basically,

you're separated, but not legally.

right?

you're separated by

drywall.

umm, yes. i guess so. 

that's a good way

to put it. you're so smart.

well, i should be getting home,

he's probably wondering where

i am.

best buy in reverse

i load the car up

with old electronic 

junk.

you can't put things out

on the curb

anymore

for trash pick up

because,

Becky will be down your

throat if you do.

i carry out

to the car,

two dead microwaves,

a computer,

a monitor, and keyboard too,

a stereo, 

a printer, a toaster,

three flip phones,

a waffle maker,

an air fryer

and an old television

that weighs at

least two hundred

pounds.

then i google the junkyard

for a map

and their schedule.

it's Friday at ten a.m.

so

the narrow window is open

if i hurry

and get there soon.

the cop next door

we grew

next door to a cop.

a big

rotund man

with a smile and a red

face.

a good dad,

a good son.

i don't think in thirty years

he ever

had to use a gun.

he parked his patrol

car

in front of his house,

which kept

the mischief down.

it was a mixed neighborhood

of white

and black,

brown.

a small Ellis Island if you will.

sometimes he'd wave

when he passed by

with a cup

of coffee,

walking his dog.

we were so glad to have

him around.

can men become pregnant?

the esteemed, 

well degreed,

and respected

doctor goes before

congress and is asked the simple

question,

can men

become pregnant?

she can't answer. she can't say yes,

she can't say no.

she expels

a word salad of mumbo

jumbo,

ala the usual 

woke generation babble

of insanity.

she can't answer what every

child at the age

of ten knows.

the answer is no.

being whipped into silence by the other half

i know that feeling

having been

there before,

i think,

as i watch the husband sitting

on the couch

beside his talkative wife.

he says

nothing of consequence,

he's quiet and numb,

he smiles

and nods, adding nothing

to the conversation.

not a single opinion leaves

his mouth.

he's whipped

to the bone

with fright,

having learned his lesson

well.

knowing that expressing

himself openly,

saying one wrong thing,

might cost him the bed

for many

nights.

he's lost himself,

his life.

in the blink of an eye

it's been over a month

since

i took this way home.

i turn my head

to the left

as i sit at the light

and see

a nine

story building

suddenly up, with tenants

mulling about.

the lights are on.

i'm stunned.

there used to be a few trees there

and a pond

where i'd walk

my dog, where i'd sit

on a bench

and talk on my phone.

now what?

losing our marbles going mob mode

we

take care of ourselves,

our skin,

our eyes, careful

with

bugs

and flies, careful with

poison ivy

and cuts

and bruises from

thorns

and jagged hooks

on fences,

we watch

for splintered wood,

for rusty

nails,

we look both ways

when crossing

a street,

we try to brush after

every meal,

we are in constant survival

mode

to save ourselves,

and yet,

sometimes we lose

our minds when we go

mob mode.

we do stupid things,

and end up in jail.

death by books

it was

bound to happen,

the bookcase falling over on me,

too heavy

with books

and magazines,

newspapers,

journals.

the weight of it was too much.

the screws

came out

of the wall, the boards

collapsed,

the letters of John Cheever

were on

my chest,

Salinger and Joyce Carol Oates

smothering

me with words,

daggers of Plath's poems,

stabbing

at my ribs,

the Diary of Anne Frank,

Updike's trilogy

of Rabbit

against my leg.

a box of redacted love letters 

scattered

everywhere.

the collected poems of

Robert Frost

leaving a bump on my head.

the last

book to tumble,

Ulysses, impossible to read,

would be my death.

the enormous bowl of gourmet popcorn

she's proud

of her popcorn.

how warm and fluffy it is

coming

out of the air popper,

drizzled

with butter,

and sprinkled with salt.

she carries the enormous

bowl in like a fine

Michelin waiter

on the palm

of her hand.

i can almost hear music

playing,

trumpets sounding,

angels singing.

it's an event before

the show

begins.

no paper, but with

monogrammed

linen napkins.

fun in Portland

why

are people so surprised

that

they get shot

after they

run the police over

with a car,

or hit them

with a shovel, or throw

a frozen bottle

of water

at their heads,

or attack them

violently

in some lunatic fashion?

don't they know that

the police

have guns,

and mace,

Billy clubs, 

and are sworn

to uphold

the laws of land?

have they lost their minds?

don't they

have a life

to lead

beyond being part

of a crazy mob

in the street?

special dietary needs

she didn't

eat

meat, or sugar, or bread,

or crackers,

or pasta

or cakes

or cookies, or eggs.

fish

on rare occasions,

but never

pig

or steak.

not a single mint

was in

her purse.

lips that touched

wine

would never touch hers.

i often worried,

as i helped her about,

when her

legs would

break

under 98 pounds of

trembling weight.

spoon fed

as Winston

Churchill 

once said, a lie travels

around

the world

before the truth has time

to puts his

pants on

and get out of bed.

such is

the so called news

spooned

out to us

in half truths.

you remind me of Churchill, she says

while smoking a fat

cigar,

i tell

her that i am no different

than

Winston Churchill.

perhaps

less rotund, but

i like to bathe

while

reciting speeches

and giving

my secretary notes for

her to type

up and to distribute to the free

world.

a hot bath, a cup

of tea

and a good book to read,

is heavenly

while splashing about.

nothing to fear,

i often say,

but a bad marriage gone south,

or the absence

of popcorn

kernels to pop

while watching Netflix

on the couch.

the three country bundle deal

finally,

after some weak resistance,

we buy

Greenland,

Iceland

and Finland.

we got the bundle deal.

we give

everyone a few million

dollars

and a free membership

to Costco.

nothing really changes,

except that now

we have

military bases there,

and amusement

parks.

the language stays the same,

the culture goes

unchanged.

it's a win win

for everyone except

for the Chinese,

the North Koreans,

and the Russians.

a little up and to the left, please

we itch,

we scratch, we reach for

that spot

to relieve the skin

of

itchiness.

what makes us itch?

what is it,

the mohair sweater,

the pollen,

the drink,

the food, the cold

or warm

weather.

allergies and medicine?

maybe it's the chlorine

in the pool,

the sauna that we took

the hot water,

the detergent in the washer,

the soap

we use. sweat?

i don't know exactly what

it is,

but I'm thankful for your

long pink nails,

a little up, please,

and to the left.

don't yell out for more ice in a crowded bar

it's a crowded bar

on a 

Friday night

at Joe's down along the popular

boulevard.

i'm sitting with

my drink,

alone, eating pretzels

when i ask the bartender

for a little more

ice in my drink,

it's getting warm,

the other ice has melted.

but he doesn't hear me

because of the music

crowd noise.

so after a few tries

with still no reply i yell

out, yo, bartender,

can i have more ice please,

he cups his ear,

and says, what?

more ice,

i yell out, i want more

ice.

i want ICE!

suddenly i'm surrounded

by a large group of

protestors who just came in,

soy boys and large women

bursting out of their

yoga pants,

hitting me over the head

with their umbrellas

and broken signs.

so you want more ICE,

do you, they scream

knocking me off

my seat.

i ain't that lonely yet

i ponder

getting another dog,

having

healed emotionally 

from the losing the last one.

i've almost

forgotten

about all the furniture

he chewed,

the hats

and gloves,

the boots, the shoes.

i've almost blocked out

of my mind

the smell

of what he'd leave

in the corner

when

crouching or lifting his

little leg.

i barely recall

the dead

birds, he'd drag in,

the mice,

the debris.

my ears can no longer

hear

his perpetual barking

out the window,

or at the tv,

or when the doorbell rang.

did he hog the bed with

his long

body stretched out

diagonally, yes, but so what.

i've nearly forgotten

about those snowy

nights

when i begged him to pee,

standing in

the slush

and wind, or

those

vet bills at five hundred

a visit,

strangely all of it

no longer seems

to worry me.

i might be ready. maybe.

but doubtful.

the favorite child

do mother's

have a favorite child,

one

child

that she likes and loves more

than the

others?

one that she sneaks

candy

to when

the others aren't looking?

probably,

in fact,

i believe it to

be true,

but she keeps her cards

close to

her vest,

careful not to cause

unrest.

how dare you have a different opinion

if you

point out fraud

by a particular group,

you're a racist.

if you

want voter id's,

you hate

people of color,

poor people too.

point out

crime and it's how dare

you

denigrate our people,

if you

vote for a different person

it's logical that

you're not

only a racist,

but a pedophile,

and a fascist too.

if you wave the American

Flag,

we'll, you're all of the above

and more.

how dare you?

the emergency wallpaper repair at midnight

i can see

a seam where the wallpaper

comes

together,

the client tells me

over the phone. is there

anything

you can do to fix this horrible

situation,

i can't take my eyes

off it when i'm in the room.

i can't sleep at night.

will the wallpaper

fall off the wall, is there

something i should do,

or can you come over here

and fix it,

soon?

i never thought i'd have

to see seams.

it's wallpaper i tell her.

you know that, right?

not paint.

i'm home now, she says.

please, please help me.

okay. i tell her,

getting out of bed,

turning on the light.

calm down, relax.

i'll be there in a while,

around midnight.

have a glass of water,

some aspirin,

take deep breaths.

i'm on my way.

try not to stare at it,

close your eyes and pray.

birthday distractions

i get the notice

that it's someone's birthday on

Facebook.

do i know them?

not really, but somehow

we clicked

on the friend button

and got on each

other's list, but now

this.

do i ignore it.

do i send a greeting, an

emoji

of a cake with candles

burning?

do i say, have a good one,

and many more?

or do i go back to what i was

doing,

looking at cats,

opening up a cupboard

door.

boys over here, girls over there, case closed

as insane

as it seems,

the Supreme Court spends

more than twenty

seconds

on another

uncomplicated woke issue.

it perplexes no one,

but stupid

people.

should boys pretending to be girls

compete in

girls sports, allowing

them to take

their medals away,

and to change their clothes,

and expose 

their penis's

in the locker room, then

out on the field

injure and maim

the fairer

sex?

how insane are we now?

what's happened

to common sense?

this should be the easiest

judicial decision

ever made.

God help us if it isn't.

what did you do in the war?

tell

me about the war,

daddy,

tell me, where you scared,

did

you kill anyone.

did it change you,

do you

dream about it,

have nightmares?

what did you do in the war,

daddy.

tell me about

the medals you won,

did ever

run the other way,

did you see men die,

did you

cower

when the bombs fell,

did you cry?

show me the scar on 

your leg.

tell me daddy,

what did you do in the war,

why so quiet

with your story,

so shy?

repeat and rinse that's how we roll

i have sinned.

again.

no need to remind me.

i feel

it.

my hands have broken

vows,

my tongue

has spoken

when it should have stayed

quiet.

my feet have taken me

places

i shouldn't have gone to.

i've

asked for forgiveness,

and feel

that i've been forgiven,

and yet,

here i am again,

head bowed, on my knees,

shaking

my head,

repeat and rinse.

most of them are normal

you

can't help but feel sorry for the normal

people

in Minnesota.

how they must endure

the buffoonery

of the governor, the senator,

the mayor

dancing and speaking

in Somalian.

dopes,

all dopes

and deranged.

and the normals,

the citizens who pay

their taxes,

cut their grass and send

their kids

to school with a kiss,

look out their windows

and cry.

what happened to this place?

who are these

crazy people.

why did another country

dump

all of these criminals on us?

maybe six more

feet of snow

would help.

retirement bliss on YouTube

you

watch the man and his

wife

on YouTube

talking about their retirement.

spreading

the word about

their bliss. 

how they still don't sleep in,

getting up a six.

they show you

the coupons

they cut

out,

the way they save water

by sharing

a shower

together,

how they use just a limited

amount of electric

light.

they never go out,

never wander

too far

because of the price of food

and gas.

the thermostat is set at 68 in 

the winter.

75 in the summer.

they bake their own bread,

and eat

great bowls of pasta with home

made sauce.

they've worked

their entire lives, fingers

to the bone,

and now this.

we need to talk

you don't ever want

to hear

the words, we need to talk.

we need

to sit down, just me and you

and talk

about where

this relationship is heading.

let's sit over

there by the window,

in the light.

and please don't hold my hand.

this isn't the time

for that.

and no, my shoulders don't

need you to rub them,

and please,

i'm fine, no more coffee

and crumb cake.

just sit down, and let's talk, okay?

please,

don't take my shoes off,

and rub my feet. just stop.

we need to talk.

a home with a view in NYC

we plan

our trip to NYC in a few weeks.

where to stay,

what to eat.

what to bring, will it be cold

and snowy?

what about the perpetual protests.

do we need

gas masks,

and mace to protect ourselves. 

should we bring

our pointed umbrellas

to fend off maniacs?

wear our steel toed boots

and hard hats?

buses should be free by

then, saving us some money,

not to mention

the government run stores

where all the food will be dirt cheap.

maybe we can buy

a new house while we're there,

since there will be so many vacancies

with anyone with two cents

to rub to together will be moving

to Florida. maybe

something near Central Park

with a view of the frozen lake

and the ice skaters,

and the homeless encampments.

let's go before the bread lines

get too long.

with a turban on her head

being

elected to congress is like

winning

the lottery.

how does a person go from

being nearly broke

to having 30 million dollars

in their

bank account

in just one year.

viola,

poof, just like that.

it's magical.

why work when you can

be an elected

official,

and do nothing,

then with a magic wand,

wave it around

and get rich.

nothing to see here,

she says.

let's turn the page

and move on.

working out, the early years

we had

a gymnasium when growing

up

in the hood.

we had

a ten pound

bag of potatoes

to lift

repetitively,

a chin up bar screwed

into

a door frame.

we had a paper

route,

and a chain link fence

to jump over.

we had the cold hard floor

to do sit

ups on,

pushups too,

and we had the street to

run on

when chased by hoodlums

when coming

home from

church.

liberal fat white women blocking traffic

it's exhausting,

these

liberal fat white women

screaming

in the street.

full of donuts and vinegar,

blocking

traffic,

impeding law enforcement,

keeping them

from arresting

rapists and child

molesters,

murderers

and thieves.

look at them,

red faced

with mace, blowing their

whistles.

angry from the moment

they wake up.

what has happened to the world?

doesn't anyone

stay home

and bake cookies

anymore, like i do?

predicting the new year

as long

as you can walk,

as long

as you can see, and hear,

read and write,

as long

as you can eat

and drink,

make love.

it will be a good year.

this too shall pass

your

best friend has left the room.

the love

you love is no longer

interested,

even your dog has turned

his back

on you.

the bills lie on the desk

unpaid.

people are

whispering nefarious things

about you.

you wait for things to change,

for better

days.

this too shall pass

someone says,

you hate people that say that.

don't eat with your mouth full, etc.

you've

been a careful man.

you've followed the straight

and narrow

path.

you've paid your taxes,

and obey

the traffic

lights and signs as best

you can.

you're an honest

and hard worker.

you've saved up for those

rainy days.

you've made

your bed on occasion,

put away your clothes

and dishes.

you've tried not to hurt anyone.

when you say you're going

to be somewhere,

you make sure

you're on time.

you watch your step,

your p's and q's.

you've tried to be a good

person despite

what others may think of you.

you've tried

to live a good life

as if your mother is 

still watching from behind.

a fly ball to centerfield

in your

dream you are chasing down

a fly ball

in center field,

your legs

are young again

as you

sprint along the summer

grass

under the enormous

blue sky.

the ball is coming, it

has not

yet arrived,

your arm stretches out

for it,

and you wait.

happy to be alive.

what lies ahead

there are things you

are not yet

aware of.

there is joy ahead,

there

is tragedy.

there is so much that

you don't know

that awaits you.

but it's always been

that way,

since you took your 

steps,

and climbed on a chair

to look out the window.

the new food pyramid

we obey

the new food pyramid and eat

the last

bowl of Lucky Charms

with a sliced

banana

in the bowl of milk.

we sprinkle one last spoon

of sugar on the mix.

later we will pour

out

the coke cans,

the Mountain Dew,

the Apple Juice,

toss the bags of potato chips

into the trash,

family size,

and toss

the cookies into the yard

for the birds

that fly by.

it's meat and vegetables

from here on out. whole foods.

protein.

nothing fried in oil,

no more bread five times

a day.

no more late night

visits to the kitchen for a slice

of blueberry pie.

the drive thru

burger joints have seen

then last

of us,

morning noon or night.

hopefully this will all work out,

and we'll be able to look

down

and see our shoes again

sometime.

you have no secrets anymore

you

can find out anything about

anyone

these days.

their rap sheet, their

income,

their

real estate investments,

their change

of addresses

or names.

who their children are,

where they

work,

their phone numbers,

where they went to school,

what medical procedures

they've undergone.

you

know their marriages

and when they got divorced.

the books

are wide open

on which way they lean

on politics.

there are very few secrets

anymore.

with every keystroke hit,

every

word uttered,

text or email sent,

all of it, all of you is saved

forevermore.

that radiant glow

i ask

the dentist why she runs

out of the room

to hide

when she clicks

the button

to take an x-ray

of my

smile.

am i in danger here,

i ask.

oh no, you're fine,

ten more

x-rays to go,

and then will

decide

where to drill first.

don't worry

about the radiation,

you'll have a green

glow

for a while.

but eventually be fine.

your keepsakes

your treasures

will

not last, the things you

cherished

will be on

the curb at some point.

those books

you read,

that favorite coat

and hat,

your art upon the wall,

the vase

on the mantle.

postcards from France,

signed love,

Emily.

all of which

once made

a home a home,

the things that pleased

you,

will be tossed 

in the end,

into the dump,

the precious

keepsakes now trash.

the big black pan

as

i scrub this black

iron pan

for the ten thousandth 

time

with hot water and soap,

i admire

its resiliency. how

it wears

so well over the years,

making

meals

of eggs and bacon,

steaks

and pancakes,

fish

caught fresh of a line.

it says nothing,

but it's

a wonderful friend

in hard

times.

a fun day out in Minneapolis

hey hon,

what do you want to do today?

maybe go

shopping, take a long

walk?

or we could go grab lunch at

Ali Baba and the Forty

Thieves

restaurant. they make

a terrific Kabob.

i noticed that the pond was

frozen over, maybe

we could ice skate

like we used to do when we

fell in love.

it's cold but it's so nice out.

come on, put on your mukluks.

let's put 

the kids

in day care,

i hear the Learing Center

has openings.

grab the dogs, and put your

warm clothes on,

or maybe we can take in a movie?

hmmm.

okay, sweetie pie,

i agree,

yes, let's get out, but let's

go into town instead and stir

things up,

block traffic, harass ICE

and police,

yell at them,

blow our horns

and with our megaphones

make fun of them,

like we were trained to do

in that left wing resistance group

we joined.

i mean

how dare they

arrest murderers

and rapists, child molesters.
these are our criminals,

they belong here in Minnesota,

just like we do.

they've already arrested over

a thousand 

dangerous illegals, this week alone.

these are our neighbors

and friends.

the nerve of the PoPo

messing with our warm and loving

neighborhoods.

these people are vital to our community

despite not

paying taxes and belonging

to gangs.

come on,

grab your gas mask, your high pitched

whistle

and Chapstick

and let's go have some real fun.

let's teach

them a lesson they'll never forget.

bring the thermos

with hot cocoa, okay?

maybe we can make a video for

Tik Tok that will

go viral, how fun would that be?

you got it sugarplum, now give

me a little kiss

and let's roll.

when the circus comes to town

i want

the circus to come back

into town.

i want to see the man

shot out

of a cannon

and fly across the sky.

i want to ooh and ahh

as the trapeze

artists

swing from bar to bar.

i want to smell the sawdust

and the cigar

smoke,

the perfume of it all.

i want

to see the midgets,

the freaks

behind the curtain,

the fat

lady with a beard,

the clowns.

i want dancing and music,

i want elephants

and lions

to stomp the ground.

i want to eat the pink

cotton candy,

to fill my belly with soda

and cracker jacks,

with torn ticket stubs in hand.

i want it to be

1965 again.

the world is ugly and the people are sad

why

are so many people unhappy.

so sad,

and ugly.

why

do they wake up

each morning

and cry

and moan, and scream.

what's the deal

here.

what's happened

to them

to become so angry,

so disturbed,

so mean?

there's not enough therapy

and meds

in the world

to make

them wake up from their

own self made

bad dream.

leave it behind you

it's too much,

you can't carry it all with you.

some of it

you have to set down

and leave

behind.

you can't put all of it

on your

back,

or hold it in

your arms.

everything that's come

before you

and caused

you trouble and harm

has to be let go.

it's too much

to handle.

the world

is too heavy to go up

those hills

with what should

be left behind.

leaning into it

nothing like

a good

strong wind pushing you

around 

to show you

how fragile

you are.

you hold onto your hat,

button

up the coat,

and lean into it.

you press forward

in spite

of the gale force

in your face.

all of life

it's like

that.

our own communist upbringing

when

growing up, we sort of lived

in a socialist

household,

almost communist with

one

dictator

in charge of us all.

she ruled,

our mother.

we did what we were told.

we had to share beds,

share clothes,

each of us got equal servings

of food.

a slice

of bread for each.

patiently we lined up

for our

turn in the bathroom,

going easy

on the limited hot water.

we were all hungry

cramped together,

we were all cold.

did we like it,

hell no.

but once we earned a few

dollars

for ourselves, we hit the road.

when the impossible happens

of course

you don't believe you'll ever

get old.

how could you?

impossible

you think as you

stand before 

the mirror

and flex your arms.

look at how fast you run,

how strong you are,

there's not a line

on your face,

not a single grey strand

in your thick

dark hair.

you sleep well and eat

anything without gaining

a pound of weight.

your vision

is clear,

you can hear a pin drop

a mile away.

you can make love all night

if need be.

you're sharp

and happy.

how is it possible that you

could ever age.

and then.

change is going to come, sing along

so

what's on the agenda today

i ask

my liberal

boomer

friend and neighbor, Midge.

where to?

what's the next protest 

you're heading to?

what's the latest

issue

you're protesting about?

oh, my she says, showing

me her new

revolving sign.

with six sides, each

proclaiming

something

different.

from no kings, to Madura

to free

Palestine,

and now to leave the Somalians

alone.

fraud is good, sometimes.

she's wearing

a gas mask,

and combat boots.

you look tired, i tell her

as she rubs yesterdays mustard

gas out of her eyes.

maybe take a day

off, don't you think?

plus you seem to be limping

from where

that cop car ran

over your foot.

oh no, she says. no way.

we have to save

the world,

today we're going to block

the interstate

and the beltway.

we're going to shut the DMV down.

so if you need to go to

the store or

to the hospital, better do it now.

that'll teach them. you'll see

change is coming soon,

maybe not today or tomorrow,

but some day.

change is going to come.

you'll see.

could you hand me those crutches

please,

i left them

on the porch.

like she said, turn the page, turn the page

no matter

the hub bub, remember

that word?

hub bub.

the hullabaloo?

remember all the noise

about what happened

yesterday,

all the screaming

and gnashing

of teeth over what

occurred just now, or

the day

before, five years ago.

twenty years plus.

yup,

sort of, i do.

although the fog

of times

makes it hard,

makes it rough

to remember it clearly.

none of it seems to matter

anymore,

not even what happened

ten minutes ago.

poof it's gone

and along comes something

new.

the obesity of news

it's too much

food,

it's a buffet of thought,

an endless

assortment of ideas

and opinions

to pick from,

everyone digging in

with knife and fork.

eat

and eat some more

until the belly

of your mind

is stuffed

and sick. your hatband

is broken.

gobble up the news on

channel nine, channel

seven,

channel four

as if there is no tomorrow.

and yet there you are

still scrolling

for more.

one more biscuit and gravy,

once more sweet

slice of cake,

one more giant swig

of a political milkshake

before

you pass out

on the floor.

writing letters

it's a book

of letters that i open and dive

into,

sometimes i turn to

the middle,

sometimes near the end

but rarely

in order

starting with page one.

it's an intimate conversation

with someone

i used to read.

his short stories and novels.

the trilogy

of Rabbit.

i'm so glad these letters

were saved.

some to his wife, others to

a mistress,

his editors

and friends, his children,

his doctor

at the end.

it was a different

time back then,

pen onto paper, elbows

to the desk.

a light clicked on

in winter's shade.

it was a golden age.

Nick Shirley and the Legacy media

i like

how the young youtuber

Nick Shirley

has spawned a legion of others

to go

from door to door

across the country,

not just in Minnesota,

with their camera

phones

exposing fraud

and the stealing of billions

of taxpayers dollars.

it's a wonderful thing

how they've

turned all the lights on,

asking

questions.

something the government

doesn't seem

to know how to do, or want to.

nor does

Dateline,

or 60 minutes, CBS,

ABC, NBC,

or Cnn

or any of the other

legacy media outlets.

NPR? please, you must be kidding.

instead they turn their

heads

and close their eyes,

avoiding the obvious

criminal intentions.

it's all about votes and staying

in power,

once again.

two minutes of time

out of the blue

an image

pops into my mind,

a visual memory

from childhood.

i think

about my grandmother who

couldn't speak

a word

of English,

with her nylon stockings

pulled

up below her knees,

in a flowered

apron

spotted with blood,

breaking the neck of a

chicken

before plucking it clean

of feathers.

i see

a pot of boiling water

on the stove,

the rising steam, and the

cuckoo clock on

wall

sounding off,

telling her what time it

is again.

deep in thought about coffee beans

as i sit

here sipping

on a hot cup of coffee.

i stare

into the smooth raw

umber mix

of Stevia

and heavy cream,

stirred gently.

i blow onto

the steam and wonder

where these beans came from.

who leaned

over

or up

in their wide straw

hat

and snatched them from

the branches

for the burlap

bag

before being trucked

and processed,

then shipped

to my store here in Springfield.

i become lost

in thought

thinking about Columbia,

and Brazil,

jungles

deep into the heart of strange

far away

countries like Paraguay,

when the phone rings.

i'll have to get back to these thoughts

later, it seems.

what's the deal with Venezuela?

i've never

given much thought about the country

Venezuela,

and now,

i wake up

thinking about it.

it's all over

the news.

it's unavoidable.

but i wonder,

what's the weather like?

does it ever snow there?

is it a good

vacation spot for tourists?

the housing?

what do they eat there?

are people happy that their cruel

dictator

is gone?

is that why seven million people

left?

is it near the beach?

what's their main export

other than

cocaine?

bananas, nuts, coffee?

i think it used

to be oil,

but something went wrong.

ChatGPT is going

to be busy today.

a one dog night

it's a strange

day.

and even stranger

night.

warm

in the middle of January.

the temps

hitting sixty,

with not a snowflake

in sight.

it's no

longer a three-dog night,

but more

of a one dog

situation.

maybe the dachshund,

and that's it.

the others have to sleep

on the floor.

look both ways before crossing

i remember

my mother and father telling

me,

don't play

in the street, look both

ways

before crossing, and when

you hear a siren,

pull over

and let the police or

ambulance

pass.

have respect for them

and the job

they're doing.

be a good citizen

and obey.

cars are bigger than you

and can

run you over

like a pancake.

i remember thinking about

what a pancake

looks like

on my plate, a pad of butter

and maple

syrup

pouring off.

and now i'm hungry.

the local bakery in Fairlington

the local

bakery is in trouble

for posting a pro right notice

in their

window.

a request for patrons

to join

Turning Point USA.

a God-fearing group

of young

patriotic Americans.

the neighborhood is divided.

they love

their bread,

their pastries and cakes,

but not so

much their politics.

what's a person to do when

they want

so badly a loaf

of apple scrapple bread,

a cinnamon bun,

and a loaf

of rye

to go?

they stand at the steamed glass

window,

rubbing

their gurgling bellies,

sad,

and so torn,

so confused.

it's so hard being a socialist

these days.

a Russian conversation in a battlefield trench

i can't do this anymore,

the Russian

soldier, says to his comrade

as they lie

in a trench, wet with mud,

and debris.

i'm tired of this stupid war.

shhh,

the other soldier says.

the captain will hear you,

but i am the captain, he says,

see. he brushes the mud and blood

from his insignia.

oh, yes. i see that.

yes, sir, sorry sir.

my wife misses me, he says,

my mistresses

miss me,

my children have grown up

without me.

i miss all of them.

plus my feet hurt with these

Chinese made boots,

none of the buckles stay snapped,

and i haven't

changed my underwear in a month.

what are we doing here fighting

like it's World War one?

trench to trench,

bombs, bullets flying over our

heads, rats

all over the place and for what?

i like these people we're killing,

and who are killing us.

they speak our language,

they have the same

culture and history, they dance

to the same music, eat the same food.

we are them, they are us.

this is crazy.

the world keeps sending the other

side weapons and ammunition

to fight us with.

they'll never run out of bullets.

yup, the soldier says. well,

what are you gonna do?

C'est la vie.

oh well.

i think it's time for lunch, 

the solider says,

looking at his watch.

i opened up a can of beans earlier,

they're from Ohio.

have some if you want,

i have an extra spoon.

thanks, any Vodka left in your canteen?

three flight attendants from Sweden

the new

neighbors finally move in.

three

blonde flight attendants from

Sweden.

they all look like Heidi Klum

in her heyday.

each of them about six feet tall

in their

high heels.

i wave

and say hello,

nodding politely at the waist,

as if they might

be Japanese.

i definitely have a case of the vapors.

i begin to strategize what

i can knock

on their door for.

maybe i could borrow a recipe

on strudel,

or Swedish meatballs,

or maybe i could help

them

unload their little mini-Coopers,

carry in

some luggage.

give them a run down

on American appliances.

seeing that we don't use the metric

system here,

the stove

can be tricky at times,

not to mention

the thermostat.

suddenly,

my wife grabs me by my

ear,

and says,

down boy.

i know what you're thinking.

his sexual picadillo's

my father's last

and final

girlfriend calls me up on

the anniversary

of his passing, we share

a few

funny stories about him,

how he liked

to cook,

and read,

how he enjoyed music

and fast cars,

Texas Pete hot sauce

on nearly everything,

and then the conversation

veers

off into his sexual

picadillo's.

i cringe. 

why me?

she's 89.

i don't want to hear it,

so quickly

i turn on

the washer and dryer,

the blender,

i set off the smoke alarm,

and turn

the volume up on the tv.

finally,

she stops talking and i tell

her,

well,

glad you called, talk again soon,

happy new year.

then quickly i run upstairs

and take

a steaming hot shower

with lava soap.

finding out all of her secrets

her secret

ingredient is nutmeg,

she puts it

in nearly everything.

soups,

and pancakes,

sweets

and pastries.

stews.

i find deep in her

pantry

a box

of tins, all of them

nutmeg

waiting to be used.

i wonder what else she's

hiding from me.

tomorrow,

i'll look through her purse.

reading the room, left or right?

these days

you

can almost tell someone's

political

leanings

by the look on their face.

sour puss,

lemon,

a disturbed and angry

frown,

well,

of course you know,

they lean

left.

bright and sunny,

grinning from

ear to ear,

walking around like

a bright

light,

well,

there you have it.

where else could they lean,

but on

the right.

the best teachers

you

remember the hard teachers.

the mean

ones,

the strict ones.

the ones who didn't let

you get

away with anything.

grading papers

with their

thick red pens,

forcing you to study

and read

and read

and read again.

in the moment,

you hated

them,

called them names,

but as the years have gone by,

you're thankful for

their

discipline,

and hope

they are well as time

flies by

in

this unrelenting wind.

the Minnesota prat fall

the fat

man,

pink as pork,

with happy hands,

and bulging eyes,

is dancing

around the questions.

deflecting,

and accusing

others for the mess he's in.

not me,

he says. i'm innocent.

the music

begins to play,

it's the end of the cartoon

where

bugs bunny

appears

eating a carrot,

and says,

that's all folks.

there needs to be a

trap door

on this stage.

the age of disappearing

as i go about

my day

with a dollop of shaving

cream

still in my ear,

a banner

of toilet paper

stuck

to one shoe,

my zipper down,

and spinach in my teeth.

no one

says a word.

no one points,

or says,

softly,

hey.

finally i've reached the age,

where

i've completely

disappeared.

the giant cup of crazy

rational

thinking and common sense

seems

to be in short supply lately

as i watch

the mostly

white

liberal women

protesting

the captured of an evil dictator

who ruined

one of the richest

countries in

the world.

keeping the people

under his

heavy thumb.

why?

it's a giant cup of crazy

trying

to figure it out.

the dictator and his wife in captivity

they put the captured drug

dealing

dictator into a cell with his wife.

she's not

happy.

i don't like these blue pajamas

they gave me,

they are too loose

around the waist,

people will think i'm fat,

and that orange

jumpsuit you're wearing

is hurting my eyes.

what's with 

this yelling from the cell next

to us.

they sound like animals in

there.

farm animals making

wild love.

can you call down to the front

desk and see

what they can do about this,

plus, it's cold.

i think they should turn the heat

up and bring

in an easy chair so that i can knit.

you know

how i like to knit when we're

in trouble.

and do you mind, could you

stop pacing

for one minute,

i'm losing my marbles,

and quit leaving

the seat up on that toilet

over there.

can't you pay someone to get us

out,

what happened to all

of our drug money from the cartels?

it's been two days now.

i'm really hungry,

what time is dinner around here?

when Mamdani comes calling

the new

mayor knocks at the door

with

his cronies

and tells me that i have too much

money.

it's time to share,

show us your bank

statements,

your overflowing penny jar.

he waves his arms around

my house

and yells,

this

is too big and that i need

to open it up to others.

your king size bed can fit

three people,

at least.

you must take in

the unfortunate

others

who haven't worked as hard

as you have.

he opens my refrigerator

door.

and says.

i have too much food, you must

give half

of it away.

why do you, a single man,

have a whole

gallon of milk

and a full loaf of bread.

look at your freezer with all

those frozen

bags of sugar cookies.

do you know there are hungry

people out there

on the street?

how can you sleep knowing this,

and having

so much to share?

the same goes for the closet

with all of

your clothes

and shoes.

what's going on here?

it looks like a store in here.

we must take

most of this away.

you must begin to share your

things

with the poor

and beaten down masses.

your selfish lifestyle doesn't

work

here anymore.

the Georgetown hangover

it's just

a cramp, i reason with myself,

holding

my stomach.

it must

have been the potato soup

i made

last night.

maybe i shouldn't

have added

the clams

and oysters.

i crawl to the bathroom

and curl up

on the tiled floor.

it feels good

against my cold skin.

i wipe the sweat

from my

brow with the tiny rug

i'm using as

a pillow.

it's 1985

all over again when

i used stay out into

the wee hours,

dancing

and drinking

with 

Dave and assorted

friends.

sorry, wrong number

i accidentally

hit the wrong button

and call

one of my ex-wives.

apparently she still has me

in her phone.

i knew you'd

come crawling back she says,

without even

saying hello.

oops, i tell her, i misdialed.

didn't mean

to call you.

sure, sure. likely story.

you miss me,

don't you?

you still love me and want

me back.

ummm, no,

i really misdialed, i don't know

why i even have

your number still

in my phone.

when did they let you out

of St. Elizabeth's?

sure, she says. you are such

a liar.

so you want to meet for

lunch, right?

or take me out to dinner

and then

back to your place?

i know you.

sex sex sex.

you haven't changed one bit,

have you?

men. you are all alike.

listen, sorry to have called you.

i was trying to call

Hunan West

to order some crispy beef and rice.

okay, she

says, i give in. i'll give you one

more chance

to make things

right.

i just bought this sexy little

black dress at

Nordstrom's Rack.

see you at 8.

click.

fair weather friends

my friend,

Jennie, the eternal optimist,

tells

me, it's not how you

fell down

it's how

you get up.

i want to tell her to shut up

and put

a sock in it,

but i don't.

she's very sensitive.

she's put

bumper stickers all over

her car.

Love, Peace, Coexist,

Ukraine,

Kamala

and Walz.

save the whales,

save

the trees,

no kings,

it takes a village, and my

son

is a drama major.

no oil,

and no meat.

but somehow we're still friends,

as long

as we just talk

about the weather.

Sunday morning toast and Alpo

it sounds

like a bomb going off

and then

gunfire,

a rapid rat a tat tat.

so what.

just another Sunday

morning.

my dog doesn't even get up

to look

out the window.

there's a few

helicopters

circling above

the neighborhood,

and sirens

are going off.

i keep buttering my toast,

then open

up a can

of Alpo for Rex.

a sentimental tear drops

from my

eyes

as i recall the sound

of church bells

before they were banned

for making

too much noise.

the emergency protestors meeting

it's a late night

emergency meeting with the protestors.

we meet at

Joe's house, 

a four-story brownstone

on the West side of Central Park,

funded by a mysterious

billionaire,

named Soros,

who also chips in to make

all the signs, gasmasks,

megaphones,

and paraphernalia to carry

out a new

march down Broadway.

i sneak in

the back door,

and crouch down in a back

seat with

a checkerboard tablecloth

wrapped around my head

not unlike Aunt Jemima.

i borrowed it from TGIF

Fridays,

but will return it, promise.

okay, people, Joe shouts out,

pulling on his Stalinist mustache.

we've got

a new issue going on. we're

sort of done

with Gaza, with Epstein,

with Hunter's laptop

and the Russian collusion

fraud, none of that panned out.

BLM and DEI flopped,

plus climate change is done too.

the no Kings day was kind of lame

and cringe,

not to mention the 

Starbuck strike,

but not to worry, we have a new

protest to get

fired up about,

we've got to free this cruel

drug dealing

dictator and his wife,

who the government

kidnapped in the dead

of night.

no longer will we be chanting free

free Palestine,

from now on it's,

free free Maduro and what's her name.

okay?

are we all on board with that?

someone call Rachel Maddow and find

out what her name is.

we have to save Venezuela from

no longer

being ruled by a dictator

and God forbid

becoming a democracy.

and let us not forget all those shipwrecked

sailors

who were fishing to feed

their families

while transporting unidentified

barrels of chemicals

and bags of cocaine.

they will not be forgotten.

and also, we need to defend

Timmy Walz, our beloved

leader in Minnesota and his Somalian

minions

who are clever enough to steal

8 billion dollars

for babysitting imaginary children.

any ideas?  anyone?

a hand goes up.

do you mind if we get something

to eat tonight, before

we get started, maybe

pizza?

yes, yes. our beloved leader

Soros has given us plenty of money

to eat.

so what's it going to be,

anyone?

Chinese, someone shouts out.

Kung Pao!

Jimmy Chang's is great. four stars

on yelp.

Ray's pizza,

another voice shouts.

or Katz's deli.

how about hummus, or a veggie

plate, Julie exclaims, 

who looks like

Olive Oyl's twin sister

but with a septum ring.

we need to save the animals.

by the way, a trans them speaks up,

brushing his blue

hair out of her eyes.

i thought we were

against kings and dictators?

are we changing

the platform now? i'm confused,

he says.

(causing the entire room to giggle)

i just got my no kings tattoo

on my forehead?

the ink is still wet and i think

it might be infected.

do i have to have it removed?

try not to think on your own, Pat,

Joe says,

just follow the script, obey

and march,

chant and make a raucous. we need

to stick together.

just be a zombie, okay?

a socialist soldier.

be dumb and don't question anything.

rational thinking and common sense

is their thing, not ours.

okay, have we agreed on

food yet?

hands? anyone?

how about Sparks, i accidentally

blurt out,

the best steaks in town.

maybe we can see if they deliver.

suddenly everyone looks at me,

and scream,

get him.

upside down in a liberal world

funny the world

we live in,

drug trafficators

are victims,

illegal

means legal,

drug lords

and dictators are

good,

fraudsters stealing

tax dollars

are misunderstood.

murderers

are heroes,

and communism

is in fashion

despite

a century

of shedding blood.

people carrying

the flag

of terrorists, wanting

to defund

the police, tax

those who have more

than you,

let boys pretend to be

girls,

and use their

bathrooms

in schools.

the new years purge

go less.

be minimalistic.

simplify your life,

pare down

what you have and don't use.

purge

and clean,

start from the attic

and work

your way down,

get down to bare bones

then look

around

and see what owns

you,

not what you

own.

flip a coin if you can't

decide,

then toss

or find a place where

it belongs.

the forty dollar sandwich

we

wait in line

in front of Katz's deli.

we're hungry.

we're

cold.

we're the tired

and weary,

we're the people

that the statue

of Liberty

tells us who we are,

carved in stone.

we want our hot pastrami

on rye,

three pounds

stacked high,

a pickle on the side.

we have our

ticket in hand, 

as we brush the New York

snow

from our eyes.

the dot dot dot...

give

me the ampersand,

the colon,

the semi-colon,

give

me the ellipse, the comma,

the dashes,

sometimes i can't find

the right word

to say,

my thesaurus is worn

the binder

gone.

the dictionary

frayed,

i've got nothing,

give me

the dot dot dot, i can't

go on....

the Learing Center in Minnesota

we all

have crazy excuses for trying

to get out

of something,

for assuaging our guilt.

the dog

ate my homework,

your email

must have

spammed out,

or i have a new phone

and lost

all my contacts.

i missed your call,

i must have been in

the shower.

someone broke into our

office and stole

all of our

important

documents that the government

requested

to prove

we're a legitimate

day care center

and not fraudulent.

the complete list of our

clients

and children have disappeared,

whoopsie.

and our checkbook

register too.

we don't have a clue now

as to where

the one point nine

million dollars

that you kindly give us

every year

went.

what makes you happy and full of joy?

my friend

asks me what makes me happy,

what puts

a smile

on my face,

makes me laugh

and clap my

hands together

with joy.

what makes

me do a jig

and dance across

the floor.

hold on, i tell her

and run upstairs to take

the framed

document off the wall.

be careful with that

i tell her,

putting it into her hands.

oh my,

she says. 

it's your last divorce

degree

behind tempered glass

in a gold frame.

yes, i tell her, and if you'd

like to see them,

i have two more.

the bus driver from Venezuela

after years of running

his once

wealthy

country into

the ground

they

capture the notorious

dictator

and his

wife

in the dead of night

and whisk

him back

to the jail house,

in NYC,

where the new mayor

will

probably

let him out and put

him in

charge

of law enforcement,

or housing

and development,

or maybe

driving the free buses,

since

he was a bus driver

before

becoming king

of Venezuela.

putting our heads together

the coconut

presents

a problem, how to open

it,

what tool

should we use,

i ask

as i hold the hairy

brown ball

in the air, up

towards the light.

she suggests the hammer,

i point

to the power saw.

maybe

a mallet

with a long screwdriver,

or the hatchet

hanging

on the shed door.

do we really a coconut,

i ask her.

can't we take it back,

did you

keep the receipt?

it seems so violent

and destructive

to open

it up.

small pleasure

small

pleasures. this cup

of tea

for instance,

this blanket around

me

mid afternoon

as the snow falls,

the fire

full

and rich with flames.

the mail

on the floor through

the slot,

waiting to be opened.

no rush. i'm

in no hurry to be with

the outside

world.

i'm settled

with life on this

cold afternoon,

the dog in a circle

so happy

to warm my feet.

gardens of our own

i see

my mother climbing up

those stairs

with her

garden

tools, my father not

far behind,

his arms full

of apples.

they are

still young, we are still

unborn.

and yet,

we're not too far

behind,

soon to have children

of our own,

gathering

fruit from our own

gardens.

we were all shiny people

we were

all shiny people for a while.

filled with promise.

young

and confident in our

clothes,

slender

and muscled.

hardly a scar

upon us, nary a wrinkle

on our faces,

our thick hair combed.

how hard

we rode those nights

into morning,

thinking

it would never end.

the wind parade

as the wind

pushes

along the paper and cans

on the street,

the garbage

and debris,

the bags and empty

cartons,

the discards

of the day.

apple

cores and orange peels,

dead

flowers.

what is there to do 

but wait

until it's all out of sight.

pretend

that the world is okay.

you can't handle the truth

it's amazing

what

the legacy news stations choose

to cover.

CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, etc.

it's almost as if they

want to deceive you,

twisting words

and views,

rearranging what fits their agenda.

creating their own

narrative.

they've taken

sides, choosing what news

to show you,

or not to show you.

hiding the truth

with no shame,

because,

well, you can't handle 

the truth

and if you knew the truth,

you might vote differently

come election day.

they've figured out

that if you repeat a lie

long enough,

eventually

the viewers will believe

it's all true.

thank God for independent

journalists,

for X,

for TikTok,

for YouTube.

you look marvelous

the salesman

tells me

that i look fit and healthy

for my

age.

he shakes my hand

vigorously

as we stand outside

the car dealership

in the cold

and wind.

how do you do it?

he says,

tapping his

belly.

brushing donut crumbs

off his red sweater.

what do you mean by that?

i ask him.

for my age?

yes, yes,

it's a compliment, 

for an elderly fellow,

it seems like you've

taken care of yourself.

you look great.

you don't look a day over 50.

so now, how

about

we take that new

car for a spin.

how's your credit rating,

by the way?

give me your

I.D. and

let me go get that magnetic

license plate.

impossible to keep these resolutions

i read through

my list

of resolutions for the new

year.

most of which i've already

abandoned

by day two.

one cup of coffee a day,

i shake

my head,

already deep into the pot

with a third

cup by noon.

stop buying so much

on Amazon,

whoops,

that idea has gone away too.

a new book,

a new

toaster oven,

a new pair of shoes.

and the third resolution, 

no cookies

for breakfast,

oh well.

the land pirates of Minnesota

the word

billion gets tossed around a lot

these days.

especially with all the Medicaid

and Medicare

fraud going around,

the Snap

benefits,

and welfare programs

being

robbed blind.

day care centers

racking in the dough

with nobody watching.

not a kid

or audit around.

it used to be

millions,

but that's an old

and tired

phrase.

so when someone says

that money

has been stolen or wasted,

or sent 

off to foreign lands,

we shrug when we hear

the word millions.

so what.

wake me up when it's a billion

dollars

being frittered away.

when no one is looking

as i pause

at the red light,

obedient

to the laws of the land.

despite

not a soul in sight,

i ponder

going through it.

no eyes

to see me, no cameras.

not a single

cop

around.

just me

idling in my

car,

waiting for green to appear

so that i can

move on.

i wait, not because

i want to,

but because

it's who i am.

as if i have no options

as i scroll

the endless list of movies

and shows,

searching

for something i haven't

seen before,

i realize how much

time i've wasted

sitting on

this couch

the days and nights

i've wiled

away staring

at the television,

clicking and binging on

what's next.

i could have become

a surgeon in this same

amount of time,

a pilot, a geologist.

i could have grown

a field of grapes

and made wine.

the entire work 

of Shakespeare could

have been read

and enlightened

my lazy mind.

what's it smell like to you?

what

is the shelf life

of this deli meat,

this milk,

how

long can we go on before

the expiration

kicks in

and all goes to hell,

sours

and dissolves.

how many

hours do we have before

this can

of beans

needs to be thrown away,

this piece of meat,

this loaf

of bread,

these frozen prawns.

can we take one more bite

before it hits

the can?

or have we waited too

long?

twelve grapes and black-eyed peas

i try

to eat the twelve grapes,

as the superstition

says to

do, to make it successful

and lucky new

year.

but the grapes have gone

bad,

sour,

and rancid.

i'm only able to eat three,

then throw

the rest across

the room,

where the dog eats them

and gets

sick too.

i end up in the emergency room.

it's not a good start.

and now she

wants me to 

eat some

beans or something, or carry

an empty

suitcase

around the block like

you're supposed

to do.

i'm not feeling too lucky

right now.

Uncle Scam

fraud

seems to be woven into

the fabric

of our society.

it's always been this way.

it has nothing

to do with religion,

or ethnicity

or the color

of your skin.

i can't answer my phone

without

someone trying

to scam

me out of money.

every street corner has

someone with

a sign

and pot,

begging.

they're playing violins

and singing.

holding up their chubby

children.

the pickpockets are

everywhere,

from London,

to Times Square.

welfare and childcare.

while the government seems

to be blind

to it all.

why work anymore when

Uncle Scam

will feed you from

the moment

you were born.

the ten o clock ball dropping

i set the alarm

to wake

me up a 11 59, one

minute before

the ball

drops.

but i hit the snooze button

and miss

the moment.

oh well.

maybe there should be a pre

ball

dropping

event at ten pm

for those that like to get to

bed early.

or maybe not.

ten nine eight, etc.

i try on my New Years Eve hat,

a silvery

sequined thing,

pulling the rubber

band string

under my chin, then take

out the cheap

paper horn

from the top shelf of the closet.

yup.

it still honks out

that annoying

sound.

i dig in deeper

into the closet,

i find the cowbell

and the wrench i hit

it with.

i just need to run up to Safeway

before it closes

for a bottle

of champagne,

chunks of cheese

and dip,

then i call someone

i met last week,

so that

i'm not alone again

on

New Years Eve.

only

nine hours left to go.

babysitting is a gold mine

i see the kid

next door,

a high school girl driving

a brand new

Lamborghini,

cherry red.

she's the neighborhood

babysitter

who was born and raised

in Minnesota.

dang,

i say to her, nice ride.

business must

be good.

yep, she says, swinging

her Prada purse around her

shoulder.

strutting proudly

in her Jimmy Choo shoes.

i have over two hundred

clients now.

wow,

how do you find the time.

oh, it's easy.

i rented an empty

warehouse

and the government

sends me money

for each one i have registered.

she gives me a wink.

Governor Walz is my godfather,

by the way,

so i learned a lot from him.

hey, she says, we're opening

up more locations

soon. we're trying to have

a franchise all over

the United States.

join in if you want to,

quit your job, babysitting is

a gold mine.

Fred, the lead clown

what was it like,

i ask

Alice, 

when you rode

the enormous grey

elephant

into the big

top

at the circus.

tiny as you are, 

lacquered in sequins,

were

you scared,

frightened that

the great beast would throw

you

and stomp you into

the saw dust

covered ground.

no, she said, i loved it.

it was

the bearded woman

who was in love with me,

that i was scared of.

not to mention,

Fred,

the lead clown.

finding the right measure

too much

salt

can ruin the dish,

too much

sugar
in the coffee and it's

undrinkable,

too

much spice,

will make

your eyes water, you

have to learn

early

in life

how to measure love

with just

a pinch.

we got to get out of this place

i meet my friend Jimmy at the local

pub for a holiday drink

and some burgers.

he's already there when i get there,

with three empty bottles

in front of him.

hey, he says. hey, i say back.

the waitress brings me a menu.

i tell her a burger,

medium rare and a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

so, what's up? i ask him.

nothing, he says.

which means everything.

my kids won't talk to me anymore,

my ex is filing for more

childcare,

and the girl i was dating found

someone else.

some dude with a Mercedes

and a condo at the beach.

she took all of the jewelry that i gave her too.

i can't blame her, i tell him.

just look at yourself. when was

the last time you

took a shower or put on some

clean clothes.

your Honda has about two hundred

thousand miles on it.

yeah, he says. i'm little lost

right now, but listen, i have a plan.

hold on, i tell him,

as the waitress puts the plate in

front of me.

i string some criss cross lines

of ketchup over

the fries, take the pickle off the bun,

then take a bite of my burger.

okay. i tell him, go, 

so you have a plan?

yes, he says.

now hear me out. i think we need to

look for women in other countries.

non-American women.

i think that's the problem. that's

why we can't stay in a relationship.

if they don't understand

what you're saying,

and you don't understand what they're

saying, that solves

ninety-nine percent of the issues.

these women here are too messed up.

yakkity yak yak,

always on their phones with each other.

they're never happy.

they want money, and cars, houses,

vacations and they want tall, dark

and handsome. that ain't us. am i right?

they all think they're the Kardashians,

or movie stars.

hmm, yeah. i guess so.

well, from my observation

in watching movies and Netflix,

and the Playboy channel,

women from other countries

are easier to get along with.

it's almost like they don't care

what you look like.

have you ever seen the dudes Sophia Loren

went out with,

or Jackie O.

gargoyles.

Jackie O was one of us.

whatever, he says, taking a bite of his burger.

so what country should we go to first?

he takes a folded map, blotted

with oil stains, from his back pocket

and smooths it out

over the bar.

he's circled Italy, France, Greece

and Sweden.

if we have no luck with those

countries we can

head to the Philippines, or Thailand.

it's like shooting fish in a barrel in those

countries.

it's my start list. he says, so?

what do you think?

sounds like a plan. let's do it.

i'm all in, but let's wait for bowling

season to end, okay?

we might win it all this year.

deal, he says. deal.

we clink bottles together. it's on.

i'm waiting on you

i keep

waiting for the book to kick in,

the movie,

the video,

the conversation,

the long

joke

being told badly. what's wrong

with me?

i'm losing it.

i've lost all patience with this

world.

this traffic,

waiting for things to move,

for the light

to change,

i'm tired of waiting

for this water

to boil.

i'm waiting and waiting

to hear one

good

new song.

i'm here, i'm at the corner

of tenth and nine.

i'm waiting on you.

he knew what i knew too

the family therapist

told

us, one by one, to stand

behind

each other

and let the person

behind

catch

them as they fell backwards

in a free fall.

a simple test of trust.

my son did it.

i caught him.

the ex-wife caught him.

then she fell backwards

and i caught her

before she hit

the floor.

then it was my turn

to fall

with my ex behind me,

and my son screamed,

don't do it dad,

please dad, 

don't,

and started crying.

he knew what i knew

too.

she's so easy to get along with

she's almost

too easy

to get along with, she never

corrects me,

or picks

lint off my sweater,

or points to the spinach

in my teeth,

never

says shhh, i'm talking now,

hardly ever

mentions my snoring,

or how i leave

the seat up

on the toilet.

she let's me hold the remote

and says

a third football game

is fine.

it's rare for her to complain

about the cups

i leave

around the house,

or that my muddy shoes

are on

the coffee table.

she understands that i don't

want to go

out,

that i want to sleep in

and not

go fishing, or sky diving,

or riding

in a hot air balloon,

or visiting

another museum.

she never rolls her eyes when

i say

no to driving to Winchester

to pick blueberries

in a field.

but sometimes i feel like she's

going to break,

not unlike a dormant

volcano,

about to blow any minute now.

if only they were pearls

we used

to dive for coins at the public

pool.

letting

them sink into the ten-foot deep

end,

beyond

the striped

rope

and under the diving board.

the bright whistle

of the guard muted by

water.

we used pennies

mostly,

easier to see.

we saved

the quarters, and dimes,

nickels

for the hot dog stand.

how hungry we were

after

diving and diving in the hot

July afternoons.

crusted in chlorine

and sun burned, our

hair turned

blonde.

if only

they were pearls.

the petting zoo

we go

to the petting zoo.

it's the basic

calm

and domesticated type of animals

you see

in cartoons,

or being held

on a talk show.
a pig,

a cow,

a goat, a sheep,

a llama.

a duck,

a chicken.

they all have names, 

so they

won't be eaten anytime

soon,

we have to stop at Kroger's

on the way

home,

for some meat,

milk

and eggs.

my mind is stuck on bacon,

maybe

some beef stew.

just need one letter

i'm stuck on wordle,

but i don't care

if i get it right

today.

let my nine hundred and ninety

two day

streak

go to hell.

i just don't care anymore.

sorry.

but things have changed,

perhaps

i've changed,

what used

to be important is nothing

to me

anymore.

it's a stupid game.

and yet,

and yet,

win or lose,

tomorrow i'll play again.

mister big shot know it all

so there

is no

end to the universe, is that right?

there's no

edge,

no rim,

or brim, no period at the end

of the enormous

stretch of

outer space.

it's infinite

and yet, maybe,

just maybe there is an end?

is that right?

Is there a sign that says

dead end when

you get

there

and just a black wall

that you can't penetrate?

no door to go through,

no window

into what's next?

is that what we're doing here.

playing that game?

messing with our

heads,

mister big shot, God,

keeping us confused about

it all?

do we really have to die,

to finally know?

clever to a fault,

aren't you?

her second cousin in Newark is coming for the holidays

i get confused

when she tells me

something about

her

second cousin in

New Jersey, Gretchen,

you know, she says,

David's

sister's kid, the one

with the hearing aid

and lisp,

i let out a sigh and roll

my eyes.

i don't want

to figure it out again,

the lineage,

the ancestorial tree.

i don't want to know

what a second cousin is anymore,

just say their name and be

done with it,

i tell her.

my head is overflowing

with your family.

i need a clear and concise

outline on

a clean sheet of paper,

one that 

i can laminate and have

access to 

when everyone arrives.

a picture

next to their name would

be helpful too.

how she gets the truth out of me

i don't believe

you,

she tells me,

standing at the door

as i come home

at midnight,

asking where i've been.

i can't put you on the rack,

or into

solitary confinement,

she says

with hands on her hips,

or water

board you to tell truth,

that would

be cruel and unusual punishment

and who

wants that.

instead i'll cook you lima

beans

for dinner,

and make you sleep in the other room

for a week

or two

until you crack.

how would you like that?

the wobbling vegan

it's not

easy dating a vegan,

someone who won't touch meat of any

kind.

forgoing the steak,

the bacon,

the ribs

and pork chops, they won't

even eat a single

piece of fried chicken

from Popeyes.

they wag their skinny finger

at General Tao's

crispy fried beef,

or a burger from Five Guys.

how slowly they are to get

up from a chair,

or get out of a car,

teetering from

near starvation,

pale and grumpy all the time,

dazed and confused,

anemic with

thinning hair.

you try

to trick them with an egg,

or two,

but they try to stab you with

the spork

they stole from

the Kale cafe where the entire

menu is written

in Sanskrit or Hindu.

the reading of the will

my father's last

girlfriend, the last one still alive

that i know

of,  calls me up

to shoot the breeze.

she was in a long

string of floosies

he cheated on with

while married to my mother

who gave

him seven kids.

she wants to talk about my

father

and how much she loved him.

how she held

his hand and sang him

lullaby's

as he died.

she tells me

that he had promised to take

care of her

when he passed away.

what does that mean? i ask her.

he said that he would

leave some money for me,

and that gold

necklace that he used to wear.

really?

and his watches.

how much money?

a lot, she says, a lot.

i know he had at least a million

dollars saved.

i saw the statements in the top drawer

of his desk.

so i think i should get

at least half, after all i was the love

of his life.

sorry, i tell her.

i have the will in front of me,

and gee whiz,

you aren't mentioned in the will.

nope,

i don't see your name anywhere.

do you have a recording

of him saying that he promised

giving you money,

something written down

that he signed?

a witness? 

my daughter

can testify once she gets out of jail.

hmmm.

i don't think so.

and as far as the jewelry

goes,

i think his maid already snatched

all of that.

how about i buy you lunch next

time i'm in town?

okay, she says.

and dinner too, okay?

and fill up my gas tank?

they shoot horses don't they?

my doctor

tells me that i'm as healthy

as a horse.

i ask him

what that means.

horses don't get sick?

horses

never get a bug,

or break a leg,

or get the mumps?

he takes

the cold stethoscope

off my chest and smiles.

i just mean that you

are very healthy.

you're in good shape.

but what's with the horse

reference?

you mean that

if i am not healthy, you

are going to take

me out into

the field and shoot me?

do i look like

a horse to you?

do i eat hay,

am i wearing a saddle

or pulling a wagon?

ever see me at the Kentucky Derby?

settle down, settle down,

he says.

calm down,

your blood pressure is

going up.

no local scammers?

nearly

every phone call is from India

or Pakistan,

from

Mexico, or Jamaica,

Nigeria

and Russia,

doesn't anyone ever

call me

from the United States

anymore?

if i'm going to be scammed

i'd prefer

a local call, please.

maybe Florida,

or Utah,

or New England,

someplace close perhaps,

to where i am.

her unsuitable BMW

if not

for the gear shift in the middle

console,

the tight leather seats

pushed up

close to the window

and the absence

of a reasonable

back seat,

stacked with self help

books

and wine bottles,

we would have made love

that night

in her car, parked

outside

of Crate and Barrel,

but no

such luck.

i left the doggie bags

with her

from P. F. Changs,

lettuce wraps and firecracker

shrimp,

and waved farewell

as she drove off.