CELL PHONES

I lost my cell phone today.
I think I left it in my gym locker.
The gym's a vortex that sucks down all my belongings.
I'm amazed that no-one returned it.
My cell phone is one of the old models.
It has a rotary dial, no camera, and no Apps,
whatever the hell they are.
It has big numbers and letters for elderly people.
I had to call my provider, to suspend my service.
I don't need any long distance charges,
to places like Beirut or Ceylon.
I guess I'm not a trusting individual.
But I've been burned before, too many times.
Now I have to buy a new phone.
I'm bringing my wife with me.
She insists, but it's OK 'cause I don't even trust myself.
I might come home with "super phone".
It will have all the bells and whistles.
I don't bother to look at costs or monthly service charges.
It seems like everyone in the world is getting smarter than me.
My life is getting more complicated by the new technologies.
I'm thankful I still can read and write.
I do better than the national average of most college students.
I can do mathmatical calculations in my head.
I never find the need to take off my shoes and socks.
I never count on my fingers and toes.
I never carry any credit card debt.
Maybe I'm not stupid, after all.
I think I might just buy that expensive cell phone.
I might even hire an electronics geek.
He can teach me how to use it.
Ain't life grand?

HALLOWEEN, 1958

I remember running home as fast as my legs could carry me, from Saint Adrian's Catholic Grammar School. The cold October winds produced cascades of colorfull leaves. They looked like they were spinning in a huge, high-speed blender. My feet crushed the leaves on every strike. I listened to them crunch, and watched my frozen breath as I ran. It was Halloween! Mom was waiting for me in the kitchen, as I bounded up the stairs. "Slow down young man", she said. "You have plenty of time. Have some milk and cookies." "No mom", I said! "I need you to help me put on my Hobo outfit! I don't want to miss out on any of the candy!" I remember her smile, as she burnt the cork. The cork was used to dirty my face. She used a little rouge to make my cheeks pink, and pinned one of my dad's old Homburg hats, so it would fit my head. She had old trousers for me, with patches on the knees and an old short broomstick with a couple of bandanas sewn together, to make a hobo's small kitball of worldly belongings. She made me wear tons of insulated underwear under my flannel shirt and trousers. She made me wear mittens on my hands. She smiled at me and said, "Now you be safe! Don't ring the doorbells of any houses that don't have their lights on! Make sure your friends are with you! I don't want you being alone! I want you to be home by eight o'clock, or I will tell your father you disobeyed me, when he gets home from tending bar tonight!" I was "flying" down the front stairs before the last sentence came out of her mouth. She always made sure that I had a reinforced shopping bag. My mom was the greatest. I swore to myself that I would fill it to the brim with candy, before I came home. I met up with Mike Noonan, and Al Faustino, and a couple of my other friends. We lived on the south side of Chicago, and were happy that the houses in our neighborhood were so close together. We ran up and down the front porch stairs for three-or-four hours until we were so exhausted, we couldn't carry our candy anymore. I always brought home a great bounty. I loved the Hershey bars, Snickers, Milk Duds, Baby Ruths, Fire Sticks, and All Day Suckers. My mom always went through the candy to see what I could keep. She told me that there were some bad people out there, who put needles in some of the candy or fruit. I didn't believe her, but let her throw the junky stuff out anyway! I had enough stuff to last me at least a month, as long as I could hide it from my older brother and sister! Being 8 or 9 years old on Halloween sure was fun! Today, I love getting dressed up in Biker garb, with menacing sunglasses, my goatee and shaved head. I wear a leather vest and jeans, with a big skull belt buckle. I also have a set of handcuffs hanging from my vest. I love handing out candy to the children who come to my door. My wife says I look like I'm dressed for Halloween, 365 days a year! I don't care. She knows that I love her and the kids. I always buy the Snickers and Hershey bars to give away. I buy a lot of it! I throw a handful into each little goblin's bag. When they smile real large, and look up to me and say, "thank you mister", it brings Halloween joy to me once again! I am smiling when I close the door. I think how soundly the little ones will sleep this night, after they are through. I hug my wife and enjoy our little decorations. I swear, I never want to grow up.

THE GYM AFTER MIDNIGHT

Insomnia
I decide to go to the gym.
It's open 24/7.
Seven days a week.
365 days a year.
My refuge.
I enter the realm.
Industrial lights.
Rows of barbells and plates.
Mirrors.
A few muscleheads in there.
Heavy metal music for intense workouts.
I strap on my wrist supports.
I put on my gloves.
I start the ritual.
I feel the blood coursing through my veins.
I like it like this.
No fighting for machines.
No senseless babble.
Just the iron and me.
I do an honest two hours.
I look in the mirror.
I see an old warrior.
I spit in the eye of death.
I shower and feel relaxed.
I leave and feel a blast of cold October wind.
There's a full moon out tonight.
I crawl into bed.
I fall asleep.
Mission accomplished.

THE JOY OF WORK

There should be joy in one's industry.
Work should not be meaningless.
It doesn't matter how dirty or lowly the job.
Pleasure can be found in the task.
If you don't like what you do,
move on without hesitation.
I've had over a hundred jobs in my lifetime.
I don't regret any of them.
I learned something from each of them.
Sometimes the lousy jobs were the most fun.
Most of my life's work was mundane.
Little of it offered large sums of money or prestige.
That was alright by me.
Other jobs paid me well.
They offered me status and fame.
It was no big deal.
A lot of these jobs made me unhappy.
I loved making art.
Until galleries and clients begged for more.
They were breathing down my neck.
"Produce more, sell more, bullshit more, they said."
Painting was no longer a joy.
It became a chore.
So I quit painting.
Writing took over.
It was therapeutic.
It still is.
But it won't be for long.
Deadlines are starting to harass my mind.
Publishers are bothering me.
I feel compelled to produce.
My brain is being sucked out of me.
This is no way to live my life.
I might start delivering pizzas again.
Yeah.
That will give me joy.

MIND EVOLUTION

I never did well in crowded places.
I hate people jabbering.
Cars rushing by.
My heart always started racing.
I'd break out in a sweat.
Dizziness would overcome me.
Hyperventilation.
I thought I was losing my mind.
Maybe I was going to die.
I'd feel like a non-entity.
No ego.
Just nothing.
I didn't exist.
Yet, I was an observer.
These feelings were horrifying.
I had them in my youth.
They'd occur in odd places.
Playgrounds
Convertibles with their tops down.
Bridges.
Social gatherings.
Churches.
I decided to stay in my room.
I guess I was agoraphobic.
I was too young to know the word.
My books became my friends.
I knew I was different than most others.
I thought I was damned.
Now, I know I was blessed.
I accepted my strangeness.
I pushed the envelope.
I decided to face my fears.
Fear is always there anyway.
It's easier to handle now.
I still like the dark.
I like my room.
I like to isolate.
But the crowds don't bother me anymore.
I don't feel like I'm losing my mind.
I realized that I never owned it.
I'm a minute part of the universal mind.
By negating my ego,
I found the essence of me.
It's not a bad place to be.

A MEANER PLACE

These grim nights disturb me.
Wayward youths have too much time.
They roam the streets.
There's a new meanness to it all.
What have we spawned?
We didn't teach them well enough.
We were selfish in our ways.
We blew it.
We were going to save the world.
We couldn't save ourselves.
We couldn't save our children.
Maybe I'm too cynical.
Was I like this in my youth?
It seems the new breed of youth,
have taken meanness to a new level.
It's harder.
It's more horrific.
It's faster.
It's sexier.
It's kinkier.
It's more brutal.
It's caused by the world we left them.
It's a cesspool of a place.
All the heroes are gone.
The monsters have come out.
No longer underneath the bed,
they rule supreme.
They haunt us.
They lie.
They cheat.
They steal.
They murder.
They are us.
Our families.
Our children.
Our country.
The world.
It's a meaner place.

MY BROTHER'S CANES

He made a cane with a horse's head.
He made it for me.
Lovingly, made in mahogany.
It had a sharpely defined mane.
It was a good stick for crushing skulls.
It was made for disrespectful youth.
There are many of them on my Chicago streets.
They prey on the weak and frail.
He made a cane with a clown's head.
This one is my favorite.
It is resplendent with all the colors of the rainbow.
A freaky clown he is.
He has a nose as red as Marilyn Monroe's lips.
This cane my brother did not want to give up.
He eventually softened due to age and illness.
My pleas probably helped my case.
He also made a a cane decorated with the American flag.
The flag is lovingly carved on the handle.
Hand carved and painted, Old Glory is beautiful.
The cane comes alive.
The flag looks like it is blowing in the wind.
I miss my brother.
We were two of a kind.
Two artists in perfect harmony.
He is gone.
I'll tag along, someday.
With one of his canes in my hand,
I'll travel this land.
Completing things for him.
My brother Jim.
The maker of fine canes.
And other wonderful things.