If that’s all it is then alright.

If alright’s all it is then okay.

If okay’s all it is well then shit.

If shit’s all it is then hell.

If hell’s all it is then call me. Tomorrow. To let me know if I need to pick up your prescription and whether I need to ask about Medicare or the VA benefits and since the bags of Halloween candy are out what’s the harm in in pilfering a bag of Snicker’s fun sizes, even though the cameras will surely spot me, but how worse can it be than when I tried on some eye shadow in that metallic green. Green? If green’s all it is then I’ll stick with blue.

If blue’s all it is, then I’ll just buy the damn candy and save a lot of people a lot of trouble and if people’s all it is well then fuck.

I just called to tell you that I am doing two of your favorite things in the whole wide world.
I am eating wasabi flavored peas and listening to 99 Luftballons.

I had two staples in my head. But no one wants to know. Its my fault. I told most people about the staples two years after I got them.
They were removed two years ago, removed a week or so after I fell and bumped my head on the kitchen sink.

I should have told them when it happened. Now they try and empathize. But it isn’t the same. Time does not heal all wounds.

Not a gold finch.
“Maybe we’ll see a purple finch?” I say.
“Maybe,” he mutters.

Oh the things you’ll say to your lover, just to get out of the mess you’ve put yourself in with him.

The cake was only alive for a few minutes.  A funeral was held. Some called it a wake for a cake.

The cake’s death was Unfair. Death-ed by chocolate. Proportions unheeded. Measurements gone to shit. So many parameters, components, integrity of ingredients, dozens of small but important missteps along the way, leading to a disastrous outcome.

Following the wake, mourners refused to gather in clumps for photo ops. (The widow of the cake had hired a photographer.) They preferred to remember the cake when it was alive, however short that life was ,and when the camera came around, they shunned it, put their hands, or handkerchiefs or funeral programs to their faces.

The day dawned bright and cold. No snow in sight. Below zero.

But not silent. I heard people talking. But I couldn’t tell if the voices were coming from inside or outside. I was in my bedroom, the windows double pane and weather sealed.

I left the bedroom, in my robe, no sash to tighten. I walked slowly down the hall. I lived alone. As I neared the living room, I thought, Oh, thank God. I’d left the television on.

It was a meteorologist forecasting, for only a moment before addressing the anchorpeople off stage, telling them to get ready for a severe snow storm heading our way.

Our way. My way?

It breathes you, caresses you, sings to you, comforts you, gives you directions, lavishes you with praise.

And I don’t want anything to do with that. You.

It makes no sense to pack up things and fly away, from one end of the United States to another. No part of the world makes sense with you around.

It’s not your fault. It’s like a math problem. I could figure it out. But there will always be another one after that, and another. I don’t love math. And I don’t love you. Love is solving problems. That’s really true.

So when my heart melts? In relation to you? It’s only because of relief that we aren’t odds with each other in that moment. In that very moment, relief is just relief. And it feels like a melting heart. Nothing else. Everything else, other than that, is just around the corner. Lurking. That is where the real you is.

There’s nothing  wrong with problems and the direction you take to solve them. I just want other problems, where you aren’t over my shoulder checking on my progress, when you and I both know you’ll solve it fast. And in your own way.

I have button to press. But won’t press.

Instead I dance with graphs, charts, future gains. And something called, “added value.”

I rather you press button.

But cannot press button.

Button.

Button.

Button.

A drunk tail, the old man told himself, as he told one to family members, before passing out. Drunk tail? Tale? To him, it was the same thing.

Later, when he woke up in the middle of the night, the old man, found his teeth in the usual place. He also found lots of twenty dollar bills as he doddered to the bathroom to pee.

The multitude of Andrew Jacksons were laid before him, like clues. Like deeds gone undone.  Before he peed, he bent down to collect the money.

Then he peed. Then, the next morning, he paid out the money to friends and family.

They smiled awkwardly as they received the money. They knew why the money had been laid there on the way to his bathroom. To remind him. To pee. To pay.

To stop drinking.

It was hiding somewhere (Yes, I checked the closet, smartass).
I found it on the East Side. But I’m a West Side boy.
So we compromised; decided to meet in the middle. In Central Park.