Did he ever say,"that’s enough poetry
about the birds and the oceans"?
Did she tell herself “I’m done writing
about the animals of the forest”?
Did the others ever just give up writing
about lost loves, death and regret?
More than once I sat to write and
found myself writing about all that
happened, all that didn’t happen.
More than once I stopped myself,
clicking the red X, and the No when
the computer prompted me to save.
More than once, I put down the pen,
closed the notebook, tore out the page,
tossed the paper to the side, looked away.
I wondered why I had this feeling, now.
Does it mean that all is forgiven or
does it mean I feel like it’s all been said?
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Did he ever say,"that’s enough poetry
Monday, November 29, 2010
While on other days, like this morning, you smiled
that same smile from when you were a little baby.
Maybe I noticed it because your face was framed
perfectly by the window of the bright orange bus.
Next year, I’ll wait at this same bus stop as you head
to high school, somehow your mother and I’ll get
you through it. But today I thinking too far ahead to
the day when I’ll drove off and look back to see you
standing at the curb, waving in my rear view mirror.
Or I imagine the three of us standing on a platform
at the train station, the Amtrak pulls into Metropark,
to take you south to D.C. or north to Boston. And when
I see you in the window; I’ll see a man with my baby’s smile.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
tank tops with our numbers on them,
Barkley jerseys, Moses Malone t-shirts,
black high top sneakers and we always
had basketballs stuffed behind the seats,
as we rode around Middlesex county
making deliveries in our Hino box trucks.
We’d pull over, take a few jump shots or
play one on one between stops. Sometimes
we’d play pick-up games against other
guys who’d be hanging out on the courts.
Anthony was a Sixers fan too and he’d like
to tell the story of how he met Doc, after
a game, even shook his massive hand and
how he was a classy guy, a true gentleman.
I’d tell him how I felt lucky to have gone to
the Spectrum with my teacher and the rest
of the sixth grade from Irving Avenue School
to watch the 76ers take on the L.A. Lakers.
But the truth of the story is that I only
watched Dr. J on TV, I never saw him play
in person that night, because my mother
wouldn’t give me the money for the ticket.
And I didn’t dare ask my stepfather for a ride.
to eat, since he must turn off his Playstation 3.
He can’t pay attention in class and finds
everything boring, especially teachers talking.
He hates to read books and tells everyone
how he doesn’t like to write or go to school.
His nephew walks around the house blasting
his iPod, wears it at the dinner table, on the bus,
in the halls, and all he wants to do is listen to
his music. His Algebra teacher writes and
performs rap lyrics to teach him the math,
but he does no homework and fails all the tests.
Her neighbor’s kids watch Disney movies on the
back of the car’s headrests as they drive down
the road and don’t talk to each other,and don’t
look out the window when the parents are driving.
The kids don’t know where their grandparents live,
the name of their dentist or what town they are in.
Her grandchildren sit at the restaurant table and play
Nintendo DS instead of interacting with the family.
They can’t sit in a chair, hold their heads up, order meals,
eat with manners and barely touch their plates.
They complain how the food sucks and how full they are.
They order big desserts and take a few bites before going
back to watch more YouTube videos on their iPod Touch.
Her friend’s daughter copies full passages from
Wikipedia and Google, but denies plagiarizing.
She also has been sending inappropriate photos to
her boyfriend, who then sent them to his buddies.
A group of her friends team up to humiliate the new
girl on Facebook, MySpace, and Instant Messaging.
Your friend’s son never leaves the basement and
no longer has an interest in sports or going outside.
Instead he plays Call of Duty and interacts via his
character in the game and a headset to talk to
some guys that he’s met through X-Box Live.
He doesn’t clean his own room, make his bed,
take out the trash, rake leaves, or mow the lawn.
Her cousin was let go from his part time job for
sexting with a female employee, who liked it
at first, but got angry when she found out
how he was doing it with all the girls at work.
She told the supervisor and he was terminated
immediately in order to avoid a harassment lawsuit.
Each night their daughter was on the computer
chatting with a strange man in Missouri, who
forced her to take her clothes off and participate
in sex acts while using the video camera and Skype.
She told her parents when they found her packing
her suitcase on the way to meet the man who told
her she had to buy a bus ticket to meet up with him.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
of bread, dealt slices like cards onto napkins
laid across the dash of his truck. We pulled packets
of ketchup, mustard, relish, mayonnaise from our
pockets, mounded them up by the windshield.
Each man reached into the pile, ripped them open
with their teeth, squeezed, spread, threw empties
in one motion saturating the bread with free
condiments he told us to load up on from the 7-11.
He slapped a thick slice of baloney onto the bread,
told us to eat up, we acted shy, because we hadn’t paid.
"I know you ain’t got no money, but we got lots of work
to get done, you boys’ll be worthless on empty stomachs.
I’m planning to get plenty of work out of the both of yous".
He splashed generic lemonade into courtesy cups,
gulped one down, asked us how's it tasting, and shared one
of his many Viet Nam sayings as he disengaged the brake-
“everyday’s a holiday and every lunch meal is a banquet”
He pushed the engine button, switched on the radio,
we still stuffed our faces full of white bread and ketchup
as he turned the big truck wheel and drove onto 295 North
and put it in the wind. I can still hear him singing along
with the refrain of an old Guess Who song as he shifted gears-
“on my way to better things- got myself some wings- distant roads are calling me”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
with your slick little bodies, shining feathers.
Black, iridescent like oil spots in a parking lot.
It seems you all like to work in groups as
you try to sneak up on the tourist’s garbage.
I want to ask you why you all have feathers
missing in a ring around your scrawny necks.
But it's the sandpipers who work the best
together on the shoreline, moving swiftly to
avoid getting your feet wet. Acting like you aren’t
part of a team, pecking, poking the wet sand
with precision, stopping to run each other off.
And then back to work, even though you don’t
find much at the water’s edge, it’s your spot.
Pelican, you stop me each morning at sunrise with a
rapid crash into the ocean, ugly as the beak you use.
You look bulky and strange, you don’t move sharp or
swift like the jets of today. More like World War Two
fighter planes with your direct paths and staggered
patterns that make me notice your numbers; I count
every time this week and the magic number is six.
Gulls, you are all over, screaming like someone’s
done something wrong or trying to murder you.
Somebody told me to look for you to find the wind’s
direction, since you always put your beak to where
it’s coming from. You don’t like ruffled feathers.
I keep an eye on you if I’m eating food because
I’ve seen your sneaky ways at the Jersey Shore.
Osprey, when you fly, there’s no need to count the
number in your flock, you don’t have any partners.
You go it alone, like your famous cousins, the Eagles.
Sometimes people call you seahawk when they
see you glide on currents of air above the waves.
The flight, the dive, the grab with your talons, barely
getting your feet wet. A few flaps and you are gone.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
what’s up with all the
poetry? is what a boy
in the back row said.
Makes you choose precise words and
finish in less time. That’s true.
rhyming is Old School
a fourth grade girl announces
as I introduced
limericks, quatrains, couplets.
Man, free verse is where it’s at.
rappers and rock stars
sit at kitchen tables with their
own rhyming dictionaries
forcing themselves to find words
that rhyme with cheese and mustard
Kilmer, poet from nearby
wrote Trees, killed on World War I
battlefield in France.
A young student says plainly-
Should’ve stuck to poetry.
Monday, November 22, 2010
down the Rubbermaid bins
marked Thanksgiving and get ready
to teach a lesson like its 1977.
She’ll wear a headband with a feather;
a Pocahontas costume from the Party Store,
and put her hair up in braids.
She’ll stand at the classroom door
greet the kids with a raised hand
and say, Ugh, How, Kemo Sabe and
call them all her little braves.
She’s make vests out of paper bags,
War bonnets out of construction paper,
Tom toms out of coffee cans that she saved,
and wampum necklaces out of uncooked ziti.
Room mothers will prepare a snack and paint
streaks of paint on the children’s little cheeks.
They’ll all trace their hands; put beaks on the
thumb’s outline to make a Tom Turkey.
She’ll call them to the rug for a Pow Wow
and tell them to sit “Native American style”.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
something to eat or drink.
Open the fridge or cabinets,
they acted like he was stealing.
And if he asked, it didn’t mean he
was getting it. Many times he’d hear-
Don’t drink that Pepsi, its mine.
Don’t take those cookies; those are for your sister.
Don’t touch the Slim Jims, they belong to Dad.
Don’t eat those pretzels; I bought ’em for your brother.
One day after school he ate two of his
stepfather’s Tastykake French apple pies,
the kind with white icing, little bitty raisins.
His mother humiliated him for being selfish
and asked, “Just who do you think you are?”
He was reminded of how much his father
loved his pies and what he’d do when he got
home from work and found them missing.
He gathered his change from his Snoopy bank
and took off running for the path, a shortcut
through the fields, out to the road, past the brook
and onto the avenue to the corner store.
After buying the pies, he ran back quickly to
replace what he’d taken without permission.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
to my old hometown
I usually dwell on how
it all went wrong
for the city and my family too.
But I still make the trip to see
empty houses, shut down factories
boarded up stores on Laurel Street.
This time, I rehearse conversations
in my head hoping to see someone I know
or who may vaguely remember me.
I’ll say, “Hey, how’s it going?
“It’s been a while” or
“Glad to see you’re doing fine.”
I’ll drive by Quarter Mile Lane School,
and walk through the kick ball fields.
I go past the projects where I lived,
Big John’s Pizza, Weber’s Candy Store,
a friend’s family home on East Avenue,
and park by the edge of Sunset Lake.
I’ll drive past my grandparent’s house and
stand by a big maple I used to climb out front.
I want to see that someone’s painted it and
that the grape hyacinths and daffodils still bloom.
I want to see the new people hanging their sheets
on the line and piling Autumn leaves by the curb.
I’ll drink a free cup of apple cider from Sunny Slope.
I want to smell the fireplaces in the dead of winter
and the ketchup factory in the dog days of summer.
I want to feel it wasn’t so bad or I need to know
something went right during that time, in this place.
Friday, November 19, 2010
but he’d often come back off the road with tickets and dents.
He liked to tell the story of how he was a hero at his old job,
(even made the news) but was laid off the following week.
He’d ask to take certain guys with him to be helpers for the day,
then say “he was as worthless as a bucket with a hole in it”.
He was angry about the racism he faced growing up in Carolina,
but always made fun of his Haitian and Ecuadorian coworkers.
He talked about how he had to take care of his sick wife,
but he’d go out on Friday nights with his young girlfriend.
He’d say he couldn’t stand working with dope heads and druggies,
but he’d hurry his runs to get them on time to the methadone clinic.
He always said he couldn’t work for someone he didn’t have no respect for,
yet when his boss let himself be bullied, he brought his 38 to protect him.
He’d complain about the high cost of pills and prescriptions,
then buy forty to fifty dollars worth of lottery tickets each day.
He’d say he’s never late and if he was, then he wasn’t coming in,
but on most days he always had a reason why he needed to leave early.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
in a 24 foot box truck on the back country roads.
Now they sent him alone to make deliveries on Sunday.
He felt good riding in that Mercedes Benz party truck.
Ten stops to find first, then deliver, and collect money.
It was easy at first, finding houses in Margate whose
streets are names of the States in alphabetical order.
He thought all towns should be laid out this way.
Driving past Lucy the Elephant and into Atlantic City
to his biggest stop, a shopping mall on the beach.
He knew things were starting to go wrong when a
motorcycle cop walked up to him with a ticket book.
He was parked on a ramp to the Boardwalk in order
to unload tables, chairs, linens, dishes, and silverware.
He tried extreme politeness, “Yes sirs” and apologies
but still got a ticket that he’d pay for with his day’s wages.
Next stop was a fancy racing boat in Trump’s Marina
where he was forced to double park as he loaded a dolly
with tulip champagne glasses and silver wine buckets.
The policeman pulled up on a motorcycle to scold him.
“Son, move quick, I don’t want to write another ticket”.
Back out onto the Atlantic City Expressway, shifting gears,
feeling like a real truck driver from those Seventies movies.
In his mind he sang “Convoy” and “East Bound and Down”.
All this happiness came to a screeching halt as he looked
down at the seat and realized his clipboard was missing
with all the invoices, directions and customer’s checks.
In a panic he pulled off to the side of the road and got out.
His heart pounding, sweat pouring from his forehead,
tears welling up in his eyes, he looked at the truck’s bumper
and there it was, the clipboard with all his important papers.
After doing 55 on 10 miles of rough road, nothing was lost.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
in his layers of shabby unmatched clothes.
Always on the small little sidewalk staring
at televisions hanging high above the bar
in this happening place with a trendy name.
It’s a bar where cool people go after work to
take advantage of Happy Hour Drink Specials.
Think there’s something wrong with him?
We see him here many afternoons in the rain,
the blazing hot sun, for almost a year now.
Sometimes he’s scratching his unruly beard,
or rubbing his jacked up hair with his ashy hands
while watching a football or basketball game.
After hearing me wonder, my son says so sincerely-
“Tell me why they just don’t ask him to come in.”
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
a weekly pill organizer,
an old glass lamp covered
over in a layer of dust,
and the clock radio can
barely fit on her bedside table.
This year’s goal is fifty
and that’s why books
are stacked in piles like
Oreo cookies on a child’s plate.
She devours pages, savors words
each night instead of sleeping,
because she knows there won’t
be any crumbs on the pillow
in the morning.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Young enough, to go to classes, then head out
on a 700 mile road trip at three in the afternoon.
No need to rest, or stop to eat or drink. Just drive.
No need for a road atlas, just shift the gears to fifth,
my little red Ford Ranger pickup knew the routine.
Climb hard, coast down; hit the gas at the bottom
to get back up the next mountain that’d be coming.
Make it out of Tennessee, start thinking how big
Virginia really is since you’re sliding diagonal up 81.
Check the clock, check the odometer. Mark the trip
by the cities-Wytheville, Blacksburg, Roanoke, Lexington.
Get to Harrisonburg; feel like you’re making progress?
Sun goes down, air grows colder, radio always fades.
Marvel at Autumn trees, showing off this weekend.
Think about seeing my wife after being away six weeks,
you smile. Hearing Ozzy’s Mama I’m Coming Home,
you laugh. Notice a car in your rearview mirror.
you panic. A tailgater on this road, no reason to be
so close, acceleration lane clear, he stays behind
making you nervous, frustrated, a bit angry.
Slow down to let him pass, speed up to lose him.
Wonder, if you cut him off, is he the police, a convict?
Twilight now, plan to exit at Stephens City,
before Winchester onto a road called Route 7,
340, US 15? You don’t remember it’s name.
If he follows, you know he’s after you. Sure enough,
he follows. Heart pounds with anxiety, you go past
the familiar line of fence posts of a Black Angus farm,
the curvy road in front of Patsy Cline’s Rainbow Room,
Dinosaurland, the little dinky post office in Berryville.
Still he follows you. You’re almost into Charles Town.
You’ll pull over into Tastee Freeze, they’ll call the police.
For a brief moment you wish he’d just get it over with.
You jump out of the truck, close your eyes, say a prayer,
come to terms with the fact that you’re about to be dead.
A simple man in his early thirties gets out of his car,
walks over to you, smiles and says in a calm southern voice-
I’ve been trying to get your attention. You see, I been following
you for about fifteen miles now. I wanted you to know that
you ain’t got no taillights. Not safe riding up the Interstate
with no taillights. Man could wind up getting himself killed.
You nod, take a deep breath and tell him you appreciate it.
You mention he didn’t have to do that. You say he’s too kind.
After he leaves, you walk to the window and order the biggest
chocolate malt shake you’ve ever had. You change the fuses.
You calm yourself down, consider yourself lucky and drive on.
my early reading habits, Sam Shepard, O’Neill, Mamet,
Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, August Wilson,
Neil La Bute lined his shelves, filled his book bags.
Ten years of nothing but scripts, screenplays,
one act plays, American Theatre arrived monthly.
I dreamed of writing a play, seeing it produced,
finding my script on a shelf at the book store.
One day I picked up a Civil War book, Killer Angels.
I turned away from the plays for three years.
I moved on to the American Revolution, World War I
and II. Finally he read the Vietnam War. Five years passed,
captivated by war books, buying the all the best-
A Rumor of War, Dispatches, The Things that They Carried.
I lost track of time, but knew when my mission was over.
It happened to me again, a change of reading habits
when I stopped near the Drama shelves, reached out
and pulled a book from the shelf. I was drawn
in by poetry, a name I’d never heard before-Bukowski.
Words flowed from the page; the book had a different feel-
What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.
Line by line I read, relating to the poet’s words.
I got suckered in by poetry. I told everyone how
my life had become poetry, writing, workshops, classes,
festivals, readings, a blog, published in a dozen places.
Each night I park myself in my big brown chair to
crack open the latest find from the internet or bookstore.
Now I joke that I’ve got to be careful not to pick up
another kind of book, it may lead me astray and test
my loyalty to my loved ones. I read nothing but poetry.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
changing colors and somebody said they aren’t
really green anyway, but chlorophyll made by
long hours of sunshine makes them go green.
Their true colors are red, yellow, and orange.
I think what it’d be like if they stayed that way.
Somebody said when leaves fall, trees are making
a blanket to protect their roots through the winter
and when they rot it makes a fertilizer for the tree!
Makes me wonder who came to the conclusion that
the leaves should be raked, bagged, hauled away.
Why don’t we let them keep their warm blankets?
Why do we deny them their midwinter meals?
Because it’d kill the front lawn if we left it down.
Kill it more? It’s been dead since June, when it
burned up in the hot sun. Droughts and being away
on vacation has a way of destroying it every year.
Friday, November 12, 2010
It’s lean, easy to digest, and will help you live long too.
Be careful though, the tuna and salmon you’ve been eating
has been determined to contain high doses of mercury.
Buy plenty of strawberries, blueberries, great antioxidants!
Make sure you wash them real good before you eat them.
You’d be better off buying organic, the ones grown without
pesticides and fertilizers, chemicals needed to make a profit.
Be sure to eat plenty of nuts and seeds, you will improve your
energy levels, immunity and they’re a great source of protein!
Be aware that you stand a chance of developing diverticulitis
a painful disease that causes blockage in your large intestine.
Red wine is great for your blood vessels and heart. Drink up!
Men can have 7 cups a week, but don’t have it all at once.
Later on tonight you may awaken from your sleep with a
burning in your esophagus and taste throw up in your mouth.
You’re going to want to watch your cholesterol, no more butter!
Suddenly you hear people saying, “Don’t eat man made food,
anything synthetic or engineered in a laboratory can’t be good for
you, only eat the foods that God made.” Go ahead have some butter.
Diet sodas, a great alternative to all the sugar laden colas being
sold and it’ll help you to prevent cavities and save your teeth!
Ever seen what happens when you pour it on a car’s hood?
Avoid juice drinks; they’re full of corn syrups and artificial coloring.
You can’t get enough water! The only side effect frequent urination.
About every thirty minutes you need to find a restroom or bathroom.
Be sure to buy bottled water. Purified water is best, not spring water.
Try to avoid tap water. Each glass is full of harmful metals and chlorine.
Remember, scientists and nutritionists are constantly researching and
developing new theories on proper nutrition. It is important to keep up
to date on all the latest discoveries in order to live a happy healthy life.
By the way,now and then,drink some tap water. Bottled water lacks fluoride!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
In February, a sign went up on the lawn,
papers signed, the process put in motion.
The little house was kept clean at all times.
Realtors brought young couples to walk
through in search of a starter home,
something modest, something to fix up.
Business cards piled up on the table,
weeks and months passed without
anyone wanting, inquiring, or offering.
The price was lowered again, and again.
All hope seemed lost, but an offer came.
Meanwhile, it was hitting the fan in DC.
The President read from his magic teleprompter
throwing around clichés about Wall Street
to Main Street, and talking about at the end
of the day and sitting at the kitchen table.
This was the summer when reality struck.
The American Dream became The American Myth.
Record foreclosures, savings and loans failed,
the prices fell, values went down, taxes went up,
the mortgage remained the same, and all
the people came to terms with staying put.
No approval for the buyers, no sale for the sellers,
and no sale for the next guy couldn’t sell his house
to us and he couldn’t buy the house he wanted
to purchase and that guy couldn’t move either.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
if I didn’t see the title? I am a watcher,
an observer, and a storyteller of sorts.
I look for the story behind the picture,
the way I look at two people and wonder
how they ended up being together.
I look at artwork and relate it to a moment
in my life. I remember at twenty, how the two
moment, on that day, changed everything for us.
Would I have seen it differently without
About the Painting on the bottom?
Would I have stopped to take a closer look
at the clothes, to interpret the time period
as the age close to Romeo and Juliet?
Would I notice how he was holding
her hand, the gray tones of their skin,
the use of only six colors, rubbed on.
If I had not read the notes, would I have
seen the “strong silent bond between them”?
Would I have thought it a masterpiece
by one of the world’s greatest artists,
if I had not seen his familiar face in a close up?
Black and white gripping his bald head,
staring like a madman at the camera.
Could I have known it was Picasso without
the About the Artist? Nothing clued me in to
his handiwork, nothing political, no images of
death, geometrically disfigured faces,
distorted bodies made of cubes.
Instead, I may have asked,
Is there news of a baby on the way?
Is she about to tell him goodbye?
Is he looking for forgiveness?
Does it really matter if there’s a story
behind this simple painting?
Just two peaceful young people in love.
Does it matter who painted it
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
a description of fly fishing in Alaskan waters,
a pontoon plane for hire, landing right on the lake.
A week’s worth of catching rainbow trout,
sockeye salmon, northern pike on the shores of
Echo Lake, Cottonwood Lake, and Coyote Lake.
Eagles flying above icy waters, the greenest trees.
Now when I stop to think about him,
it’s hard to remember him speaking of a
trip or vacation in his life of labor and work.
Maybe he considered the days of driving a
General’s Jeep in Japan a type of trip.
Working in logging camps of North Carolina,
living in the woods, movable cabins on sleds
dragged to where the timber was logged.
Driving his tractor for a huge factory farm in
New Jersey must’ve been a type of adventure.
Perhaps he felt he’d already seen the country,
truckloads of Christmas trees, delivering shrubs
to the White House, those days as a nurseryman.
In the end, his greatest trip, back to the foothills
of Tennessee with his sons, where they grew baccer,
thousands of acres of maters, and raised cattle.
Each day, content to walk out his front door
to work in his fields, his greenhouses, his garage.
His wife traveled with her sisters to Myrtle Beach,
Florida, river boat cruises, but he stayed behind.
Content to sit in a slow moving rocker on the porch,
enjoying strong black coffee in a old chipped cup,
smoking, telling his plans of one day going on a trip.
Monday, November 8, 2010
found our second apartment. The first,
just a studio, was too small, too fast.
Noisy neighbors, no place to park,
a shower that abruptly turned cold.
Maybe we found it in the Star Ledger,
it was valuable then, everybody read it,
everybody bought it, everybody needed it.
A colorful brochure, a floor plan layout of
a one bedroom, ground floor apartment.
Close to the Parkway, Turnpike, Route 1.
It would make it easier to get to work
is what I told Marty, as I approached him
for a loan for the hefty security deposit.
He was my boss, but a different kind of boss.
It always felt like talking to an uncle, a brother,
a friend. After a year he looked after me and
cared for me, treated me like I was important
to business, included me in the many plans for
the company he started with his cousin, Alan.
Don’t pay me back; I want you to work it off
on Saturdays through the summer months.
A handshake, a pile of hundreds stacked neatly
in a blue and white United Jersey Bank envelope
and one of the company’s box trucks got us moved.
Weeks passed, we worked side by side in the heat.
Unloading trucks, loading trucks, preparing orders.
Each afternoon around three, an orange soda break.
In September, we agreed- the debt was done, settled,
paid back the old fashioned way, with time and sweat.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
but wondered how many people knew her or even cared
what she said about children and their full potential.
I won’t begin with the old “teach a man to fish” proverb
or the slogan “A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste”.
I’ll start with what some of my grandfather’s words,
They can take your house, your car, even your wife
can leave and take the kids, but the one thing that
can’t ever be taken away from you is your education.
I want to tell the lawmakers and politicians,
Keep your healthcare bills, food stamps, welfare,
unemployment, Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security.
Give us all the opportunity to get a free education
from preschool through college, technical and
trade schools, Nursing Schools, Master’s Degrees, PhDs.
Open it up to anyone who wants to go, to learn, to achieve,
to gain knowledge, to prepare, to realize their full potential.
Total free tuition, no charge for everyone, just give it away!
You’d see a society of strong, proud, independent individuals
who’d take care of themselves, their families, their communities.
If they don’t make it, they'd have nothing to cry about. No one to blame.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
trying to fix up his little home,
it’s not worth what it used to be.
Finally a decision was made, since
The Economy is rough now, just stay.
“If we stay, we fix it up”, said his wife.
In each aisle he thought about what to get.
A Rustic Iron Hampton Bay fan and light,
glazed porcelain tile in soothing Earth tones,
some easy install Resilient Interlocking Planks?
The 12 x 12 Catalina Canyon Tile is awesome.
Oak Artisan Laminate floors- even better and
like the sign says, Your ideas become reality.
Carpet stair treads with double stick tape,
Roughneck Totes to store summer clothes,
rod and finial sets for living room curtains.
Purple violets for 2.99, but they look sickly.
Anderson Windows would look great, that sign
says, They’re the Windows that More Builders Buy.
Pink Fiberglass rolled out in the attic saves heat.
New numbers, a nine and a one in simulated pewter.
A new porch light has been needed for a while.
Caulk for the tub, since it’s always mildewed.
He walked through the lumber section even though
he didn’t need wood, the smell reminded him
of Junior High wood shop class with Mr. Kelly
where he made bookends and a napkin holder.
The possibilities are endless, alls you need is money.
I put on slippers before coming downstairs.
I go straight to the bathroom to pee when I get up.
I have a bottle of Extra Strength Tums on my night table.
I sit on the toilet for longer periods of time.
I understand the value of Icy Hot, Visine, Pepto-Bismol, Preparation H, and Advil.
I take my glasses off to read and put them on to watch TV.
I have trouble hearing what people say in a crowded noisy room and nod sometimes when I don’t know what they say.
I turn The Weather Channel on three or four times a day to check the forecast.
I get tired around six o’clock, (right after dinner) and I fall asleep in my chair.
I have at least a dozen sweaters and do not hesitate to dress in layers once fall begins.
I enjoy wearing brown, navy blue, gray, and black.
I believe it is important to wear a necktie to work.
I wear a hat when it rains.
I carry a handkerchief in my pocket almost every day, but I don’t blow my nose on it yet.
I wear a sweatshirt that is about twenty years old.
I plan to buy white Chuck Taylor high tops and black cowboy boots. I want the two kinds of shoes that I was forbidden from getting as a child.
I prefer wearing shoes to sneakers.
I don’t wear my newly purchased shoes home from the shoe store and I don’t run through the aisles with my new sneakers on.
I wear a watch every day and I feel strange if I don’t.
I know what time it is within 10 to 15 minutes without looking at a watch or clock.
I don’t like to be late and feel that it's important to be early.
I hate to wait for anyone when I plan to go someplace.
I check the thermostats whenever I walk by them. I adjust them often.
I turn out the lights throughout the house and at work too.
I offer coworkers advice about retirement savings and tax sheltered annuities.
I am proud of myself for purchasing extra life insurance and often joke about how I am worth more dead than alive.
I tell my son not to get caught up with all these young girls. There will be time for women later and they’ll be much better. Your studies are more important.
I tell him that the sweetest fruit doesn’t always fall from the most beautiful of trees.
I enjoy watching my son play soccer and can't think of very few things I’d rather do instead.
I remind him how important it is to do well in school and get into a reputable college.
I worry every time I leave him somewhere that it’ll be the last time that I see him.
I purchase DVDs and introduce my son to old movies and classic television shows.
I don’t get upset the way I used to when my wife doesn’t feel like having sex.
I argue with my wife but we are usually not angry with each other after 20-30 minutes.
I vote straight down the line at elections because I know my wife votes straight down the line for the otherside.
I forget to tell my wife what she means to me and fail to give her the respect she deserves.
I sometimes call my wife, Mom. I called her Mother once and we both felt really weird.
I remember the prices of old food products and articles of clothing and I share these memories with younger people.
I don’t have to buy German beer in glass bottles anymore. I drink American beer in brown bottles.
I know the difference between a merlot, a malbec, and a cabernet sauvignon.
I watch my salt intake and try to avoid fatty foods.
I get food on my moustache and chin when eating soup and salad.
I quote old commercials and talk about characters from old TV shows like they're old friends.
I can sing the Lowenbrau, Miller, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Piel’s songs from the Seventies.
I enjoy grocery shopping.
I like to do the laundry.
I buy bird seed and fill up bird feeders in my yard.
I know what sounds a cardinal, blue jay, and catbird make.
I find joy in watching the annual blooming sequence of flowers in my backyard in spring.
I like to stand and look at the yard when all the leaves have been raked.
I get excited when someone brings me a cold drink while I’m mowing the lawn and a hot drink while I’m shoveling the snow. I get angry when they forget.
I can sit and stare at the ocean for hours without swimming or doing anything else on the beach.
I check the oil and fluids in my car before long trips.
I walk around the car to check for damage before I get in to drive.
I take secondary roads and always look for an alternate route while driving. I don’t care if it takes longer, I like to keep moving.
I fill up my gas tank before the warning light comes on.
I read the prices of gas on the signs as I drive by and begin thinking about how much it used to cost.
I curse out all the stupid people who endanger my life on the roadways of New Jersey.
I talk about where I was and what I was doing when historical events took place in my lifetime.
I don’t remember people’s names but I do remember where they are from.
I am disgusted by poor service in a store or restaurant.
I enact personal boycotts of stores, businesses, and restaurants with poor service and rude help.
I check the labels to see where things were manufactured. I have given up on exclusively buying American made.
I don’t care what other people think about me and get annoyed when others suggest that I should care. I often say things like “they don’t pay my bills”, “they don’t know me”, and “I could care less if I ever saw them again”.
I let the phone ring and only pick it up after the person begins leaving a message on my answering machine. This only happens if I need to talk to them, or feel like talking to them, or if I actually like them.
I often think about my hometown and talk about making a trip to visit there. But I never do.
I see cousins and comment on how old they look.
I miss my sisters but never call them and I don’t let them know I’m thinking about them.
I think about my grandparents and wish they were still alive.
I think about my father and all the things I wish that I would’ve said to him and all the things I wish that I had done with him.
I sometimes recall kind things that my mother did for me and think about how she wasn’t so bad after all.
I don’t watch television every night. I don’t have a favorite weekly program. I don’t know what’s on.
I rarely watch the entire football or baseball game. I don’t know the standings of the leagues and divisions.
I barely follow basketball and hockey anymore.
I don’t know what times my college teams are playing or what channel they are on.
I began listening to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra lately. I am also quite fond of Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson and Bluegrass music.
I look forward to reading a good book and don’t hesitate to go to bed early.
I don’t wear an earring anymore and I don’t spike up my hair with gel anymore either.
I started combing my hair the way I did when I was a boy.
I look in the mirror and see more white hairs in my beard and head than dark ones.
I noticed that my eyes have black circles under them and have been looking a little puffy.
I see a picture of myself and say, “Wow, I look like somebody’s Dad!”
Thursday, November 4, 2010
a chrome hood ornament was a horse rearing up in defiance.
An automatic transmission pulled the King of All Horse Trailers.
Shiny, chrome, white, room for four American Quarter horses.
Sections for feed, saddles, complete supplies, a tack room to go.
The front half was his bachelor pad, carpeted, recessed lights
a bathroom with a shower, a king size bed, swiveling chairs,
a fold out table to sit with a cup of coffee and a cowboy magazine.
A DVD player to watch Open Range, Hidalgo, and Lonesome Dove,
on a flat screen TV, a sound system to play 24 hours of George Strait.
“Look in those compartments”, he said to us as he showed it all off.
Inside a week’s worth of briefs, socks, t-shirts, cowboy shirts, jeans,
three or four pairs of only the best boots in various colors and hides.
“I don’t even have to pack, just get in and go when I feel like it”.
Driving across the plains of Texas, he marveled at the flatness,
the vastness, the solitude, the feeling of traveling through darkness.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
in a phone booth and it ran the clothes dryers.
Tide and bleach are what you washed with.
Ashtrays stood on pedestals every few yards.
He smoked fat El Productos, she smoked Vantages.
Molded plastic seats hooked in a row to a bench,
lemon yellow, baby blue, pea green, strange
tints of basic colors, dated now as we look back.
Colors like the Chryslers, Buicks, and Pontiacs
lined up on the other side of a painted window.
An evening breeze of the docks pulled the smell
of onions, oregano, oil and vinegar into the
doorway of the Laundromat from the subs
being built next door at the Market for folks
from Philly who called them damn good hoagies.
A great place to pick up Tastycakes, a cold RC,
a Bulletin, an Inquirer or a Cape May Star & Wave.
And when I sat, waiting with my drawing tablet,
I saw two people happy together, my grandparents,
smiling, laughing, remembering as they folded sheets
hot from the dryer. Working systematically, smoothly,
to make a perfectly folded pile of linens to pack up
and take back to their little apartment at the Shore.
Being just eight years old, I thought folding sheets
must be what only happily married people do together.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Your cholesterol level is borderline,
not high, but higher than the last time.
Put yourself on a low fat diet. Avoid pork
products, red meat, greasy fried foods.
Your blood pressure is good when resting,
but it became elevated on the tread mill.
Put yourself on a low salt diet, don’t forget
to read the package labels very carefully.
Walk for thirty minutes, three days a week.
He thanked the doctor, hung up his cell phone.
Looking in the rearview mirror he noticed
that his face looked like someone who’d
just been robbed or ripped off by a crook.
He knew this meant no more buttered biscuits,
pork roll, Italian sausages, bacon cheeseburgers,
fries, chips, half and half, ice cream, or cake.
To think, I almost didn’t answer that, he told
his wife. I mean we are on vacation and
we just got here is what he said as he pulled out
onto Highway 12 from a souvenir shop’s
parking lot. It was the Doctor, he called to discuss
my physical, all the tests, the blood work.
He mumbled to himself with a faraway stare,
wishing he’d had his pork barbecue, potato salad,
and baked beans before he answered that call.
Don’t come back without that college degree
is what he said as he watched his son pack.
Everything that he didn’t want to get wet or
blown away was stuffed into the front seat
of his little red Ford Ranger pickup truck.
A year had passed; it seemed to be time to go back
to where he came from, Highway 81’s mountains,
curves, and Cracker Barrels would take him to Jersey
the place he’d struggle and spend the rest of his life.
The hardest goodbye took place on the other side of
the greenhouses, by the old barn, under a mimosa tree.
His grandfather waited awkwardly, to shake his hand,
hug him quick and with a tear in his eye, a broken voice,
came one more- “Aye Law”, and a “Hate to see you go”.
“You’ll be back, once you get a little hillbilly dirt
in your shoes, you always come back to Tennessee”.
As he turned to go, he saw his grandfather break
the filter from his cigarette, toss it to the side,
reach into his Pointer coveralls and light up.
The boy paused, waiting for him to say what he always said
to the ones he cared about, who always seemed to be leaving-
“Stay with us”. As he drove off, the boy began to cry
as he crossed the first of many bridges on his way.