i go to bed
to the lovely sounds of
horns and strings, and
i stare up at the
darkened ceiling-
confused as ever.
why so much social media?
why all the clip watching?
so very much to do.

the cotton candy making machine is
running low on sugar-
the battery in the red.

and never in my life have I looked so forward to sleep:
the bizarre and unexplained in those lands-
the excitement of roads taken-
the freshness of spontaneity-
the heart a-flutter with flirting-
movie action scenes-

ahhhh sleep…

I won’t say any man is my peer and I can’t say that with confidence.
i despise their machismo and their flags and their
machinations.
the sports jerseys they wear of twenty-something year-old millionaires-draped across their soft, middle-aged, beer-bellied-bodies.

i don’t want to stand
with the
civic town leaders and
politically motivated
dads and moms.

the country spoke and placed us on the
starboard side of
a sinking ship-
a ship that desperately needs to
sink.

unfortunately we will all take a beating and a lesson.
hard lessons - then, renewal.

the waving of the baton-
the clap of the slate-
the lowering of the
pen to paper-
are the scared dependables-
brothers and sisters keeping my
mind from full
surrender to
the commute and cubicle-
the pious and predictable-
the liquor and the straight jacket.

we will all go down together,
but we few,
will live to
create about it.
we few-
we lucky
few.

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you throw the windows open-
your favorite song hits
the chorus-
neighbors are strolling by-
they’re hearing it, and
you love it, as
the song is carried out to
the sidewalk on the
shoulders of the summer wind

your favorite flavored icey,
sold by a vendor at the shore - with a bushy moustache,
from a cart painted like an
italian flag.
it’s cold and lovely going down.

the kids gleefully tearing open
wrapping-papered-gifts.
the look of pride when the kids score high
at the desk and at the net

our daughter throws back her head with
laughter, in a way
only her friends can make her do

our son, eyes closed, behind the drum set,
entirely lost in the pocket of the groove.

the dogs sliding across the shiny wood floor,
high tailing it-
to greet us at the door, as if
we’d done a 30-year sentence.

all of us cozy and warm under the blankets, as
linus and lucy do their thing-
logs crackling in the fireplace.

all of these moments-
mean nothing-
without your smile-
your leadership-
your love-

this one’s for you.

Happy Anniversary

please oh gracious wonder of the musical line-
the rapturous melody-
carry me please.
carry me above the taut wire, and
the hard edges, and the
fluorescent lights, and the
business television, and the
bland beige spectrum and
the fire strobes and exit
signs and regurgitated colored carpets.

please carry me above and away from this wasted life.

the mystery and anger and violence and
filth of the city no longer holds my attention.

take me away from poly headsets and coffee mugs with my name on it.

eject me from the ergo chair-
oust me from bland skyscrapers.

and from now on only let me go as far up as three floors in an elevator.

no - the strings and the rhapsody can’t save me-
nor these words.
the time to save was the energy of youthful action-
of blind balls and heroism of heart,
and backbone valor.

no - art can’t save me.
the only hope now-
to sit facing the wall-
one hand over the other-
back straight-
empty of past
empty of future-
empty of want-
empty of ever thinking-
of ever wanting something and
not getting it.

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sometimes
it comes
upon you
like hard rain-
relentlessly ransacking you
towards cover.

sometimes
it comes
like a bus up amsterdam-
you see the bus
but it is very far away-
crawling toward you with each traffic light.

sometimes
it never comes at all-
like women-
but-
you are always
surprised
with how it arrives-
how it grows and ferments-
and how they spring up
like children
in hide-and-go-seek games.

and when it is on-
and when it is good-
it is very much the child-
open and direct-
inspecting circles and squares-
demanding a reason for their existence.

ultimately-
finally-
it’s all in the parks and
on ledges and
in the icebox behind your couch;

they lie in wait in doll houses-
where imaginary steaks are being fried on
imaginary grills-
and god
is as unimportant
as last years taxes.

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a last photo was taken
of him or her-
running along the beach-
smiling and throwing back a beer-

the immediacy
of being alive one moment
then dead the next-
is eerily overwhelming, and
has become as common
on social media
as throwing back a beer.

budd dwyer blows his head off
in front of a sea of press-
another murders his wife
at their dead son’r gravesite-

for all of television land to see.

for that’s what we want to see
in technicolor-
trouble - action - death
in the moment-
as it’s happening-
as long as its not us.

michael’s last run-
my last poem-
your last glass of water.

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it was just
a three-day
business trip-
that’s all.

and as I pulled the car
up to the curb
at terminal 5
at departures-
we turned to
look at
one another.
her eyes heavy and
glistening with tears.
mine too.

we smiled and kissed.

rarely have we separated over
the stretch of
nineteen years.

and when I forget to
call con-ed or
forget to take
the mail-
or when we raise voices at
one another-
or
when she is late
-to everything-
or I forget to
clean the kitchen
or she…..
what?
well, my good lady seldom does anything wrong.
i far out-wrong her by leagues

yet-
when frustrations and
disappointments
boil
over-

when verbally charging at
one another with
stinging insults swords-
we remember

these moments-

a shared, teary-eyed look
inside a car-
at departures-
at terminal 5-
that says
we have too much wonder and
belly laughs and tragedy and
life-weight
in the bank-
to allow
pint sized skirmishes-
to derail the
dream domesticity
we delight in
on so many sunny saturday mornings.

the tears at departures, at terminal 5-
have us-
and I am
grateful
we have
each other.

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canals of uniformed machinery that
flow like wasted time-
rail splitting silver coffins with
advertisements for guts-
tickets back to small town america,
where girls are still naïve and
guys with miniscule waists, dense minds and
extra large jeans
lean over
girls while
sucking soda from
a jumbo 7/11 cup
…. and still the hangouts-
…. and still the cruising-
and a cop is
looking to bust a jaywalker while
listening to the mets game

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there is a human on all sides of
Jim Stanley:
in front-
behind him-
at the sides of him.

there are humans on all sides of
Jim Stanley:
throngs of commuters going
this way and that-
hurrying behind him and walking around him-
humans tucked-in-tight on the
escalators and stairs.

there are humans on all sides of
Jim Stanley:
on metro north train seats-
can I grab that seat?
sure thing - Jim says as a human
squeezes by Jim to the
window side.
and they are chatting and collecting tickets and gossiping and playing cards and reading and
drinking beers and
sleeping.

there are humans on all sides of
Jim Stanley:
at home-
several-
wife, kids and even some
non-humans as well!
their names: bark and nugget.

and Jim has
all the love he could want.

there are human voices on all sides of
Jim Stanley’s head:
read this book, it will instill
in you
confidence and self worth.
eat this fattening meal as
your life sucks now.
don’t eat that!
do you want diabetes?

different voices-
with demanding and
conniving and convincing temperaments.

they say to Jim-
you suck monkey dicks-
you’re the best in the world-
you have no purpose in this plane.

there are humans on all sides of
Jim Stanley at
his son’s wrestling match-
Jim sits away from the
other parents, and
applauds and
shouts
when he’s required to.

and at lunch,
Jim sitting on a bench-
in bryant park.
humans on all sides of him-
allowed too - their lunch hour.

Jim listens to music on
his discman-
eyes focused at
nothing in particular-
the voices stop pointing fingers-
they fall silent in the swell-
perfect-lonely-peace
to be just the music and
the wind blowing through
his hair-
for three
and a half minutes.

then the self flagellation will
begin
anew-
every day-
like a skipped, dusty record
on your granddad’s old turntable.

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when the weather
is calmer-
less chilled-
there’s refuge on the patio-
when the meditation discipline
is gone-
(don’t know why?)
there is refuge sitting
on the patio-

you can still hear
the passing cars
to and fro on the hutch-
but there is silence enough.
with jupiter and venus looking
down on me-
I can’t help but to think that
being amongst the dust
and particles and wind
is the way to go.

maggots and worms be damned!

no desire
no physical pain
no mental anxiety

a jerkoff splits the quiet in half
with his souped-up sports car,
announcing
to the world
he has no penis

humanity always finds a way to ruin a good thing

but he’s gone now-
and again
there is the silence of
the suburban esplanade.

with little in the way of any
sanctuary of the mind-
it’s good to have the
refuge of the patio-
to sit here-
with the stars and dust and wind,
amongst all of it-
to be as silent as
this unquiet mind will allow

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“I won!” Shouted Jim’s eleven year old daughter. The child, Stephanie, had three of her friends over. They were jumping up and down on the bed - making a racket. High pitch laughter and screams pierced through the sound of the water running in the kitchen sink. Jim was doing the dishes. Andrea, his wife, had cooked and after a harrowing week, was taking a powder in the bathroom - her sanctuary - with her latest issues of People and Mz.

Jim had felt the urge to cry lately. Not necessarily sob, just tears rising and clouding his vision, like torrential rain distorting one’s vision in the windshield of your car. Jim tried real hard to stay with the drying of the McDonald’s glasses. He had let his beard grow in. An unusual act of family appearance protocol. The water collected in the sink was blurry from the tears just hanging out in his eye sockets.

Breathe.

The phone rang from the kitchen wall and startled Jim. It rung a second and third time.

Andrea opened the door a crack: “Jim, wanna get that?”

Jim shouted over the running water and bat shit crazy girls: “It’s …its’s…probably some telemarketer or maybe the police benevolent association. I’m letting it ring out, hun.”

Jim knew it was most likely Manufacturers Hanover bitching about a bill he was a month late on. Or Diner’s Club or Chase. All companies he was in arrears.

Why the tears again?

Stephanie was laughing in that jovial way she only seems to do with friends and not her parents.

Why? Jim knew it was not a good sign to suddenly get the urge to cry. Scrub the pan out. Pour some Sunlight on those dishes. Scrub, scrub, scrub those bastard dishes out till there was nothing left of the SOS pad. Stay with the dishes, Jim told himself. He tilted his head up, giving the discolored kitchen ceiling a look so as to prevent a tear from falling.

“Dad! Can we make sundaes now?” Stephanie asked from the hall.

“Sure thing. Give me a minute. I’ll bring out the ice cream and the bowls.”

Jim needed that minute. Breathe. Breathe, Jim. No puffy eyes tonight. Mother is long dead. Remember when she used to powder puff under your eyes when you had a crying fit before school?

These tears were of a more alarming variety - right, Jim? Andrea and Stephanie haven’t seen those tears.

The phone rang again. A second. A third time. Jim musters up the courage and answers it.

“Oh, hi, Linda. Hang on, I’ll get Andrea.”

Jim walked over to the bathroom and knocked. “Linda is on the phone.”

“She’s probably going to ask if Jennifer can stay over.”

Jim speaks with whispered anger at the bathroom door: “Absolutely no. No. No. No.”

“Antcay oday, Kemo Sabe.”

“Stop with the pig Latin shit.”

“We owe Linda. Tell her to hang on. I’ll pick it up in the bedroom.”

“Fuck. I’ll have to go down to storage and get extra bedding.”

“I guess you will, Jim. All a part of being a parent. Sleepovers. Maybe someday you’ll accept it.”

Jim leaned his arm against the wall and stared at the orange rug. Sometimes Jim cried in private. Sometimes he raged in public.

Jim grabbed the phone - sitting sideways on the cradle. “Linda? Andrea will be another second. Hang on.”

“Jim I got it. You can hang up.”

As Jim took the elevator down to basement level, holding tightly to the storage room key. All he could think of was how he’s been put out. The kids will be in the living room with the large color TV and he and Andrea will be watching Johnny Carson on the black and white.

Jim’s eyes were dry. You could almost say they were red.

Breathe, Jim. Breathe.

Jim, Andrea and Stephanie live in apartment 1804 at The Willoughby Apartments.

“THE APARTMENTS” - a short story series coming soon…..

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“Boys I’m directing a feature in Massachusetts. Send good vibes! Been working on this, preparing it, for almost a year!”
my 52 year old friend said to us
in a text.

you’re long
overdue-
like that book
you took out of the
yonkers library - called -
the films of ingmar bergman

remember that one?

right before the
aborted attempt at
being a pretentious filmmaker.

overdue like
indifference to
taxes - year after year-
not giving a rat’s tuchas-
until it’s too late-
and you’ve sold your dignity for
a dime and
everything you
thought you owned
is repossessed.

or that student loan-

another attempt at
mid-life career change-
online state college-
guillotened by laziness- right out in
the public square.

overdue like going 0/8760 salad days
without
times-of-your-life-bohemian sex

overindulged in time wasting endeavors-
oversaturated with media and
camwhores-

overeating with
late night haagen-dazs-

overrun and overtaken with music and
books that
won’t put dinner on
the table.

underperforming for years and
undermining your value-
oversimplifying the
9-5 until
you realize-
at best-
you have maybe 30 years left
to make good
on delayed dreams-

30 if you are lucky-
most
in pain,
in loss,
in confusion-

learning about friends obits
second-hand-
while dropping laxatives in
a cvs shopping wagon.

overdue in talent-
overdue in self appreciation-

over and over and over the hill.

overcooked, overdone and spiritually underfed.

now is the time-
the movie projector-
its 8mm home movies of
undervalued memories-
the beaming light and dust and darkened theatre-
this moment of everlasting space-
right now-
just this-
only just this-
where overdue ceases
to exist-

just this-

take happy satisfied inventory-
there is
no me-
no mind-
no self-indulgent obvious overrated-ness.

the house lights come on-
the ushers sound their
applause-

finally, a smile-
as death leads antonius block and his
travelers across the gray,
nordic sky

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i know the average amount
of water
in the human body
is
50 to 60%

this body’s water
has been
bubbling
gray hot tub tears
as if
awaiting a trigger
to release them.

dissatisfaction-
guilt-
regret-

lost at 50 plus as
a child is lost
in a mall-
slowly walking over
to the information desk
crying-
thumb in mouth

movie as trigger-
the nebulous night sky as trigger-
a fortunately composed piece
of music–
trigger – yes, of course

the 400lb barbells of burden of nothing accomplished-
hours and days cindered as
spent butts in a plastic Kool ashtray

don’t look behind you, as
all it reveals
is dead masturbatory hours in
darkened rooms

look forward with half
a grin-
as the kids rely on
your mask-
that you are more than
a missed life opportunity and
decades of no doing and
a
trigger of tears

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roger’s glasses
keep sliding
down his
nose
as he waits for
the M60 bus

roger has to remember to get them adjusted

but what catches
roger’s eyes as
the glasses begin
their
decent
again-
is a walk up
with a flag on the outside-
it reads:
the order of the benevolent spirit

the old tenement has
been renovated with
new life-
and gives off an
energy that
appeals to
roger

come in tonight for a free meeting!
reads a sign on
the outside of the building

wasn’t that
pretty, young thing
handing out flyers on
vanderbuilt- a part of
that order, roger thinks to himself

the M60 bus
fails to show its face
over the
hill

he’d light a cigarette if he still smoked

roger isn’t very religious
but he is benevolent-
he did let rory go home early last week-
and he does give to
the homeless
when he can

a few young people walk
into the tenement building
wearing loose
odd clothing

roger doesn’t have enough cash for a cab
he looks up again at
the building-
at the warm lights upstairs-
he looks down at his swatch watch-

he could call Rachel-
she really digs him-
but he’d have to deal
with her kids

roger had told
some of the guys he’d be
at mulligan’s to
watch the game

roger turns
as he hears-
laughter-
community-
company-
emanating from
the yellow lighted windows
of the third floor

roger walks around the bus stop and then
over to the door of
the tenement building-
opens it-

the fellas at mulligan’s won’t miss him-
he’ll catch the 2^nd half.

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today i folded
like tuesday and sunday and
last saturday-
but on monday and wednesday
i couldn’t be beat-

that’s the nature of things at
this point in life-

grapes and pears-
religious and atheist-
you’re one person than
the next
then the third

but, it’s not the word, but
the search-
wins and loses-
you gain a pound,
you lose a pound-

that’s just fine-
everything is-

the streetsweeper talking garbage or
me picking my nose while
thinking of this

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arnie’s arm was hurting him
something fierce today

strolling through the milk white halls he
hears morris beating everyone to
the question on jeopardy-
which plays lowly in
the recreation room

arnie was to receive
a package today from florida-
from his self-made son

that’s why he’s not expecting it

it’s a rare comic book

linda the nurse walks
into the foyer from
the rain and hangs up her coat

arnie thinks about two things when he sees linda:

one is-
why certain people have that patch of
lightning strike gray hair on their
predominantly dark head
and nowhere else

the second being-
how very much
linda resembled his
first wife-
arnie’s favorite

their marriage
shot down with
the big c

she approaches ernie and
smiles
she tells him that she’ll be
with him in
a few moments

looking at linda gave ernie a
warm feeling of reincarnation

and that despite the
comic book not arriving
he’d still somehow have
a glorious day

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when you are there voices shatter stained glass windows
and cathedrals collapse under their
own weight -
and listen
for when you are there
a thread of light makes
a pinhole illumination behind the eyes
and you levitate without a sound-
your laughter raising you
higher -
higher than any raise your boss will give ya

and you enthusiastic legs make
cracks underneath
your shoes and
the bubbles boil grease and
angels
of one kind of another
dance matisse-like around your table and notebook

and
credit collectors
are far way
in igloos
wailing like
caught cats

and you walk home and
the pavement goes with a
grace that knows no defeat

and all---
ALLLLLL will benefit from
your game of catch with smiling buddhas

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he made his muscles tight-
for what?
adding more and more to his load-
20, 30, 50 pounds-
to put him in that place where
he need not think about
what needed to get done

margaret slept and slept in
her single bed-
after having read the good book to
help her from bludgeoning the
screaming three year old

and lori kept promising she’d
get a job-
get back on her feet-
as she cashed in her welfare check-
but - ya know
it’s so damn hard finding
a parking space in
the late afternoon-
she’ll go job hunting
some other time-
perhaps catch a matinee with carl

and the hood just
keeps hanging
around the pizzeria-
but they’re young-
they got all the time in the world

though-
you might ask the guy who
got shoved in
front of the
speeding 6 train about all the time

and the local Tolstoy goes
downtown to
get lost in depravity amongst
those he is not-
his masterpiece will wait

and the numbers keep on rollin’-
in one form or another-
as time flows
down
the
chute-
like piss-
and the
funeral home director
starts his car and
heads home after
another tiring
day at the office

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she’s no more than ninety pounds-
and she rifles through the job bank books-
searching for her place in the world-
she rests her head in her hand
and points out things to me about
marketing and telecommunications-
all swedish to me-
and i want to cry
there’s not an iota of
passion behind it-
only a sense of security-
safeness-

another dead end of
overtime, no thank yous and
no pay

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sitting in a cafe alone
seeing her
lying on her stomach-
legs dangling in the air
somehow makes
not writing
not so bad-
and
imagination can’t always
buy you
the Suez Canal-
so
i wonder
who is in her company tonight?
as i fish
for some type of
semblance of words-
yet all i have is a
net full of
broken gasping letters-
and the words will
clutch at their windpipes-
they will
choke
cough
weeze-
they will
spurt out premature-
half finished, moist and
not quite done-
that is
until she
walks into
my life and
hangs her
coat on
my rack
for
good

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just
can’t seem to
fill up that
doggone space

... looking into penny arcade windows ...
nope
not there

into the fluorescent lit windows of
Mojo’s Laundromat-
nah ... not there

this space-
cold air pockets blowing through my ears

look at those two by the
five and dime-
their spaces
chock full of merriments-
brimming over like
hot chocolate and whip cream

that goddarn space ...
grows larger and
wider by
the hour

looking down alleys and
threw a bud light neon sign-
nope-
not there

down
drain pipes-
along
internet super highways-
underneath
manhole covers
across
the shiny sheen of a red rope-
through
soot covered diner windows-

‘fraid not kid-

the writing is good-
the gods have their laugh-
i guess you just can’t have
everything

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