3.17.2024

Hydrogen & Helium, Ingratiated

Sunbeams 

chopped

by each tree 

along the highway.

Every ray 

hits eyes

like Morse code 

for "torture".


Closing them

doesn't help;

orange warmth

through eyelids.


Love was finding

a mole with your tongue

in the dark

and no one flinching.


2.25.2024

Floundering Over Rice

Undesired

creature comforts:

her favorite meal;

not mine--


delivered to

my doorstep

while an old friend

bought me time.


The laces of these boots

have strands of gold 

entwined.


A weekly sweep

will miss some hair

like this gaze

dodges eyes.


2.18.2024

Fair Play

Beware of the man

robbed of purpose.


He leaves his pistols

where home was

these days


since he's poised

like a spring


indecipherable


hungry headlights

stabbing into

the night.

2.14.2024

How Violently American

Our Maker's

lath and plaster

a ribcage and skin

barely conceal

the stubborn organ

that feigns 

the most precious emotion 

that we 

as a failed experiment

were given.


This commercialized day

to signify its gains

is, for many, a spectator sport

indecipherable to those

who loathe

the smell of their own skin


but we've forgotten

to care for one another

and so we deserve it.


It's wasted surveillance

on palliative care.

You can eat thrice daily

and still starve to death.

Don't find yourself

counting on rain

that ain't coming.


Honey, you're golden

but we can't speak 

in code

for much longer.


2.10.2024

Apples to Apples

My father's killed

two deer in his lifetime:


one intentionally

with his bow

on state park land


and one accidentally

with his sport utility vehicle

on the Palisades Interstate Parkway.


I was present for neither


but at ten years old

I followed him into woods

along an apple orchard

in the shadow 

of the Shawangunk Ridge

where he had permission

from a farmer to hunt.


It was so cold

beside that tree

where he waited

for the buck 

that wouldn't come


and I waited 

for the sun to rise

while it was darkest

before dawn.


It's the same now

three decades later:


Love is being 

someone's plan.


2.07.2024

Celestial Association

Listen, I don't make
the rules or whatever
but my favorite book
as a toddler was
"Stevie's Tricycle".
No, I couldn't read it
but my mother did
since I was in
the womb or whatever
and so it was my favorite
after I foolishly left
that warm, safe place.

Stevie rode around
his neighborhood
back when a kid could
do that unattended.
Its golden spine 
legitimized the action.
What I remember most
were these peaches
on the trees.
They were this warm orange
color with red rubbed in
for ripe emphasis.

We could talk about this
and we could talk about that
and your therapist would
reference Freud
while mine echoed
from the bottom of this bottle
but at the end of the day
that you're willing to give
here and there
when we're running low
all that matters is that

your cheeks
when I gaze down at you
form the same warm mixtures 
of hues as those peaches
in "Stevie's Tricycle"
and if that ain't enough
then bottom's up.

2.04.2024

Sparring Partner Parlor Tricks

My favorite place

to see you's 

on mountaintops

since I know

that's where 

you belong


though I'd suffer

a nosebleed

via horse height


as you would

if I could

thread a tether

through those 

two rings

I gaze at

more than 

you'd like

to admit.


1.28.2024

Tag, You're It

You tally the hands

that have touched you

this week:


the deli lady

taking eight quarters

in her leathery palm

for commute coffee;

a coworker

tapping your arm

mid-story, for emphasis;

a misled combat nurse

or two, God bless 'em;

an old friend who tried

to cheat on his wife

after your handshake;

that off-duty masseuse

in fishnets and leather.


None of it adds up

to what you deserve

and

none of it adds up

to what you once did

and

none of it adds up

to what they say

a person needs

to persist

with paying the bills.


"You'll be fine," she said

on her way through the door

but she was only telling herself.


Forgiveness is a nice idea.


1.24.2024

Left on Read

Your body's quite the temple

As far as I'm concerned.

All it guarantees, though

Is to hurt and learn.


This Club of Sleepless Nights

Soon will have inductions.

Our members mask the pain

With cheap laughs and production.


Sharing fluids and our time;

A destination we all know

Assessing one another

Like piss-holes in the snow.


The hardest thing to do:

Return the energy you're sent.

Prepare to convalesce

In this beginning of the end.


1.10.2024

Curiosity

I found your lost

earring in a room

I never showed you


and while that might

deter most


I've played the dead

cat, as well.

1.08.2024

Jupiter's Boulder

You can try

to talk us down

but I'll walk us down

from the gallows.


You can say

that it's been a fight

but the best fish do

until they're caught.


You can laugh

from a distance

but you can't keep it

any more than I can.


You can tell

your dad I said this.

I'll shake his hand.

You'll see.


1.07.2024

Smash Cake

A bearded farce

the ringleader

puts his best foot forward

for the motherlode.


You don't even know

her favorite tree.

Can you feel

me nipping at your heels?


How do you change

your signature?


No dog to save

the bone for

with the elephants

in the room.


It's a low-speed chase

so lawyer up.


That hand on my back

at two in the morning's

the only thanks

I'll ever need.


12.26.2023

Nor Be Forgotten


For lack of a better response

upon opening his final Christmas gift

he mentally calculates 

how much of a mess it'd make

if he were to spontaneously explode 

of irony

in that crowded living room:


Considering that the adult human male

is 60% water

and that his six feet weigh 240 lbs

he estimates the blast radius

and volume of red goo

dousing the walls, ceiling, furniture, floor

and mostly innocent family members.


The projected matter

lucky enough to land in the fireplace

would cook off slowly

its sizzling sound serving

as an eerie counterpart

to the silence of astonished relatives

coated in what'd remain

of a man they somewhat knew

who'd just unwrapped a framed photo

of himself, alone on a fishing boat

after nearly dying nightly

from a year of solitude.


Centering his stance on his sea legs

he thanks his well-meaning bestower

extends the frame's stand

to face his grinning countenance

for half a glass of wine

then walks the gift of a lifetime

to the trunk of his father's car

lest it be forgotten

in the revelry to follow


though knowing himself

he's not one to forget.



Currently reading:

"Raymond Carver:  Collected Stories"


12.17.2023

The Holiest Act of the Sabbath

The second best way

to spend a wet

but unseasonably warm

Sunday afternoon

once the pile of dishes

has been washed

in water just shy of scalding

and your plans have been canceled

thus saving you from sin

is to listen to the compilation

of sentimental songs that an old flame

assembled for you

ten, fifteen, twenty 

years ago 

back when there was more

of you worth loving

if only to remind yourself

that you were once deserving

of that sacred gift

from someone you should've cuffed.


The best way, however

to spend the aforementioned 

type of afternoon

would be lazily in bed

with that ghost of a composer--

your children off being spoiled

by glowing grandparents

for a few hours as precious

as each note and line

heard now

like belated reminders

of what could exist

in a parallel universe;

not bitter, but grateful

to have have lived it.


12.11.2023

The Meat Sweats, Decoded

It starts the same:

We see a swan killed

by an 18-wheeler

or the people

designated to protect us

prove their humanity

too soon.


We meet the smell

of blood; our own

and that of others.


Our turn comes

to return the favor

that is pain.


Then we're taught of blades

and where to stab them.

Next we learn when.

(Years later; decades

sometimes.)


None will get out

alive

and we'll all receive

spam emails

from the hacked accounts

of dead folks 

like ghost ships

in cyberspace 

eventually


but the blessed 

will come to laugh

when the priest

can't sing to save his life

at the funeral mass

of the departed


and embrace that the daggers

we're born to thrust

don't have to be

as buried

in flesh

as us.

12.02.2023

A Silk for Your Filth

You can quote scripture.

We're playing with fire.

You can hope she

never called

another man "Sailor".


A cello

that we can't

choose to ignore

plays loudly.


There's enough

of our bloods

in the wood

of these floors

to claim it as kin.


We wanted that

too.

11.24.2023

Closure's Overrated

A siren whom you've despised

took it upon herself

to tell me of your

engagement today

going so far as to send photos

now burned into my corneas

for the plot, the reaction

the proof that mankind

is cruel by nature

despite my hardest protest.


There in the background

across the river

that's been my only home

lay the mountain 

we tried to move

and its foothills 

in which we lived for years--

the perfect backdrop

for what you left 

twice, without warning.


I'm still there

behind a tree limb

outshined by your innocent grin

that's delighted by the thought

of children I would have given.


I can tell you this

without flinching

without wincing

without the aid of my gin:


I'm sorry I failed us

and I pray that he deserves you

every day.


11.22.2023

Knock 'em Dead in the Photo Finish

It's been a year.
Too old for kids now
or to start over.
Apprentices'll have to do.

A Rubik's Cube;
the 9 of swords;
at 39
suddenly afraid of rainstorms
with headlights reflected.

Found snapshots depicting
the red sands of Bar Harbor
conduct recreational autopsies.
It's a town that doesn't forget.
None of us do, really.

It's been a year.

10.27.2023

Insinuated Mutineers

For three long days

that patch of hardened mud

was cordoned off

by the Department

of Public Works:


One to fell the tree

whose roots had lifted

the sidewalk;

one to demo the concrete

that posed a tripping hazard;

one to plant a sapling

and pour a fresh slab.


In the midst

of local turmoil

for the lesser half

of a week

we all became

amateur urban planners

unable to manage

our own little lives

easily forgetting 

what the City

and the calendar

had in store:


A full moon

that had us all

off our paths.


9.24.2023

Propagated

I pluck the forked twig

from her potted rubber plant's

soil and thrust it

into my aloe's earth

hoping it'll persuade

its growth back to center


where we all strive

to be


unsure of whether

or not

what she used

to prop the former

will help heal the latter


but it's important

to come off as being whole


when you're trying 

to help fix

what's broken.


9.19.2023

Champagne Toast

What it sometimes

means to be

a friend

to the friendless:


weaponized sex

for strategic advantage.


The cigarette

ruined the photo.

The rest of it ruined

the rest of me.


I need you to leave

because I don't want you

to hear it.


9.10.2023

Stalemate Understood

My head rests on his shoulder

in the Sunday stillness

of his bedroom.

I stroke his broad chest

back and forth

like the tide of the river

he's always lived along

waded into

and may or may not

have returned from

depending on who's asked.


If my hand stops moving

he'll assume I don't care

so my fingertips skate

across skin and hair.

I make the mistake

of stopping

and he shifts

half-an-inch.


"Sorry," I say.

"For what?" he asks

without opening his eyes.

"I'm not him,"

but in saying so

he's more "him"

than he would have been

in silence.


He swims in my stomach

until we both nod off

temporarily distracted.


What wounds to bear.


9.09.2023

Outriggers

Between measurements

and cuts

at one of 

our many vices

he blurts 

what he shouldn't

with me 

as his only witness.


I remind him

of his transgression

as only 

a brother can.


"I'm an asshole,

but I'm your asshole,"

he reminds me

in the same way.


Together, as always

we throw rocks

from the shore

at an island.

9.05.2023

Shortchanged

Few want the truth

partner

(as my newly departed 

uncle used to call me

a la spaghetti Western)


but you ain't 

the only one

who bunches up your blanket

at night


and tosses an arm over it

pretending that it's someone

who's worth a walk through coals


though a captain should know

survivor's guilt be damned

that loose lips

sink ships

with strange ejaculations.


9.03.2023

Brother's Keeper

The garbage can stank

like meat juice on styrofoam

so I took it for a walk

to the dumpster behind my building.


After chucking the trash

I swung by my truck 

in the adjacent parking lot.


Half in the bag

I asked the guy

who's living in his car

if he's living in his car.

"Nah, man."

"Need anything?"

"Nah, man. 

I appreciate you."


I finished my smoke

and walked upstairs

to my lonesome luxuries.


We'd both reached a point

where it didn't make sense

to hide it.


9.01.2023

New Jersey Necrophiliac

Afterwards

she rubs his bare chest

like it's a brass lamp

with a genie inside

though no wishes will be granted

to either party.

The smell of her perfume's reminiscent 

of the purple pew upholstery

in a Southern Baptist church


sending his mind 

to a highway rest stop in Maine

four years ago.

He'd scratched his face 

there in the bustling lobby

and his right hand

which had ridden a perfect thigh

in the passenger seat for hours

had the lingering scent

of elderly black women

in a state he'd never visited

and had never wanted to.


He'd finished draining himself

in front of foreign porcelain

alongside a dozen strangers

whom, Lord willing, he'd never see again

among poorly tiled walls and floors

or even the Pearly Gates

and was staring blankly

at undesirable food franchise logos

barely appetizing, in neon or not


when a familiar face appeared

within a crowd of other women

emerging from their corner

of the summer vacation ring.


There it was

her countenance

like the full moon

that keeps him awake these days

ready to get back in the car together

and share a bag of Skittles

he'd bought from a vending machine

more friendly than a teenager

in a greasy polo shirt

while waiting on

what he thought

was the rest of his existence

Bar Harbor merely one destination

of many for decades--

"'til death do you part."


"Can we go again?" 

"Maybe," he mumbles

his mind nine hours northeast.


She continues to paw

the urn that is his ribcage

not feeling the ashes within

and attempts years too late

to light another match.


8.20.2023

Atoned

As with the most

intriguing nicknames

I never knew its explanation

but from as early as I can remember

my uncle called me Turkey Breath.


This moniker tapered off 

with the shedding of boyhood's 

naive assumptions

replaced, most times, with how

he'd address me hencforth:

Partner.


Unsure of whether 

it was a reference to Western films

upon which he'd cut his teeth

or a spillover term from his career

as a high-volume car-slinger

who understood that

taking care of business

was easier when 

the wagons were circled


or if there were other partners

in the world beyond our conversations

about which I didn't know


I see now 

albeit too late

that there was one thing

I called him in return:

Not often enough.


8.15.2023

Olfactory

It takes this many

to wonder how many

curse the scent

of Polo Sport

in my wake.


8.11.2023

DEFCON 1

The two main

European despots

defeated in the Second

World War

and the third supreme leader

of that continent

a tentative ally

later turned Cold War antagonist

are often villified

by the victors, the writers of history--

easier to attack in words

these days

since they look the same

as us


but let's not forget

the emperor

of the sun flag

who lived 'til '89

distant and malignant

declaring the sacrifice

of sex slaves

given to young men

who dove airplanes

into ships

as "Divine Wind"--

kamikaze


until desperation

overcame compassion

with projected corpses

outweighing 

the morality of physics equations

so men and women

on the justified side

built a bomb

to both end

and begin 

the madness

for the brief remaining history

of mankind.


A bloodless coup 

lacks passion.

Here we are

my brothers in Christ.


8.06.2023

Boric Acid

Wiping flecks of blood

from the medicine cabinet mirror

after flossing

makes us war buddies now.

It pays the same.

"Long live the king."


Weak chin

wide eyes

and a strong lisp;

they weren't mine

to share.


Let's trade problems

not hearts.

8.01.2023

Rhetorical Black Towel

On the warpath 
with nothing sacred left:
the high ground
the Heimlich
the wear and tear
of highway miles.

Outgunned:
to love
without having
to be in it.

It's vexing 
something fierce
rest assured

like inducing climax
despite your prescribed
medications

yet these charlatans say
there's no magic left.

Gutted
we wear
the innards of our ruins
festooned like garland
of the damned

and I can't carry
the Big Sad
any more.

You're far more tame
and trustworthy
than those who walk
undiagnosed, my dear.

I saw lightning bugs
for the first time in years
and wept.


7.10.2023

Flatware Landing

While embraced in bed 

what they never realize 

until it's the worst thing


too late


and they're poised to spring 

like rats from a sinking ship 


is that I'm mostly rocking 

myself to sleep 


or maybe they do 


and that's why they stay

until the waves

have risen 


so high.

7.07.2023

That Busker's Accomplice

Then an angel of

the Hebrew god

all safely clad in silver


impaled itself 

slowly

on what was never

meant to be said--


a dagger emblazoned

in gold cursive

as follows:


The Almighty coughs

after orgasm.

7.05.2023

A Good Run

Get on that boat.

Stare into the sun.

Keep your mouth closed.

Blame it on the spray.


A friend 

who knows nothing

of your plan

is harder

to interrogate.


O Captain! 

My Captain!

We had this trip

by the bag

while it lasted.


7.03.2023

Mainland Tribulations

Hydroplaning

down the Palisades

Interstate Parkway

while watchlisted in

the wild gin wasteland


but grateful

for


the growls

from widespread eyes


dry

South African

wine


that little fox

nestled between 

unlikely crevices

crawling out 

before sunrise

to tend to her kits


and friends 

who love enough

to refrain 

from party invitations

laced with cocaine.


The best defense

is a good offense.


The best penance

is this sentence.


It must feel so lonely

being on top.


6.18.2023

Consigliere

Excited to decipher your surprise

after facing tribulations

back on the mainland

we practice for the apocalypse

with end cut maple.

5.25.2023

Closeted

You don't know, and

you don't know--and

you don't know

and

you don't know:


That was the last

of the towels

that I didn't fold.


5.11.2023

A Herd Unthinned

If only it were only

your cursive words in chalk

on fifteen magnetized spice shakers

half-full of leaves and peels

that we dehydrated


but there on that

once-shared refrigerator

are six canisters

still empty, waiting 

for what can't come


like a fool

who saves boxes

in overflowing closets

but doesn't know 

how to best use them.

5.08.2023

& likewise

Not long enough to twirl at night

or matter to most passesrby

strange tufts of hair

stepped over

by coronated impostors

on an even stranger sidwalk

fade dully in the diorama.


We are built unlike goats

with nothing behind the eyes.

4.10.2023

Analyses

Things I'm not:


Christlike.

Able to fix my dead 

grandmother's antique and bequeathed

dresser drawer handle.


Things I am:


Decent at calculating risk.

Proficient at finding cigarette lighters

on the pavement

and using them until they run out of fuel.


Things I don't strive to be:


Dumb enough

to open that damn drawer

ever again.

Christlike.


4.03.2023

Rasputin's Assassins

Let's suppose

since we're being frank 

that there's no way 

to properly process

what's entailed

in quantifying

this tower-bound recovery

as a neighbor put it

for herself


but a gentleman's work

is never done

and neither is mine.


"Of course

I'm here.

First one."

3.29.2023

Fleeting Rosacea

That sucker-punch

killed my butterflies.

Like a gutshot buck

I wander, confused

only knowing of the blood.


We've met many times before.

You just had a different face.


What a time 

to be told

you're alive.

3.25.2023

Arm Candy

This Pisces 
ain't picking
a fight
or mentioning
your unmentionables

but I'll be goddamned
if I enter again
the War
of Northern Aggression.

The biggest mistake
that we can make
is expecting
ourselves
in return.

3.23.2023

The Plans You Make

There are

worse fates

than being forgotten


like being remembered

by the wrong people.


And there are

worse plans

than breaking them


with folks

who are already broken.


And there are

worse words

than lies


like truths stated 

for illegitimate reasons.


And there are

better places

to wake up


but I'd rather do it

next to you

or not at all.


3.22.2023

Carpool Commuters

The gas station coffee's too hot 

to chug at 5:58 AM en route to work

so we fill our first few highway miles

with recent recollections

of the minuscule victories

and minor defeats

that shape our daily lives


laughing ourselves to tears

at these predicaments--


acknowledging how we're turning

slowly into our fathers

just enough to be grateful

while achieving 

the one unspoken wish

that these better men 

maintained for their sons:


Not losing ourselves along the way

like the embers of our cigarettes

flittering off behind us

between white and yellow lines.


3.21.2023

All the Wrong Places

The unrealistic

sexual expectations

prevalent in the modern male

are direct byproducts

of an Internet

with 20% of its phone searches

being related to

its 4% of pornographic websites.


You can tell

by the way 

someone's looking for love

whether or not

they've ever beheld it.


Submission's a choice

but you can't have

what isn't

for you.



Currently reading:

"On Love" by Charles Bukowski.

3.16.2023

The Ohio Compromise

I've always lost

people

but never 

cigarette lighters.

The latter I find

on the pavement.

The former

find reasons

to hit it.


If you need me

I'll be swearing off

love 

in the closet.

If you need me

I'll be highly surprised.

3.14.2023

Every Lethal Inch

An undeniable mess was made

but the umbrella's dry now

so I bring it inside

from the hallway

and return it

to the closet


horse-trading the days between

hijacked evenings

spent tracing a bird on a back

and wondering if 

the relevance of fingertips'

coordinates are noticed.


There's a word for it

that we can't say

due to different reasons.


We'll settle for existing

olive green with envy.


3.10.2023

What to Assume When She Doesn't Respond

Maybe she's getting 

her back blown out

by a guy with more length

and less girth.


Maybe it's the reaction

that her skin has to mine

when heightened immunity

meets stubborn cologne.


Maybe it's how my eyes close

while hers look up from my shoulder

like lashes can lock doors

for the night.


Maybe it's the way

that I inhale so deeply

when close together

as though I'll never

experience those pheromones

again.


Maybe she's worried

that it's merely the idea of her

but she's altered the thoughts

of a mind hard to sway.


Maybe we're all warned

not to pet burning dogs

and the best of us do

regardless


since the Doomsday Glacier's fake

ain't nothing that a bottle won't drown

and how it all ends

is what matters

right?


3.09.2023

A Unpopular Assessment of Aztecs

84,000 people

were sacrificed

over the course of four days

in the 1480s--

hearts ripped out

with obsidian blades

no neighbors or kin safe

from priests atop pyramids

appeasing a sun god, angry.


Either 

they didn't know

a thing about science

or they knew exactly

the nature of man:


There's no substitute

for flesh.



Currently rereading:

"Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame" by Charles Bukowski.


3.02.2023

Come Correct

Somewhere 

out there

you're bleeding

and I wish

that I could help


but here we are

pretending

like we're able

to buy time.


2.26.2023

Motorcade Hemorrhage

But oh the air

of the heir apparent

in coming home

to a glass of water

left by a guest:


You know 

that you can't

drink from it

as hard as you'd like

to bob for apples

in her wake.


Had a foreman once

turned friend

turned father

turned nemesis

turned nightmare

who said


"Don't complicate 

a glass of water."


As much as I mistrust him now

he's right.


2.21.2023

Capisce

Jupiter and Venus

are pegged

above the moon 

tonight


naked 

to the eye

like you 

in a few more decades


all four sneering

at the marvels 

of modern science


resuscitated simply

by the basic understanding

that no rain checks exist

in this universal cul-de-sac


and sometimes 

there's blood.


2.19.2023

Withered Spoon

You're probably pissed

that I vouched extensively 

over the phone

as to how valid a candidate he was

for 20 emphatic minutes

when you were interviewing 

potential tenants

for your shared rental apartment

since there was a ton 

of work to be done

as promised in unwritten portions

of his lease that you might as well shred

at this point in your grievance.


I'm more pissed

that my adopted brother's in rehab again

and didn't reach out to me

before he surrendered his phone

so I've got no way of knowing

what it was this time

how close he came

or how he's doing

aside from what's chirped

down the line.


Godspeed with your eviction.

Our rent's always punctual

but we are not the same.


2.12.2023

Dishpan Hands

They ask what happened

after nearly five years

together, but not

as discovered

too late.


Shrugged shoulders

and blown lips

don't explain it

as well as this:


Today, stomping in my boxers

like on the best of Sundays

at what used to feel like home

I moved six houseplants

to different zones

of shade and sunlight

based on their color and turgor

instead of watching them

die.


That's my new response.

Final answer.

2.05.2023

Disassembled

I'd propped the Remington against

a closet door frame

in the spare room

of what was my apartment again

since I could then

without question.

One night

bored by the film plot

with more holes in it

than my whiskey's cork

I repeatedly cycled the scattergun's action

in my lap on the recliner

ripping through the steel's shucking sound:

a song from a smoothbore

born in Ilion, New York

at the Turn of the Century.


Suddenly it jammed

leaving me with an ironbound headache

almost as jagged as newfound 

single-income living in our inflated age.

After three hours of attempted repair

sore and sooty fingers 

reached for the lamp switch

on my nightstand

wincing when a bloodied knuckle

rubbed brass unexpectedly.

Freshly defeated

by stubbornly stuck steel

for two nights 

I slept exclusively on my side of the bed

though it didn't 't matter any longer

like sliding into fresh sheets

as she'd always treated as a holiday

that these days were going to waste.


Soft-spoken, middle-aged

Midwestern men with too much spare time

lulled me to sleep through Internet anonymity

safely tucked away from their wives

with tutorial videos made in their basements

about this 12-gauge albatross of yore.

I dreamt of traveling back in time

to kick the firearm's designer

in a place he'd always remember

perhaps hard enough to dissuade him

from over-engineering the model in question.

If only our pasts could be changed.


On the third day I succumbed

and rebuilt the debacle

with intentions of confessions

to ill-advised disassembly

made during gunsmith surrender.

To my surprise the slide ran smoothly

and all moving parts behaved in the choir.

I pumped it triumphantly

for the better part of a minute

until a half-inch shard of steel 

shot from the ejection port.

The tune came to an end.

The tool no longer functioned.

I identified the broken component

and sourced a replacement online

grateful that this failure

had occurred in a safely controlled environment

as opposed to on a camping trip

in upstate bear country

that we'd never embark upon again.


Wood and steel.

Tried and true.

At least we weren't married

with kids and a mortgage.

That's what I told myself

while trying to decipher

the screws and springs

strewn about the floor

sharing the cause

of residual curse words 

stuck in my throat

beside her name

and those of New England towns

I'd never be able to revisit

in this lovely, limited lifetime.



Currently reading:  

"Rattle:  Fall 2020".


1.28.2023

A Pervert's Prayer: Hollering From the Masturbatorium

One of these days

and days

and days

and days

the Universe will send 

a sympathetic seventh chance

who wouldn't leave anyone

on read


with eyes soft and brown

evasive like a feral cat's;

nipples perfectly asymmetrical.


Until then

my brothers in Christ

the couch ain't the only thing

that's pulling out--

driven to thirst

by ancestral expectations

and mediocre excuses

for only being taken

in small doses


like a Band-Aid

we all wear

but still insist

to hide.


1.24.2023

Sayonara, Suckers

Not to jinx it

by being brazen

with Lady Luck

but we haven't had 

a major airline catastrophe

in what feels like longer

than I remember

growing up;


not one of those rich pricks

in a privately owned Cessna

that was probably grandiose suicide

or insurance fraud to save their heirs

sans golden parachute

but a media feeding frenzy

with images of floating fuselage

and mention of children

who could've grown

to cure cancer

had they been given

that imaginary chance--

news anchors spewing sea coordinates

and Boeing models with lots of 7s

that degenerate gamblers

like the ones I've grown to love

would later play 

in the lottery.


I'm not saying

we're overdue

but they must've fixed 

the plane problems

because we haven't fixed 

the people.


Being a Pisces

ain't all

it's cracked up to be:

a glider

adrift

with no landing strip

in sight.



Currently reading:

"Insomnia" by Stephen King.

1.22.2023

Entry Level Survival Tools

I shaved my head

after bald spots developed

stress induced again

and my father asked 

if I wear a wool hat to work 

when he saw me

but I don't 

since I like the brisk feeling

of air on bare skin

though I wore a black

watchman's cap 

the next time

that I visited him

for his sake 

not mine.

1.17.2023

Bonafide Aficionado

Walking by portraits

of men

in my home

and mannequins 

on the job

I can attest

to the fact

that we all wear

smiles differently.


Some of them hurt

like a trap expertly set

italicized

parts per million


but I see them 

and cherish them all:


Dead languages

other than Latin.



Currently reading:

"The Bear Speaks" by Eric Tomlins.

1.01.2023

Gut Health

A charity organization

for cancer, but not for bald kids

line mine

finally sends 

her complimentary address labels 

though she's no longer

here to receive 

those invalid stickers

from invalids.


I save them

just in case

again.


"It's not my business,"

an old friend concedes.

"Hell, I never met her."


Maybe I didn't

either.


12.31.2022

Succulents Sustained

Unwilling to verify whether or not

the experiment's been performed

since science has been bastardized

and the Internet's been hijacked


I'd wager what's left

of a poorly squandered soul


that if most indoor houseplants 

were only watered when it rains

the majority would survive.


The laws of mortality

transcend manmade labels

of flora and fauna:


We get what we need

on a schedule outside

our control.


12.11.2022

Snubbing Dostoevsky

I bet Bukowski was better in bed

and Hemingway was more fun at the bar.

I'd kill to converse like Vonnegut

and speak of the dead like McCarthy

all while laughing in the face 

of Satan a la King.


Here's to having heroes

in a jaded age of frauds.

11.26.2022

To Whom It May [Not] Concern:

I, [state your name], 

was nothing

short of mortified

by the wasteful void

at the bottom

right corner

of p. 62

in November's 

tidal issue.

I clipped the poems

apart with scissors

that cut me once

and rearranged 

them in five ways

that preserved space

for an even longer

spilling of one's guts

than the one-ninth

of a page

which your design team

deemed unfit 

for local souls

to purge.

I'm keeping this plea

short and unsweet

for the sake of brevity

in the hopes

that it takes up less space

in your Trash email folder

since it won't adorn

your publication

but please

for the sake of those

who need this catharsis

and validation

in order to survive

keep this in mind

when laying out

what's more than words.


Sincerely,

Everyone Who's Bled on Your Pages


11.11.2022

There's a Paywall to Your Happiness

This is the first time

I'm saying this

but I know

that I'm dying.


My hair's falling out

in clumps

fistfuls in the shower;

the blame I used to shift.


My time here's fleeting

like a pre-coffee glance

at gas station boner pills

glistening in dusty plastic

on the foreign clerk's counter

between his calls to home.


Several times a day 

I reach to place items

on a table that's no longer there;

a precursor to a tasty oblivion

obnoxious in the present.


The box fan in the window's

not blowing the smoke out

fast enough

against a whipping wind

that's left from this hurricane.


Even the smell

of my father's basement:

smoke and must 

and wood from the '30s

can't comfort me any more;

a lease signed

away from me

that won't be broken.


How could you?


A sailor to some

a cowboy to few

recalcitrant misfit to most;


here is the lie

I told:


We're all dying

some slower

and more blessed 

than others.


We count our days left

on calendars

fingers and toes.



Currently reading:

"Bagombo Snuff Box" by Kurt Vonnegut.


3.12.2022

Missing Person Report

Teach me to poach an egg.

I'll teach you to poach a heart.

We'll teach each other many things

we've failed to learn so far.


I haven't gotten cleaner

from scrubbing with your soap

but it's one less sad reminder

as I struggle here to cope.


I had to buy new sheets

to replace the ones you took.

I wish you'd taken more things.

I'd rather sleep than look.


You wrote me one that rhymes.

I need the ones that don't.

It's another reason why 

you're right. We shouldn't; won't.


2.19.2022

Sambuca & Second Chances

It's all we have

to be all we are

for whoever's left

who will listen.

2.09.2022

The Good Samaritan's Concubine

"I see that you didn't

shave today

to fit into

your character."


When I was a kid

my old man was asked

to play the Penitent Thief

hanging on one 

of three makeshift crosses

in the Crucifixion Christmas play

put on by our church

in downtown Newburgh.


The role of Christ

had been reserved 

predictably

for the pastor

but I sometimes ask 

its writer, Luke

what if it hadn't?


Messiahs run

in our blood.


"Lady, this beard

took a week."



Currently reading:

"Dreams of the Astronaut" by Boom Boom Shapiro.

10.16.2021

Ethan

You really haven’t lived 

until you’ve watched a rainstorm 

from an open garage door 

on a farm in western Vermont 

with a mason jar of Argentinian wine 

in your dry hand, post-peak foliage.


Currently reading:


“Don Quixote” by Miguel de Cervantes.



3.23.2021

$pent Correctly

Going to market

or gallows

the same:

This facelessness endures/

Dehumanization.

(They beg for more.)


Don't ask him

to break stride

while appeasing a Pisces

with a lust for the sea.


Be part of the process

but not the Machine.

2.06.2021

The Price of Doing Business

In the bowels 

of a storage unit

I puked into during a move

eleven years back

I find a pristine tackle box

that he made for me 

decades ago:


brand new lures

a stainless steel filet knife (made in China)

pliers without rust

sinkers not attached to my ankles.


If only he'd helped 

prepare me

for more

than the fish I'd never chase.



Currently reading:

"The Dark Half" by Stephen King.

1.14.2021

Rejection

The artist tried to warn me

on the gripe with purple ink.


I look now at my shoulder

where my skin has faded:  pink.



Currently reading:

"Rattle:  Summer 2020."

12.27.2020

Decoy Deployed

The shot rings out

as desired.


If they can't spare one

they can't have any.


"Armorer!" his intended customer

three stories below his abode

yells from the ground after firing into the air.


Crouched in a corner of the room

he turns his head toward a mirror

that's aimed at a second one

which delivers the image

of a man standing

in the designated parking spot.

Long ago he outlined it in orange paint

for the use of his patrons.


"Two boxes of of .243 here.

Forty rounds.

I'm seeking .223

or 9," his voice carries

plaintively through the window.


"You know that ran dry months ago,"

he replies as politely as an ammo dealer can.

"How about some .22?"

He envisions this man in tattered clothing

with a rabbit skewed on a poorly whittled spit

above his campfire later on that evening

a tiny hole in the flat skull 

courtesy of his offer.


"It's a deal in your favor."


"It'll feed you for the night."


The vagabond presents no argument

approaches the building

waits for the brass man to lower his basket

by a rope that he'd never expected to use this way

and deposits his half of the trade.


The recipient counts the cartridges

checking primers and projectiles

then scoops a handful of .22 rimfire rounds

from one of a dozen buckets

wraps them in a rag that was once a shirt

and lowers them to the hungry man

awaiting the basket's return.


This is how it's been for longer

than he's marked on his improvised calendar.

Some of them bring canned food

bottled water, or chocolate that's gone pale

but the payment for these is less.

An armed survivor can use his wares

to obtain any other item if he's got a gut

strong enough to do what many

thought they never could

prior to the collapse.

It pays to get comfortable 

with violence.


No one's tried to overtake him.

The only obvious method

would destroy the stockpile they seek.

Fire and gunpowder don't play well together;

or too well, perhaps, depending on perspective.

He used to hate the added elevation

of his brick-and-mortar residence 

on laundry, shopping, and garbage days

but in these un-Presidented times 

it's served him well.


Even patriots and prostitutes

know better

than to play cards

with a man named after a city.


Fiddling through his Winchester shells

he hears another holler

but sees no figure standing

in the specified space.

"Hoarder," his guest implores.

"Where are you?"


He contemplates the question

unsure of true response.


"I've got a box of books,"

declares his unknwon company.

"Which of them do you want?"


Collections of fiction and facts

were burned in the streets

during the collapse.

Only poetry remained.

They deemed it inconsequential.


"How many? What titles?"

He can't get the words out fast enough

to convey his excitement.


"Take a look," his salesman says

from the lot below his window.

He rises from his corner

and tilts his head over the sill

to read the covers

he's been previously denied.


There's a flash in the woodline

that he'll never see.

He was partly right:

It wasn't only fire.


The shot rings out

as desired.


If they can't spare one

they can't have any.


8.09.2020

Cyborg

Computers

too 

are hindered

by memory

consumption.

8.08.2020

A Lesson in Kinetics

While bushwhacking this morning

my mentor took a tumble

after gaining much momentum

down grade too steep for his knees.

I watched him land his dive

tossing his cane to the side

as he plowed into the dirt.


Starting but soon stopping 

a woodland jog

I helped him 

in the kindest way

by showing the teacher

what the pupil has learned:


I let him rise

on his own

and brush the leaves

from his beard.


7.15.2020

Trigger Discipline

Our father called
to ask the inevitable.
I knew it’d come;
didn’t hasten its arrival.

“I want you to teach him
to shoot.”

My upbringing
two decades sooner
had a healthy dose of firearms.
It yielded a lasting respect
and a reverent appreciation

but I’d never force it on the kid.

The old man told me
the boy’s been asking to shoot
a .22 or two with me.
Maybe it's time.

He's won two spelling bees
through memorization.
We can worth with that.

The four basic rules [:
1. Treat all guns
as if they're always loaded.
2. Never aim the muzzle
at anything you are not
willing to destroy.
3. Keep your finger off the trigger
until your sights are on target.
4. Be sure of your target
and what is beyond.]
will be ingrained
in his growing brain
before he touches
the steel.

We'll do it right
or not at all.

That's how brothers are.
You'll see.


Currently reading:
"South of Heaven" by Jim Thompson.

7.07.2020

Cetacean Stranding

A night of
venting
through towers
leads to
feared cliche:

"It'll come
together as
it should,"
she states
from a state
away.

He wonders
if that's
how
the world
still works
or if
it
ever did.

He looks
into a mirror
lies
and says
he still wants
kids.

6.24.2020

Unmasked

A friendly deli Hindu
drops the plastic fork
for my owed shot
of potato salad
on his contaminated counter
missing my paper bag--
his intended
and sanitized target.

He reaches back instantly
to replace it
with another whale-killer
like his liquor license
is on the line.

"Don't worry about it, brother,"
I exalt him through
uncaffeinated teeth.
"We've all got
to die sometime."

He laughs in a tone
that doubts me
and spills my change
into a hand.


Currently reading:
"No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy.

5.02.2020

The Garden Gun

Henry Repeating Arms
an American standard
unrelated to plumbing fixtures
released it this year:
A lever-action carbine
chambered for .22 shells
with a smoothbore barrel
so the pellets hold tight.

It's a concept with a niche:
Pest control firepower
with less collateral damage
to keep handy on a farm
or out back in the grove
for ridding the land of vermin.

Loaded with a lethal dose
of No. 12 BBs
called snakeshot or ratshot
dependent upon what's most hated
this handy piece of hardware
will dispatch local varmints
without destroying structures.

They've stained the stock
a shade of black
to distinguish it from rifles
but the theory has a flaw:

Anything you aim to kill
will only send a friend.


Currently reading:
"The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon" by Stephen King.

4.15.2020

All I Know of Infectious Disease I've Learned From Watching Doc Holliday Die

With more pinned on him
than Judas
aside from tuberculosis
the dentist-turned-gambler
and part-time pistolero

saved or avenged
a few of his friends
through a different sort
of social distancing
with foemen.

When asked if conscience
weighed on his head
he admitted to coughing it up
with his lungs.

No stranger to new normals
he rode again
never noosed by backwoods bedfellows

nixed instead by the consumption
contracted from his mother
in a Georgian childhood
that's mostly disremembered.

Denied a lost shot of whiskey
"This is funny,"
he told a nurse
about dying in bare feet
without holes from bullets.

Heroes don't declare themselves
like politicos in press briefings.
History, Hollywood
and subtle parentheticals
establish whom to hail

but who doesn't like
some afternoon violence?
Who needs a break
from sanitized life?


Currently reading:
"Fighting Handguns" by Jeff Cooper.

4.09.2020

Defanged Olympians

My old man'll turn
69 tomorrow
but I can't go see him
to celebrate.
I'm sick
o'discussing the Cause.

The world hides in a chrysalis
thin and gold-rimmed
like Bible paper
hoping to emerge;
Daniel from the lions' den.

If only we were in church
32 years ago.
He'd hand me his pack
of Luden's Throat Drops
(though none of us're ill)
to pass the time

like he got me through sermons
I couldn't understand
in pews I couldn't see over

happy to have
Wild Cherry
or Honey Lemon
unwrapped from wax paper
after an off-key song

but here we are
where no one's singing.

Today I'd settle
for Honey Licorice
or even the devil's candy
Butter Rum Life Savers
from a gray-haired man
who repeats himself--
a hero undeclared

though the sermon
remains the same:

Life's too short
to waste.
Memento mori.
That conversation
like any pair of hands
gets bloody.


Currently reading:
"Desperation" by Stephen King.

3.24.2020

The Alarmist

The best way
to kill
something
that's ever meant
anything
to you:

Repeat it
until it
means nothing.


Currently reading:
"Fence:  Spring-Summer 2018".

3.14.2020

Cargo Woes

There's a tractor-trailer
canted at sixty degrees
over a ditch
at the otherwise quiet
highway rest stop
I'm passing.
An oversize tow truck
is rigged to the front bumper.
Its companion is smaller
with a crane hooked
to the side of the vehicle in distress.

Despite the newsworthy spectacle
only one man is watching
this maneuver at 6:33 AM
clearly not a fellow driver.

Two dozen rigs are parked in the lot
in varying states of rest
but none of their operators
are gawking at the scene.
They've seen it before
or it's happened to them
or they grant their brother
the respect of communal privacy
or they're mingling with lot lizards
or they're too damn tired
from being on the road
to care.

I reach my destination
three minutes before
the projected time
of my GPS
and finish my last swig
of coffee.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Spring 2020".

3.05.2020

Contenders

I'm wrapped up today
like a woebegone pugilist
with a splint on my wrist
from a doc-in-the-box
to help heal a sprain
or a strain or neither
that isn't carpal tunnel.

There's a ripped envelope
to my right with its contents
spewed across the kitchen table:
A xeroxed sheet of science notes
"for the kids"
from chapters 13 and 14
with outdated info on water purification
printed in purple ink;
A wheatback penny from 1939;
A Baptist tract with scripture
intended to save my soul;
And an invoice with stamps
labeled diagrams
and capitalized ballpoint pen
that details the free labor
of cleaning and oiling
the enclosed rifle spring
from before the Civil War.
At the bottom of the page
he's squeezed a website address
and scrawled his humble boast
of providing mail order since 1965.

I sniff the dark and greasy palm
of my hardened clinic bandage
and remember it's still me.

In eight minutes I'll cover
my forearm with a garbage bag
and take an overdue shower
but if I could do anything right now
sans words or repercussions
I'd hug a stranger from Pennsylvania
who's somehow made it to eighty.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  July/August 2019".

2.07.2020

Advice From a Time Capsule

There are
six words to say
in sincere declaration
during parking lot transactions
of used furniture
and crumpled money
between strangers
encountered on the Internet:

Thanks for not killing me
faster.


Currently reading:
"Under the Volcano" by Malcom Lowry.

1.18.2020

Hands Down the Champion

As inquisitive as I was
while a child
of God
with many incipient
queries still forming
I never paused
to ponder
whether water
in all streams
falls at the same rate
or if factors may play
like gravity, temperature
slope, density
or the street value
of a kidney
made aware
that two of me
would kill each other
simian
disremembered
panhandlers arguing
for intersection real estate.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Winter 2019".

1.07.2020

A Wildlife Vendetta

I made the mistake of telling a nine-year-old about a lost dog I'd been seeing in the shoulder of the interstate every morning before dawn for two weeks. Calls to canine catchers and the highway patrol led nowhere. The men were tired of hearing it on coffee break. I tossed a flashlight on my passenger seat and promised myself to stop the next time that I saw it. I did, and it ran; first across the darkened lanes, then into a ditch. My hazard lights blinked desperately while I hid my face from high-beams and returned to my truck.

Days went by without a sighting. It had been moving east. Maybe it was finally farther than my exit. A reprieve from the guilt of failure to save a stray would be godsent. None of this was to be, however. Shortly before six I saw remnants of an explosion of fur and flesh next to the white line where I'd last seen it alive. I lit a cigarette and drifted onto the rumble strip, drifted into work.

For days it decomposed until only dry bones, then dust, remained. Now it's bare asphalt. The boy's inquired twice since then if I've seen that dog again. I've answered in the negative. What I saw was not a dog. He's got plenty of time to fall in love with those who don't want to be rescued. There are years before he's got to weep for roadkill. I won't hasten its arrival.

I buttered a drawer that was squeaking and it worked. I sent a handwritten letter with no carbon copy or electronic trail to a cousin I've never met. I swallowed a few warm mouthfuls in the shower. A rabbit suffers in silence and when it dies they're all surprised. The Russian alphabet lacks the letter N. Every time it gets easier, but I wish he'd stop asking.



Currently reading:
"The Last Mastodon" by Christina Olson.

12.28.2019

Stay Still

Our refrigerator's lodged
in a two-foot-wide corridor
only visible
if you're looking
for food
or headed to
the adjacent restroom.

There's a paper towel
held to the door
with a magnet
or two.
Even with all
the compromise
of moving in together
consolidating
eliminating
she's never questioned
why it's there.

Carved with black Sharpie
in angular
capital letters
it says
"LOVE
YOU MIKE
DAD"--
the
most beautiful
haiku
ever written
after eight years
of silence.

Best made
with what
he had
I yanked it
from my father's
kitchen table
a few years
back
in case
of



Currently reading:
"No Heroes" by Chris Offutt.

12.21.2019

On Islands and Mainland

Prior to adolescence
my mother brought me to Wildwood.
Neither of us returned from Jersey
with beach burns fading to tans.
I only owned a snorkel
when visiting my old man
but I begged for a diving knife
at a gift shop on the boardwalk
so it rode home in the suitcase
that divorced kids know too well.

The stainless steel dagger
serrated on one side
an inch above the ricasso
was stamped with shame:
"Taiwan".
Four holes spanned the grip
to lighten
or for fingers
if you wanted them all broken
in a fight you'd entered to lose.

Its sheath was black and plastic
with a lever on a spring
that held the knife in place
when it wasn't stabbing sharks.
Through four slots in the sides
wove holed and buckled rubber
to strap it to a leg
though it only fit my arm;
a measuring mistake
made by young Asian makers.

It collected dust
in a surplus ammunition crate.
A few years later
when I felt the need for change
I tethered it to the bedpost
nearest the door and window
within my teenage reach.
The shiny blade protected me
from what I didn't know to fear.

It remained a silent sentry
until I moved upstate for college.
Where my mother put it
I've never called to ask.
What do you do with a diving knife
that you don't and never needed?

I hope a kid left a yard sale
newly inspired to swim.



Currently reading:
"Outer Dark" by Cormac McCarthy.

12.11.2019

To Mitigate a Wishbone

The neighbor's new dog's
been barking all night
at the nothingness it senses--

its only competition
the gurgle through copper
of inefficient heating
in this dark and silent place.

I wonder which one of us
better handles
being alone.


Currently reading:
"Child of God" by Cormac McCarthy.

10.29.2019

Chokepoint

That ugly fucker's head exploded
before the day's opening rays
hit the night-cooled sand.
We're trained since basic
to aim for center of mass:
torso, chest, vitals
but Terry tends to give the first one
a whirl like he's back home
twenty years ago in the hills of Tennessee
squirrel hunting, trying not
to damage much meat.
When you're that good
you've got to entertain yourself
regardless of what the manuals
or screaming drill sergeants say
half a globe away.

"Contact," I said lowly
as I confirmed the hit
through the scope above my 7.62
a half-second after he cycled the bolt
and chambered the next round
in the .300 he'd been issued this deployment.
All hell broke loose in the desert
as AKs fired blindly into the dim dawn.
"Contact, contact," I reiterated in the same tone
as Terry pushed the second and third ones
back two meters to the ground.

The party began to scatter.
We'd seen movement at their knees
prior to engaging
and assumed they were goats
but livestock don't have arms to flail
when picked up as human shields
by cowardly targets.

We'd been warned in our briefing about this group's
ruthless tactics and ordered not
to compromise the mission at all costs.
That's Uncle Sam's way of saying
"Leave your conscience at home, boys."
The kids--humans, not goats--were
too far off for us to hear their screaming.
Terry and I were grateful for that.
When his next shot kicked up dust
we were equally thankful for that.
I'd never seen Terry miss until then.
I have a few times since.

His wife had recently gone through stillbirth
as he was on a bird back to the sandbox.
I knew it was on his mind.
He dropped his mag and inserted one
full of heavier-grain ammo
as if the mild crosswind had caused
the last lighter bullet to drift.

Before he could acquire his next target
I painted the middle of the hot spot
with the laser designator
affixed to the front of my rifle
and called in an airstrike
on the radio clipped to my vest.
It was easier to push one button
than to pull a trigger a dozen times
with each shot hoping to hit a narrow margin
or miss.
We're a team, right or wrong
no matter which god's eyes are judging.

The missiles cruised down as we covered
ourselves as best we could for impact
feeling the ground shake beneath our prone bodies.
A charred crater kissed by the scornful sun
was the only evidence that our objective had been met.
The trek back to base was silent
aside from the crunching of sand
older than our continent.

He never thanked me outright
but the next time it was my turn
to empty the latrine he volunteered instead.
That's as close as it gets with guys like Terry.

He and his wife could try for another child
whenever he'd go stateside again.

We were told a few days later
by westernized adolescents
selling candy bars in the nearest town
that the sunset in their province
is beautiful as well.

9.04.2019

Appalachian

I nearly tripped over his walking stick
at the convenience store
where I buy smokes and brownies.
He said he was
a union carpenter from Ohio;
that his trail name was Solo
since he travels alone to set his own pace;
that he wanted a bottle
of cheap vodka for camp
up on the ridge
later that night
while he'd recap the scenes
and strangers he'd seen.

Two miles north
all of his current possessions
sat unguarded within his pack
in the bed of my truck
as I waited in the liquor store parking lot.
He wasn't worried that I'd leave.
Part of me was.

Back across the bridge
we said our farewells.

Maybe the lift
wasn't free.
Perhaps we traded--
that hitchhiker and I--
a ride for a few more
justified moments alive.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Fall 2019".

8.31.2019

Regimen

Orange juice.
Coffee.

Water.
Lemonade.
Water.

Gin.
Wine.
Gin.

7.05.2019

Crocodile Tears

Too often
the cautionary tale
its victim a caricature
swathed in erotic violence
and fever dreams
falling on a sword
winds up rusting in the rubble
a prototype untrusted
though timeworn.

We'll look at each other
and say with a shrug
"I hope it wasn't heroin."

It's as though
they have less to lose.
It's clear they live not
for God.

We lost a lot of good men
on that beach
pleased at being beaten
at their own revolver game.

6.04.2019

Lobsters on the Titanic

I was nine or ten years old
and hadn't yet learned
how little family matters.
We all leave here alone.

My father
born under the wrong sign
and recently back a bachelor
tried his best.
I knew that then
as well as I do now.
I don't know why
but name brand orange juice
was served with every meal--
steak; pasta; orange juice;
no idea.

I slept in a bed too large for me then
in a room furnished like a child's hotel.
The sheets were hunter green--
distinguished, but not the best
for concealing my nocturnal salivation
that plagues me to this day.
I had one of those fans from the 80s
with a vertical line of square buttons
in darkening shades of gray
somehow meant to delineate speed.
Every night I'd lean it
on the head of my mattress
drape the top sheet over the back
and form a cocoon of wind to sleep in
until my father came to wake me.

I hated his voice at that drowsy hour
but now I miss it
and someday I'll mourn.

The grass in his back yard
is high these days
but the neighbors can't see.
I'm glad that he's too busy
enjoying life with my brother
to mow.


Currently reading:
"Merchants of Death" by H.C. Engelbrecht and F.C. Hanighen.

6.02.2019

Powder Keg Progressive

They're suspended now
less lethal than ever
cobbled specials mostly
and some heirlooms here and there.

Only one's been fired
of the thirty relics present.
Metal wasn't mastered
by the time of their creation.
Modern ammunition
exceeds its rated pressure.
Tinkers tried their hands
at customizing tools
forming traps instead
for the brave of later decades.

Hanging there from hooks
as Americana slices
steel and wood
and rented dust
the fairest form
of gun control.

5.15.2019

A Damned Indemnitor

Maybe this is what he meant
that dead man so admired.
When he warned what it'd cost
perhaps this was the Everything--
widthwise and bilateral
bemoaning the task
of keeping your powder dry
while trying to drown a fish.

The harbor pilot fornicates
on the grenade factory floor
but no one bats an eye
feeding fevers and starving colds--
the human equivalent
to the aftertaste of mayonnaise.

4.30.2019

Finished With Feeling the Moon

With recently found free time
thanks to the roll of construction
I built her two shelves
out of galvanized pipe
and fittings, some spare
and some bought
in the kitchen windowframe
since in our consolidation
for the aim of cohabitation
I hadn't anticipated
the inheriting
of a jungle.

The dangly vines
went on top
and some saplings on the bottom
much to her delight
when she called me
with surprise.
I was equally shocked
when the locks that hung
from the latter
were shorn by the time I'd arrived.
Gone were the natural curtains
I'd installed with the greenest intentions
to block the studio view
of the middle-aged painter
across the three-floor alley.

The clippings sat in a box
near the door
prepped to be ejected
from the home that we're still building.
She said that she wanted
to toss them in the woodline
behind our apartment--
returning them to earth
as opposed to an Albanian dumpster.

Tonight after dinner
I walked the kitchen trash
and went to the bank
while finishing a smoke.
She rounded the corner
as I returned, refuse in hand
true to word as always.
I bent back around the brick
to see if she stepped
to the forest.

3.25.2019

Red Collar Crime

Our closer was always
one I'd written in college
with a line about
hawks perched beside highways
regardless of one's car company.
Whenever my guitar broke
it was during that song.

Today on my ride home
a "help truck"
sponsored by an insurance firm
idled in front of a wounded red-tailed
that was lying in the shoulder
of the battle-worn pavement.

It was the noblest act of humanity
I'd seen in those fifteen years.


Currently reading:
"The Crossing" by Cormac McCarthy.

2.12.2019

Piss Jug

I've never told anyone
but you were only
another whore.
The day I drove to you
through a blizzard
a year later
you'd rolled in bed
waiting for the liquor
and a stranger to leave
as you made promises
you couldn't keep to me
about someday wanting children
and a weight worth three months.

A quarter year later
I came again
this time to check
on your latest drunken fumbling
after a whiskey lunch with your mentor
who was nothing more
than an old pervert
kind enough to drop you off
and tuck you in
with his own false mindwalks
through places that wouldn't be.
You were mad
that I said it smelled like a bar
under your blanket
and I left again
memorizing your address
to send you that published piece later.

Now when it snows
I know to seek shelter
in the nearest place
that knows me
not somewhere in the offing.
My dreams have subtitles
and my antiperspirant's giving
me cancer quicker than tobacco.
I'm doing as the Greeks
when in Rome
only as sick as my secrets--
a total noncombatant
where perspective trumps perception.

A minor's still my favorite chord.
What more do you want from family?

1.13.2019

Porthole Postulation

For seven unquestioned years
I've watched the rise
from my eastward perch on the third floor
of this pile of bricks stacked in the 1890s.
Thousands of fools have climbed
the mountain a stone's throw away
as though doing so will bring them closer
to what they do not know.
Some even time their trite accomplishment.
I've laughed at them in my coffee mug
ignoring a slight hangover
cured by greasy eggs
and whatever form of pork I desire.

The largest of God's creations
that I've seen
ascends above those ambitious buffoons
so we can engage
in the staring contest of a lifetime.
Even through three massive windows
it can't scorch me or make me look away.

The aloes I've cultivated
on my kitchen windowsill
cheer for my victory
as that burning sphere
of hydrogen and helium
sulks far out of view.
I go about my day in peace
knowing that I've won
and earned the simple pleasures
like finishing my coffee on the couch
with a book by a dead man who got it.

Even when Manhattan Bohemians
bought the adjacent building
two years back
and added a third story
to try to block my view
I've prevailed.
The cuck of a husband paints
in his prison of an attic studio.
I wonder if my awkward form's inspired
this middle-aged stranger.
Through his one westward window
that wasn't on the blueprints
I'm sure he's seen me waltzing
in boxers and my cups
unflinching at what was meant to be
and the way it sometimes is.
The aloes sing louder on those days.

It's time to consider
leaving this sacred place
and its illuminated dust
floating through morning rays.
There are few things
that I'll miss more in this world
than my apartment
on a sunny Sunday morning.
One of them is you.
The aloes will understand.

1.07.2019

Our Vendetta With Trees

"Want to know
why I love
eating broccoli?"
the boy asks.

His eyes go wide
as I verbalize
his answer.

I was a giant, too
once.


Currently reading:
"All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy.

12.12.2018

Relapse

He removes the packaged chocolate
carefully from his lady's musical tin
as per her suggestion
and replaces the pieces
with his mother's Christmas cookies
trying his hardest not to disturb the gears.
Only two notes explode from the brass
so he sets it down without
having to hide anything else tonight.

Last week she spins the dial
on her countertop decoration
and that struck song brings back
thoughts he'd tried to extinguish.
He pours another glass
and hopes she doesn't notice.

His mother shows him a snow globe
with two Siamese cats
beside a broken ball
and winds the knob
to play a song that makes them both
think too much, although he's only seven:
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".
They cry because they won't again
and put that orb away.

It's time to pack
twenty-eight years ago
and a box falls in the shuffle
mixed into divorce.
No one yet has seen
that the Santa sphere has shattered
but when the two of them
have left their home
they'll feel it worse than rent.

12.05.2018

An Edible Peach

Claire makes a westbound left
and pops her haphazard selection
into the six-disc changer
of her ten-year-old sedan--
an obsolete invention then;
now a manacled medium.
She's in the mood for hip-hop
despite the purple Sharpie
that was used to label the mix.

Skipping through tracks
she finds one that's suitable
for her mood in the afternoon traffic.
Ten seconds into the song
she hears DJ One-Off declare
his dropping album.
Two minutes later
a chorus is plagued by the same
overdubbed recording.

She wonders if the man
who burned this CD
bothered to listen
to the downloaded music
before committing it to gift.
It's unclear in her head
whether the driver in front of her
is drunk or playing a stereo
too loud to notice
that the blinker's still on
after the turn
and whether or not
the man who made her this mix
knew and didn't care
about the edited version
or didn't check prior
to slipping it her way.
She'll never know
which is worse.

The next light turns green.
She accelerates into
a misremembered minefield
through bear country
during suicide season
while the artist, long broke
recites a longhand apology
in triplicate.


Currently reading:
"The Art of the Rifle" by Jeff Cooper.

11.22.2018

Vacationland

Good with basic algebra
but lost by calculus
and bad at formulaic--
egads at the bloodbath
involved with poisoning
a parasite.

Feeling betrayed
that the Spaniard is a spy
not everything's a joke;
just most.

Buggered by exclusions
of contracts with the gods
it's best to take the violence
out west
to ram the gate
with the burden of proof
and the dreamless sleep
of the innocent.

To successfully dupe others
you must first fool yourself.

Someone's got to preach
in this godforsaken wasteland.

11.17.2018

Stage Names

It was too cold for a full moon
when I entered his house
wearing one of three button-downs
he'd passed my way
through proper female channels.

Two salts of the building trades
separated by three decades
moonlit as comedians
over pizza and wine
with the women we love
who'd bound us through circumstance.
We verbally sparred
with heads low, moving fast
like prizefighters who'd never won
more than a laugh at coffee break
shining in seas of charlatans
and hoping for a neutrally lateral afterlife.

Sinister notions require much breeding space
but we made the best of that kitchen table.
In unison we raised holy hell
never overshooting
as the eaves fell
iron sharpening iron
both knowing where to stop
since we'd lost too many fathers
for a lifetime
and couldn't afford a fold.

In a subtle twinkle
above a firm handshake
and mutual pats on backs
of tired shoulders
I heard what he didn't say
or use as ammunition:
"My shirt looks good on you, kid."

11.13.2018

Hypertext

My grandfather's tombstone
truly upstate
mostly plumb
eaten by acid rain
and installed by the lowest bidder

in late '83
months before
he could meet me
is inscribed:
"A beautiful day in the Adirondacks."

From what I've heard and seen
it's true
because he's gone.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  January 2018".

11.03.2018

Extortion Season

It's the day before
I'm going to try
to be a decent person
by taking the boy
on a walk through the woods
and every goddamn leaf
is blowing off the trees
at the end of peak foliage.

"This is why
they call it 'fall',"
I'll tell him
on our hike at Minnewaska.
"This is how it feels
to be a day late."
They're poor excuses
for what he'll learn later
regardless of my best intentions.

I consider a ride
to the Shawangunk Ridge
with rolls of Scotch in a satchel
to tape each warm-hued leaf
back to its limb for him
or would it be for me?

10.24.2018

When the Eaves Fall

I overheard an overshoot:

She should have
shut the fuck up
after he called down
the measurement
but she couldn't help herself
from returning a failed favor.

"Semper fi," she whined
to the carpenter above
who'd measured
the steel beam's width
since she didn't have a ladder.

He appeared puzzled
ten feet in the air
then recalled the Marine Corps
sticker on his lid.

"It was my son," he stated slowly
returning his tape measure
to its holster on his belt.

"Thank him for his service,"
she asked of this stranger
foolishly proud
of her daily good deed.

"I can't," he said succinctly.

Over the cement mixer
over the excavator
over the jackhammer
over the shriek
of iron sharpening iron
I could hear an asshole pucker
as another one walked away

and that's why
it's always best
to do our jobs
and go the hell home

while we still can.


Currently reading:
"Bukowski for Beginners" by Carlos Polimeni.

9.14.2018

Channeling Garfunkel

You take a break
from trying to like
the vegetarian ravioli
she whipped up at her place
to say a trademarked name
and turn another female off--
probably two.

"I like background noise,"
she protests between bites.
You mention the crickets
the window fan, the creaking
of old wood in her Victorian
and the voice that you're using
for no apparent good.
"Not on the table, then,"
she states in singular compromise
though the hockey puck's still quiet--
only listening, recording words
without her innocent blue light.

You think the next day after work
in your shower, where you focus best
that from seven years of living alone
silence to you is silver--
not a perfect gold, but close.

Silence is waiting for an ambush at dawn--
war paint donned; no prisoners.
Silence is an Irish goodbye
when it's warranted.
Silence is a humbled contrarian
biting his tongue 'til it bleeds.
Silence is the comfort
of purging your apartment
and tossing out mementos
with no one there to see you cry.
Silence is the black towel you lay out
to protect the sheets when necessary
for modified passion in the moment.
Silence is what makes you appreciate
the least important fingers
on your most important hand.
Silence is giving keys to your lover
yet receiving none in return.
Silence is the slight hangover
caused by a splash of weekday wine.
Silence is the peace
that calms you after labor
in the heat and in the dirt
and alongside those who loathe you.
Silence is what you hear at Union meetings
when you know better
than to voice your concerns.

Silence is the list
of heartaches you don't write.
Silence is when it ends
as it should
instead of well.
Silence is a friend
who is never inconsistent.
The same applies to family
since silence knows your blood.

9.12.2018

No Backsies

A laundry bag's slung
over my shoulder
when I notice local news.
There's another smattering
of spider plant clippings
on the sidewalk
adjacent to the lot
where I park my ten-year-old truck
every day.
I've given away
two batches of them
to friends in search of life
neatly plucked
from the water-filled mason jars
where I housed them
in my kitchen's abundant sunlight.
My boots are heavy
but I descend three flights
since I won't sleep knowing
the rain's all that's keeping them alive.

I stand at the sink
rinsing the dirt from their long, striped leaves
and wonder if this is how my mother
acquired the ones she had when I was young.
The jars are filled with water again
and I place each plant in its own
separate receptacle, back on the rack
where the sun will land tomorrow
while I'm an hour south
earning a wage to fund my operation.

"They clean the air,"
a friend told me once
withholding the blatantly obvious--
a distant critic who's never wrong
regardless and begrudgingly.

I light my second smoke of the night
after pouring another G'n'T
pondering the identity
of the scoundrel who'd desecrate
one of God's creations
by tossing bits and pieces
to a dirty curb.

Hypocrisy's for rookies.

9.05.2018

Scaloppini

It's taken four days
for the smell of chicken cutlet
to exit my apartment.
I made nine packages
about 17 lbs
over the course of two hours
the night before a family pig roast
on Labor Day Weekend
since not all who eat meat
like pork
or are lost.

The tinfoil tray
I'd selected the day prior
in a grocery aisle I'd ignored before
was perfectly sized
for my offering.
Between breading and frying
I thought to bring
horded Chinese takeout containers
the next day
so people could take leftovers
back to their refrigerators.

By the end it was a rosemary encrusted
free-for-all, green dots of oregano
littering the counter.
I'd left the pans to their own devices
and a few morsels were burnt
due to my absent tongs.
In my attempt to right error
I became my mother
eating the dark filets
to hide the evidence
spare the diners
make sure it all would be eaten.
In a few bites
I almost grew up.


Currently reading:
"Father and Son" by Larry Brown.

7.28.2018

Mary on the Half Shell

I wonder if the aloes
on the sill would still survive
if I only were to water them
when it rains outside.

As your elder I can tell you
that there's little left to chance.
Chop your least important fingers
from your most important hand.

It's best for all to end
as it should; not merely well.
Those who seek perfection
can revise the facts in hell.

Lost in right directions
with a splash of weekday wine
we enjoy our creature comforts
as the Vendor steals our time.

7.27.2018

Pinky Ring

We go out back
in boxers that we might
or might not wear to bed
after one too many
gin-and-tonics
and an episode of
"The Sopranos" that's finally poignant.
Barefoot we walk
through the stained glass door
at the back of her Victorian's hallway
to sit upon a bench
made of plywood
that her landlord
built for the ad.
A plane passes overhead
while traffic hums
through the bridge to her left.
I finish my smoke first
since I do and she doesn't.
She passes me the rest of hers
asking, "Do you want this?"
Yes, I want this.

6.12.2018

Cognoscenti

Dave was in the bowels
of Grand Central Terminal
minding his own business
mostly
well after midnight
while sitting on a typewriter
one of those old, boxed numbers
that's in your grandmother's closet
when a stranger interjected.

"You've missed the last one, man.
Find a hotel."

The bearer of bad news
pushed his broom triumphantly
proud of his attention to clockwork.

Dave turned his head
and smiled politely
without an air of arrogance--
a true man of faith.

The janitor spat at a rusted rail
but missed.
A rat the size of his newborn
carried a loaf of bread
with its teeth
into a shadow
that no one would ever see.

Much to his surprise
a train backed up to the platform
quietly, with purpose
and opened its door
for long enough
for Dave to enter
lugging his typewriter
and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
that he'd hidden in his jacket
then pulled away
as silently as it had arrived.

The corrected authority
checked his ticking wristwatch.

Dave made it home
right on time.

6.06.2018

Hellbent on the Horizon

Simmer down, Herodotus.
It won't be cinematic.
Falling's the best feeling
that no one wants to hear.

Living alone in a city
where art comes faster
than friends.

Thistle and shamrock.
Soapstone and ivory.
Andy Dufresne on a T-shirt.

Save the best laughs
for in person.
The Greeks killed themselves
with their tragedy.

6.01.2018

The Second Coming

We're having at round two
when her cat gets in the way--
a literal roadblock
for its figurative cousin
attached to a sprawled recipient
as regal as a queen.
Her writhing thigh
bends my neck left
then right
in a combo Buster Douglas
must have once felt
in his prime.

Eschewing a "lack of services" case
I bob and weave and don't miss a beat
since such a crime
against such a face
would have me feeling my age again.
These failures must be dodged
when life's become
a series of medical appointments.
According to the cooking shows
I can't make scrambled eggs right
but I've still got this
if nothing else
and won't give up so easily.

Suddenly she's rising
though not from her own motion.
I look up from my task
not believing what I'm seeing.
Her face has gone blank
as she hovers over bedsheets.
I grab her ankles desperately
hellbent on completion.
The Rapture picked the worst time
to happen to this heathen.
A shock flows through my hands
and I'm forced to give release
though not the one I'd wanted
before this awkward apocalypse.

She's floated out of sight.
I scramble to the window.
It all makes sense in an instant
when I see the moon that's robbed us.
A nearby fire hydrant sprays a geyser
through a bumper.
Sirens blare in the background.
Her cat has disappeared.

Alone in the darkness
of her bedroom
I clamber for clothes.
Her alarm clock flashes midnight
though the box fan hasn't stopped.
I rub my jaw and taste her
and hope that it won't fade.
I hope the bridge is open
despite abandoned cars.
I wonder if I can make it
to my place before the fire.
I wonder if my gun safe
will be worth its weight in gold.