Poem: 'Holes' (on the Feast Day of St. Michael Moros)

I didn’t know my wife had a two-drink minimum.

I mean, I should have realized by now. I never remember having only one drink with her. And there we were, early in July at Blackjack Mulligan's bar in Garfield, NJ, where the waitresses wear “I love BJs” t-shirts and they serve authentic pirogies from Piast’s down the street.

I had wolfed down my portion and was ready to leave, when my wife said she would like another glass of wine. So I stared out the window at St. Peter’s Greek Catholic Cemetery, in disrepair, across the street. My friends in the NJ Poetry Circle at The Sanctuary community center in Butler provided a prompt for our writing that week: one word, "holes."

I kept thinking about the prompt. Later, I took my wife by the hand to wander in the cemetery. Still later, I wrote a poem:

Holes 

Across the street from BJ’s Bar, next to Walmart,

on the Feast Day of St. Michael Moros,

the 98th anniversary of his death and entrance into Heaven,

I pass through rusted iron gates on a sweltering day in Garfield, NJ.

A sign reads, “No Dogs Allowed.”

This is St. Peter’s Cemetery, perpetually open since 1895,

where I wander among 2,600 holes in the ground,

2,600 bodies in decay, and not a single soul to be found.

I gather and dispose the litter in my path, 

then brush matted grass from stone to reveal the names of the dead.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It has been 20 years since my last Confession,

the day my earthly father died.

My sin is this: I lost my faith that day.

I am here to reclaim it among the toppled crosses,

the stone angels worn with age,

the paper flowers blown into haphazard piles.

I linger along the back edges of the grounds,

bounded by the remains of the Saddle River,

with a stained and matted teddy bear on its banks,

before it empties into the Passaic.

For this and all my past sins, I am heartily sorry.

I seek forgiveness from Steven and Mary Seelagy,

a married couple in their late 80s,

who died a month apart in 1989.

I seek forgiveness from Carlos Samuel Cruz,

who died in 2012 at age 65,

“Always in Our Hearts,” but no obituary to be found.

I seek forgiveness from Fernando Gonzalez Sr.,

dead in 1999 soon after his 67th birthday.

I seek forgiveness from Jesse M. Rivera, “Saintly Scholar,”

who died in 2008 at age 18.

A guitar fretboard is impaled next to his grave;

he died in prison, a suicide.

I found Joan Zavinsky’s portrait face down on a trampled path

and returned it to where she was buried in 2001.

She lived to 85; her photo showing her forever young.

Her husband, Joseph, died in 1977. His portrait is fixed and stern.

Then there are more young: Charles Mancuso, age 19, who died in 1932,

Anna Marynak, 3 years old, who died in 1920,

neighboring 1931 graves of Marie Cupo and Anna Kulik, both 1 year old,

near the pristine stone of Michael Moros, 1 day old, July 2-July 3, 1927.

I finger another bead in the pocket of my jeans.

You don’t need to linger at each grave.

I will count the dead for you:

59 names, including generations of entire families…

11 Barnas, 9 Babyaks, 8 Balints,

6 Miskes, 5 Ditinicks,

including all 3 sons who died young,

4 Gburs and 4 Dutkeviches.

All buried here, where my father was born.

I summon these foresaken dead,

with a prayer for each soul

on the 59 raven-black beads of my father’s rosary.

I stay until I stand forgiven before the Lord.

Now I implore Michael Moros, infant saint:

“Restore my faith!

Raise my father to life for just one day,

and I will doubt God’s grace nevermore.”

The Summer of My (Reading) Discontent

About my adventures in reading, so far in 2025...

Circe by Madeline Miller
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This must be the summer of my (reading) discontent. I wish I could say I liked this book more. Maybe, at this point in my life, I'm thisclose from standing outside my house, clenching the books I've read this summer, waving each in the air, and shouting, "Get off my lawn!"

Yes, "Circe" is well-written... and Madeline Miller is deservedly popular...and I certainly admire and respect that... but, somehow, reading this, I found myself bored.

One interesting angle was the passage of time. Circe is ageless, so centuries pass in an instant, but then toward the end of the book the "action" drags, with our heroine coming to terms with the perils of immortality.

I found this a lot more entertaining when I watched the same theme play out in the mini-series "The Good Place" several years ago. Perhaps Michael Schur could add life to the movie version of this book.

---------

I already posted here about this next book, but I think Mr. Hersh's point bears repeating.

Original Sin: President Biden's Decline, Its Cover-Up, and His Disastrous Choice to Run Again by Jake Tapper
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This was a painful read.

Why? Because the words of Seymour Hersh kept surfacing in the back of my mind about the authors: "Jack Tapper of CNN and Alex Thompson of Axios... had every reason to know something -- if not more than what the 'Journal' published -- long before the election season. As a broadcaster with a national audience, Tapper did no reporting for the public on that issue when it mattered -- when there was still time for the Democratic leadership to pressure Biden to withdraw and hold and open convention to pick a new candidate."

I've worked with many journalists in the past. I admire journalists. When it mattered most last year, so many journalists simply didn't do their jobs. Writing a best-selling post mortem is not journalism; it's exploitation of a privileged position.

Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I felt stuck in the mud trying to get through this book. Thin, hard-to-follow plot, with words that seem to scream, "Admire the writing here!" I appreciated the references to "The Inferno," so this has at least inspired me to reread the original work by, as the author puts it, "the Italian." Also, it was helpful to discover something about myself: not a fan of "magical realism." 

Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Yikes. I started this, then had flashbacks to my struggles with "Let Us Descend" by another well-respected author. I just, can't, read another book that's so dense. Not only that, nothing about this storyline interests me. This was a library book club selection. I put the book down today. I'll skip the next book club meeting. I long to read something that delights and inspires me and, yes, challenges me -- but not another "I have to slog through this for the sake of having said I read this" challenge. Life is too short. I'm sure it's not you, Rachel Kushner; it's me.

 

The Inferno of Dante by Dante Alighieri
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Having read and enjoyed Robert Pinsky's "Jersey Breaks" (see below) and being a lifelong fan of John Cleese, what could go wrong with this audiobook version?

Well, three things:

1. The production is a bit muddy, especially in the first hour or so... it's as if Cleese is reading with marbles in his mouth.

2. It's an abridged version of "The Inferno," and that isn't entirely made clear up-front.

3. Some of the translation seems... weird... like encountering "incontinence" as a reason for winding up in Hell (yes, I know, there's another, far less recognizable meaning of the word, but...). And, here, for example, when we're suddenly (due to abridgment) on the verge of the 9th Circle, and we encounter a spirit with a wound "split from his mouth to his farting place" and who speaks with a comical Scottish accent. In fact, Cleese's voicings are problematic throughout. I kept thinking, "There's a penguin on the telly!" whenever he'd voice a spirit in a familiar Monty Python affectation.

Oh, well, if you really want a harrowing version of Hell these days, check out the new Netflix series "Adolescence." It's much more nuanced and arresting than this translated classic.

---------

OK, OK, so it's been a summer of misses. At least the year started out for me with a string of hits:

Climbing Above The Clouds: My Life As A Private Pilot by Mark A. Marchand
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book was written by a former work colleague of mine. I purchased a physical copy so that I might have my upstate New York friend autograph it for me one day. Mark writes a love letter here about one of his life's passions. I found it entertaining and informative. If you ever had someone in your life who loved aviation, read this book to get a better understanding and appreciation of pilots. You won't regret it! 

Jersey Breaks: Becoming an American Poet by Robert Pinsky
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Another friend recommended this book. It didn't disappoint! I listened to the Audible version so I could hear the poet read it, but then I bought a hard copy so I could go back and reflect on favorite passages in a more tangible way. Oh, and it inspired me to watch Season 13, Episode 20 of "The Simpsons," which is also wonderful. Thank you, friend. 

Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania by Erik Larson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was a wonderful read, full of well-researched but not overwhelming detail. I learned much about the history of World War I and now question everything I thought I knew about Winston Churchill and Woodrow Wilson. Lots of political parallels to modern-day America too. 

The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is another wonderful book. It's full of detail, and it's a harrowing character study of an early 16th-century duke in Italy and his remarkable young bride.

Well, it's mostly about the bride. I just thought the psychopathic husband was chillingly written. My only reservation about this book is how it jumbles timelines back and forth. I would have enjoyed it more as a ticking timebomb of a narrative rather than a series of scenes that go ping-pong in time.

View all my Goodreads reviews

Poem: 'Teaneck Blues' (for Ulysses Kay)

At the Puffin Cultural Forum's poetry series in Teaneck last month, the township's poet laureate, Scott Pleasants, had just arrived from reading an original poem at a street renaming.

Alicia Avenue between Evergreen Place and Pinewood Place has been temporarily (for 90 days, starting May 23) renamed "Ulysses Kay Way," honoring where Ulysses Kay lived for the last 21 years of his life, "in recognition of his significant contributions and accomplishments in the advancement of 20th century music and musicians."

As Mark Trautman, director of music and administrator at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Essex Fells, wrote on Facebook: "Ulysses Kay was a well know, prize-winning composer of the 20th century. His wife Barbara was a Freedom Rider and led the fight to integrate Englewood Schools in the 1960s. Their remains are buried in the columbarium at St. Paul's Church, 113 Engle St., Englewood."

Inspired by this, I wrote and read a poem at last Friday at June's S.P.E.A.K. (Sharing Poetic Expressions, Art & Knowledge) event hosted by MC and poet Toney Jackson. Toney leads an evening of intimacy, creativity, and positivity, open to aspiring poets and listeners. The next event is July 25.

Here's a recording of me reading this poem.

 Teaneck Blues

(Music: “Tender Thought” on Damien Sneed's album, “Classically Harlem”)

 

This is the summer of composer Ulysses Kay

where there’s a street named in his honor,

for 90 days.

Away from the heart of town,

the double-parked cars on Cedar Lane,

and Bischoff’s closed ice cream shop,

where bow-tied ghosts wear paper hats.

 

This is a mile and a half away,

amid haunted sounds:

rustling trees,

occasional birds,

gravel crunched by tires

in the lot facing his plain house

on Ulysses Kay Way.

 

This is Teaneck, NJ,

in the shadow of New York:

discordant, hesitant, forlorn,

a syncopated bass,

a trace of harmony,

a counter-melody of sadness,

defended by tanks on the lawn of the Armory.

 

This is his spectrum of sound:

a diversity of voices,

reflected in a single tender thought

rendered on a lone piano.

Come, hear the legacy of Ulysses Kay

in the summer of 2025,

where there’s a street named in his honor...

for 90 days.

Poem: 'Burlington County, 1984'

My friend (and wonderful poet), Jared (aka @the_babyfaced_poet) has started a video series on IG -- "The Best Words Show" -- featuring writers reading one of their works.

He kindly featured me this week, reciting a poem that was recently selected to be included in a new anthology, "New Jersey Bards Poetry Review 2025" -- available this month, with thanks to editor James P. Walker.

This particular poem was inspired by a workshop (to edit down something I've formerly written) from teacher/poet Michael Paul Thomas, and a prompt (about devils) from The NJ Poetry Circle, a supportive group that meets every Tuesday evening at The Sanctuary community space in Butler, NJ.

Below is Jared's video of me, after I had recited "Dover Beach" for his sound check and nervously laughed about how I used to recite it to my daughters as a lullaby when they were young -- followed by the text.

Thank you, Jared, James, Michael, and Sofia and all at the Poetry Circle (and thank you, Jordan, for letting me know about this place)...

Burlington County, 1984

Driving up the Jersey Turnpike,

skirting a million acres of acidic, sandy soil.

It’s almost dawn.

 

In the passenger’s seat

Hester closes her eyes, adjusts the halo

embroidered atop her California Angels cap,

and burrows under my letter jacket for warmth.

 

Bright Venus and the rising sun accent

the needles of the pines lining the highway,

casting shadows that flicker and tremble

like my desire.

 

I wish I may, I wish I might, now,

make the sun stand still below that distant horizon...

 

Af if my car were a Mason jar.

As if I could punch air holes in the top

and examine this curiosity named Hester

 

lazily stretching her butterfly limbs.

I would take my car in my hand

and hold the both of us up

to that faint and heavenly light.

 

This tiny version of myself I try to preserve

is me at my best, oblivious in young love,

blissfully teased by the Hand of Fate,

warm, palm up, resting on my thigh.

 

As if, in its lines, I could divine our future together.

As if I weren’t the Jersey Devil in disguise.

Short Story: 'JD at the Bar'

Inspired a recent LinkedIn post by the talented photographer and writer Mark Krajnak, and my obsession with the Jersey Devil.

Day of the Dead display

It's days like this I wish I'd never been born.

I had stumbled through the screen door of a bar named Murphy's in the middle of the afternoon. It was like the door at Holsten's in the series-ending episode of "The Sopranos." What did I expect? I'm in New Jersey, after all.

But here's the thing: I noticed right away that the bell above the frame didn't ring. The screen door slammed. Mary's dress didn't sway. (Oh yeah, to be even more of a Jersey cliché, I'm a Springsteen fan too). The door snapped shut with an angry thud right behind me.

Figures.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting alone at a counter, telling my tale of woe out loud to no one except the bartender.

"I kinda wanted a clap out," I began, chattering into the void. A cheap paper day calendar at the end of the counter reminded me it was Tuesday, the 23rd.

"Remember when our kids were little, and they would graduate kindergarten to first grade? On their last day of school, all the teachers and parents would line up on either side of the school doors and clap as the kids paraded out, and moved up and on the next thing..."

Earth Day, ironically. But you know what the Spanish say about Tuesdays: "En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques." Translation: "You don't get married or start a journey on a Tuesday." If you're a guy like me, you just wake up, make your bed, kiss your wife goodbye, and go to work.

"Well, today, after 20 years and 10 months, my time at J&J came to an end. I drove to the campus in Titusville, turned in my work computer and my J&J badge, which still had the photo taken on my first day in 2004 underneath my newer badge."

I snorted. "Ha! I let them have the new ID, but I kept that old one, by God."

The bartender, JD, the only other person at Murphy's, was now in the back room.

"Technically I was laid off, back in January. It's been a challenging 18 months. A lot of my team -- my friends and my colleagues around the world -- went through this, too. But I made out better than some. After being laid off, the company offered me a short-term assignment to get me past this 'milestone date' in April... so now I'm at least eligible for my pension."

I heard what sounded like claws on the hardwood floors. It was JD, scuttling back behind the bar, pretending he had heard every word.

I couldn't even make it home from work today. It's usually an hour-long drive, anyway, all the way from Franklin Township. But the damn Pine Barrens are on fire, so the Jersey Turnpike is closed. At the first exit I found, I saw the green neon "Murphy's" sign across the street. My wife and I used to go to a bar by that name in New York City when we were young and in love. This is where I knew I was destined to wait out the fire.

"You know about the Pine Barrens?" It was a stupid question.

"Sure do," said JD. "Lived here all my life. Twelve brothers and sisters. Can you believe it?"

"I believe anything is possible here," I said vacantly, as if I believed it. "Wherever here is."

"Where town," JD said.

"Where town?"

"Yup. Waretown. Close to the fire." He smiled, as if he were proud.

Waretown does indeed boarder the Pine Barrens, more than a million acres of sand-based soil in the center of Jersey. Rain here combines with acid from decaying pine needles and leaches minerals from the sand, forming bog iron that used to be mined in isolated communities. A few are now actual ghost towns.

Then there are the metaphorical ghost towns, like here, in Waretown, along Route 9. When I pulled over to call my wife and tell her, she said she knew I'd be late. I never surprise her anymore. She said the sky back home is bright orange.

JD and I briefly compared notes about the Pine Barrens. We both knew all about our doomed local ecology. Since the soil is acidic, forest litter simply accumulates. Things don't decompose. This prevents new layers of soil that might otherwise nourish new plants. Instead, the only vegetation that thrives here are the pine trees. Which are highly flammable.

And, today, April 23, 2025, everything erupted into flames.

And, Jesus, what a fire. I turned to watch the news reports on the bar's lone TV.

"They're calling it the Jones Road Fire," I called out to JD, who had turned his back to me.

"I know," he said. "Actually started small Sunday night."

"How do you know?"

"They always start small," JD smirked, and showed me his phone. It opened to Snapchat, a chain of text messages in an unidentifiable group chat.

"We caused the fire,'' texted someone with the initials E.H. on April 22, the same day the Cedar Bridge Fire Tower located a column of smoke coming from the area of Jones Road and Bryant Road in Ocean Township.

The newscaster added context, as if she were reading over my shoulder: "The fire quickly escalated into what has been described as one of the largest wildfires in Ocean County and New Jersey in the past 20 years."

"You better hope they don't figure out it was you assholes,'' someone had texted in response to E.H. 

E.H. replied that they weren't positive it was them, due to some rain the next day, "but there is a good possibility,'' adding an attachment of two photos of burning wood pallets on E.H.'s phone dated April 21. One was timestamped at 9:10 p.m. and the other at 10:15 p.m.

"Jesus, it was a bonfire," I said.

"Kids," JD shrugged.

"How do you know? How did you get this message? What group is this?"

"I don't know. People send me stuff all the time. I just stand back and wonder myself sometimes."

The newscaster added more details. "The arrested teenagers," she reported, "were telling investigators there were Mexicans in the woods that night, trying to cast blame for the fire on unknown agents who spoke in Spanish."

"Escucha las palabras de las brujas, los secretos escondidos en la noche, los antiguos dioses invocamos ahora la obra de la magia occulta," JD said.

"What?"

"Oh, that's something I hear the local high school girls chant in the woods behind the dumpster out back," he replied. "I have no idea what it means. Hell, I only know one other word in Spanish."

Just then I looked down at the floor and saw what I thought were two snakes intertwined.

I let out a frightened cry.

"Hey, hey, hey," JD said, patting me on the shoulder.

"I..." I pointed to the floor. Two electrical cords were lying unplugged next to a guitar amp with the "Monster" logo on top.

"Snakes...," I stammered, then regained my composure.

Damn, get ahold of yourself, I thought. What I said aloud was: "When did the music stop?"

"The folk singers? They left about an hour ago."

"Lilith & Andras, right?"

"Yeah, they need a new name."

Lilith played the violin and Andras played guitar and sang. Sure thing. I remembered them now. A few songs when the sun was setting: B-sides of Dylan tunes, a deep cut that Lilith said was by John Prine, although I had never heard it before. Andras sang a haunting version of "St. Augustine at Night" by Dawes, and he apologized for the length of the song when he finished.

That must have been hours ago. I'd lost track of time. It seemed I had been there so long I thought I had always been the only one at the bar. My brain was fogged.

But surely, I remembered Lilith. How could I forget? She had red hair. JD had offered to let the duo take the night off, but she said, "We need the practice. Besides, a gig's a gig."

"What time is it anyway?" I asked.

"Last call," JD said. "Here, try this. On the house."

He handed me a mixed drink.

"What's this?"

"Well, it's not mulled wine."

I looked at him quizzically.

"Hey, look mister," JD said with a smile and a wink, "We serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast."

"I get it. 'It's a Wonderful Life,'" I replied

"Actually, it's a Murphy's special: applejack, triple sec, cranberry juice."

I took a mouthful. It had plenty of kick, but it was bittersweet.

"I don't think I'm in any condition to drink anymore. I should call my wife." I looked around. "Hey, where's my phone?"

"I didn't see you with a phone."

"I had a phone. Jesus, what do you really put in these drinks anyway? I need to call my wife."

I looked up at JD. Everything in the otherwise empty barroom was diffused in orange, a certain orange, the remnant of the dying light of the setting sun. The color of changing firelight. JD himself was partially obscured by a thin layer of smoke, which created an elongated shadow of his face when he turned toward me, as if he had the absurd guise of a horse or kangaroo. Not only that, but the stop-motion shadows of his swinging arms made him appear to have wings.

JD looked straight into my eyes and said, "You don't have a wife."

Chandelier sculpture by Ricky Boscarino

"What? That's crazy!" I lunged at JD and almost toppled over my barstool.

"Hey, hey! Easy there, mister."

"I have a wife!" I protested. "I'll call her. She'll come get me. Where's my phone?"

"You don't have a phone."

"I..." I patted my pockets. I couldn't locate my phone. I couldn't even locate my old J&J ID badge. "What the hell?"

JD shrugged. "It's like you've never been born."

"What?!?" I cried, and this time I did tumble off my stool to the floor.

JD came to my rescue. He knelt down and helped me, picking me up from behind and underneath my shoulders, as if I were a rag doll.

"Hey, that's OK," he said, after sitting me back down and making sure I didn't hurt myself. "I know you're good for the tab. Relax. Here, use my phone."

I looked stupidly at JD's phone and tried to make a joke.

"JD," I began, then made a lame attempt at a Jimmy Stewart impression, "now straighten me out here. Look, I got some bad liquor or something. Listen to me. Now, you're JD, and you're the bartender here at Murphy's, and we're in Waretown, and the Pine Barrens are burning."

"Right, right, right, and right."

"And I have a wife."

"That, I can't say."

"Well, if I had my own phone, I could prove it!"

I held out the phone he had offered, trying to process his odd response about my wife... trying to process the entire evening. Everything was tinged in orange.

"Here," JD said, in a patronizing note. "I'll call you an Uber."

He tried to take his phone back, but I wouldn't let him.

"TouchTunes," I said, pointing to his screen.

"The app? Sure. It controls the juke box."

"More music," I sighed. "That's what I need right now."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

At least the app knew where I was. Precisely. But I couldn't focus on its search bar.

"You got Bruce?" I asked.

"It's Jersey, right?" JD chuckled, finally taking back his phone. "What do you want to hear?"

"'Jungleland.'"

"'Jungleland,' it is..."

It's a song twice as long as "St. Augustine at Night." Soon the opening notes echoed in the empty barroom. It soothed me. Then the piano kicked in, and everything seemed to come into focus again.

Bruce began singing, "The Rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night..." Magic Rat rode his sleek machine, and I lost myself in the music: The guitar solo. The bridge. Clarence on the sax, changing the mood.

I wasn't drunk. I was listening to a song I'd heard a million times before.

Until the end. When I heard Bruce sing, "The devils down here don't do nothing at all. They just stand back and let it all be."

"That's not right!" I cried out. "Wait! That's not right!"

Soon Bruce was punctuating my words with his otherworldly howl.

"What happened to the poets?" I said, as the last sounds of the song faded to silence.

"What happened to the poets? The poets down here don't write nothing at all. They just stand back and let it all be."

"Hey, wait, don't get started again," JD said, just standing there, looking at me as if I were crazy.

"I'm not crazy! Didn't you hear the words?"

"Yeah," said JD, "The poets down here don't write nothing at all..."

"No. No. That's not right! I heard him singing about devils."

"Yeah, that's right, mister. Devils. I'm calling you a car. Where do you live, anyway?"

"Franklin Boulevard in Franklin," I answered confidently. "Near New Brunswick."

"Oh, I know Franklin Boulevard," JD said. "DeRussey's Lane."

"What?"

"Franklin Boulevard used to be called DeRussey's Lane. You know, when it was a dirt road that led to an abandoned farm. You know, the site of the Hall-Mills murders."

"The what?"

"Yup, the Hall-Mills murders. It's one of the most famous crimes in your hometown. You really don't know your Jersey history, do you?"

That was the last of my conversation with JD. I just couldn't.

Not only that, but it took a while for someone to come get me. JD didn't let me near his phone again. It was the end of a really bad day.

A few miles from us, the night was ablaze. According to the news reports still echoing behind the bar, the Jones Road Fire had rapidly escalated into one of the state's most significant wildfires in two decades. Fueled by dry conditions and strong winds, the fire consumed more than 15,000 acres across Ocean County, including Barnegat, Lacey, and Waretown townships.

Thick plumes of smoke darkened the skies, casting an eerie haze over the region and depositing ash across several communities. The fire's rapid expansion threatened more than 1,300 structures, necessitating the evacuation of around 5,000 residents. It caused power outages affecting more than 25,000 in the sparsely populated area. Emergency response teams were employing ground crews, bulldozers, and aerial water drops to combat the inferno. Despite their efforts, the fire remained only 10 percent contained while I sat with JD at the bar.

There were no fatalities. Save my sanity.

Soon I would be I heading home. Leaving Waretown... or Hell... for where?

Somewhere haunted in Franklin Township. Without a job. Maybe without a wife.

Sometime after midnight, I heard gravel crunch under the tires of parking car. As I finally turned my back to leave Murphy's, I dared not turn back to face JD.

"Addios," he called out after me.

I merely waved a dismissive goodbye with my left hand and headed toward the screen door with the bell that doesn't ring.

But I heard another noise loud and clear.

At first, I didn't understand the slow, sharp sounds... like crackling flames... from behind me.

But then, I sensed an ever-quickening rhythm, and I knew it was the perfect end to this God-forsaken day.

JD was giving me a clap out.

The sky over suburban New Jersey