Venice--October 2012

 Venice

October, 2012

By October of 2012, Gina had become a ghost wearing her own face.

The woman who once filled rooms with laughter had dissolved into silence, as though the tide had carried her voice out to sea. Words lived inside her like trapped birds, beating against her ribs. She knew exactly what she wanted to scream from every rooftop, but when she opened her mouth, language shattered into fragments.

She was no longer imprisoned by walls.

She had become the prison.

Anthony had spent years laying each brick with careful hands—one rule, one insult, one threat at a time. He measured her world until there was barely enough room left for her to breathe. Friends disappeared first, especially the ones whose eyes could read the monster beneath his polished smile.

He hated witnesses.

She hated everything about him.

His rules.

His certainty.

The smug curve of his mouth.

He stood over every moment like a puppeteer above his stage, tugging invisible strings until every ending belonged to him.

Even Paolo had never escaped.

People saw privilege.

They didn't see programming.

Raised beneath impossible expectations, failure became forbidden, and perfection became a prison all its own. Addiction slipped through the cracks like floodwater. Before long it carried him toward jail cells, treatment centers, and nights spent sleeping beside garbage bins where rats became familiar companions. The handsome boy disappeared beneath hollow cheeks, broken teeth, smoke, and despair.

Their family tree bore poisoned fruit.

Its branches twisted under the weight of fear, rage, and distrust.

Gina looked at the harvest and wondered whether love had ever lived there at all.

Then Anthony began preparing for endings.

He called it practicality.

She recognized it as cruelty.

Zeus—her faithful guardian, the only soul who loved without conditions—had sores that refused to heal. Blood stained his legs while Anthony refused the simple mercy of a veterinarian. They tried every remedy they knew, but Zeus lingered, stubborn as an old oak refusing the axe.

Perhaps he understood.

Perhaps he was staying because Gina still needed someone who stood between her and the dark.

From the outside, they looked untouchable.

A Bentley gleamed in the driveway beneath a vanity plate.

A magnificent home overlooked Hawaiian water.

A beautiful boat rocked gently in the harbor.

Every year they crossed oceans together, collecting photographs of happiness like actors changing costumes.

This year, the stage was Venice.

The city floated between water and sky, its ancient palaces mirrored in quiet canals that hid unfathomable depths. Gondolas drifted like black swans through streets of liquid glass, while stone bridges arched over currents carrying centuries of whispered secrets. Venice understood beautiful things built upon fragile foundations.

There, Anthony almost resembled the man he'd promised to be.

Travel softened his edges.

For a few borrowed days, he wore humanity like an expensive suit.

But masks are heavy.

Eventually they slip.

Only Katya knew the true architecture of Gina's life.

The nightmare lay beneath it all like thin ice over black water—appearing solid until one wrong step sent everything crashing through. From a distance it glittered beautifully. Up close, it was always threatening to break.

It felt like a thriller where everyone was marked for death long before they understood the plot.

Anthony believed he was writing the final chapter.

He believed every life around him existed to serve his ending.

He was wrong.

Because beneath Gina's silence, something ancient had survived.

Not happiness.

Not certainty.

Hope.

Hope is a stubborn seed. It pushes through concrete. It splits stone. It reaches toward mālamalama even after years underground.
Anthony had mistaken her quietness for surrender.
He had confused survival with defeat. But her spirit remained kūpaʻa, rooted deep, waiting for its season to bloom.

And survivors learn what storms never understand:

Trees that bend are often the ones still standing after the wind is gone.

This was not where Gina's story ended.

It was where she quietly began writing it herself.

Postcards

 Postcards

Arrive.
Bringing
Care.
Distance
Echoes.
From elsewhere,
Gathering light.
Held
In hand,
Journeys
Kept.
Light
Memory.
Notes
Opening
Paths.
Quietly,
Returning
Summers.

Time
Unfolds.
Voices
Whisper
Xenia grace.
Yesterday
Zealously remembered.

Purple Umbrellas

 Purple Umbrellas

Lift my spirit,
purple umbrellas.
Tiny pockets of twilight
perched above white hydrangeas,
keeping the sun from stealing
their porcelain blush.

In my sister's nascent garden,
everything is practicing:
buds learning to blossom,
bees tuning their buzzing,
breezes humming backup,
while the umbrellas sway
like flowers pretending to be birds.

They make me think of Mary Poppins,
drifting over London's rooftops,
her umbrella winking at the wind
as if every gust were in on the joke.

And surely, they're cousins
those merry umbrellas and Katya,

who is, by now, somewhere over the Gunks,
zipping through blue skies
with determination in her pockets
and laughter on her sleeve,

off once again
to rescue Gina
from yet another faux paw—
the kind that leaves everyone smiling,
tails wagging,
and the whole world blooming
just a little brighter.

Because gardens know the secret:

it takes only a splash of purple,
a pinch of whimsy,
and one well-timed umbrella
to turn an ordinary day
into a song.

The Third Day

 The Third Day

On the third day
we found a radio
sleeping in the garage.

It woke
to soft music,

and the silence
opened

like dry earth
meeting rain.

The empty rooms
remembered breath.

Our hearts, too.

A dark screen
is only absence.

A song
is enough.

Show 'Em What You Got

 Show 'Em What You Got

Anthony had a job lined up before they had even left New York. Two years after they moved in together, a four-day trip to Hawaii allowed him to make it happen. While Gina toured Pearl Harbor, Anthony was busy building his future. He started by calling the local head of Sears' Home Improvement Division in Honolulu. Then he walked into the man's office and waited. 

And waited.

For hours.

His persistence finally paid off. Impressed by the young man's determination, the boss handed Anthony the number of another ambitious Italian on the other side of the island.

Anthony called immediately.

The following evening, he and Gina met Sal P. and his Japanese wife, Kiki, for dinner. Sal owned the local siding company, whose 

slogan proudly proclaimed, "Steel Is for Real."

Over dinner, Anthony's confidence filled the room. He had already proven he could communicate, but Sal still had one question.

"Can you run a company?"

Anthony never hesitated.

"I can."

Sal wasn't completely convinced, but he admired the conviction.

"Come back in a few months," he said. "I'll give you a job. Then we'll see."

It wasn't a promise easily made. Sal had heard plenty of confident talk from would-be employees over the years, but few ever lived 

up to their own words.

Anthony intended to.

The truth was that he knew nothing about installing steel siding. He was a roofer by trade. But he learned quickly, worked relentlessly, and before long had impressed the hell out of Sal.

In return, Sal became more than an employer.

He taught Anthony how to sell. He patiently corrected his terrible spelling. In another life, Sal had been an English teacher, but wanderlust had carried him far beyond the classroom. Business had become his new adventure.

The partnership flourished.

Within a few years, Anthony was running the company while Sal focused on sales. Their strengths complemented one another, and the business prospered.

Eventually, Anthony felt the pull to build something of his own.

Sal wished him well, knowing that independent spirits are rarely meant to stay in one place forever.

Soon afterward, Sal moved to Saipan to launch several new businesses. Kiki had lost her battle with an aggressive cancer, and Hawaii no longer felt like home without her. Rather than dwell on grief, Sal chose another beginning.

Anthony hired a trusted local employee and continued building his own success. Business was good, and he never let anyone forget who he believed was carrying the financial load.

As his confidence grew, so did his need to remind Gina who was responsible for their lifestyle.

He often told her he was the earner in the family, as though his paycheck gave him the final word. Eleven years older than Gina, he believed age and income entitled him to authority. What had once looked like confidence was slowly revealing itself as control.

Anthony had built his career through persistence and determination. He had earned Sal's respect by proving himself, one opportunity at a time.

At home, however, he expected respect without question.

There was a difference, though Anthony rarely saw it.

 

I'll Show You the World

 I'll Show You the World

He said, I'll show you the world,
and Gina—still soft with the faith
that good hearts recognize good hearts
mistook a wolf
for a man carrying flowers.

Anthony knew every beautiful sentence
that sickness could wear.
He stitched himself from borrowed sorrows,
made every old lover a villain,
every scar a medal,
every lie sound like survival.

She believed him.

She believed tears meant truth,
that broken men only needed love,
that promises were maps,

not traps.

So they married
before the echo of warning
could catch its own breath.

He gave her rings,
stories,
and ghosts with different names.

Lola became the monster.
Laundry became betrayal.
Cold takeout became proof.

Children became witnesses
in a courtroom built from his delusions,
where Anthony was always innocent
and someone else carried the blame.

Then came the Chevy Blazer
iron crashing through the fragile theater,
truth arriving without knocking,
headlights cutting straight through
his careful performance.

Still he called.

Still his voice wrapped itself
around her hope
like ivy around a gravestone.

Still she believed
the next apology
would be the honest one.

So they crossed an ocean together,
newly married,
chasing the paradise
he'd painted in impossible colors.

Hawaii waited,
green and breathtaking,
while beneath every postcard sunset
his darkness unpacked itself
one lie,
one wound,
one cruelty at a time.

He had promised her the world.

He never mentioned
he meant
the one he had already
set on fire.

 

Purpose Driven

 Purpose Driven

In the bicentennial year,
when flags bloomed like bright weeds
from porches, windows, courthouse lawns,
Katya moved through the city
like a small question with whiskers,
listening.

She met a man whose thirty years on Wall Street
had folded shut like a ledger at dusk;
his good shoes still shone,
but accusation followed him
like rainwater in the seams.

She met a young woman carrying degrees
as carefully as glass bowls,
only to find the cupboards bare,
the jobs gone thin as soup,
the food-stamp office lit with tired fluorescent mercy.

She met a mother of five
with three jobs knotted to her back,
her children turning keys in empty kitchens,
learning too young
how silence can sound like supper.

Rich or poor, guilty or only tired,
they carried trouble in different pockets.
Some hid it under laughter,
some under lies,
some under the hard bread of habit.

And then there was Gina—
wealthy Gina,
who lived behind gates polished bright as silver,
where roses climbed the walls
and silence learned to keep secrets.

She wore pearls at dinner
like small moons at her throat,
smiled when the room expected smiling,
and lifted crystal glasses
with hands that had learned to steady themselves.
Her house held marble floors,
fresh flowers,
locked doors,
and words sharp enough
to leave bruises no mirror could prove.
But somewhere inside her,
a window had not closed.

It was Gina who made Katya stop,
who taught her that suffering could wear perfume,
ride in black cars,
and sit beneath chandeliers without being seen.
Pity became purpose,
not like thunder,
but like a match struck in a dark room
small at first,
then certain enough
to show the way out.
No one would think to ask a cat for help;
cats belonged on windowsills,
in alleys,
in stories told to children.

What could a cat do
against fear dressed as marriage,
against a voice that closed doors,
against a mansion that felt smaller than a cage?
Perhaps not break the lock.
Perhaps not silence the voice.
But perhaps she could sit at Gina’s feet
until Gina remembered
she was not alone.

And perhaps, one morning,
Gina would open the smallest door first
a phone call,
a packed bag,
a name trusted enough to say aloud
and the house that had kept her
would become only a house,
while the road beyond it
opened like sunrise.

But Katya was brilliant
in the quiet way moonlight is brilliant
on a kitchen floor at midnight.
And Tiki, tall enough for foot pedals,
drove the Time Machine
while she planned beside him,
her paws folded like prayers.

He gave her more than motion,
more than miles bending backward.
He gave her friendship,
that small, steady lantern
money cannot buy,
and loneliness cannot blow out.

Blank

 Blank

Face it, Gina
you are clueless,
the perfect rube
for his brutality.
And not much has changed.

You tried to leave,
but he kept pulling you
back into the maze,
where every exit
looked like forgiveness
and every promise
turned into another wall.

You stayed mired in the bog
for years,
calling survival

something nobler than fear.

Now you're old.
The Rose of Rosendale
has wilted,
yet somehow
you're still wet behind the ears,
still believing
the next apology
might bloom into spring.

It's 101 degrees, baby.
Maybe you could cool off
in the Dunk Tank,
let the shock
wake you from yourself.

Forget the past.
It has already taken

more than its share.

Hypnotize yourself.
Plan a future.
Hop on a new freight train
one that doesn't circle back
to the same forgotten station.

Wreck what's left
in cat years,
shed every borrowed skin,
and walk away.

You do remember
how to walk away,
don't you?

Because the door
was never locked

Only your hope was.

Crepuscular

 Crepuscular

Katya was naturally hardwired to be most active during the twilight hours of dawn and dusk. Tiki was not. Their different rhythms caused more than a few hiccups.

Tiki was diurnal. He rose early each morning to fish in the pond, where he loved catching tilapia and catfish. By dusk, however, he was exhausted, snoring like a buzz saw before Katya's night had even begun.

Although he had been born in Indonesia, Tiki rarely spoke of his past. Katya simply called him "Cousin," and that became their truth, especially during difficult times.

One of those times came during the U.S. Bicentennial. Katya had just celebrated her own two-hundredth birthday. Returning from a 

nighttime hunt, she proudly left a plump, juicy mouse where Tiki would find it, believing it was a thoughtful gift.

Tiki's response puzzled her. Fastidious to a fault, he calmly picked up the mouse, tossed it over the fence into the farmer's field, dusted off his hands, and returned to fishing as though nothing had happened.

Katya preferred fish herself, but she couldn't understand Tiki's complete distaste for the mouse. Rather than confront him, she filed the mystery away. Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in the past.

So they climbed into the Time Machine.

Their destination was New York Harbor during the Bicentennial celebration, where the Tall Ships filled the harbor with towering masts and billowing sails. It was there they first met Gina.

Gina was young, beautiful, and painfully naïve. Having lived a sheltered life, she was unprepared for someone like Anthony.

Anthony was older, confident, and controlling from the very beginning. He believed Gina needed to be shaped into someone more like himself. She resisted in small ways, but he remained convinced she was trainable.

Katya found humans endlessly fascinating. Their mistakes, misunderstandings, and emotional entanglements were often more entertaining than anything she encountered on her nightly prowls. But there was one thing she could not tolerate: cruelty 

masquerading as love.

She watched Anthony begin a familiar routine. He blamed Gina, pointed accusing fingers, and raised his voice.

"What are you talking about, Anthony?" Gina asked, genuinely confused.

"It isn't what you did," he replied. "It's what you didn't do."

The accusation made no sense because there was nothing Gina could have done. Anthony wasn't reacting to reality; he was creating a problem she could never solve.

Katya had seen enough to recognize the pattern. When Anthony behaved this way, the safest response was to avoid eye contact, say little, and wait for the storm to pass.

But Gina didn't know that. Like a mouse caught in a trap, she searched desperately for the mistake she believed she must have made.

Why is he so angry? she wondered.  I need to understand what went wrong so I can fix it.

There was no riddle to solve. The problem was Anthony himself—a controlling man, exactly the kind her father had once warned her about.

Watching Gina struggle awakened something in Katya. What had begun as a search for answers about Tiki's mysterious past became something much larger. She became determined to save Gina from a life she could not yet recognize as dangerous.

Tiki, whether he fully understood Katya's mission or not, came along for the ride.

Their misadventures would last a very long time.

 

Wild Thing...You Make Katya's Heart sing

 Wild Thing…You Make Katya’s Heart Sing

This morning I was greeted by a rabbit.

He looked me up and down,
didn't bother with a hello,
judged me completely,
then hopped off
into the green jungle—

the jungle that will
soon disappear,

the jungle that provides
shade from the blistering sun,

the jungle that is also
a luxury condominium
for snakes
and other mysterious creatures
of the wild ilk.

Don't get me wrong.

Katya likes wild.

She likes birdsong,
time travel,
and trees that mind their own business.

She does not like
sharing her quiet,
her porch,
or her abode
with freeloading wildlife.

A heroine needs personal space.

How else is she supposed to create
fantastical stories—
stories of hope,
of inspiration,
stories where the heroine
or her cat
wins?

The rabbit, however,
is a terrible villain.

Sure,
he'll nibble your prize-winning flowers,
stare at you like you owe him rent,
and disappear into the shrubbery
before the HOA can identify him.

But that's where the criminal enterprise ends.

Rabbits are pets,
for crying out loud.

Mice—
now those are villains.

They eat plastic.

They poop in your kitchen drawers.

They carry viruses.

They hollow out your couch,
move into the stuffing,
and leave tiny deposits

to commemorate the occasion.

Mice are the politicians
of the animal kingdom.

They ruin your day,
promise they're gone,
then show up again
for a return engagement.

Get a cat.

Let Katya write.

Kill the mice.

Have some peace.

Remembrance in a Garden

 Remembrance in a Garden

Groundhogs
eat the daylilies,
and usually leave the dahlias.
It is a small lesson,
but important
when you're trying to grow something beautiful.

So I plant dill.
I plant basil.
I plant mint
around the edges,
a fragrant promise.

Why dill?
Why not?

We're German.
We love pickles,
the sharp comfort of memory,
the taste of summer preserved.

The heat settles in,
a heavy quilt of July,
thick with humidity—

the kind of afternoon
when they say you could fry an egg
on a country road.

Maybe bacon, too.

Happy Birthday, America.

Two hundred fifty years,
still learning,
still forgetting,
still beginning again.

I remember another anniversary—
the Bicentennial.

I was almost twenty,
certain I understood the world.
I wore my red, white, and blue dress,
danced beneath fireworks,

believing tomorrow
would keep its promises.

It was just after Watergate.
The country was bruised,
but still breathing.

Gerald Ford stood quietly
where history had left him
and offered no victory,
only healing.

"Our long national nightmare is over."

Not a boast.
A hope.

He served,
then stepped aside,
accepting both office and defeat

with uncommon grace.

His farewell was not about himself.

It was a prayer:

May God guide this wonderful country,
its people,
and those who choose to serve them.

Amen.

Now, fifty years later,
the groundhog returns,
testing the garden once again.

Still, I plant.

I tuck hope beneath the soil,
ring the borders with herbs,
believe that what survives

can bloom.

Because remembrance
is not longing for a perfect past.

It is choosing,
season after season,
to tend what is worth saving,
to gather what is good,
and to leave behind
a garden of faith
for those who come after us.

 

Reclaiming My Territory

 Reclaiming My Territory

Breaking news:
The house sparrows have annexed the airspace above my front door.

The eaves, of course, were occupied years ago
an old colony with squatters' rights
and no interest in negotiating.

Now they're skirmishing with the fat, fuzzy bees
who insist the windows are disputed territory.

No one consulted the humans.

I have concerns.

Birds are tiny, feathered landlords.

They decorate with twigs,
redecorate with droppings,
and then look at you as though you're behind on the rent.

They're absurdly adaptable.

Tenacious.

Ridiculously fertile.

Four broods a year, if the mood strikes.

They don't just survive
they franchise.

Each morning they launch from the eaves
like a squadron of miniature fighter pilots,
all banking and looping in impossible formation

the Blue Angels,

if the Blue Angels wore brown pajamas
and screamed at six in the morning.

Summer has arrived.

Which means I'm preparing my own campaign.

I'll reclaim the front porch
one lawn chair at a time.

I'll bring a novel,
a sweating glass of lemonade,
light the citronella candle
like a ceremonial beacon of human sovereignty,

and keep a fly swatter nearby

less as a weapon,

more as a reminder

that every kingdom
needs a slightly exasperated queen.

Wish me luck.

 

Sunday is Dedicated to the Pigs

 Sunday is Dedicated to the Pigs

On Sunday, we journey to Piggy Stand
The funniest place in the whole darn land.
Where legends snort and jelly jiggles,
And every tale brings squeals and giggles.

Meet Zig the Pig—what a glorious sight!
Four hundred years old and still doing all right.
With a belly of jelly that wiggles with pride,
And a heart so enormous it barely fits inside.

He lives for lemon cake piled up high,
with lemon ice cream reaching the sky.
Fresh coffee, good friends, and stories galore
He'll happily chat four centuries more!

Soft, squishy, pudgy, and sweet,
Cuddling Twig is his favorite treat.

His guitars line up beside his bed,
Next to jellybean mountains of orange and red.
Ghosts and goblins float through each night,
Heading for snacks before the first light.

Halloween makes their little hearts sing,
Pirates and costumes? Oh, bring everything!
Music and cuddles complete the scene;                                                 they’re the happiest pigs you've ever seen.

Except when Zig reads the paper with a worried sigh.
"What's happened?" he mutters, rolling one eye.
Twig would prefer to hide in her bed
And pull the blankets over her head.

Instead, she's writing a marvelous tale,
Where Katya the cat will surely prevail.
With cousin Tiki, they zoom through time
Probably to avoid the current headlines.

Once, long ago, Zig taught history,
His students all thought he was a grade A mystery.
They still remember his stories today...
Though some claim the dinosaurs were audited, okay?

Zig also reveres fine watches with pride.
A Ball watch once rode on his stylish hide.
In front of Mohonk Mountain House, he struck quite the pose
A famous watch magazine said, "There he goes!"

Online, you'll find him most every day,
Posting photos in his own cool way.
Watches and music are high on the list...
But belly dancers also can't be missed!

He cheers their talent, grace, and flair,
And has made good friends from everywhere.
Because Zig believes life's simply better
With laughter, music, and good friends together.

So here's to the pigs who brighten our week,
To the cuddly, the quirky, the silly, the unique.
May your belly stay jiggly, your talents soon sprout,
And your jellybeans never...ever...run out!

The Saturday Cat Council

 The Saturday Cat Council

There is a village, tucked out of sight,
Where cool cats gather every Saturday night.
At dusk, they assemble with regal flair,
To gossip and plot with a judgmental stare.

Wise cats.
Fat cats.
Chatty cats.
Brat cats.
Purring cats.
Trilling cats.
Murmuring, mewing, and "Feed me!" cats.

Their fearless leader? Felis catus, of course—
Tiny in size yet commanding the force.
If one gives a slow blink, don't panic or hiss;
Congratulations—you've received a cat kiss.

But don't get too smug. Don't get too bold.
Their trust has a warranty of twelve seconds, I'm told.
One mighty MEOW! and you'll instantly see
They've promoted themselves to your royalty.

Descended from Felidae, Order Carnivora,
Masters of zoomies, chaos, and flora.
With night vision sharp and hearing supreme,
They detect snack wrappers for miles, it would seem.

Their noses are flawless, their instincts refined;
Your hidden tuna? Already they'll find.
They speak in a language no human can crack—
Part Shakespeare, part opera, part demanding a snack.

Some scholars insist, with remarkable passion,
Their dialect comes from Old High Valyrian.
Sadly, the translators all disappeared...
Probably because they ignored a cat and got weird.

And if, late at night, in a shadowy alley,
A chorus of growls begins to rally—
With snarls and spits and chattering teeth...

Do not run,

 or they'll chase.

Walk backward slowly with dignity intact,
Then toss them a treat as a diplomatic act.

For every cat knows, beyond all debate,
The universe spins because they are great.
You're not their owner—you never were that.
You were merely employed...by a high-born cat.

Nothing is Wasted

 Nothing Is Wasted

“We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have.”
—Henry James

The first sentence
is a worn trail marker,
leaning where two paths divide.
I follow it.

Miles later,
it leads me across a stream
inside a story
I didn't know I was walking.

A trail map fades.
Rain freckles its pages.
A route I crossed out
waits beneath the pencil's ghost,
still pointing.

Nothing is wasted.

The dust of the trail
settles into my boots
with yesterday's miles.

The ridge ahead
imagines tomorrow's weather.
Both leave a mark
no stream of consciousness can fully wash away.

Inside the data centers,
machines map every switchback
without ever feeling thin air,
without the weight
of a tired friend
leaning on your shoulder.

Meanwhile,
we climb one more rise
though daylight is thinning.

The summit is still ahead—
a small ambition
lifting its face
against a crag of silence.

Still,
the peak borrows our footsteps
to reveal its paths.

The trails we abandoned,
the wrong turn,
the loose stone,
the single weary step,
becomes the way forward.

We wander.
We blister.
We wait for one another,

exploring new twists and turns

in our boundless quest

to rewrite the world.

 

 

Thinking Beyond the Trope

 Thinking Beyond the Trope

He was a legend in his own mind.

She was the damsel in distress.

When they met, even the lesser gods exchanged weary glances.

Zeus, meanwhile, was having the time of his immortal life.

The getaway car wouldn't start.

In fact, it wouldn't start for almost forty years.

Why does that sort of thing happen?

Destiny?

Nerves?

It can be nerve-racking, after all, sitting in a getaway car, waiting for bank robbers to come bursting out of a building naked and triumphant after the storm.

That had been the plan.

They were supposed to change clothes at the bar down the street—the one where clothing was optional, and questions were discouraged.

Not that the car was going anywhere.

It sat stubbornly at the curb, contemplating eternity.

The bar was close enough to see.

The night was young.

And it was 11:00  on a Saturday. 

The Green Jungle

 The Green Jungle

The green jungle
outside my window
conceals mysteries—

what my neighbor is up to,
where the cats disappear,
what stirs beneath the leaves.

Hell, that jungle is thick,
so thick I think of cutting it down.

Mostly because it shelters snakes
and other creatures,
hiding in its tangled shadows.

Critters like Tiki,
and maybe even
a time machine.

Grandma smiles at me
from the windowsill,
as if she can read my thoughts.

But she is a distant memory now,
a voice from a vanished world.

She lived through World War II
in a shattered Germany,
with five children to feed.

Fleeing from one relative's house
to another in the middle of the night,
while bombs fell from the sky,
leaving only moments to escape.

One of those children
was my mother.

In 1945 she was nine years old.

Most of what they endured
remains hidden inside her pretty head,
buried beneath the years.

Perhaps that is one of God's graces—
That memory spared her
some of the horror.

But her body remembers.

It remembers hunger.
It remembers scarcity.
It remembers not knowing
who was friend or foe.

Before the victors divided the country,
before borders hardened
between East and West,
my mother escaped westward.

She was one of the lucky ones.

And as I stare into the jungle
outside my window,
I wonder what else survives unseen—

the snakes,
the cats,
the forgotten stories,

and the roots of old fears
still growing beneath the surface,
hidden like a forest
too dense to enter.

The White Rain

 The White Rain

 

The summer garden of us was lush,
until the frost bit deep.
We wake to a landscape
turned suddenly stark,
snapping the roots.
The clock fractures open,
and we let the debris scatter.
It is an ending, quiet as ash,
and the air settles still.

I refuse to drown the floor
in the white rain of what is spilt.
I am no showy Willow,
bending my spine in a theatrical weep,
Draping long green sleeves
to court the indifferent earth,
Flirting with the passing wind,
putting on a tragedy
for God knows who.

Yesterday’s downpour
is already a ghost on my skin,
long evaporated.
I am only a silhouette
leaning over the well of sweet, toxic memory,
Straining to see the reflection
of why I ever built the bridge at all,
As if a heart ever required
a logical blueprint to ruin itself.

You asked if the world harbored
a quiet malice against my name.
The shadows are too shallow
to hold a grudge that heavy, Marty—
There is not enough warmth
left in the heart to care.

 

I Rang the Bell, Didn't I?

 I Rang the Bell, Didn't I?

The joke was stupid,
but the punchline hit like lightning
through a church steeple.

Better than Viagra.
Better than anything
sold behind a pharmacy counter
or whispered across a parking lot at midnight.

For one glorious second,
the universe coughed up a win.

Now every day arrives wearing yesterday's clothes.

The clocks run backward.
The headlines molt and grow the same diseased feathers.
We're trapped in a carnival ride
operated by drunk historians.

Who's on first?
What's on third?
Who burned down the rulebook?
Who replaced it with a coloring book and a flamethrower?

The air tastes like pennies,
old grievances,
and freshly laundered lies.

Racism hangs over everything
like a dead possum in the attic—
bloated,
stinking,

impossible to ignore.

I'd just like to breathe
without inhaling someone else's delusion.

I want the tirade to end.
I want the fever to break.
I want normal to stumble back through the door
looking rough,
missing a shoe,
but alive.

Instead, we're all waiting for Season Three.

Not a polite season.
Not a prestige-drama season.

House of the Dragon season.

Dragon fire turning tyrants into barbecue.

Crowns melting into puddles.
Egos scattered across the countryside
like loose teeth after a bar fight.

Heads roasted.
Limbs crushed.
Entrails decorating the landscape
with all the subtlety of modern politics.

Let the whole miserable circus
reach its final act.

Then sweep up the ashes.

Strike up the band.

And for the love of God,

let me dance.

The "M" stands for Mouth-breathing

 The "M" stands for Mouth-breathing

The "F" stands for Fake.

MF.

A fitting title for a man who thinks a Peace Prize should be awarded for collecting dictators like baseball cards.

You think Putin is your friend?

Putin doesn't have friends. He has assets, obstacles, and future obituaries.

To him, you're that mosquito trapped inside the bedroom at 2 a.m.—loud, irritating, and one slap away from becoming a stain on the wall.

And then there's China.

Not because they admire you.

Because somewhere, a team of scientists is desperate to discover how a brain can be simultaneously overused and underdeveloped.

You are living proof that confidence can survive without evidence.

It's remarkable.

Engineers study structural failures.

Economists study market failures.

Historians now have you.

A one-man case study in how ego can achieve escape velocity while intelligence remains firmly grounded.

You wanted to make history.

Congratulations.

You did.

Just not in the chapter you were hoping for.

You're filed somewhere between "avoidable mistakes" and "what were they thinking?"

Future generations won't ask how you changed the world.

They'll ask how the world let you keep trying.

That's your legacy.

Not a Peace Prize.

A cautionary tale.