Grumpy

Two young adults

Enjoying a bike ride down the oceanside walkway,

Encroached on my side of the path.

I was forced to move from my god-given unmarked lane.

First I smiled by way of suggesting they looked cute.

As they went past I of thought of homicide.

I walk here every day.

Then the thought: I am a dwarf named Grumpy.

Earlier, my neighbor parked outside her garage.

What hutzpah!

Why can’t she park in her garage?

Very insensitive!

Britain is having riots.

Somalia is experiencing mass starvation.

My neighbors kid died in a fall down his stairs...

But I am esthetically disturbed by a car in a driveway?

I’ll blame my thinking on age.

Alternately, it could be my computer’s hiccup.

It’s probably my manic/depressive condition.

I should hang a sign on my door.

“Here lives a bore. Leave money”

Coronado Lights

Small red lights sit atop the eleven condos.

After sunset,

Incoming planes, heading for the Navy airstrip,

Must hold their descent until past the buildings

Off shore a vertical line of white

Silent pinpoints, move south.

Patrolling our pacific coast,

Discouraging illegal passage from Mexico.

The penetrating beam of a search light

Illuminates the grounds

Between the hotel and the ocean.

From my rooftop perch the night appears safe.

There is something of a beautiful lament

Offered by the whispering wavelets 

That oh so gently complete their journey,

Expending their last breath in the sands embrace.

Soon enough day will conquer the dark,

Marking the extinction of the warden’s lights,

The return of Sol,

And the engines that annihilate the quiet.

Sand Castles

Imperial Beach Sand Castle competition

Was an annual event                                                                      

That I had not witnessed,

Despite my four years in the neighborhood.

Sure, I’d seen the videos

Portraying everything from surfers riding cooperative waves 

To war scenes,

All replete with exquisite detail.

The 100 sand sculptures were works of art.

Carved in a most insubstantial medium,

Subject to collapse from the slightest vibration.

Ephemeral by design.

Almost 400,000 people visit 

The two day event.

But few, surely no more than two or three, can report the truth.

It is a phony.

Pictures of people thronging the beach,

Photos of the contesting entrees,

Selection of the best of extraordinary creations

Are all  fake.

We arrived at 11:30,

Only to be told the contest would not begin before two.

Then Saturday morning morphed into Sunday afternoon.

We returned to view the results.

Moving briskly to the first group offerings,

Expecting to be wowed by the brilliance...

Bam, nothing here!

A beach of uninterrupted sand.

Having been cleverly diverted 

By the late starting time was one thing,

But finding no renderings two hours after closing

Lead to an inescapable conclusion: It never happened.

Tribe

 I forwarded a story to Jewish friends.

It isn’t entirely unique:

Felix Zanderman died this year.

He was a holocaust survivor.

Why didn’t I share this story with others?

Why not include friends of fifty years?

I have no religion 

But I do have a tribe.

Italians have tribes; Libyans,

American Indians, Afghanis, likewise.

Membership doesn’t make you special,

It means “you’re one of us”.

We Jews have a badge

That allows us to refer to the Holocaust

As though we have scars 

That confirm our ties to the horror.

Since 1948, along with most tribes, 

We have a point of reference, a “home land”.

Not unlike the Irish, there is a learned response. 

An unspoken pledge.

This connection ends with me.

My sons, barring an anti-Semitic  plague,

Will not be tribal.

Hurray for them?

Maggie in the MIddle

Rose looked at the couch not understanding.

This was all wrong.

Always Mom sits on the edge, Dad in the middle,

And I between them.

This was a matter of tradition.

Ten years we’ve had this arrangement.

Ten years and now this.

My best friend stabs me in the back.

Maggie, Maggie how could you?

And Dad did you forget

All those nights we cuddled on the couch?

Oh how bitter the blow!

Look at Dad in Mom’s seat,

Maggie stretched out in MY space,

And Mom where Dad always sits.

Is nothing sacred?

No space for me.

Yes, I could sit on the far side of Mom,

But it would not be the same,

Not after all we’ve been through.

Not while Maggie usurps

My pavlovian role. 

I’m just going to sit on the floor

And ignore them all!

Ode to the Village Theatre

If Coronado is a community

Self-satisfied, an grounded in the 1950’s

It has exceeded its communal impersonation

With the renovation of the movie house.

A marquee edged in blinking lights

Surrounds the neon promotion

Of  this week’s films,

All promising a bright future.

Both the ticket booth and the lobby

Speak of the simple magic

That engaged my much younger self

Many a Saturday morning.

Cleaner than the Dewey on Coney Island Ave.

And forty times as expensive,

Selling popcorn and candies I remember 

From the days of the Brooklyn trolleys.

Like most of Coronado, the nostalgia 

Engendered by the movie house

Is part of the “lovely” set

That allows no ripped seats or cigarette butts. 

Now the seats are tiered and comfortable, 

The triplex theaters are small, 

Sound surrounds the senses

And 3D films reach out to embrace you.

My cynical nature 

Can not overwhelm 

The reawakened technicolor dream.

If only they’d play an installment of a Flash Gordon.

Retelling of Job

Peter had a good job

Made decent money

And didn’t see his world changing.

But change it did.

Peter paid social security on part-time workers,

He helped out on charity drives,

And had lots of friends.

He also had a dog he loved.

After being arrested when he protested

Our invasion of Vietnam

He was labeled a person of interest

By the FBI. 

When the FBI Interviewed his boss

Peter lost his job.

They shared their belief that Peter was gay,

And might be a communist 

Friends stopped returning his calls, and

Potential employers would not interview him.

Peter’s money soon ran-out, as did his wife.

He moved to a smaller rental.

His new, smaller place did not allow dogs

So Peter gave Cruz to a friend.

Peter was sued by his now ex-wife

For child support, though he had not fathered the boy.

Forced to surrender his apartment

Peter moved in with his drunken father.

Neither was very religious,

But both concluded God must be testing them.

Peter’s car was reclaimed by the finance company.

His father became ill and died.

Peter could not make the rent

And now lives on the street.

He writes to God on street walls,

Demanding an audience.

To date God has not responded.

Peter is cold, hungry and confused.

Crushed

Len wasn’t surprised by his termination.

Charlotte, his new boss, did not like him.

For the past two months Len had been excluded

From meetings that he had previously lead.

It was the silence of the people 

He knew as friends that cut deep.

If the termination letter was to be believed

Some of those friends had signed onto lies.

I guess it made sense.

If you are going to abandon me

It would be awfully hard

To call offering sympathy.

I’m left with my social security check,

And I am not ungrateful when it comes.

But losing the job, after 20 years 

Also meant losing my balance... again.

Ten years ago an earthquake rocked my home,

Leaving me no place to stand.

My complete acceptance of the floor under my feet

Was tested and found wanting.

I am old enough to have experienced

Love and loss.

I believe in recovery.

I will get better... soon.

New York Minute

In an escalator going north, she was going south.

It mattered less to her that it was the wrong direction,

As long as it was moving.

 Speed is rule one in New York.

 Coronaries are not helpful,

 But just potential damage

To be borne.

When the sales manager asked

 “Are you really interested in buying?”

 Its clear he has little time to waste.

 Here comes some fool

 Carrying 2 cardboard cups of coffee,

 A Sunday New York Times,

 And a 400 page novel.

He plans to get all this to his hotel.

Oops, his plan failed!

New York Joy

It doesn’t always play that well.

Sometimes the cacophony overwhelms,

And the pace drives you past the brain’s “alert”.

That and the girls in 6 inch platforms, ouch.

The midtown street level

Home to ubiquitous cellphone,

Insistently reaffirms your singularity,

Shouting into a world monumentally indifferent.

There is a morning symphony

Of jack-hammers

Tearing at the flesh of a building

Too small to meet the competition.

Did I mention the poor, the drugs,

Or the garish facade the city presents?

If all the imperfections do not dissuade...

Welcome to New York!

Below the bullshit level runs the subway.

There is no first class seating. 

Here outrages take the form

Of preforming artists and the crippled.

Not many folks race down the train cars,

And the dress code is whatever you’re wearing.

If you’re old and tired, someone may give you their seat.

A $25,000 watch will elicit suspicion or anger.

If you’re brave, conversation is possible:

Smile and ask directions to the Village.

Even money,  you’ll get an answer.

Odds are 2 to 1 the directions will be wrong.

Central Park is as incongruous 

As a chance trip with Alice through the Looking Glass.

The wonder in a young boy’s eyes at his first Yankee game

Fails when compared to the impossibility of the Park.

Strolling the Poets’ Walk

A lone saxophone plays a sexy lament.

Yards away a road, empty of cars,

Serves bikers, runners, dogs and horse-drawn coaches.

Hot-dog vendors, orthodox Jews,

And a contingent of tourists from Lapland,

Observe the acrobatics of a break-dancer,

Who hopes to make $50.00 before his noon audition.

Ball fields, playgrounds, lakes, gardens,

And the trees tell of the seasons

While keeping the surrounding avarice 

Beyond the Park’s borders.

It is in the order of water walking

That both the free Park

And the not so free Subway work.

They’re the best civilization has to offer.

Ruth and Veronica

Her last good friend was not Jewish.

I’ve a picture of them playing Rummy,

Or at least attempting to play Rummy.

Mom is focused on winning.

Her last best friend is not white.

But the lady understood

That Mom had carried 

A relatively benign racism into their relationship.

Mom had moved beyond those 

Acculturated fears

Long before she died.

Veronica had become her friend.

In the minutes before she died,

Asked to wait for her children

Ruth gave a small head shake.

For Veronica she nodded.

Mom settled in Veronica’s arms

And, as a child comforted 

By her mother’s embrace, 

Left us.

After

Gun-metal gray, with a two foot chop,

And a lifting fog set Coronado’s shore line.

Remnants of last night’s beach dinner

Sit on the sand, awaiting tonight’s resurrection.

A tall bar table for two,

With a white tablecloth  hanging unevenly, 

Awaits the morning crew,

Who will remove the evidence.

A dozen folding chairs,

Resembling the aftermath of a New Year celebration,

(Leaning, lying askew, or erect, awaiting someone’s butt)

Looking to have failed a group support session.

Three pigeons move slowly across the surrounding sand,

Pecking at a potential source of delight.

Six others stand to one side 

Possibly discussing tonight’s menu.

Within an hour this camera-ready photo

Will be replaced by children with sand pails,

Joggers of all shape and sizes,

And a break in the morning fog.

For this moment the picture is pensive,

Undecided on its degree of sobriety.

Phantoms of the drinkers and talkers

Fade as I move into this eternal day.

Shul

I think the Shul held fifty, tops.

In another eight months it would be my turn.

All I had established in four months of Bar-Mitzvah preparation

Was that I could run and write faster than the other guys.

Our Rabbi was a strange guy.

He spoke to us about conversing with the Torah.

Asking questions, discussing possible answers

With the great book. 

Classes were both boring and difficult.

Most of us had Brooklyn accents. 

When we answered the Rabbi’s quizzes

Our responses required translation into English.

Mom and Dad decided I was to be Bar-Mitzvahed

In the far grander Synagogue three blocks away.

I argued it was not fair to our Rabbi... he had done all the work.

I lost the argument.

Mine was a big family and most cousins lived nearby.

250 seats, all filled, as I started my welcoming comments.

“ I am very glad all youz people could come today.

For today I am a fountain pen”.

My Hebrew portion was not very long.

Combining my running and writing speeds

I reached guinness book escape velocity.

Too fast for my language challenged family to catch my 200 errors.

I recall standing on two large phone books

That enabled me to raise my head

Above the lectern 

And assure my audience that I was not a disembodied voice.

After the Bar-Mitzvah came the handshakes and envelopes.

We grossed $2,050, but netted nothing.

From all this I learned that

Coming of age wasn’t much of a prize.

Here’s Looking At You, Kid

OK Ace, here’s what you must remember:

You come from a long line of crazy people.

If you are insane it is not your fault.

It is easier to feel the light than the dark.

Pick battles you may win, even if it means losing.

Surround yourself with people brighter than yourself,

With luck it will make learning easier.

As I write this you are still in contention 

For the Presidency of the 3rd grade 

And the United States of America.

Equality For Some

Leon was shy and gay.

His Dad had not accepted 

His confession.

Not much of a surprise.

Why me, why me,

He beseeched the silent sky.

Getting over “it” had not happened.

Leon hated the swishy guys.

Gay parades jacked him up,

Being loud inside a protective envelope

Was great but ephemeral,

Always landing him back in depression.

He called his Mom on Thursdays.

Dad visited with Leon’s brother and family,

That one day each week.

It was a tacit, almost acceptable, arrangement.

For Leon gay rights weren’t visceral;

He wished they were.

Losing himself in something 

Outside his pathetic narcissism.

Tonight, might be different, he hoped, 

He met Cal a week ago.

They agreed to a movie.

Best part; it was not a gay flick.

Zen

A big dog,

With Pitbull eyes,

Rescued off the streets.

I thought he might be a problem.

We met nine years ago.

It was his first visit. 

He stood in the entrance 

As our smaller dog Rose examined him.

Zen towered over her 

But before concern could set in

He lay down on the floor

And rolled over onto his back.

With no interest in fighting,

He was always ready to play,

Using his substantial rear

To propel Rose across the room.

An intuitive fellow,

Zen did not have to be taught limits.

Where the grass in a small park ended,

So did his freedom to run.

I wish I had known him better.

No doubt he had his flaws,

But as I told his partner,

“If you’re leaving, send Zen to me.”

God May Exist

Whatssamatta with Dark Matter?

Everything!!

Do you have any idea how much

A two dollar bet would win on Dark Matter?

Try to grasp five hundred zeros,

After a decimal point, followed by a one.

That’s the posted odds

On this winning filly.

I can’t tell you how much money

You would have won

Because there is no word

For that number.

As a non-believer 

I have considered all things 

With a probability of one in 800 trillion

A non starter; this included God.

Yesterday marked a pause.

It seems we have a multi-universe,

And Dark Matter fills most of the space

In our tiny piece of the cosmos.

Compared to the amount of Dark Matter

Filling all that space,

God looks like a shoe-in.

And we haven’t gotten to the number of universes yet.

Looking Back

I was six when I died.

Herbie threw a stone 

Into my resident ditch, and opened my skull. 

Bad business.

That was 68 years ago.

For years Herbie had nightmares.

Other than dying 

I suffered no lasting ill effects.

I know about Herbie because we’ve talked.

Six months ago we started an ongoing conversation.

I remembered the feeling of “sweat”

Running down my face.

I don’t remember my mother

Stopping a car on our street

And insisting the driver take us to the hospital.

She was really scared. 

Certainly the event was traumatic.

When I came home it was as a different person.

My hair was cut really short. I was taller,

But continued to go by my first birth name.

There is no certificate

Attesting to my death and resurrection,

Nor am I nobler for having transitioned,

Just older with unresolved issues.

An Old War Wound

I an holding a paper bag,

In the check out line 

At a small grocery store

In Tahiti.

Six people ahead of me.

I am becoming aware of moisture

Forming on the bottom of the bag,

Wherein sits a bottle of red wine.

I suspect that I had 

Placed the wine down too heavily

When adding it to my coffee and cereal.

Or maybe it’s the climate?

What store would offer such grocery bags?

Perhaps the coffee container was damp?

Yes, that would account for it...

Except the bottom of the bag is becoming wet.

There are still three customers before me,

And no garbage can in sight

As the wet becomes a drip,

And starts moving down my leg.

Tahiti is humid and hot,

And I am sweating.

It could be the weather...

But I know it is the wine.

What to do with the wine

Starting to drip steadily,

Suggesting it will, momentarily,

Pour from knee, to toe, to floor.

Only one customer between me and the cashier.

Will the cashier speak only French?

Surely she sees me 

And smells the problem.

James Bond would never be in this situation.

Before the bag disintegrates I can put it down

And run for the door,

Screaming  “I’m Shot!”

My pathetic attempt at “cool” is failing.

People are looking at me

As my shorts turn red 

And the wine puddles at my feet.

Face to face with the cashier.

She smiles, and bursts out laughing,

Grabs the remnants of the  bag

And throws it into the garbage can by her feet.

I pay for my destroyed groceries,

While wishing the ten amused people in the store

A slow and painful death.

   

Family

No one here is wanted by the police.

Everyone appears healthy,

And almost all can discuss

Movies and off-channel TV networks.

I walk the pier at Imperial Beach,

Where fishermen line both railings and

Occasionally land small sardines.

Only then can I imagine eternal sufferance.

Evan, my emaciated grandson, 

Eats fries at the grill, protecting his paper plate 

With an encircling arm.

At four foot ten, he best protect his food.

I’m the only current resident that thought

Harry Potter and “The Deathly Hallows”

Was a dreadful movie;

Two hours of water pistol fights.

All nine family visitors leave this week.

I shan’t make predictions for the next generation.

Look what a lousy job we’ve done.

Did I tell you, all had a very good time.

   

From Here?

My little grand daughter

Almost waved to me from the computer screen.

Too soon we may discuss Harry Potter.

Such are the gifts of this Age.

I have not, to date, been the subject

Of an inquisition perpetrated 

By the information gatherers and their partners.

Such are the gifts of this Age.

We understand how to make fire,

And what is useful in war.

We have seven billion people and nuclear power.

Such are the gifts of this Age.

Would anyone except me enjoy hearing The Weavers

Singing Irene Goodnight?

Maybe looking through our rearview mirror

We’ll see this time as America’s greatest.

Revolutions can start

Because the software is available.

Boundary lines are routinely pushed and prodded,

And yesterdays shibboleths are dust.

What was a many lifetime’s evolution

Is this morning’s breakfast.

A bottom line for the seven billion is absurd

For the game is eternal, and we are not the only players.

Donald Trump Was Made Here

Some do not believe in global warming,

Others have grave doubts about evolution.

After careful review of the evidence,

I have concluded Donald Trump was made by Mattel.

When I looked at his eyes

Suspicion set in.

It is not the color that unsettled me.

It’s the absence of color.

Donald’s eyes seem small,

But on close inspection they’re just strange.

Of course his hair is a dead give-a-way.

No mortal would tolerate his comb-over.

When we add to the growing suspicion,

His obviously programmed utterances,

Could not be made by a human,

Without causing his balder to implode.

Surely only a defective robot could say:

“A certificate of live birth is not the same thing,

by any stretch of the imagination, as a birth certificate.”

Or, “I try to learn from the past, but I plan for the future by 

focusing exclusively on the present.” 

I once watched his TV program where he fired people.

Only a automaton could offer,

With no hesitation, life altering wisdom...

That could not be understood by earthlings. 

Dead

Don’t hang with my neighbors.

No fault, just the way it is.

This guy has the big house,

And is not especially humble.

Police just left.

Girl friend murdered at his house.

Sobering, but not my problem.

Probably a family affair.

I should be feeling something.

Maybe just sympathy

For someone I didn’t know?

Perhaps it’s “ask not for whom the bell tolls”?

There is nothing

Beyond a little concern for our safety.

Woman dead thirty feet from my yard.

While I watered the plants someone called the police.

My disconnect is cultural.

Does the computer operator

A thousand miles from the drone

Feel it is more than a board game?

Local paper said deceased 

Was charged with attempted store theft in 2009.

Nice epitaph. Thirty-two year old murdered,

Once charged with shoplifting.

15 Ends Here

Highway 15 does not resemble route 66,

And is not likely to breed other Jack Kerouac’s,

Exhausting itself  just shy of the Pacific in San Diego.

Like a river that disappears into a sea,

It mergers into 5,

Carrying hopes and cargo

Down from Great Falls, Montana, and points Southwest.

U.S. 15 is a road of dreams,

Not all of them inspirational.

From snow to surfboard and back,

Passing through Nevada’s ugliest city

Nothing ceremonial at the bottom of the line

No fairwell or welcome signs

Announce your arrival or departure.

Going west past Vegas

You pass lost Denny’s, 

Which sits between 15 and a long distance railroad spur.

Sand, wind and highway noise mark its location.

It should have bright florescence,

Thereby completing its rural incarnation

Of a Dennis Hopper painting.

It defies hope.

The New Yorkers

Penn State’s Joe Paterno was resigning.

Ray felt Joe had done all that was required.

I felt Joe had not done what he should.

With that the New York boys club lunch ended.

I left certain that had Ray

Been in Paterno’s place,

He would have demanded the University act.

Keeping quiet on the student rape issue would not be Ray’s way.

We, three New York transplants, 

Had covered national politics,

(With Dick representing the right .. sort of)

Our local NFL team, and religion.

No one had ordered dessert,

An act of no small contrition, 

Deciding that since it is was not free

We had better show dietetic restraint.

Leaving our table, each with a posture

That suggested a losing battle with age,

Ray and I headed to our cars,

Dick made his mandatory trip to the john.

Wilma

Is it possible for a dog to be a yenta?

If so Wilma meets the description.

She can talk your ear off,

When she isn’t busy eating.

Part Pit-bull, with the disposition 

Of your favorite visiting aunt,

Who commented on your house and the weather

Before entering your home.

Not especially graceful. To have her land on your bed

Is to suggest the arrival of an 8.9 earthquake.

A good deal larger than our Rosie,

They are the best of friends.

I lack the skill to convey the relationship

Willie has with her life partners: Pablo, Sonia and Fred.

New family cars are subject to her veto: 

Too big a step up-No car. 

With Pablo assuming responsibility for Fred,

Sonia will run/walk Willie in whatever direction

Willie wants to go...

Including nowhere.

Dinner at their home is set for three.

Fred does not find it necessary to sit at the table.

Perhaps it is the care Pablo takes in the meal preparation,

But whatever the reason, Willie dines quietly.

Hate

We give subsidies to the needy.

Corn, oil, corporate farmers, come to mind.

Given the time and place I would kill them all.

It is in the nature of revolution; mercy killings.

I have not gotten mellow.

There is no point in expecting improvement.

Sorry, I failed to include five members of the Supremes.

They really should be first, and I apologize for my oversight.

To be willingly law-abiding finally requires belief,

Or recognition that the price of noncompliance can be high.

I suppose the church fathers took the same view.

No doubt they support the evil they created.

Does your burden feel too heavy.

Do you envy the man who steals your bread?

Not enough: You must cut his tongue out

And rewrite the law he has thrust upon you.

I don’t expect the revolution to succeed,

It probably is nothing more than 

Hoping to end a very boring show

That has gone on endlessly.

How to start:

Do not pay your taxes.

When the nice looking lady in the back seat of the limousine 

That, with indifference, blocks your path

Open the back door, pull her out & smash her face

Only then should you shoot the driver.

Stop traffic. crash your wreck into the Mercedes.

BUT Where’s the love?

Dead for lack of oxygen, crushed under the wheels of the private jet.

Oscar

Oscar died yesterday,

A belated victim of agent Orange.

You remember agent Orange,

It was designed to kill Vietnamese.

Not the good Vietnamese,

They were the people we were defending.

Viet Cong: those were the enemies

Who believed in just one Vietnam.

We certainly didn’t want to injure or kill Americans.

This was 1969, not 1942.

We no longer used black Americans to test products

Designed for enemy combatants.

Oscar and I will never have our racquet-ball game.

He wont be part of the monthly poker party.

Tall and straight, a handsome man.

Services will be held Saturday.

Traffic Control

Why would the man place himself in harms’ way?

He is not saving a damsel in distress,

Merely seconds off his bike ride.

Perhaps somewhere a drawbridge is lifting?

The intersection is clear,

No cars coming from my right, down the one-way street.

Easing off the brake, moving forward by inches,

I gently step on the gas pedal.

A cyclist coming from the left

Pedals a foot in front of me,

I stop moving 

As he cycles past my car.

In that instant, when I saw him,

There was a not unpleasant thought:

I could hit and crush bike and rider,

Preventing him from completing his ride.

His was an audacious move,

It would work often.

But, what if I stood as judge

And risked my being late?

There would be forms to complete,

Questions to answer.

I would be inconvenienced.

Would it be worth it?

Of course there would be blood

And the man might not be dead.

On the other hand he will have learned...

Nothing.

The Call

No point in protesting and no one to protest to.

And spare me the homilies,

I’d rather it were someone else's dead son.

I’ve few clear recollections 

But the images that emerge,

Fanciful and pungent, are overwhelming:

Faced with another little boy

Who, like him, had just begun walking,

Michael started crying: the other kid was wearing shoes.

At five he and I had books to read and stories to create,

Marching chocolate puddings 

Leading a parade of Dr. Seuss characters.

He was seven when, 

After spending a boring day at my base,

He announced he was going home...  a 15 mile walk?

If I search there will be times of stress...

I wasn’t there for most of them,

So my guilt is amorphous but genuine.

Where’s the love?

Present.