it's been 3 days of rain

 small breaks in the clouds

where i pressure wash my rugs

pray for sun.

i also cleaned the bong

washed some musty smelling 

pieces of cloth i've kept 

since before i was divorced.

the baby dresser my mom used

for her 3 girls is now back in the linen

closet, although that still smells musty.

i fill it with clean pillowcases

freshly laundered tattered doilies

embroidered one summer at gramma's

where i was sent to help 

during the endless summers peppering

my childhood. we'd open 

the china cabinet, remove the pink frosted

dutch cocoa set with 3 full 

and 1 cracked cups, 3 saucers

and an undamaged pitcher, rinse

drain, dry and dust, then return them

behind the glass doors. i have never

drank from the set though it sits

 in my own cabinet these years later.

there's nothing profound to say about this.

it's a thing we do, running from the future

tying ourselves to a past we barely 

remember. there was a silverware set

we polished every summer. 

used it at christmas and easter along 

with the good china. i don't know

what  happened to that, though

since it was worth something i assume

my mother's sister took it with her

back to the northeast

miles and miles away from where her mother

lived and left this world.

on one of her yearly treks home we

discussed it, sitting in the dining room

i said gramma's already promised it to me.

she looked it up in her antiques book 

and agreed to let me have it. i took it

long before gramma passed. just in case.

*

i haven't honored my dad's last wishes

 on the distribution of his extensive

 collection of 23 silver dollars

and 17 rolls of wheat pennies.

he cut 3 of his great grandkids

 out of the split. i just think that's so petty.

+++++

when i was a child i'd look for the hidden

meanings of lyrics in pop songs. 

they weren't so cryptic i was just young

i was left imagination and ignorance

and forced to invent a story that jibed

with my reality. honestly though i don't

have any idea what i was like back then

and i'm tired of pretending that i do.

 i was introspective, nerdy and lonely.

adrift. my best friend was a lesbian 

who was in love with me. i friend zoned her

but she knew it. she knew it. i don't think

i ever even kissed her. maybe that's why

i didn't have boyfriends? anyway

i did have sex. too many times

with too many boys in the guise of freedom

dunno why i'm on this kick,

was just thinking of alternate choices

and the paths i might have taken,

it was not so much the idea of girls

but i'd been molested by my female babysitter

when i was like, 7 ish? so i found 

i just don't like pussy from an early age.

))))))

and this is goodbye.

i'm going to z hills to see the grandkids

just cuz i want to see them.

for a while and so 

looking inward

 still not talking to myself.

i'm getting used to my new room

how it's all that's mine and why

is this so important to me now?

a spce to exist. some people

only have their car. or less.

need a space away, breathing room

it seems that the thing i sought 

a love that endures despite windbown

deposits of disappointed expectations, 

  stacks of small

betrayals -of -the -ideal

comes at heavy price. 

selfishess must be curtailed or

reinvented as willing sacrifice.

you must love your partner 

as you do your child.

must is a hard concept.

i don't mean it in a commanding way

more like a natural need, like water

not so much voluntary as essential.

you must love one as yourself.

but if you hate yourself that is not

good love to share, is it?

i don't know why my hands should shake

at this truth, why all these typos show up.

it makes writing twice as hard, going back

and correcting mistakes, yet that 

is more effective

than the "sorry"s strewn along the tides

of our relationship.

yet i love you, remind you to remind me

why i crave your palm on my skin

washing the pain away

floating on the gulf .

sorrow's origin story jetskies

across the waves, buzzyly 

solidifying belief.  you knock

on my door, offer to

 make me breakfast

because you're cooking anyway.

 love is loving

the imperfections because 

nobody's perfect.

thank you for knocking.

****

this smallish space i've carved 

through almost 40 years of working man

is not all -i -got -and -it's -mine. 

it's not mine at all. it could be gone

as quickly as a phone call, a bullet, 

an ICE raid. pick up this shell

and toss it in the bay type catastrophe. 

and where would i dwell if left alive then?

here, in the heart, where i am perpetually

young, healthy and capable of living

under a bridge if it comes to that.

lol, vagabond, what will you take with you then?

recovery seems subjective

 last time we spoke i 

had broken my arm

i went back to work part time and crashed out

on week 4. 2 hospital visits later

and it seems i have clogged

my arteries and bent my stent. 

so i took some temp disability to heal.

taking blood thinner and statins

my digestion is still very slow. 

eating oatmeal and raspberries

doesn't seem to help. 

i moved my desk to the right

of the window, put his wicker chest

where i once wrote.  view of

the neighbor's blackout curtains. 

dad's red truck parked in the third spot

directly in front of where grandson 

likes to play. with trucks and tiny pets.

now there's more room to scoot my chair back 

and the view is   clouds piling

 over the bay

in the southwest sky tailgating

each other into an inevitable

howard-franklin crash. 

*

i get the occasional check in from the colleague

taking up my slack, overwhelmed, focused 

on the singular KPI the boss regards.

some of the things i can't help with,

others i just don't wanna 

scour my give a fucks for the procedures. 

the easy ones i give him.

during this recovery i've pressure

washed most of the trailer, except

the screen porch where my on-sabbatical

honey stacks boxes of dishes, cables, pcbs,

various iterations of .03/lb metals

he gleans from the overstuffed shed 

in back. contents pile atop every 

surface. i think of seashells and tides.

alternatively i think of the 1970s sitcom

sanford and son. he plays both roles. i'm 

the neighbor from hell yelling get this shit

off my property. it has not been 

my dream recovery. 

**

in fact, this is the first time i'm feelin

a writing vibe, one where my surroudings

don't matter. overheard conversations 

whining 8 year olds, angry poppas all

become part of the narrative. 

or ignored. 

* 

i suppose it's about how much one 

can take. i could get used to working

a couple hours on, a couple hours off.

but you have to be productive the whole time

wage slave. and no, i donn't think that term

is hyperbolic. in fact, it may be too tame

for what's actually happening in 

late stage capitalism. the part

of the game where  you only

keep rolling  because you still

own baltic avenue and you're just

about to pass GO , collect 200 dollah.

bank errors are rarely in your favor.

massa don't give out fresh food and water

and he charges rent for the shack he's chained

you in. it's not hyperbolic because 

even though you have the appearance of free will

it's not like that, at all 

 if you are trapped

 in a society and want to eat.

++++++/-------

where was i? o yes

in recovery. i'm also quitting smoking

for up to 3 hours at a time. 

i still have 4 to 5 cigs a day.

thought weed would help but it 

doesn't stop the craving for the NIC o tine.

what to do? doc told me i would not

be sexy with a colostomy bag

but how's that different 

from now? it's not an aspiration anyhow

so doc edited the adjective to palatable

which i agree. hence the 50% reduction.

can one have half a colostomy bag?

check up in 2 days. worried as the clouds

loom closer. 

+++

but what about all this

(gesturing broadly to the political landscape

unfolding along this timeline)

it's not like all the shouting

in the nation will make those in charge

stop following their scorpion ways.

they will sting and since we put them 

on our backs for this ride across the river

  if we're dead by time we reach 

the shore i can

 say i told you so. right now

i'm just tryin to keep my head 

above the waterline.  

 

&&&

so i tidy my room. i hadda have a place

to call my own since the boy is here

to stay. i dont really want to kick them out

but i need somewhere none of their stuff 

is allowed, unless i want it there. 

there's one more box i need to purge

to make the collection truly mine

but i've come some ways . 

i scrub the grout in the bathroom

with toilet bowl cleaner 

and a toothbrush. a pale blue stripe

emerges between  tiles, some cracked,

as dirty cigarette grime sloughs off.

i'm counting this as the physical therapy

i didn't do yesterday . rebuild the muscle

so i can go back to work again.

because i'm still in debt and too damn old

to live out of my car like i thought i would 

when i retire. like so many have chosen to do

in these uncertain swirling times. 

 recovery from what the fascists are breaking-

that's gonna be a long road. not sure i'll

get to the end of that journey 

but i kinda promised my son i'd stop

mentioning that i may die soon.

it's kinda disturbing .

funny that i just about did 

and didn't even notice it.

i thought it was

just a fleshwound.