SeaWorld, South River

There’s a commotion down at the bridge tonight,

the one by the plumber’s and old comic book shop.

Yellow and black crime scene tape drapes the trees,

a part time cop sets up plenty of orange safety cones.

There’s a dolphin swimming near the bridge tonight,

he took a wrong turn, went up into the Raritan Bay,

continued up the creeks and waterways to this place.

And all of the experts don’t know what they can do.

There’s a lot of people standing at the bridge today,

entire families, all with cameras, iphones, and ipads.

The poor creature surfaces for air, they take snapshots

and videos of him jumping like the football team’s logo.

There’s an ABC-TV news van on the bridge tonight,

capturing shrieks, squeals, and wows of the onlookers.

They tell a reporter it’s awesome, quite amazing to see.

I saved a ton of money, didn’t have to travel to Florida.

There’s a dead dolphin down by the bridge this morning.

he washed up on the shoreline, confused and exhausted.

This was no place for him, too many cameras, no way out.

This week’s casualty, the ongoing story of Man vs Nature.

LESSONS LEARNED

(AT AN EARLY AGE WHILE LIVING IN LOW INCOME HOUSING, 1974)

Sometimes in life

it’s a good idea to hide in the corner behind a red naugahyde chair.

Sometimes in life

you have to pound on the steering wheel and shout, “you know I wanted ice cream”!

Sometimes life tastes like

Swanson pot pies, Campbell’s soup, Quisp cereal, a packet of Wyler’s juice

Sometimes life feels like

the shot gun blast that killed the old guy who was the apartment manager.

Sometimes it’s like

an across the hall neighbor out of her mind on acid running in with a butcher knife.

Sometimes in life

you have to push the furniture in front of the door before going to bed.

Sometimes life is about

lawyers in the living room and toys you’re forbidden to play with.

Sometimes it’s

your cat having kittens in the closet, but you can’t keep one of them.

Sometimes life

burns like shampoo in the eyes or it cuts like a broken water glass.

Sometimes it sounds like

a Carpenters album, a Gilligan’s Island laugh track, the Banana Splits theme song.

Sometimes in life

you want Mrs. Beasley with her polka dot dress, not the red heart shaped pillow.

Sometimes life is like

pulling GI Joe’s string and the only thing he ever says is, “I've got a tough assignment for you”.

OLD GUY WITH THE NICE POOL

“I want you to be concerned about your next door neighbor.

Do you know your next door neighbor?”- Mother Teresa

Red lights splashed into all of our back yards,

guessed it was the old guy with the nice pool,

but it was his wife, a loud lady I talked to once.

She suffered a heart attack and died. He’s been

alone for ten or twelve years now and for hours

he sits watching TV on the back porch, I’d hear

MASH, CNN, John Wayne westerns, war movies.

His pool always crystal clear, open Memorial Day,

closed on Labor Day, check the calendar and see

the trampoline-like green cover perfectly placed.

He moved slower, didn’t swim, watched more TV.

Had less pool parties with his family and last winter

a sign went up on his lawn, the house sold quick,

luckier than most who have been trying to leave.

Another neighbor says, “His kids got him to sell and

moved him to assisted living, on his first night there,

he got out of bed, tripped on the rug, broke his leg.

Doctors find he’s filled with cancer. Three weeks later

around Christmas, he’s gone. Dead. Jack was his name”.

FINDING MYSELF

Sometimes I go days without looking in the mirror.

I get a good look when I decide it’s time to shave.

In front of the sink, shake the can of Edge, lather up-

I wonder when the wrinkles start, been lucky so far.

My left eye, no- right eye is bloodshot again, stress?

Notice more white hairs than dark, there’s a blemish.

A few spots here and there, never had them before.

My wife insists I should go and get them checked out.

I look tired after a full night of sleep and why does hair

grow faster in my nose, ears, on the back of my neck?

Somewhere between the last razor stroke and splashing

on the cold water, I remember the friend from college

who always joked about having a Talking Heads moment

while shaving. All of a sudden you stop, stare at the mirror

and say “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

VIRAL

spreading like a disease, with over 800,000 hits, still going

they’re fighting in the streets, kicking each other in the ribs,

dragging women by their hair, beating each other down in

school yards, restaurants, on city buses, put it on You Tube.

Bystanders, no longer stand by, they hold their phones up high.

Commenting on the action, laughing at the poundings, gasping

at the beatings, shocked by the blood flow, but still recording.

No one tries to break it up, avert the crisis, diffuse the conflict,

or call the cops, happy to push record,  glad the beating is not

on them, while others sit at home- clicking, watching, sharing.

LET ME THINK ABOUT IT

I was probably 3 or 4 when

she first encouraged me to

create art, always plenty of

markers, crayons, paper.

And I love her for that.

I was probably 5 or 6 when

she first taught me to

love plants, flowers like

forsythia, hyacinths, lilacs.

And I love her for that.

I was probably 7 or 8 when

she first pushed me to

read books, thick books on

history, animals, mythology.

And I love her for that.

I was probably 9 or 10 when

she said nothing as he turned

his anger on me, wish she’d

said “Stop”, that first time.

And I can’t forgive her for that.

MINIMUM WAGE

I didn't find it in the help wanted pages,

a friend who’d worked there gave me a tip.

Call them up, they need workers for a crew,

hired on, ready to work, we started in June.

Painting tables and poles in the hot sun,

3.35 an hour, I remember the first check.

At 18, I was strong, never wanted to quit,

saving for college, tuition was due soon.

We loaded trucks with tents, chairs and stages

hit the road with the men on my very first run.

Excited to be in Delaware, Philadelphia, A.C.

long hours, time and a half made it opportune.

The education it gave me was one for the ages,

don’t stop, you’re finished when the work is done.

ON MONDAY NIGHTS IN MILLTOWN

ladies start the week leafing through

King James Bibles, talking about Jesus

at the dirty tables of a Dunkin’ Donuts.

With an arsenal of scriptures and pink

highlighters, they’ll study the sermon.

Down the street, the Reformed Church’s

5 story spire glows in the floodlights and

flags whip in the cool winds of early spring,

Worries are a terrible substitute for prayer

and A Call to Worship fill up the sign board.

But I don’t go to church, I just sit here on

Monday nights with a butternut doughnut

and a coffee, absorbing the enthusiasm for

John 3:16, their newly found insights into

the apostle Paul and the Book of Revelations.

THE BROKEN HOME

The fuse box was flickering, it needed updating.

The faucet came off the sink, it needed changing.

The light switch snapped, it needed doctoring.

The cord of the fan came out, it needed rewiring.

The kitchen window cracked, it needed replacing.

The heater stopped working, it needed refurbishing.

The water meter was inaccurate, it needed correcting.

The cable was always pix-elating, it needed upgrading.

The slop sink had a crack in it, it needed mending.

The hot water heater was leaking, it needed patching.

The sewer line was clogged again, it needed snaking.

The wiring wasn't up to code, it needed revamping.

The cabinets were stained, they needed refacing.

The closets were cluttered, they needed reorganizing.

The hinges came off the gate, they needed tightening.

The living room was uninviting, it needed redecorating.

The dining room was full of ants, it needed spraying.

The wood floors were scratched, they needed polishing.

The furnace was the original, it needed removing.

The fence slats began to rot, they needed mending.

The landscaping looked messy, it needed revitalizing.

The mailbox fell off the rail, it needed re-affixing.

The lawn was full of bare spots, it needed reseeding.

The weeds grew in the patio's cracks,they needed pulling.

The driveway was cracking, it needed resealing.

The front porch was gray and aging, it needed painting.

The storm door was sagging, it needed adjusting.

The siding was moss covered, it needed power washing.

The shingles were aged and worn, it needed re-roofing.

The costs rose and the bills piled up, it was never ending.

The family’s bank account emptied, they needed lending.

I AM THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I am chain link fences, above ground pools, metal sheds from Sears.

I’m the place where homes don’t have garages or wide driveways

and where cars cut through to avoid the traffic out on Route 18.

You’ll see for sale signs on many lawns for well over a year.

It’s a buyer’s market, but no one want to buy these. They came here

decades ago from Newark and Jersey City, now they want to leave.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

I’m where the magnolias grow and drop their blossoms too soon.

I’m where squirrels build nests in mighty oaks and gorge on acorns.

I’m a place where cats climb into yards and make themselves at home.

I’m where Statues of the Virgin Mary sit alongside Slomin’s Sheilds,

and where you find Smiley’s Laundromat next to the Halal Meat Shop.

In the cold winter air, smells from Hong Kong Express travel quickly.

At night the neighbors drag their green robo-trash cans to the street.

and sometimes you hear a train whistles up by Bordentown Avenue.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

I am the old forgotten neighborhood in this suburban town.

Others are having curbs and sidewalks replaced, I never had them.

In the center of it all is Jersey Pride, a place where middle aged men

line up nightly with cash and a quarter to begin scratching off cards

labeled Double Down, Big Money, Diamond Spectacular, Win for Life.

Either you stay here a few years or you’ll never leave, is what they say.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

THOUGHT I’D LIVE IN A HOUSE

in the country, surrounded by trees,

she speaks aloud on our Sunday drive.

Marveling at the wealthy homes she sees.

Waking to songs of birds, I’d feel so alive.

coffee on the deck to begin each day,

It’d feel like church, a perfect place to pray.

Set way back off the road, so much space.

Now I know we’ll never live in such a place.

JUST IN CASE

In case you didn't know, it’s not easy to get started-

no one said it’d take until age forty to get on my feet.

In case of emergency, there were people I counted on.

But they’re all gone now and I can finally handle it all.

In case of failure, you've got to realize there’s always

a second chance, but there isn't always a third one.

In case you missed it, I often sit and think of the past,

sometimes I get upset missing the ones who are gone.

In case you hadn't noticed, I love to be at home,

at the end of the day there’s no place I’d rather be.

In case you are wondering, my future plans include

waking up to sunshine, a sandy beach and the waves.

In case people should ask, and they probably won’t

I’m doing alright after all those years of struggling.

SUFFERING

Don’t tell me

how you’re suffering,

we’re lucky.

Electric

is off, but we have water,

food, and gas to cook.

We’ve got books,

candles, flashlights, games.

Others lost

every piece

of clothes, furniture, photos,

cars,entire homes.

After a week,

our lights came back on.

Others died,

don’t complain

about your iphone’s charge

or gas ration lines.

HOUSE HUNTER

It was the third week in February.

I remember it was President’s Day.

In Jersey it’s usually cold and gray,

we had sunshine and warm weather.

It was a buyer’s market, they said.

A realtor showed me houses here

and there, only ones I could afford

with my minimum down payment.

When we drove up to this one, I knew

it was what they called a starter home.

I didn’t care if it was small or very old.

I wanted a yard for my son to play and

a place for flowers and tomato plants.

I wanted him to have a decent school

and a safe neighborhood to grow up in.

I worried about taxes and a mortgage.

but when I saw the color, I wanted it.

Earlier, before I left, I’d asked my son-

What kind do you want? and he said,

I want a blue one, get us a blue house.

PRICE PLUS

Did you find everything you were looking for?

Are there any items on the bottom of your cart?

Do you have any coupons or a Price Plus card?

The 3 questions cashiers always ask at this store,

they must train them to say it before they start.

Did you find everything you were looking for?

Shopping for groceries shouldn’t be this hard,

displays and selfish customers block the aisles.

Are there any items on the bottom of your cart?

I spent $200 without a single package of meat,

the lady with food stamps buys T-bone steaks.

Do you have any coupons or a Price Plus card?

CHINANSKI, MISUNDERSTOOD

“What matters most is how well

you walk through the fire.”- Charles Bukowski

Mention your name and they smirk, grunt, or groan.

They say that all your poetry is about getting drunk,

getting naked, getting arrested or all of the above.

Dirty old man addicted to whores, whiskey, horse races.

But I know you better than that. I've read your books,

took the time to find out about you and when I heard you

explain how hateful your father was as you took the film crew

to your boyhood home, into the hallway by the bathroom,

I cried as you, in your sixties held back your tears describing

how he whipped  you with a strap, all his anger put on you.

What he left on your heart, what you felt your entire life.

To be degraded, belittled, insulted. It stays with you forever.

And when I picked up your book from the shelf one night,

I felt your pain, your suffering. I consumed your poems,

your books, the films. I wanted to find out everything

about you. Your work turned me to the poetry of others.

I wrote too, I never stopped and I walked through the fire.

UNANSWERED TEXTS

    









-For Cassy, my wife

Did you miss me?

Are you on your way?

What do you want?

How about Thai food?

It’s Tuesday, they’re closed.

You don’t want pizza.

Wish you’d answer me.

Then I’d know what to bring.

One day I may be texting…

as I take my last breath.

Even then, you wouldn't answer.

Then you’d feel guilty forever.

Hope you’re on your way.

I’ll figure out the meal.

I’ll decide. Imagine that!

See you when I see you.

Answer when you get this.

But not if you’re driving down the road.

SCARED FOR YOU

 

-for Tracey,my sister

You used to call to talk about

what we went through as kids

way back in the 70’s and 80’s.

In our 40’s, closing in on 50 and

we’re still talking about what

some say, we should just forget.

While others say never forget,

but try to forgive, free your mind.

You text me now instead of calling

to tell me how you were standing

in line at the grocery store when

you remembered how she was

always standing in the background,  

and never once telling him to stop.

Finally she texts-

I was scared, scared for you. I was

always scared he would kill you.

I text her back-

I always knew I would get away.

TEST QUESTIONS

Last night I dreamed of long,

rectangular plastic pill boxes.

Seven little lids with black letters

for each day of the week to make

sure you’re taking the right ones.

His phone call had me worrying

about my test results, my future.

How much can you tell about me

from two vials of dark red blood

and a Dixie cup of my warm piss?

Would he be able to predict that

I have just a few months to live?

Could he find testicular cancer,

a diseased liver or kidney failure?

Would he predict clogged arteries?

Maybe he’ll give me pills, like on TV-

Zocor , Plavix , Lipitor, or Avodart?

Maybe he’ll tell me buy a treadmill,

use fish oil, eat Honey Nut Cheerios,

or to take a little orange baby aspirin.

Would I understand what I had to do

or would I just break down and cry,

regretting all the things I’d done or

would I be angry at myself for all the

things I could’ve or should’ve done?

SUNDAY IN THE PARK

The best way to succeed in life is to

act on the advice we give to others. ~Author unknown

Sun on my face, birds on every branch,

bulbs sprouting, green grass emerging

before our eyes in this patch of nature

wedged between busy state highways.

All feeling the same way, the same joy,

blessed by whoever we pray to, but today

we worship blue skies, and magnolia trees.

Here together, but alone, not a word said,

barely a nod as we stroll past one another.

On days like these, I wish we could talk to

each other. I would tell them what I know

what I see, what I think and how I’m feeling.

I’d tell a Dad, be patient with your boy as

they try to fly a kite with not much wind.

I’d tell a Mom in tight fitting jeans to go slow

on her bike, don’t worry about your weight

from where I’m standing, you look mighty fine.

I’d tell a guy walking with headphones to take

them off, listen to children laughing, jays calling,

the swings swaying and the little dogs yapping.

Turn off your phone, walk a trail, read the signs,

identify the trees, admire them, know their names.

I’d tell young parents- let the kids shed their coats,

let them run wild across the fields in the sunshine.

Let them pickup sticks, turn over rocks, look for bugs.

I’d tell another guy by the swings not to say it’s time to

leave and keep pushing until they say they want to go.

I want to ask them all to not scold their babies about

muddy sneakers, grass stains on knees or torn shirts.

I’d remind them how cheap band aids are and how

soap and water is most plentiful in this great country.

I want to offer to take a picture for the one family,

because Dads need to be in some of the photos too.

I’d tell an older couple it’s cool how they still hold

hands after all these years as they walk the path.

I want to tell a lady she’s reading an awesome

book and how it’s much better than the movie.

I’d like to tell the elderly couple that I know what

they’re thinking as they watch a girl dig in the dirt

or when they smile as a boy throws his football.

I wish I could advise the teenager under a scarlet oak

not to worry about what she’s writing in her notebook

or what people will say if they read it. Write it down and

always have some extra pens with you is what I’d say.

I want to wave to a Mom with a plaid blanket spread out

for a picnic lunch. I’d tell her that in forty years her kids

will remember days like this one and they’ll miss it too.