He's back on the wagon
or maybe he's off it--
That expression never
made much sense to me
since both options sound shitty
for different reasons.
Regardless, it's good to see
my friend again.
Whether or not he knows it
and whether or not he's sober
he'll always have that title
be it a blessing or a curse.
"Thanks, Mike," he says
in a humbled, lowered tone
as he picks his cup o' Joe
up from the counter.
We sit and make small talk
avoiding obvious sins
at a decrepit table which should be
thrown out, but is kept for
its shabby chic peculiarity.
"What a piece of shit," he comments
as he fingers the cement hole
where a dozen tiles are missing.
I wonder how many times a day he says that.
We tighten our black wool hats
and mount up after
making a crowded table
of soccer-mom-aged women
in denial about their artist status
uncomfortable with his sailor's mouth.
I'd feel bad for his verbal transgressions
if they'd come from any other person
but from this kid I've known
for most of my life I expect nothing less
than an innocently blind vulgarity.
"Defusing", as his father rightly called it.
Most find it hard to stay mad at a man
whose only true enemy is himself.
This comes as firsthand knowledge
which has helped me notch my pistols.
It's those low-toned Thank Yous
and overzealous questions about
the state of things on my end that worry me.
When manners are grown I wonder.
I like the poison with the snake.
It's consistent, if not comforting.
It doesn't sound like Meeting-speak.
"Want one of these?" I ask
handing him a crisp, white menthol
as our feet pound on the sidewalk.
"Thanks," he says again with a tint of shame
that I wish would disappear
considering shared time.
We walk back to his place
not letting our smokes
get interrupted by too much
half-assed philosophy.
I start to recite an inside joke
from fifteen years ago
but trail off for fear of foolish nostalgia.
He finishes the sentence
and sets me at ease.
It does him the same good
to spit out the old lines.
We're two habits we can't drop.
We watch a movie sequel in his room
as an excuse to stay together.
He was right: it's not as good
possibly due to less sex scenes.
"Nice bush," I say sincerely
during the one bone thrown
by the director. He laughs
unsure if I'm joking or not.
There are some oddities
that even old schoolmates
can't decipher, though they
don't outweigh the cadavers.
Once the credits roll
he hits the lights like they'd repel
ghosts. Some of us have more than others.
We both avoid the City
for our own switch-hitting reasons.
A tiny bug crawls along his makeshift table.
"Is that a roach?" I ask.
He kills it instinctively, swearing he
hadn't seen any for a week.
The hundreds of dots on the sheets
covering his futon shapeshift into vermin.
My mother warned of bringing them home
in clothes, but I suck it up.
Leaving too soon would be disrespectful.
I'll shake out my jeans under the overbearing
overhead light. There's an exterminator
who comes to my building every week.
My friend, on the other hand, may not
be a neighbor for much longer.
Living is prioritizing.
We've seen each other naked
in the showers at the neighborhood pool
growing up.
There isn't much left to discuss.
There isn't much time to deny it.
2.29.2012
2.26.2012
The Spaniard's Salute
My mother's on her own
search now for her father
who died before her birth.
Her tactics, as always, are razors.
She forwards me a list
of his medals, says the Army
would be happy to get the
cloth-and-brass tokens
of bleeding blue bravado
in the mail right away.
Neither of us met the man
but somehow these pins
will mean something, so she thinks.
Their names are vague:
Good Conduct Medal
American Campaign Medal
World War II Victory Medal
Honorable Service Lapel Button, WWII
But was he the guy who would always bum smokes?
Did he listen when the riflemen ranted of home?
Would any honest Joe want him in his foxhole?
Those are the things that'd make me proud now.
Hitler blew his own head off. It took a Little Boy
and a Fat Man to beat the Japanese.
My grandfather knew nothing of winning wars alone.
He died and left a family to fight their own battles.
There's a portrait of him in her living room.
His tie's tucked in to his khaki dress blouse
between the second and third buttons down
from the top. The near-black hair of his pompadour
and thin mustache glisten from the yellowed canvas.
In his eyes there swells a sadness that his kin
know all too well. Perhaps he sensed his day would come
so early in that car crash. A taxi's back seat soaked with
blood tells the tale. What are the odds of a fatal wreck
in Manhattan where traffic rarely exceeds thirty?
What are the chances that a poor single immigrant mother
who never learned the language would raise her two sons
and third unborn daughter in spite of adversity
stacked to the ceilings of factories, commercial kitchens
and churches doling out bread and secondhand clothing?
Send me the ribbons for that, Uncle Sam.
Show me the certificate you've penned in her name.
Where is the placard, the mural, the bust?
A street in the capital named in her honor?
Instead she waits in line for a glorified madhouse bed
where rotting minds die as the pills preserve bodies.
That's the fate the true heros suffer.
That's what waits at the Thirty-ninth Line.
There are veterans of wars that waged on for decades
who silently sink to the depths they've desired:
Five feet down to a merciful grave on a hill
near a soldier who died in the Fifties.
Currently reading:
"The Gunslinger" by Stephen King.
search now for her father
who died before her birth.
Her tactics, as always, are razors.
She forwards me a list
of his medals, says the Army
would be happy to get the
cloth-and-brass tokens
of bleeding blue bravado
in the mail right away.
Neither of us met the man
but somehow these pins
will mean something, so she thinks.
Their names are vague:
Good Conduct Medal
American Campaign Medal
World War II Victory Medal
Honorable Service Lapel Button, WWII
But was he the guy who would always bum smokes?
Did he listen when the riflemen ranted of home?
Would any honest Joe want him in his foxhole?
Those are the things that'd make me proud now.
Hitler blew his own head off. It took a Little Boy
and a Fat Man to beat the Japanese.
My grandfather knew nothing of winning wars alone.
He died and left a family to fight their own battles.
There's a portrait of him in her living room.
His tie's tucked in to his khaki dress blouse
between the second and third buttons down
from the top. The near-black hair of his pompadour
and thin mustache glisten from the yellowed canvas.
In his eyes there swells a sadness that his kin
know all too well. Perhaps he sensed his day would come
so early in that car crash. A taxi's back seat soaked with
blood tells the tale. What are the odds of a fatal wreck
in Manhattan where traffic rarely exceeds thirty?
What are the chances that a poor single immigrant mother
who never learned the language would raise her two sons
and third unborn daughter in spite of adversity
stacked to the ceilings of factories, commercial kitchens
and churches doling out bread and secondhand clothing?
Send me the ribbons for that, Uncle Sam.
Show me the certificate you've penned in her name.
Where is the placard, the mural, the bust?
A street in the capital named in her honor?
Instead she waits in line for a glorified madhouse bed
where rotting minds die as the pills preserve bodies.
That's the fate the true heros suffer.
That's what waits at the Thirty-ninth Line.
There are veterans of wars that waged on for decades
who silently sink to the depths they've desired:
Five feet down to a merciful grave on a hill
near a soldier who died in the Fifties.
Currently reading:
"The Gunslinger" by Stephen King.
2.25.2012
A Profitable Practice
They're funny, nerve endings.
That name is misleading. They seem
to be connected to parts wholly unrelated.
I've been conducting research on myself
and others lately.
The smooth spots between my knuckles
tickle the back of my throat when rubbed.
If you breathe in my ear a tingle shoots down
my spine and directly through my loins.
Merely hovering over my right armpit
will send waves of electrons through
the sinews of my lower back.
There are places, here unmentioned
that could crumble me like Jericho.
And, like in most men, a secret path
connects my stomach to my heart.
As for the fairer sex I'll state
the obvious applies
with the colorful additions
that no charlatan could learn.
You can be the judge of neurons
since I won't divulge my findings.
There are saints and there are scholars
and I define myself as neither;
just a man with two hands
and a mouth that loves the searching.
That name is misleading. They seem
to be connected to parts wholly unrelated.
I've been conducting research on myself
and others lately.
The smooth spots between my knuckles
tickle the back of my throat when rubbed.
If you breathe in my ear a tingle shoots down
my spine and directly through my loins.
Merely hovering over my right armpit
will send waves of electrons through
the sinews of my lower back.
There are places, here unmentioned
that could crumble me like Jericho.
And, like in most men, a secret path
connects my stomach to my heart.
As for the fairer sex I'll state
the obvious applies
with the colorful additions
that no charlatan could learn.
You can be the judge of neurons
since I won't divulge my findings.
There are saints and there are scholars
and I define myself as neither;
just a man with two hands
and a mouth that loves the searching.
Gringo Red
It's a rare instance where the two of us
are riding together. Usually one follows
the other or we meet at the customer's house.
Today he's my passenger, or maybe it's more
that I'm his driver since he's the one sitting
on a thick wallet. That's how this system works--
the man with the green makes the rules, calls
the shots, decides how to handle the debriefing.
Capitalism's not afraid to get dirty. It lingers
in plumbing just the same as in sales.
My friend, most times my boss, is one of its agents.
He leans against the arm rest and points through
the window on his side of my truck. "I worked
at that house once. A Mexican almost died there."
It's not uncommon for unskilled labor to be injured.
They often don't take proper precautions to work
safely since time is of the essence when trying
to keep a job that a thousand other illegals would
give pints of blood to possess.
For conversation's sake I take the bait.
"Oh yeah? What happened?"
He turns his head and shoots me that sinister grin
that finds its way to his oldest boy's face
when he's about to drop a line.
My friend's fortunate for cloning himself.
He comes from good stock, or maybe he doesn't
but made his own fate and broke cycles.
"He was a carpenter's helper. They were tying off
a temporary scaffold and the Mexican slashed his
wrist by accident. Blood was spurting everywhere.
Major arterial bleeding." He pauses to take a sip
of his coffee as if to flex his hardened stomach.
I fail to see where the punch line is coming
but know that it's there from his tone.
"He refused to go to the hospital. Told his boss
he couldn't because he'd be deported. The guy
was going to bleed out and die on the jobsite
if no one did something quickly."
The corners of his mouth spread. I know
it's going to get interesting, but never
would guess what comes next.
"His boss decked him good. Knocked the little beaner
right out in one punch. We duct taped his arm
as best we could and carried him to the back of
the carpenter's truck. I held pressure on the wound
on the way to the hospital. That guy was lucky."
He shifts in his seat and waits for my commentary.
A good storyteller knows when to pause.
The lousy ones don't allow for digestion.
They fill the air with words like a canary
lines its cage with shit.
"So he made it?" I ask once my laughter subsides.
"Yeah, and they didn't send him back to his country.
That contractor made a tough call. He could've let him
die stubbornly, dumped his body in the river
and saved a few days' pay." He follows his statement
up with what we both know is a lie:
"I would've."
But a man who tapes an unconscious immigrant
day laborer's severed wrist, carries his limp body
to the bed of a truck, and fights against the pumping
of blood into daylight could never do such a thing.
Again, since he's paying, I let him play lead.
"Yeah. One less guy to cheat the system and
take an American's job," though we know
that's not always the case. It just sounds right.
We drive on in silence feeling sorry
for our fellow man who has to sell his soul
in order to make a living.
We only sell pipes and porcelain
and even that's debatable.
At the end of the day it's comfort
we peddle. Who in their right mind
won't pay for that? The luckiest among us
get it for free. My friend and I are blessed
and know it without saying. The saying
sometimes takes away from the doing
and we don't want to risk that loss.
are riding together. Usually one follows
the other or we meet at the customer's house.
Today he's my passenger, or maybe it's more
that I'm his driver since he's the one sitting
on a thick wallet. That's how this system works--
the man with the green makes the rules, calls
the shots, decides how to handle the debriefing.
Capitalism's not afraid to get dirty. It lingers
in plumbing just the same as in sales.
My friend, most times my boss, is one of its agents.
He leans against the arm rest and points through
the window on his side of my truck. "I worked
at that house once. A Mexican almost died there."
It's not uncommon for unskilled labor to be injured.
They often don't take proper precautions to work
safely since time is of the essence when trying
to keep a job that a thousand other illegals would
give pints of blood to possess.
For conversation's sake I take the bait.
"Oh yeah? What happened?"
He turns his head and shoots me that sinister grin
that finds its way to his oldest boy's face
when he's about to drop a line.
My friend's fortunate for cloning himself.
He comes from good stock, or maybe he doesn't
but made his own fate and broke cycles.
"He was a carpenter's helper. They were tying off
a temporary scaffold and the Mexican slashed his
wrist by accident. Blood was spurting everywhere.
Major arterial bleeding." He pauses to take a sip
of his coffee as if to flex his hardened stomach.
I fail to see where the punch line is coming
but know that it's there from his tone.
"He refused to go to the hospital. Told his boss
he couldn't because he'd be deported. The guy
was going to bleed out and die on the jobsite
if no one did something quickly."
The corners of his mouth spread. I know
it's going to get interesting, but never
would guess what comes next.
"His boss decked him good. Knocked the little beaner
right out in one punch. We duct taped his arm
as best we could and carried him to the back of
the carpenter's truck. I held pressure on the wound
on the way to the hospital. That guy was lucky."
He shifts in his seat and waits for my commentary.
A good storyteller knows when to pause.
The lousy ones don't allow for digestion.
They fill the air with words like a canary
lines its cage with shit.
"So he made it?" I ask once my laughter subsides.
"Yeah, and they didn't send him back to his country.
That contractor made a tough call. He could've let him
die stubbornly, dumped his body in the river
and saved a few days' pay." He follows his statement
up with what we both know is a lie:
"I would've."
But a man who tapes an unconscious immigrant
day laborer's severed wrist, carries his limp body
to the bed of a truck, and fights against the pumping
of blood into daylight could never do such a thing.
Again, since he's paying, I let him play lead.
"Yeah. One less guy to cheat the system and
take an American's job," though we know
that's not always the case. It just sounds right.
We drive on in silence feeling sorry
for our fellow man who has to sell his soul
in order to make a living.
We only sell pipes and porcelain
and even that's debatable.
At the end of the day it's comfort
we peddle. Who in their right mind
won't pay for that? The luckiest among us
get it for free. My friend and I are blessed
and know it without saying. The saying
sometimes takes away from the doing
and we don't want to risk that loss.
2.22.2012
Not for My Agent's Critical Eyes
I have a magic power:
I make streetlights
go out by driving under them
sometimes.
Dale used to do it, too.
It has something to do with
electromagnetic fields
or so he said.
He called it being a slider.
I call that his way
of getting his tongue into
your brain, your rifle on his side:
you and him against the world.
Being a motivator of men
is a power in itself, but there's
a fine line between
motivation and manipulation.
Dale believed his own lies
and didn't see the danger.
The honest painters find
the world in gray.
I'm no good with brushes.
Wrenches aren't my forte either.
You didn't hear this from me
but I have another magic power.
It has nothing to do with lights
or cars or Tesla
or kids I used to drink with at twenty
or anyone else, for that matter--
not even a woman for once.
I don't use it like I should.
The guilt glares at me.
You're watching it bleed out slowly
like a leaking boiler in a basement
no one cares enough to enter.
Maybe you're clapping. Maybe you're cringing.
Maybe you're vicariously embarrassed for me.
It has nothing to do with plumbing
or blood or cellars
but it's too late to shut up now.
It's too late for a lot of things.
Twenty-eight came too soon.
Dale never did, that slider.
I know that.
We shared women
and turned out lights together.
Now go look up Tesla.
He's still in the air.
I make streetlights
go out by driving under them
sometimes.
Dale used to do it, too.
It has something to do with
electromagnetic fields
or so he said.
He called it being a slider.
I call that his way
of getting his tongue into
your brain, your rifle on his side:
you and him against the world.
Being a motivator of men
is a power in itself, but there's
a fine line between
motivation and manipulation.
Dale believed his own lies
and didn't see the danger.
The honest painters find
the world in gray.
I'm no good with brushes.
Wrenches aren't my forte either.
You didn't hear this from me
but I have another magic power.
It has nothing to do with lights
or cars or Tesla
or kids I used to drink with at twenty
or anyone else, for that matter--
not even a woman for once.
I don't use it like I should.
The guilt glares at me.
You're watching it bleed out slowly
like a leaking boiler in a basement
no one cares enough to enter.
Maybe you're clapping. Maybe you're cringing.
Maybe you're vicariously embarrassed for me.
It has nothing to do with plumbing
or blood or cellars
but it's too late to shut up now.
It's too late for a lot of things.
Twenty-eight came too soon.
Dale never did, that slider.
I know that.
We shared women
and turned out lights together.
Now go look up Tesla.
He's still in the air.
2.20.2012
DNR
My grandmother's shell
lays in the hospital bed
no longer combative
or tethered to the rails.
Her face is unfamiliar
with its new slouch created
by a lack of dentures
to match an absence of mind
and the fresh dose of sedatives
coursing through her tender veins.
The sterile stage is set, but the
lights won't dim to curtains.
She's propped up carefully
like a ventriloquist's dummy
sitting on the lap of Death.
Cruelly, He won't take her yet.
To us she died years back
but He prolongs His performance
for reasons unbeknownst.
"Mira, que bonita," she says
in an innocently excited tone
reminiscent of a five-year-old
at Christmas, her gnarled right hand
fingering the purple bracelet strapped
to her left wrist. If she knew what
its three letters meant
she'd find it even prettier--
a ticket out of this pointless encore.
"Si," I quietly agree in the
second language she taught me
when I was growing differently
than I am at twenty-eight.
Love, the first, yearns for a merciful
last show by the Silent Entertainer.
We lock eyes through her cataracts
and smile for very different reasons;
or maybe, in retrospect, our thinking
was the same.
lays in the hospital bed
no longer combative
or tethered to the rails.
Her face is unfamiliar
with its new slouch created
by a lack of dentures
to match an absence of mind
and the fresh dose of sedatives
coursing through her tender veins.
The sterile stage is set, but the
lights won't dim to curtains.
She's propped up carefully
like a ventriloquist's dummy
sitting on the lap of Death.
Cruelly, He won't take her yet.
To us she died years back
but He prolongs His performance
for reasons unbeknownst.
"Mira, que bonita," she says
in an innocently excited tone
reminiscent of a five-year-old
at Christmas, her gnarled right hand
fingering the purple bracelet strapped
to her left wrist. If she knew what
its three letters meant
she'd find it even prettier--
a ticket out of this pointless encore.
"Si," I quietly agree in the
second language she taught me
when I was growing differently
than I am at twenty-eight.
Love, the first, yearns for a merciful
last show by the Silent Entertainer.
We lock eyes through her cataracts
and smile for very different reasons;
or maybe, in retrospect, our thinking
was the same.
2.19.2012
Detox
A lazy, brazen doe catches my headlights
while I blame myself for letting
the steel find my friend's arm again.
I'm driving to pay the bills
at an ungodly morning hour
with an empty passenger seat
and too much on my mind.
Those stacks of twenties
that called him back to the fix
came from my zealous hands.
He needed the work, we needed
old friends; too much needing is a curse.
The victims can verify that claim.
I wanted to believe that his
chemical struggle was behind him
just as much for myself as for the kid
who gave me my first cigarette
back when homework, curfews
and dirty knees
were the worst of the world's problems.
The first two disappeared.
Dirty knees are still an issue.
I take a turn too hard and crush a hubcap
in the shoulder. I took the news too hard
and hit the bottle like a champ.
There still may be some poison floating
in the shadows of my system.
We have our separate demons
but we're addicts just the same.
"Your past doesn't define you,"
lies a sarcastic roadside church sign.
A few miles down another congregation
promotes a pancake supper with black lettering.
Those Christfolk have it wrong:
Eggs are best for dinner
and the devil's not so bad.
It's we mere mortals who
mislead ourselves every day
into believing that we can change
a Goddamned thing
other than our clothing.
The skin we're stuck in's welded.
The cover's like the book.
There must be a thirteenth step
that's gone undiscovered.
Kid, we've let each other down again
and this time youth's no excuse.
while I blame myself for letting
the steel find my friend's arm again.
I'm driving to pay the bills
at an ungodly morning hour
with an empty passenger seat
and too much on my mind.
Those stacks of twenties
that called him back to the fix
came from my zealous hands.
He needed the work, we needed
old friends; too much needing is a curse.
The victims can verify that claim.
I wanted to believe that his
chemical struggle was behind him
just as much for myself as for the kid
who gave me my first cigarette
back when homework, curfews
and dirty knees
were the worst of the world's problems.
The first two disappeared.
Dirty knees are still an issue.
I take a turn too hard and crush a hubcap
in the shoulder. I took the news too hard
and hit the bottle like a champ.
There still may be some poison floating
in the shadows of my system.
We have our separate demons
but we're addicts just the same.
"Your past doesn't define you,"
lies a sarcastic roadside church sign.
A few miles down another congregation
promotes a pancake supper with black lettering.
Those Christfolk have it wrong:
Eggs are best for dinner
and the devil's not so bad.
It's we mere mortals who
mislead ourselves every day
into believing that we can change
a Goddamned thing
other than our clothing.
The skin we're stuck in's welded.
The cover's like the book.
There must be a thirteenth step
that's gone undiscovered.
Kid, we've let each other down again
and this time youth's no excuse.
2.17.2012
On Damaging Sold Goods
A sore day of non-existence
is best punctuated
by this one-line message
from a friend who's been
silent for months:
"Bukowski was right
about everything."
is best punctuated
by this one-line message
from a friend who's been
silent for months:
"Bukowski was right
about everything."
2.15.2012
Solder Me
A long day of slinging pipe
renders me useless
from the neck down
and arguably north as well.
The sweet stench of that amber
non-precious metal
used to transport water
sustenance, life itself
permeates my pillowcase
my bloodstream, the very core
of who I am--
But I am not a plumber.
I'm a man who pays his bills
with pipes.
Someday, after pocketing some change
in a checkout line and then scratching his face
my son will think of me
when smelling copper on his fingers
if the penny doesn't die
along with my trade and my dream.
"Dad would've been happy,"
he'll tell himself to justify his purchase.
And somewhere, in the special hell reserved
for those who deny what they are, I'll be
nodding my head in sweaty agreement.
One can only be so lucky.
I'll take my chances
at the wheel.
Put it all on red, Abe.
I've got this funny feeling.
renders me useless
from the neck down
and arguably north as well.
The sweet stench of that amber
non-precious metal
used to transport water
sustenance, life itself
permeates my pillowcase
my bloodstream, the very core
of who I am--
But I am not a plumber.
I'm a man who pays his bills
with pipes.
Someday, after pocketing some change
in a checkout line and then scratching his face
my son will think of me
when smelling copper on his fingers
if the penny doesn't die
along with my trade and my dream.
"Dad would've been happy,"
he'll tell himself to justify his purchase.
And somewhere, in the special hell reserved
for those who deny what they are, I'll be
nodding my head in sweaty agreement.
One can only be so lucky.
I'll take my chances
at the wheel.
Put it all on red, Abe.
I've got this funny feeling.
2.12.2012
Stay True
It used to be lager
and then it was Jack
that gave me the courage
that my stomach lacked
to say what I meant
when it mattered most.
I read all the Russians
and prayed to their ghosts.
I know what you're thinking
'cause they've wondered, too--
Would it be someone else
if it wasn't you?
But I've played the field
so I know what's not there.
Most of those damsels
won't let down their hair
for a guy with a penchant
for blood and the pen
who isn't quite now
what he almost was then
but he wakes in the morning
with a saint on his mind
who unlike the years
has been mighty kind.
I'll never be perfect
but I'll try to be
the man you deserve
to rock you to sleep.
Sometimes it's Sailor.
It sure won't be Jack.
That speech I was slurring--
I don't take it back.
and then it was Jack
that gave me the courage
that my stomach lacked
to say what I meant
when it mattered most.
I read all the Russians
and prayed to their ghosts.
I know what you're thinking
'cause they've wondered, too--
Would it be someone else
if it wasn't you?
But I've played the field
so I know what's not there.
Most of those damsels
won't let down their hair
for a guy with a penchant
for blood and the pen
who isn't quite now
what he almost was then
but he wakes in the morning
with a saint on his mind
who unlike the years
has been mighty kind.
I'll never be perfect
but I'll try to be
the man you deserve
to rock you to sleep.
Sometimes it's Sailor.
It sure won't be Jack.
That speech I was slurring--
I don't take it back.
2.02.2012
A Master of Suspense
"We're different," Tone confesses, failing to acknowledge that he's not devoted much time to either party's true desires. "I've got all the time in the world, but I feel I'm wasting yours." He takes a sip from his bottle of dark lager and ponders the pending response. Its courier isn't there to spew it. He's talking to the walls. His overly creative mind would normally run rampant with possibilities, but the alcohol's served its purpose in that senses and brain cells have been successfully numbed for the evening. And to think he once foolishly yearned for the traps of drunkenness and monogamy, though not in that order.
Tone takes another liberating gulp. He's starting to remember why he preferred to drink alone when it used to flow like water in his dusty, whitewashed rooms. He's starting to miss no one but the kid who could've turned out differently had he known his full potential. Tone was a fan of nostalgia, especially when it involved former selves. Even the regrets didn't make it worth forgetting: Tone could've been a contender someday. At the end of thirsty, self-destructive nights there were only facts like that one on which to cling for dear life. Tone was a meager realist. He knew which truths could save him. The list was short, but it was there, much like his temper, his vision, his cock.
The dog scratches desperately at the door between his room and the next. Tone breaks his stride as the seventh beer is cracked. If Jodie were here to see him now she'd shake her head and wonder. How could a man so hellbent on living sentence himself to a life of confinement? Even only children need their time in the playground. Tone's problem was that he didn't know how to jump off the swings when the sun was setting. He'd ride it out until no one else was left. He'd done it before, over and over again to the point of an ailing stomach and ringing ears. There was no margin of error once the learning curve was eroded. A conscious declaration to ignore past mistakes prevented him from making more healthy decisions. "It's not conducive," they tended to remind him. "Conducive to what?" he wanted to ask. They never finished their sentences. They never finished anything but that which he hoped would last a lifetime. He was still naive enough to believe in forever. It'd be a few years before words like that would lose meaning. It'd be a few more Jodies before he'd pack it in for good and resign himself to an existence of sporadic carpentry gigs and lonely conversations with strangers while walking the dog. There were worse fates than that. At least becoming his father wasn't one of them anymore. There are people who learn your name because they want it. There are people who learn your name because they want to add it to their lists.
Tone almost knocks his brew off the nightstand while grasping for his ringing telephone, a lifeline tossed from a raft. At this hour it could only be one person. The others got their respective hints one way or another. He saw to that, though the means and ends weren't equal. "Hello," he chokes into the receiver, beer breath bouncing off the plastic and back up into his nostrils. "How was your night?" he asks ever timidly.
"I don't want to sleep alone. Come on over and I'll tell you all about it," Jodie suggests from her end of the line. Tone's not one to argue when a beautiful woman wants his company. He walks to the kitchen to pour what's left of his lager down the drain. There will be other nights to over-analyze the fare on the pity train. Reality seems a better bet than hypotheticals this time. He grabs it before it can pull its head back into its shell and swim away.
The round is won, but not thanks to him. The wrath of Modern Woman is surpassed only by her mercy. There are times to beg, borrow, and steal. Tone, like a reformed criminal worthy of his salvation, knows the difference.
Tone takes another liberating gulp. He's starting to remember why he preferred to drink alone when it used to flow like water in his dusty, whitewashed rooms. He's starting to miss no one but the kid who could've turned out differently had he known his full potential. Tone was a fan of nostalgia, especially when it involved former selves. Even the regrets didn't make it worth forgetting: Tone could've been a contender someday. At the end of thirsty, self-destructive nights there were only facts like that one on which to cling for dear life. Tone was a meager realist. He knew which truths could save him. The list was short, but it was there, much like his temper, his vision, his cock.
The dog scratches desperately at the door between his room and the next. Tone breaks his stride as the seventh beer is cracked. If Jodie were here to see him now she'd shake her head and wonder. How could a man so hellbent on living sentence himself to a life of confinement? Even only children need their time in the playground. Tone's problem was that he didn't know how to jump off the swings when the sun was setting. He'd ride it out until no one else was left. He'd done it before, over and over again to the point of an ailing stomach and ringing ears. There was no margin of error once the learning curve was eroded. A conscious declaration to ignore past mistakes prevented him from making more healthy decisions. "It's not conducive," they tended to remind him. "Conducive to what?" he wanted to ask. They never finished their sentences. They never finished anything but that which he hoped would last a lifetime. He was still naive enough to believe in forever. It'd be a few years before words like that would lose meaning. It'd be a few more Jodies before he'd pack it in for good and resign himself to an existence of sporadic carpentry gigs and lonely conversations with strangers while walking the dog. There were worse fates than that. At least becoming his father wasn't one of them anymore. There are people who learn your name because they want it. There are people who learn your name because they want to add it to their lists.
Tone almost knocks his brew off the nightstand while grasping for his ringing telephone, a lifeline tossed from a raft. At this hour it could only be one person. The others got their respective hints one way or another. He saw to that, though the means and ends weren't equal. "Hello," he chokes into the receiver, beer breath bouncing off the plastic and back up into his nostrils. "How was your night?" he asks ever timidly.
"I don't want to sleep alone. Come on over and I'll tell you all about it," Jodie suggests from her end of the line. Tone's not one to argue when a beautiful woman wants his company. He walks to the kitchen to pour what's left of his lager down the drain. There will be other nights to over-analyze the fare on the pity train. Reality seems a better bet than hypotheticals this time. He grabs it before it can pull its head back into its shell and swim away.
The round is won, but not thanks to him. The wrath of Modern Woman is surpassed only by her mercy. There are times to beg, borrow, and steal. Tone, like a reformed criminal worthy of his salvation, knows the difference.
1.25.2012
Slumber Rumblings
I stand in the January evening
enjoying a rare solitary cigarette
at the base of my stairwell.
Everyone's your friend in Beacon
if you've got a pack to share.
Truth be told I never mind.
It leads to conversation, stimulation
of the brain, signals shot
to nerve endings reminding you
that there's more to it
than where the rent will come from
next month and how your father
sleeps at night.
The homeless, a laid-off neighbor
some slob walking home from
a minimum wage job--
they all stop and share a story
for the mere price of fifty cents.
It's a bargain on both ends.
A boy about my age
walks a woman to her door
on the opposite side of the street.
His plaid flannel shirt clashes with
his sneakers, the air temperature
collides with his words in the form of
steam pouring from his mouth
to accompany his desperate plea.
"Tonight was nice. Maybe I'll see
you again sometime."
The lie is coming. He's too jaded
and cocksure to see it, but it's there.
Thousands of years of perfected rejection
escape her lips like it has from her mother's
at one time or another
and her mother's mother's and every
combination of possessives therein.
"Yeah," she says with a shiver in her voice
implying that goodbyes should be brief.
The world's limpest hug ensues as I suck on my
Marlboro, grateful to be out of the hellish
woods of first-dating. I flick my butt and walk upstairs
leaving the stinking scene to play itself out
like a fire the gods have pissed on for kicks.
There's a glass half-full of water
waiting on my coffee table when I enter
my apartment. It's been there for days.
It isn't mine. I smile and hang my coat up
right next to my holsters
feeling blessed to be defeated
by someone other than myself.
enjoying a rare solitary cigarette
at the base of my stairwell.
Everyone's your friend in Beacon
if you've got a pack to share.
Truth be told I never mind.
It leads to conversation, stimulation
of the brain, signals shot
to nerve endings reminding you
that there's more to it
than where the rent will come from
next month and how your father
sleeps at night.
The homeless, a laid-off neighbor
some slob walking home from
a minimum wage job--
they all stop and share a story
for the mere price of fifty cents.
It's a bargain on both ends.
A boy about my age
walks a woman to her door
on the opposite side of the street.
His plaid flannel shirt clashes with
his sneakers, the air temperature
collides with his words in the form of
steam pouring from his mouth
to accompany his desperate plea.
"Tonight was nice. Maybe I'll see
you again sometime."
The lie is coming. He's too jaded
and cocksure to see it, but it's there.
Thousands of years of perfected rejection
escape her lips like it has from her mother's
at one time or another
and her mother's mother's and every
combination of possessives therein.
"Yeah," she says with a shiver in her voice
implying that goodbyes should be brief.
The world's limpest hug ensues as I suck on my
Marlboro, grateful to be out of the hellish
woods of first-dating. I flick my butt and walk upstairs
leaving the stinking scene to play itself out
like a fire the gods have pissed on for kicks.
There's a glass half-full of water
waiting on my coffee table when I enter
my apartment. It's been there for days.
It isn't mine. I smile and hang my coat up
right next to my holsters
feeling blessed to be defeated
by someone other than myself.
1.15.2012
Take Her Home, Old Man
The eggs Benedict try their hardest to settle
their greasy hollandaise place within my stomach
as I approach the red light
trying not to let my bald tires skid
on the cold and wet macadam.
A series of cars comes crawling by
in the opposite lane
led by a hearse and a limousine.
Minivans, luxury sedans, economy subcompact
commuter death-traps, and contractor grade
pick-up trucks roll by in the procession
all clearly designated with flags that say
'Funeral' on the red and white-crossed rectangles
fastened to their rooves via magnets.
There are loosened ties, one stiff white collar
on a priest paid overtime, and see-through scarves
on see-through women. Most of the faces
are pensive, if not utterly anguished.
I'm too far to notice tears through the
trails of neutral rain, but there must
be some there. Dying is a change
that most people can't handle.
My heel taps against the
floormat in tune to the beat of my stereo
while the ball of my foot holds the brake.
Then a car comes along with four happy passengers
who would seem to be regurgitating a performance's
best jokes on their way home from a comedy club
if that dismal flag wasn't fastened to their vehicle.
The light turns green in the corner of my eye
and I roll on to face the day and what it may bring
of my grandmother's fate in the hospital
suddenly comforted by the fact that at least
four folks know what it is to die well:
A celebration of having lived at all.
their greasy hollandaise place within my stomach
as I approach the red light
trying not to let my bald tires skid
on the cold and wet macadam.
A series of cars comes crawling by
in the opposite lane
led by a hearse and a limousine.
Minivans, luxury sedans, economy subcompact
commuter death-traps, and contractor grade
pick-up trucks roll by in the procession
all clearly designated with flags that say
'Funeral' on the red and white-crossed rectangles
fastened to their rooves via magnets.
There are loosened ties, one stiff white collar
on a priest paid overtime, and see-through scarves
on see-through women. Most of the faces
are pensive, if not utterly anguished.
I'm too far to notice tears through the
trails of neutral rain, but there must
be some there. Dying is a change
that most people can't handle.
My heel taps against the
floormat in tune to the beat of my stereo
while the ball of my foot holds the brake.
Then a car comes along with four happy passengers
who would seem to be regurgitating a performance's
best jokes on their way home from a comedy club
if that dismal flag wasn't fastened to their vehicle.
The light turns green in the corner of my eye
and I roll on to face the day and what it may bring
of my grandmother's fate in the hospital
suddenly comforted by the fact that at least
four folks know what it is to die well:
A celebration of having lived at all.
Both Jonesin' for a Spoon
This nagging half-sickness finally comes in handy.
One stuffed nostril wakes me from my dream.
My partner in crime was trying his hardest
to convince me to enter an underground tunnel
we found in a seedy back alley somewhere.
I had to remind him that I'd been the voice
of reason since we first met in fourth grade
and that my blood had not been kissed
by the unfairly annointed good luck of the Irish.
Oh, and we were Ghostbusters. The slumbering
plumber shows his age through his heroes
as well as a touch of ironic desire.
A few hours later I call him to check
what he wanted to tell me at one in the morning:
that his meeting went well, that he loves me for caring
that he's trying his hardest to do the right thing.
For him that means waking up before noon
without the wrong person or belt on his arm.
I know that he'll make it, he knows that he has to
since this kind of chance doesn't beg when it knocks.
There's hope for the homeless, scripts for the addicts
and perhaps, if played right, some love for the lost.
If we can both rise from our pasts in this town
with a moat and a bridge and our saints to protect us
then maybe it's not too far-fetched to say
that our ghosts, like our trade, have limited days.
One stuffed nostril wakes me from my dream.
My partner in crime was trying his hardest
to convince me to enter an underground tunnel
we found in a seedy back alley somewhere.
I had to remind him that I'd been the voice
of reason since we first met in fourth grade
and that my blood had not been kissed
by the unfairly annointed good luck of the Irish.
Oh, and we were Ghostbusters. The slumbering
plumber shows his age through his heroes
as well as a touch of ironic desire.
A few hours later I call him to check
what he wanted to tell me at one in the morning:
that his meeting went well, that he loves me for caring
that he's trying his hardest to do the right thing.
For him that means waking up before noon
without the wrong person or belt on his arm.
I know that he'll make it, he knows that he has to
since this kind of chance doesn't beg when it knocks.
There's hope for the homeless, scripts for the addicts
and perhaps, if played right, some love for the lost.
If we can both rise from our pasts in this town
with a moat and a bridge and our saints to protect us
then maybe it's not too far-fetched to say
that our ghosts, like our trade, have limited days.
1.12.2012
Dust, Shame, and the Dinner We Made
The disappointment on her face doesn't require much reading between the lines to decipher. As soon as I walk in it's present and stronger than ever. She flicks her wrist in my general direction, trying not to seem too affected by my presence. It's an ongoing battle of wits which I'm ashamed to admit I'm losing.
Not much can faze me these last few days, though. Even a hard day of work with barely any sleep after three bottles of wine hasn't rattled my cloud. There's a reason to hope the hall doesn't call with that out-of-town job that had my fingers crossed for so long. It's good to have reasons.
"You blew it, didn't you?" her countenance asks accusingly, thinking she knows the answer. If hatred could be bottled this gal would make me rich.
"Chill out," I say with an unpeelable smirk that's been greeting the recent minor misfortunes unscathed. "It's not what you think."
She shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and turns her eyes away. My words, as usual, won't convince her to stop being negative. In an effort to seem disinterested she angles her head toward the wall, but I can feel her dark eyes burning their way through my skin.
"And to think I let you touch me last night," I hear under her breath. My apparent failure to bring an acceptable guest again has her disgust running rampant. "Go light your Mexican saint candles, loser. One of them has to work."
I laugh at the over-ambitious attack on what's left of my dignity. This only infuriates her more. She hops into the hidden portion of her cage and scratches at the bedding as if it owes her money. Even though I'm chipper I'd rather not be accosted by her claws. The opportunity to feed her while she's preoccupied is graciously seized. Never pet a burning dog. Never tempt a spiteful rabbit.
As soon as she notices the food she returns to the visible portion of her cage. My job here is done, I've fed my furry charge, I turn and walk toward the door. I swear I hear mention of hoping she isn't right about the fate of her new friend. When I spin back around she's chewing furiously with a blade of hay twitching in her mouth like a misfit's cigarette.
"Goodnight, you," I tell her before closing the door.
The scent on the pillowcase brings me sweet dreams. There are worse things than waiting to drift off entwined.
Not much can faze me these last few days, though. Even a hard day of work with barely any sleep after three bottles of wine hasn't rattled my cloud. There's a reason to hope the hall doesn't call with that out-of-town job that had my fingers crossed for so long. It's good to have reasons.
"You blew it, didn't you?" her countenance asks accusingly, thinking she knows the answer. If hatred could be bottled this gal would make me rich.
"Chill out," I say with an unpeelable smirk that's been greeting the recent minor misfortunes unscathed. "It's not what you think."
She shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and turns her eyes away. My words, as usual, won't convince her to stop being negative. In an effort to seem disinterested she angles her head toward the wall, but I can feel her dark eyes burning their way through my skin.
"And to think I let you touch me last night," I hear under her breath. My apparent failure to bring an acceptable guest again has her disgust running rampant. "Go light your Mexican saint candles, loser. One of them has to work."
I laugh at the over-ambitious attack on what's left of my dignity. This only infuriates her more. She hops into the hidden portion of her cage and scratches at the bedding as if it owes her money. Even though I'm chipper I'd rather not be accosted by her claws. The opportunity to feed her while she's preoccupied is graciously seized. Never pet a burning dog. Never tempt a spiteful rabbit.
As soon as she notices the food she returns to the visible portion of her cage. My job here is done, I've fed my furry charge, I turn and walk toward the door. I swear I hear mention of hoping she isn't right about the fate of her new friend. When I spin back around she's chewing furiously with a blade of hay twitching in her mouth like a misfit's cigarette.
"Goodnight, you," I tell her before closing the door.
The scent on the pillowcase brings me sweet dreams. There are worse things than waiting to drift off entwined.
1.09.2012
One Lump or Two?
I must've been thirteen, fourteen
when the novelty first struck.
Shaving was new to me, and so was
that Gillette I still use to this day.
Dull blades and hackjobs
led to stinging nicks
that wouldn't stop bleeding
without bits of tissue.
Physical pain was worse
in those days, the other kind
only a seedling.
There must've been some secret, I thought
other than going down first
which has also paid off in spades.
Like much of the world
it didn't make sense.
For some reason then
it seemed wise to inquire.
"Dad, when do you throw
it out?" I asked, suddenly aware
that those mysterious black circles
on the vanity which had baffled me
since early childhood
were the result of his not wiping
the stubbly puddles when he was done.
"To be honest, when it starts to get rough."
My phone still hasn't rang.
Maybe that's what happened.
when the novelty first struck.
Shaving was new to me, and so was
that Gillette I still use to this day.
Dull blades and hackjobs
led to stinging nicks
that wouldn't stop bleeding
without bits of tissue.
Physical pain was worse
in those days, the other kind
only a seedling.
There must've been some secret, I thought
other than going down first
which has also paid off in spades.
Like much of the world
it didn't make sense.
For some reason then
it seemed wise to inquire.
"Dad, when do you throw
it out?" I asked, suddenly aware
that those mysterious black circles
on the vanity which had baffled me
since early childhood
were the result of his not wiping
the stubbly puddles when he was done.
"To be honest, when it starts to get rough."
My phone still hasn't rang.
Maybe that's what happened.
1.08.2012
Clandestine Arrangements of the Strictly Fictional Variety
Grace sucked cock like a scientist. There was always an air of professionalism about it, always some level of unbiased sanctity. Whether or not Harry was going to come, let alone how hard, did not seem to be an issue that crossed her mind when she was down in her lab. Each upstroke was an experiment in the name of cold pleasure, every drop of saliva an earnest attempt at keeping her subject aroused-- in this case the prick itself, not the one attached to it. Only a fool would try to stop her while the quota of her mouth was being filled.
Despite the base simplicity there were some rules to their game. Grace was a rare breed still too shy to strip naked with the lights blaring down, but to fellate was to live and life was to be seen. She'd rip his shorts off within seconds of entering the bedroom. Thankfully, and as an uncommon blessing from the ghosts of gods, he didn't have time to trip over his words before she was off to the races. Reaching for the light switch was a task too hard to venture. The edges of the mattress served as handlebars since her arms, her shoulders, the back of her bobbing head felt out of the question. That was too intimate. That showed attachment. There could be no mistake as to what Grace was doing. Hers was not a labor of love, but an acute fascination with phallus that caught Harry in its headlights. He didn't mind the little death, as the hated French called it. There were still some things worth suffering for and her lips were on that list. Sometimes.
Even in his pre-orgasmic state he often felt bad for something that he couldn't see: a remote possibility of having anything other than shallow sex with her. It was vain to think that she wanted more and he recalled her laughing at the mention of his guilt, but didn't all women yearn to be exclusive? The only thing specific to Grace's time below was the fact that she approached it unlike anyone he'd seen: a veritable pragmatist on her knees before the altar of unrequited lust. It could be any day that the saints would march in. Harry was to tumble down to darkest hell regardless. He was sure that its soundtrack would be laced with the voices of angels from a life too innocent to recognize as ever being his own. Thank God they couldn't see him now, at least not in the flesh.
When the lights and her pants finally went off there was a shift in roles and power. It was his show then, a rod to give a pounding. It was the one thing left that he could do whereas she, like the rest, had lowered herself through his loins. No longer was there any misconception over motives. When Harry came he told her by sprinkling on her bush. If her tonsils were the target he'd fetch a beverage afterward. The chivalry ended there, though, since a walk down called for dressing. Grace hung up her lab coat and proceeded to the stairwell. The passing through of doors left her instantly transmuted into every woman he'd already had and none he wanted to meet again.
If you're wondering who Harry is I can say he does the same.
Despite the base simplicity there were some rules to their game. Grace was a rare breed still too shy to strip naked with the lights blaring down, but to fellate was to live and life was to be seen. She'd rip his shorts off within seconds of entering the bedroom. Thankfully, and as an uncommon blessing from the ghosts of gods, he didn't have time to trip over his words before she was off to the races. Reaching for the light switch was a task too hard to venture. The edges of the mattress served as handlebars since her arms, her shoulders, the back of her bobbing head felt out of the question. That was too intimate. That showed attachment. There could be no mistake as to what Grace was doing. Hers was not a labor of love, but an acute fascination with phallus that caught Harry in its headlights. He didn't mind the little death, as the hated French called it. There were still some things worth suffering for and her lips were on that list. Sometimes.
Even in his pre-orgasmic state he often felt bad for something that he couldn't see: a remote possibility of having anything other than shallow sex with her. It was vain to think that she wanted more and he recalled her laughing at the mention of his guilt, but didn't all women yearn to be exclusive? The only thing specific to Grace's time below was the fact that she approached it unlike anyone he'd seen: a veritable pragmatist on her knees before the altar of unrequited lust. It could be any day that the saints would march in. Harry was to tumble down to darkest hell regardless. He was sure that its soundtrack would be laced with the voices of angels from a life too innocent to recognize as ever being his own. Thank God they couldn't see him now, at least not in the flesh.
When the lights and her pants finally went off there was a shift in roles and power. It was his show then, a rod to give a pounding. It was the one thing left that he could do whereas she, like the rest, had lowered herself through his loins. No longer was there any misconception over motives. When Harry came he told her by sprinkling on her bush. If her tonsils were the target he'd fetch a beverage afterward. The chivalry ended there, though, since a walk down called for dressing. Grace hung up her lab coat and proceeded to the stairwell. The passing through of doors left her instantly transmuted into every woman he'd already had and none he wanted to meet again.
If you're wondering who Harry is I can say he does the same.
1.01.2012
Stable Mate Conundrum
I can be selfless.
I can be shallow.
I can be told when to throw in the towel.
You can be ruthless.
You can be sage.
You can be happy with me off the page.
We can be lovers.
We can be friends.
We can be tricked into making amends.
I can be selfish.
I can suck marrow.
I can remember when all hips were narrow.
I can be shallow.
I can be told when to throw in the towel.
You can be ruthless.
You can be sage.
You can be happy with me off the page.
We can be lovers.
We can be friends.
We can be tricked into making amends.
I can be selfish.
I can suck marrow.
I can remember when all hips were narrow.
12.27.2011
The Strangest Science
"Why are you getting dressed?" she asks him. It's pitifully obvious that she's concerned about him backing out of the deal and leaving before morning. Her promise of sunrise coming through the window at the head of her bed wasn't enticing. To him it was a threat.
"I'm not," he gruffly replies, throat hoarse from exhaustion, too many cigarettes and a loud second climax. "I'm only putting my shorts on." He knows his answer won't suffice. He knows a lot more than he lets on, but doesn't let it stop him.
As predicted, his explanation doesn't satisfy her as well as various parts of his body did. They were both naked a minute ago while they laid waste to the sanctity of her bedroom. What changed? She pulls the top sheet over the dark form of her exposed body. A swimmer once; he can tell from the shoulders, arms, hips. It's got to be the fifth one he's landed. The type must gravitate toward him. There were a few state champs in the mix. One broke the other's record, but he never had the heart to tell either. It was strange seeing both of their names on the wall at the high school pool when he worked that summer renovation job. Irony's never lost on the observant.
"But I'm naked. And what if in the middle of the night we want to..." but he doesn't let her finish.
"But what if in the middle of the night someone busts the door down," he jokes. "Have you ever seen a man with no clothes on win a fight? It's unlikely." There's a guy in his union who took a drunken sucker-punch in the back of the head while using a urinal at a bar. As soon as his face bounced off the tile he spun around and swung at his assailant, his arm not the only appendage flailing about in the dim light of the men's room. Who won the fight was never part of the story, but it was enough to make him put the bottle down for good. For better. For best. Looking at the towering, lanky whisp of a man you'd never guess he was a barroom brawler. It's the ones who don't look the part you've got to worry about. It's the innocent girls who curl the most toes behind the blinds. This broad doesn't have any. The neighbors must watch with popcorn. He feels bold enough to ask her. There's nothing to lose anymore. He's gained the highest prize twice over. A dismissal would come as a blessing.
"There's an old ex-convict who lives across the street. He told me he saw that I was cutting people's hair and asked if I'd do his. When he realized how bad it sounded that he'd been looking through my windows he tried to back-track, but it only made it worse."
"So did you cut his hair?"
"Yeah. And he came back to tighten the bolts on my table and chairs afterward since he noticed they were wobbly."
It seems the perfect introduction to an episode of a syndicated detective show. Creep befriends attractive young neighbor. Strumpet disappears. Investigators beat around the obvious bush for the course of an hour minus five commercials. Mystery is finally solved. Justice system fails again through legal loophole regarding collection of evidence. The world is still a dangerous place. Dinner was digested more pleasantly somehow, though. The set is turned off, the alarm clock is set. America goes to bed with a million less brain cells.
"I hope the camera doesn't really put on ten pounds," he says as he waves out the window at the building facing her apartment. She coughs out an accidental laugh and slaps his hand playfully. It almost feels like they know each other for a fleeting moment. The illusion dissipates as fast as it came.
She rolls one leg over him at a time and gets up to use the bathroom. The elastic waistband of his boxers occupy his thumbs as he lays there uncomfortably. It's a relief that she didn't question it further. Forget about kindness. Kill them with laughter, even at your expense. The truth is that he can't feel safe if unclothed in that vulnerable state. There had only been two he could sleep next to naked. He's unsure which was the bigger mistake, trusting them or letting them go.
A familiar chorus plays in the living room where the internet radio was left on for ambience and remains for unwanted nostalgia. "But the truth is I miss you," condemns him in that nasally British croon which spat out four albums, three of which were decent. He can't take the torture, throws the covers off to go nix the noise. When he returns from his silencing trip to the living room he hears the taboo sound of water falling into water through the thin bathroom door and wonders how much of him is leaving her body. All of it, he hopes. There's no room for attachment in a hermit's crusade. It was a pleasant change of scenery, but if home is where the heart is then he lives in another's hands.
By the time she gets done removing her contacts he's already snoring on his stomach, the way he's slept since infancy. His underwear seems higher than when she left the room. It's too dark for her to notice that he's drooling on the pillow. She dozes off shortly afterward, their backs just barely touching. It's the most that one can ask for when compromised with a stranger.
He'll be gone before her alarm clock goes off at 8 a.m. That sunrise won't get the chance to sting his weary eyes. He knows himself too well to risk that. He's working on knowing the world. Their bodies differ in size and shape, but mostly feel the same; their minds are occupied with the wrong questions, let alone answers; their hearts leave much to be desired even though, unlike their lips, they're in the right places. Still, the search fills the days that work used to dictate. It's a tiring job that he reluctantly accepts.
"I'm not," he gruffly replies, throat hoarse from exhaustion, too many cigarettes and a loud second climax. "I'm only putting my shorts on." He knows his answer won't suffice. He knows a lot more than he lets on, but doesn't let it stop him.
As predicted, his explanation doesn't satisfy her as well as various parts of his body did. They were both naked a minute ago while they laid waste to the sanctity of her bedroom. What changed? She pulls the top sheet over the dark form of her exposed body. A swimmer once; he can tell from the shoulders, arms, hips. It's got to be the fifth one he's landed. The type must gravitate toward him. There were a few state champs in the mix. One broke the other's record, but he never had the heart to tell either. It was strange seeing both of their names on the wall at the high school pool when he worked that summer renovation job. Irony's never lost on the observant.
"But I'm naked. And what if in the middle of the night we want to..." but he doesn't let her finish.
"But what if in the middle of the night someone busts the door down," he jokes. "Have you ever seen a man with no clothes on win a fight? It's unlikely." There's a guy in his union who took a drunken sucker-punch in the back of the head while using a urinal at a bar. As soon as his face bounced off the tile he spun around and swung at his assailant, his arm not the only appendage flailing about in the dim light of the men's room. Who won the fight was never part of the story, but it was enough to make him put the bottle down for good. For better. For best. Looking at the towering, lanky whisp of a man you'd never guess he was a barroom brawler. It's the ones who don't look the part you've got to worry about. It's the innocent girls who curl the most toes behind the blinds. This broad doesn't have any. The neighbors must watch with popcorn. He feels bold enough to ask her. There's nothing to lose anymore. He's gained the highest prize twice over. A dismissal would come as a blessing.
"There's an old ex-convict who lives across the street. He told me he saw that I was cutting people's hair and asked if I'd do his. When he realized how bad it sounded that he'd been looking through my windows he tried to back-track, but it only made it worse."
"So did you cut his hair?"
"Yeah. And he came back to tighten the bolts on my table and chairs afterward since he noticed they were wobbly."
It seems the perfect introduction to an episode of a syndicated detective show. Creep befriends attractive young neighbor. Strumpet disappears. Investigators beat around the obvious bush for the course of an hour minus five commercials. Mystery is finally solved. Justice system fails again through legal loophole regarding collection of evidence. The world is still a dangerous place. Dinner was digested more pleasantly somehow, though. The set is turned off, the alarm clock is set. America goes to bed with a million less brain cells.
"I hope the camera doesn't really put on ten pounds," he says as he waves out the window at the building facing her apartment. She coughs out an accidental laugh and slaps his hand playfully. It almost feels like they know each other for a fleeting moment. The illusion dissipates as fast as it came.
She rolls one leg over him at a time and gets up to use the bathroom. The elastic waistband of his boxers occupy his thumbs as he lays there uncomfortably. It's a relief that she didn't question it further. Forget about kindness. Kill them with laughter, even at your expense. The truth is that he can't feel safe if unclothed in that vulnerable state. There had only been two he could sleep next to naked. He's unsure which was the bigger mistake, trusting them or letting them go.
A familiar chorus plays in the living room where the internet radio was left on for ambience and remains for unwanted nostalgia. "But the truth is I miss you," condemns him in that nasally British croon which spat out four albums, three of which were decent. He can't take the torture, throws the covers off to go nix the noise. When he returns from his silencing trip to the living room he hears the taboo sound of water falling into water through the thin bathroom door and wonders how much of him is leaving her body. All of it, he hopes. There's no room for attachment in a hermit's crusade. It was a pleasant change of scenery, but if home is where the heart is then he lives in another's hands.
By the time she gets done removing her contacts he's already snoring on his stomach, the way he's slept since infancy. His underwear seems higher than when she left the room. It's too dark for her to notice that he's drooling on the pillow. She dozes off shortly afterward, their backs just barely touching. It's the most that one can ask for when compromised with a stranger.
He'll be gone before her alarm clock goes off at 8 a.m. That sunrise won't get the chance to sting his weary eyes. He knows himself too well to risk that. He's working on knowing the world. Their bodies differ in size and shape, but mostly feel the same; their minds are occupied with the wrong questions, let alone answers; their hearts leave much to be desired even though, unlike their lips, they're in the right places. Still, the search fills the days that work used to dictate. It's a tiring job that he reluctantly accepts.
12.22.2011
Found and Bound Thermopylae
"Open up or we're breeching the door!" yelled the SWAT cop in Leonard's hallway. There were probably five or six more behind him. It seemed like a shallow threat. All threats were shallow in one way or another if Leonard stopped and thought about it. He didn't like to think about it. It made his head hurt worse than it already did. The voices made so many threats that Leonard had to tune them out somehow. He preferred using classical music, it allowed him to write without bias.
"We'll give you to the count of ten," barked the team leader again. It was hard to respect a man who needed a half-dozen heavily armed thugs standing behind him in order to have the nerve to give orders. Leonard yawned, lit what he figured would be his last cigarette. Funny, he thought, this is the first time I've smoked inside this apartment. It was also not a count of ten, but a countdown from that ominous number. Maybe the commander had read the manual wrong, or at least that part of the script. Leonard took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. He'd never done that before either.
"Don't make us do this, sir," pleaded the adrenaline fueled policeman. Leonard could hear the fear in his voice. He recalled what that quavering tone had sounded like. "We don't want to have to neutralize any threats. Ten..." They must've read up on him, known what he was capable of doing if cornered by the wrong pack of wolves. Leonard was a dog, but they fought just as hard when desperate. He choked on the smoke in his lungs. "Neutralizing threats" was another great euphemism to come from modern-day warfare, much like "engaging targets". Leonard had dabbled in both when called upon to do so. In the flash of a shotgun shell primer he'd be reduced to a target, a sheet of paper, something thin and easy to perforate. He hated what politicians had done with the language he'd loved so dearly. He hated a lot of things and people, but somehow the members of the uniformed hit squad sent to neutralize the threat in Apartment 11 weren't among them. They were only doing their jobs. Leonard missed regular work and admired an ambitious career man.
"Nine, eight, seven," came almost on top of each other. The safeties of various firearms clicked off in the dim light of the tenement corridor. Leonard could hear them through the drywall. It reminded him of flashbulbs going off during a photoshoot of yore. There would be no pictures taken at this crime scene. The right folks would see to that. It was, after all, an election year. Messes of that nature hurt men at the polls. Enough men had hurt due to Leonard's decisions. Well, mostly women in the civilian world, he thought to himself. That list of poor girls grew exponentially. He'd find himself inside one of them eventually. It was easier to stick to sins committed on American soil, though the atrocities were there on both sides of the drink; the atrocities and the victims. He pictured a few of the local variety and wondered if they'd be surprised or not when they heard the news of his demise. He figured they wouldn't. Like most dogs, Leonard was shamelessly predictable.
"Six" and "Five" were more reasonably spaced. A firmness returned to the mouthpiece's timbre, perhaps from the weight of the steel in his hands that he suddenly knew he'd be using. Leonard remembered the feeling too well. Men are born killers and fall into the role quite easily. It's an instinct that can't be bred out of the gene pool. He'd witnessed it overseas. It was appalling how vicious his brethren could be. Those women he'd wronged were replaced in his mind's eye by men he fought and bled next to in the name of a nation that didn't understand. Ramirez was an animal. Slaughtered anything that prayed to the east three times a day without mercy whenever there were no superior eyes watching. Leonard remembered when Rammy took his bullet. Mysteriously, though not written in the official report, it had come from behind him. No one in their platoon asked anything. Leonard was decorated for the skirmish and transferred out to a support position. It was one of the last breaks Uncle Sam would give him. It was one of the few favors he'd incurred after twenty. Sometimes the gods smiled down on the hopeless. Most times it rained holy urine.
"Four. We've only got three left," stated the voice of authority too obviously to be feared. The black gloves were tightening around pistol grips and shotun pumps. There may have also been a few mild erections. Those were the guys you avoided at the bar.
"I've got fifteen," Leonard whispered through the butt of his cigarette as he racked the slide of his Glock, not sure if he'd be able to use it this way. After the ninety-day debriefing that the government mandated before sending him home he swore to never raise a barrel to a two-legged creature again. Three months' time to reprogram an assassin. It seemed the most optimistic estimate going. He'd fought, and in many days died, for his country. What could they begrudge him now other than a closet's worth of broken hearts? The cigarette was barely halfway done, but Leonard smashed it out on the coffee table in front of him. He set the Glock down next to his right thigh. A warrior decided when to fight. A dog was forced into action. Leonard would go out like the former. The sound of Axl Rose begging his mother to bury his pistols in the ground rang in his aching skull. As expected in any stressful situation Leonard laughed at the irony. He wrote once, long ago, that he wouldn't mind dying if the right song was playing. Caution should've been taken in the wish-making process. Prophecies, it seemed anymore, were as self-fulfilling as masturbation.
"Three, two," but One was interrupted by distant shouts from a bullhorn down the stairwell.
"Fall back!" cried an officer with a tinge of terror in his throat. "Wrong coordinates." He meant to say "Wrong building" or "Wrong apartment" or "Wrong anything-else-more-appropriate", but in the new age of law enforcement things were strangely paramilitary. Coordinates, especially wrong ones in Leonard's mind, only existed in places with hard-to-pronounce names depicted by satellite maps.
A cacophony of radio activity filled the building as what sounded like dozens of feet marched down the steps. Amateurs, Leonard thought as he dropped the magazine from his pistol and popped the round out of the chamber, catching the brass-cased bullet in mid-air with a swipe of his left hand. He never heard them turn their safeties back on before leaving. There was always something wrong with the world and the scenes played out in it. This frustrated him to no end. Why couldn't he call a few of the shots outside of his third-floor apartment?
Leonard walked across the room and opened a window to let the smoke out into the crisp November air. It was no time to start living slovenly. There were crucial matters at hand. She was waiting for him in the bedroom. She'd almost missed her shot at immortality. Leonard wouldn't deny her that. He'd fought too hard to come home and wouldn't disappoint.
"We'll give you to the count of ten," barked the team leader again. It was hard to respect a man who needed a half-dozen heavily armed thugs standing behind him in order to have the nerve to give orders. Leonard yawned, lit what he figured would be his last cigarette. Funny, he thought, this is the first time I've smoked inside this apartment. It was also not a count of ten, but a countdown from that ominous number. Maybe the commander had read the manual wrong, or at least that part of the script. Leonard took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. He'd never done that before either.
"Don't make us do this, sir," pleaded the adrenaline fueled policeman. Leonard could hear the fear in his voice. He recalled what that quavering tone had sounded like. "We don't want to have to neutralize any threats. Ten..." They must've read up on him, known what he was capable of doing if cornered by the wrong pack of wolves. Leonard was a dog, but they fought just as hard when desperate. He choked on the smoke in his lungs. "Neutralizing threats" was another great euphemism to come from modern-day warfare, much like "engaging targets". Leonard had dabbled in both when called upon to do so. In the flash of a shotgun shell primer he'd be reduced to a target, a sheet of paper, something thin and easy to perforate. He hated what politicians had done with the language he'd loved so dearly. He hated a lot of things and people, but somehow the members of the uniformed hit squad sent to neutralize the threat in Apartment 11 weren't among them. They were only doing their jobs. Leonard missed regular work and admired an ambitious career man.
"Nine, eight, seven," came almost on top of each other. The safeties of various firearms clicked off in the dim light of the tenement corridor. Leonard could hear them through the drywall. It reminded him of flashbulbs going off during a photoshoot of yore. There would be no pictures taken at this crime scene. The right folks would see to that. It was, after all, an election year. Messes of that nature hurt men at the polls. Enough men had hurt due to Leonard's decisions. Well, mostly women in the civilian world, he thought to himself. That list of poor girls grew exponentially. He'd find himself inside one of them eventually. It was easier to stick to sins committed on American soil, though the atrocities were there on both sides of the drink; the atrocities and the victims. He pictured a few of the local variety and wondered if they'd be surprised or not when they heard the news of his demise. He figured they wouldn't. Like most dogs, Leonard was shamelessly predictable.
"Six" and "Five" were more reasonably spaced. A firmness returned to the mouthpiece's timbre, perhaps from the weight of the steel in his hands that he suddenly knew he'd be using. Leonard remembered the feeling too well. Men are born killers and fall into the role quite easily. It's an instinct that can't be bred out of the gene pool. He'd witnessed it overseas. It was appalling how vicious his brethren could be. Those women he'd wronged were replaced in his mind's eye by men he fought and bled next to in the name of a nation that didn't understand. Ramirez was an animal. Slaughtered anything that prayed to the east three times a day without mercy whenever there were no superior eyes watching. Leonard remembered when Rammy took his bullet. Mysteriously, though not written in the official report, it had come from behind him. No one in their platoon asked anything. Leonard was decorated for the skirmish and transferred out to a support position. It was one of the last breaks Uncle Sam would give him. It was one of the few favors he'd incurred after twenty. Sometimes the gods smiled down on the hopeless. Most times it rained holy urine.
"Four. We've only got three left," stated the voice of authority too obviously to be feared. The black gloves were tightening around pistol grips and shotun pumps. There may have also been a few mild erections. Those were the guys you avoided at the bar.
"I've got fifteen," Leonard whispered through the butt of his cigarette as he racked the slide of his Glock, not sure if he'd be able to use it this way. After the ninety-day debriefing that the government mandated before sending him home he swore to never raise a barrel to a two-legged creature again. Three months' time to reprogram an assassin. It seemed the most optimistic estimate going. He'd fought, and in many days died, for his country. What could they begrudge him now other than a closet's worth of broken hearts? The cigarette was barely halfway done, but Leonard smashed it out on the coffee table in front of him. He set the Glock down next to his right thigh. A warrior decided when to fight. A dog was forced into action. Leonard would go out like the former. The sound of Axl Rose begging his mother to bury his pistols in the ground rang in his aching skull. As expected in any stressful situation Leonard laughed at the irony. He wrote once, long ago, that he wouldn't mind dying if the right song was playing. Caution should've been taken in the wish-making process. Prophecies, it seemed anymore, were as self-fulfilling as masturbation.
"Three, two," but One was interrupted by distant shouts from a bullhorn down the stairwell.
"Fall back!" cried an officer with a tinge of terror in his throat. "Wrong coordinates." He meant to say "Wrong building" or "Wrong apartment" or "Wrong anything-else-more-appropriate", but in the new age of law enforcement things were strangely paramilitary. Coordinates, especially wrong ones in Leonard's mind, only existed in places with hard-to-pronounce names depicted by satellite maps.
A cacophony of radio activity filled the building as what sounded like dozens of feet marched down the steps. Amateurs, Leonard thought as he dropped the magazine from his pistol and popped the round out of the chamber, catching the brass-cased bullet in mid-air with a swipe of his left hand. He never heard them turn their safeties back on before leaving. There was always something wrong with the world and the scenes played out in it. This frustrated him to no end. Why couldn't he call a few of the shots outside of his third-floor apartment?
Leonard walked across the room and opened a window to let the smoke out into the crisp November air. It was no time to start living slovenly. There were crucial matters at hand. She was waiting for him in the bedroom. She'd almost missed her shot at immortality. Leonard wouldn't deny her that. He'd fought too hard to come home and wouldn't disappoint.
12.21.2011
Conductor, There Must Be Some Mistake
They ride the same train
and don't even know it.
It's almost a sin to smirk at that fact.
Those bodies I've been in
share seats and rub elbows
while bouncing along
eyes fixed on the Hudson.
I wonder if one's held the door
for the other like some trite
video for a song long forgotten.
Then it dawns on me
that the doors are automatic.
My fantasy's deflated.
I go back to swirling ice cubes.
This is what happens when rush
and cocktail hours collide.
and don't even know it.
It's almost a sin to smirk at that fact.
Those bodies I've been in
share seats and rub elbows
while bouncing along
eyes fixed on the Hudson.
I wonder if one's held the door
for the other like some trite
video for a song long forgotten.
Then it dawns on me
that the doors are automatic.
My fantasy's deflated.
I go back to swirling ice cubes.
This is what happens when rush
and cocktail hours collide.
12.19.2011
deep thoughts with dave vargas
the friendly halfrican hipster (not half rican like yours truly, but part black) who lives below me texted me this evening. offered to give me some chili that he and his lovely ladyfriend made in exchange for a cigarette. i, unashamed of being the building's charity case, agreed to said arrangement. met him out front for a smoke, shot the shit about how ludicrous the fairer sex is, gave him one for the road, and took my little tupperware of chili upstairs to my fortress. he texted me ten minutes later asking how it was; the chili, not the bachelor cave. being that i hadn't eaten it yet but wanted to be polite i said it was amazing and thanked him again. (white lies are ok sometimes.) my creative side went a little overboard by adding that the beer i selected for the late-night mini-meal complemented it quite nicely and my palate was overjoyed. (it's the embellishing that gets you in trouble.) the conversation should've ended there, but it didn't. he went on to inform me that turkey meat was used in the making of the chili. at this point i felt misled, even though i'd fibbed as well. in hindsight, i should've responded by frantically saying i'm deathly allergic to poultry, then flopped around on my floor until it sounded like i was about to crash through his ceiling. after laying motionless for awhile he'd probably come upstairs and bang on my door to see if i was alive or not. i'd just laugh and they there on the faux hardwood floor until the conversation which he'd inevitably be having with his charming better half began mentioning key words like 'paramedics', '911', 'manslaughter', and 'alibi'. then i'd yank my door open really abruptly and shout 'just kidding!' i think this would be hilarious, and no i haven't been drinking. but hey, here he is, texting me yet again tonight to inform me that the bartender i'd sign my worldly possessions over to for a shot at marital bliss is currently slinging drinks from behind the oak at the dive next door. my heart says yes, but my wallet says no. it's a quiet night for me, perhaps interspersed with some hypothetical practical jokes at the expense of friendly neighbors. yes, clearly i need help, though if you actually read all this you may be worse off than i am. my condolences.
12.18.2011
Jilling Off Linguistically
It doesn't take much faked goading
for him to recite his latest line.
I wait for the rest of it
that doesn't come.
Time freezes as I try to control my face.
I can't. Never could. Bad liar. Better friend.
My mouth is part of it, which
in turn controls my fingers
that so often get me whacked.
"This is why Bukowski didn't roll
with other writers," I think to myself.
It's like watching the home video
of some self-absorbed whiner's abortion.
("Hypocrite," they're thinking now.
At least I only hang my trash out there.
They can choose to rubber-neck
or drive by.)
His plaintive countenance begs for validation.
My guts churn, but not due to the whiskey.
"It's very raw," I say with conviction. Raw
as in undercooked, incomplete, not ready
to breathe air in the open, critical world yet.
"I like it," and this time I mean the cocktail
swimming in my stomach that enhances my
poor acting skills. Most have some strengths.
We all have our weaknesses. The luckiest slobs
mask the one with the other.
I just keep on drinking and try not to hurt
feelings. At some point during the night
he'll buy me a round. It's too early to
burn bridges. I'm not even seeing double yet
and the hounds don't look like wives.
The ice clinks against my glass
as I pray that no more gems are spewed.
My muzzle has a shelf life.
The truth shall set them free
of any delusions of grandeur.
Stay out of the ring if you can't take the hits.
You do this 'cause you have to
or you don't do it all.
Make the old man proud
for once in your life
like you'll never get the chance to again.
Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.
Give him enough words and he'll do the same.
And time?
What do you know of time
other than how to waste it?
for him to recite his latest line.
I wait for the rest of it
that doesn't come.
Time freezes as I try to control my face.
I can't. Never could. Bad liar. Better friend.
My mouth is part of it, which
in turn controls my fingers
that so often get me whacked.
"This is why Bukowski didn't roll
with other writers," I think to myself.
It's like watching the home video
of some self-absorbed whiner's abortion.
("Hypocrite," they're thinking now.
At least I only hang my trash out there.
They can choose to rubber-neck
or drive by.)
His plaintive countenance begs for validation.
My guts churn, but not due to the whiskey.
"It's very raw," I say with conviction. Raw
as in undercooked, incomplete, not ready
to breathe air in the open, critical world yet.
"I like it," and this time I mean the cocktail
swimming in my stomach that enhances my
poor acting skills. Most have some strengths.
We all have our weaknesses. The luckiest slobs
mask the one with the other.
I just keep on drinking and try not to hurt
feelings. At some point during the night
he'll buy me a round. It's too early to
burn bridges. I'm not even seeing double yet
and the hounds don't look like wives.
The ice clinks against my glass
as I pray that no more gems are spewed.
My muzzle has a shelf life.
The truth shall set them free
of any delusions of grandeur.
Stay out of the ring if you can't take the hits.
You do this 'cause you have to
or you don't do it all.
Make the old man proud
for once in your life
like you'll never get the chance to again.
Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.
Give him enough words and he'll do the same.
And time?
What do you know of time
other than how to waste it?
12.17.2011
Quiver
Some were standing
others crouched
but the sentiment
stayed the same:
the awkward mix
of fascination
and trauma
associated with
those first glints of death.
The animal, whatever it was:
cat, squirrel, puppy without tags--
laid motionless under
a makeshift paper blanket.
"Here, use this. Don't touch it,"
I could almost hear a parent saying.
The headlights of a van
brought the breath of the young crowd
into view, the cold December night
as good as any for a living thing to die.
When the traffic light turned green
it took a beep from behind me
to bring my focus to the road.
There were far more valuable things
being learned on that sidewalk
than in any classroom or tavern
that those kids would ever enter.
I let my foot off the brake
and scanned the faces of the boys
on the outskirts of the mob.
They were smoking. They were sophomores.
They had sworn they knew it all.
Been there. Done that.
Have the scars and poems to prove it.
Tomorrow, when the blood stains
on the concrete silently remain
the passers by will wonder
what transpired on that sidewalk.
The answer, though they won't know
it, is growth.
others crouched
but the sentiment
stayed the same:
the awkward mix
of fascination
and trauma
associated with
those first glints of death.
The animal, whatever it was:
cat, squirrel, puppy without tags--
laid motionless under
a makeshift paper blanket.
"Here, use this. Don't touch it,"
I could almost hear a parent saying.
The headlights of a van
brought the breath of the young crowd
into view, the cold December night
as good as any for a living thing to die.
When the traffic light turned green
it took a beep from behind me
to bring my focus to the road.
There were far more valuable things
being learned on that sidewalk
than in any classroom or tavern
that those kids would ever enter.
I let my foot off the brake
and scanned the faces of the boys
on the outskirts of the mob.
They were smoking. They were sophomores.
They had sworn they knew it all.
Been there. Done that.
Have the scars and poems to prove it.
Tomorrow, when the blood stains
on the concrete silently remain
the passers by will wonder
what transpired on that sidewalk.
The answer, though they won't know
it, is growth.
12.16.2011
Poland is for Lovers
He spins the globe
in his living room
and she stops it with her finger.
She guesses wrong at the continent.
He asks her to name them. She can't.
Calls Africa part of South America.
China and Asia are separate.
Still can't come up with all seven
let alone point them out.
That's when he knows it's over
in more ways than he'd like
to acknowledge. "Some people
major in geography," he snides
"but that seems so cut and dry."
It doesn't sink in that he's
trying to make her feel better
for her lack of fourth-grade
social studies skills.
She'll never know that he thrives
on what's gray, uncut, and wet:
that blurry interface where
discernment reigns supreme.
It's only a matter of time now.
The sacrifice sharpens the daggers.
"Are you on...?" he tries to ask
but is blatantly cut off mid-sentence.
"Don't do it," she responds
putting an oddly playful inflection
on the second word.
It shocks him how many their age
don't bother anymore, and don't
even say so unless asked. Maybe
they're looking to start something, too.
Maybe they're just as lonely.
She lifts the back of her thigh
up with her left hand
granting further access.
Deeper is better in their eyes
unless it's a matter of substance.
He knows what he must do.
He does it.
Both of their minds are elsewhere
by the time it's said and done, only he's
not the one waking up in five hours.
Their farewell in the doorway
may be their last encounter.
"You can stay," he lies
for good measure.
"I have to let my dogs out,"
she graciously declines
following it up with
"But thanks, it was worth it."
When he hears her hit the stairwell
he turns the three locks of his door.
There's something rude about
not waiting until they're out of earshot.
"Worth it," he regurgitates
like last night's bad salami.
None of them can speak of value.
It's a stab in love's cruel dark.
"A dog" one called him recently
but he fancies himself a traveler.
There are many places he'll never see
and many more he wishes he hadn't.
The globe stares from the bookshelf.
It was better when covered in dust.
in his living room
and she stops it with her finger.
She guesses wrong at the continent.
He asks her to name them. She can't.
Calls Africa part of South America.
China and Asia are separate.
Still can't come up with all seven
let alone point them out.
That's when he knows it's over
in more ways than he'd like
to acknowledge. "Some people
major in geography," he snides
"but that seems so cut and dry."
It doesn't sink in that he's
trying to make her feel better
for her lack of fourth-grade
social studies skills.
She'll never know that he thrives
on what's gray, uncut, and wet:
that blurry interface where
discernment reigns supreme.
It's only a matter of time now.
The sacrifice sharpens the daggers.
"Are you on...?" he tries to ask
but is blatantly cut off mid-sentence.
"Don't do it," she responds
putting an oddly playful inflection
on the second word.
It shocks him how many their age
don't bother anymore, and don't
even say so unless asked. Maybe
they're looking to start something, too.
Maybe they're just as lonely.
She lifts the back of her thigh
up with her left hand
granting further access.
Deeper is better in their eyes
unless it's a matter of substance.
He knows what he must do.
He does it.
Both of their minds are elsewhere
by the time it's said and done, only he's
not the one waking up in five hours.
Their farewell in the doorway
may be their last encounter.
"You can stay," he lies
for good measure.
"I have to let my dogs out,"
she graciously declines
following it up with
"But thanks, it was worth it."
When he hears her hit the stairwell
he turns the three locks of his door.
There's something rude about
not waiting until they're out of earshot.
"Worth it," he regurgitates
like last night's bad salami.
None of them can speak of value.
It's a stab in love's cruel dark.
"A dog" one called him recently
but he fancies himself a traveler.
There are many places he'll never see
and many more he wishes he hadn't.
The globe stares from the bookshelf.
It was better when covered in dust.
12.14.2011
Behumbugged
Crack a porter near
the window, hear a she-cat
get it good.
That tom's got it made
down there in the alley.
When he's done
he's really done.
Make her scream
and make her leave.
Some boyfriend
in the hallway
hums a Christmas carol
more loudly than can
be stomached.
The suds choke
past Adam's Apple
like medicinal black tar.
Those cats don't bring wine.
They don't want to save
any wounded birds, either--
maybe eat them, if anything
and be done with the matter.
"Not tonight, Romeo,"
she expertly plays her rebuttal.
It's healthy to lose so
dare I say
poetically
once in a great blue moon.
A thick hot Bloody Mary
flung your boy back in the game.
That pending divorce called up again
asked if things had changed
though, of course, they hadn't:
still two retired whores.
The mattress left the brick
while we got lost in the lie.
A room that had been frigid
was suddenly a sauna.
"Some beds are too big,"
is argued. "Endless springs forever
with no edge in arm's reach."
She disagrees and croons a tune
unlike that hipster's yuletide hymn.
It took some yawns to drop the hint
that the doorknob needed polish.
Another drink was in order
but didn't make it to the tab.
There's mercy in the dance
if you stick to all twelve steps.
This ain't the song of a coal miner's wife.
It's more like the life
after party.
the window, hear a she-cat
get it good.
That tom's got it made
down there in the alley.
When he's done
he's really done.
Make her scream
and make her leave.
Some boyfriend
in the hallway
hums a Christmas carol
more loudly than can
be stomached.
The suds choke
past Adam's Apple
like medicinal black tar.
Those cats don't bring wine.
They don't want to save
any wounded birds, either--
maybe eat them, if anything
and be done with the matter.
"Not tonight, Romeo,"
she expertly plays her rebuttal.
It's healthy to lose so
dare I say
poetically
once in a great blue moon.
A thick hot Bloody Mary
flung your boy back in the game.
That pending divorce called up again
asked if things had changed
though, of course, they hadn't:
still two retired whores.
The mattress left the brick
while we got lost in the lie.
A room that had been frigid
was suddenly a sauna.
"Some beds are too big,"
is argued. "Endless springs forever
with no edge in arm's reach."
She disagrees and croons a tune
unlike that hipster's yuletide hymn.
It took some yawns to drop the hint
that the doorknob needed polish.
Another drink was in order
but didn't make it to the tab.
There's mercy in the dance
if you stick to all twelve steps.
This ain't the song of a coal miner's wife.
It's more like the life
after party.
12.12.2011
Impressment and 1812
There are men who drive vans
two of them, to be exact
who've turned their heads
from traffic to tell me
I can't go back.
"There are worse things
than being lonely,"
the blue collar sages promise.
I even trust the one
who hasn't given me
a company shirt yet.
Maybe I trust him more.
He lets me wear my own name.
Her change of address
confirmation form was delivered
by my sadistic postman last week.
I tossed it without
the argument
my daylight half
wanted to have.
There is freedom
in an emptier mailbox.
It'll give him less reason
to crumple every envelope
before stuffing it in there.
I don't know what took her
so long to make the alteration
but then perhaps I do
and the nocturnal me
can't blame her:
The Battle of New Orleans
was fought weeks after
the treaty was signed in France.
two of them, to be exact
who've turned their heads
from traffic to tell me
I can't go back.
"There are worse things
than being lonely,"
the blue collar sages promise.
I even trust the one
who hasn't given me
a company shirt yet.
Maybe I trust him more.
He lets me wear my own name.
Her change of address
confirmation form was delivered
by my sadistic postman last week.
I tossed it without
the argument
my daylight half
wanted to have.
There is freedom
in an emptier mailbox.
It'll give him less reason
to crumple every envelope
before stuffing it in there.
I don't know what took her
so long to make the alteration
but then perhaps I do
and the nocturnal me
can't blame her:
The Battle of New Orleans
was fought weeks after
the treaty was signed in France.
12.04.2011
A Trip to the Mall to Remind Me of Why I Don't Make Them
There couldn't've been
a deeper puddle for me
to step in anywhere in
that miserable parking lot
other than the miniature lake
which greeted my feet like
an unwelcome mat
upon stepping out of my truck.
I lit up a menthol and made
my squishy-soled way to
the northernmost entrance
figuring that heat rises
in Hell as well and I should
get it over with promptly.
When the last drag left my lungs
I entered the portal and walked
all the way to the opposite end
in search of an album released
by a new band with some songs
that almost seemed palatable.
It wasn't there, and neither were
any of the other four records
I sought out in the racks.
The industry's planning on
phasing out tangible musical media
in the hopes of forcing online sales
and I'm its first victim
with my massive CD binders
that'll grow mold in the back seat.
The Loss Management Specialist
or Theft Prevention Technician
or Profit Retention Agent
or whatever the hell
they call security guards
in retail stores these days
looked me in the eyes
and bade me farewell
his sweaty buzzcut seeming less
imposing for a moment.
I didn't fall for the ruse
and stuffed my hands deeper
into the pockets of my sweatshirt
to make him wonder if he'd
done his job that time.
The next stop on my short list
was the chain where I buy
my boxers exclusively.
There's something about
the combination of their
fabric, stitching, array of selection
and perpetual sale price
that draw me to them.
A creature of habit;
who would've thought?
I found three pair
that suited my taste and
walked to the register.
There he was, in gunslinger
flick slow-motion, the tiny
Filipino who'd haunted
my dreams once or twice.
He was still sleeping with
one of the Great Ones
when we started seeing
each other years back.
It didn't take much to pry
her out of his Gollumesque
little clutches, but it still
bothered me knowing
where he'd been, and how.
She also had a habit of giving too
much detail. Maybe she wanted
to make me jealous by recounting
what they'd done in fits of blind
and meaningless passion while
I was still floundering on the fence.
There's no doubt now how I should've
played that out. Given fourth and long
today I'd go for the Hail Mary.
The Flip and I locked eyes briefly
as he headed toward the fitting room.
Something tells me he felt the heat in
my stare and was probably befuddled
as to its fuel. That's how it works
with these green-eyed monsters.
The latter one always despises the former.
I paid for my undies and let that dog lie.
Still seething from the sighting
I pounded the marble floor that
much harder en route to the exit
and safety of my pick-up. The mall
had filled itself with walking excrement
and women who'd never sleep with me.
Every step became a struggle. Window shoppers
tiptoed in my path, forcing me to weave.
The gauntlet had been laid out
for the defeated noontime shopper.
At one point behind me a flustered father
told his six-year-old son that he'd have to
walk the rest of the way, that he'd become
too heavy to carry, that he, essentially
was all on his own. It reminded me
of riding my dad's shoulders as a kid
his head between my knees, his hands
holding my ankles. I felt his long strides
in the form of gentle bounces that, though high
were somehow safer than the ground.
There was one time when we'd taken on
a walk too ambitious for our own good
that sticks out most in my mind.
The fireworks were over and most of
our quiet town was heading back
lawnchairs and blankets and coolers in hand.
I was young then, not up to his waist, and
my legs were so short that it took three
steps to keep up with one of his.
My flat feet were weary, my legs were
ablaze with lactic acid, and a desperate
whining fit was only a stone's throw away.
"Do you want me to carry you?" he asked
or maybe I requested it and am
revising history again; regardless, he lifted
me up and I rode home perched upon the shoulders
of a man who could do no wrong
in the eyes of a boy too young to question.
When did I get too hard to carry?
I searched my skull for the answer to that quandary
and before I had one I was at the glass doors.
A cigarette was out of the question. At the rate
things were going if I waited any longer
my truck might be stolen by the time
I got back to where it had been parked.
My wipers stopped squeaking
on the ride home. That, or I was too gone
to notice them. The rain, brother--
it's been here for years.
a deeper puddle for me
to step in anywhere in
that miserable parking lot
other than the miniature lake
which greeted my feet like
an unwelcome mat
upon stepping out of my truck.
I lit up a menthol and made
my squishy-soled way to
the northernmost entrance
figuring that heat rises
in Hell as well and I should
get it over with promptly.
When the last drag left my lungs
I entered the portal and walked
all the way to the opposite end
in search of an album released
by a new band with some songs
that almost seemed palatable.
It wasn't there, and neither were
any of the other four records
I sought out in the racks.
The industry's planning on
phasing out tangible musical media
in the hopes of forcing online sales
and I'm its first victim
with my massive CD binders
that'll grow mold in the back seat.
The Loss Management Specialist
or Theft Prevention Technician
or Profit Retention Agent
or whatever the hell
they call security guards
in retail stores these days
looked me in the eyes
and bade me farewell
his sweaty buzzcut seeming less
imposing for a moment.
I didn't fall for the ruse
and stuffed my hands deeper
into the pockets of my sweatshirt
to make him wonder if he'd
done his job that time.
The next stop on my short list
was the chain where I buy
my boxers exclusively.
There's something about
the combination of their
fabric, stitching, array of selection
and perpetual sale price
that draw me to them.
A creature of habit;
who would've thought?
I found three pair
that suited my taste and
walked to the register.
There he was, in gunslinger
flick slow-motion, the tiny
Filipino who'd haunted
my dreams once or twice.
He was still sleeping with
one of the Great Ones
when we started seeing
each other years back.
It didn't take much to pry
her out of his Gollumesque
little clutches, but it still
bothered me knowing
where he'd been, and how.
She also had a habit of giving too
much detail. Maybe she wanted
to make me jealous by recounting
what they'd done in fits of blind
and meaningless passion while
I was still floundering on the fence.
There's no doubt now how I should've
played that out. Given fourth and long
today I'd go for the Hail Mary.
The Flip and I locked eyes briefly
as he headed toward the fitting room.
Something tells me he felt the heat in
my stare and was probably befuddled
as to its fuel. That's how it works
with these green-eyed monsters.
The latter one always despises the former.
I paid for my undies and let that dog lie.
Still seething from the sighting
I pounded the marble floor that
much harder en route to the exit
and safety of my pick-up. The mall
had filled itself with walking excrement
and women who'd never sleep with me.
Every step became a struggle. Window shoppers
tiptoed in my path, forcing me to weave.
The gauntlet had been laid out
for the defeated noontime shopper.
At one point behind me a flustered father
told his six-year-old son that he'd have to
walk the rest of the way, that he'd become
too heavy to carry, that he, essentially
was all on his own. It reminded me
of riding my dad's shoulders as a kid
his head between my knees, his hands
holding my ankles. I felt his long strides
in the form of gentle bounces that, though high
were somehow safer than the ground.
There was one time when we'd taken on
a walk too ambitious for our own good
that sticks out most in my mind.
The fireworks were over and most of
our quiet town was heading back
lawnchairs and blankets and coolers in hand.
I was young then, not up to his waist, and
my legs were so short that it took three
steps to keep up with one of his.
My flat feet were weary, my legs were
ablaze with lactic acid, and a desperate
whining fit was only a stone's throw away.
"Do you want me to carry you?" he asked
or maybe I requested it and am
revising history again; regardless, he lifted
me up and I rode home perched upon the shoulders
of a man who could do no wrong
in the eyes of a boy too young to question.
When did I get too hard to carry?
I searched my skull for the answer to that quandary
and before I had one I was at the glass doors.
A cigarette was out of the question. At the rate
things were going if I waited any longer
my truck might be stolen by the time
I got back to where it had been parked.
My wipers stopped squeaking
on the ride home. That, or I was too gone
to notice them. The rain, brother--
it's been here for years.
12.01.2011
Take Your Own Advice, Descartes
There are many women
I've met already
whom I could've held
for a long time;
maybe not forever
since that's not realistic
and they always find the ogre
but for a fair share of birthdays
and an album of drunken walks home.
To love is a noble aspiration
and anything worth your blood
takes work. It's an effort to trust
another beautifully flawed
collection of cells. Anyone
who says that God's greatest gift
falls in your lap is a fool
who should be silenced
with a muzzle or a smack
or a crippling case of the clap.
Liquor's not free or He would've
made rivers of whiskey. Love
along the same lines, takes
a conscious effort.
But where does one draw
that holiest of lines?
How far are we to go
on our quests to find
the partners whose eyes
reflect our souls?
That's the rub
that faces us
and for an addict
or a hermit
or an only child
with daddy issues
it's exponentially harder.
There must be some retention
of clarity, focus, patience
but don't trouble yourself
with dignity. A lot of proud men
have died alone amongst
a pile of spent shells and with
a long list of regrets
most of them being
things they didn't do
for the sake of an image.
One wastes time with
too much fear of losing
that which can be stripped
by an opened closet door.
We've all got enough
skeletons to make
our closest friends cringe.
Be more concerned with
the person who knows
what you look like
when you're not
sucking it in, that your
worst morning breath
may kill some small insects
and that you never really got over
the time your best friend
stole your high school
sweetheart. They're out there;
hundreds of thousands, in fact.
The Law of Averages is on your side.
Keep treading. There's no rush.
If you get stuck late at work
I'll leave the light on for you.
I've met already
whom I could've held
for a long time;
maybe not forever
since that's not realistic
and they always find the ogre
but for a fair share of birthdays
and an album of drunken walks home.
To love is a noble aspiration
and anything worth your blood
takes work. It's an effort to trust
another beautifully flawed
collection of cells. Anyone
who says that God's greatest gift
falls in your lap is a fool
who should be silenced
with a muzzle or a smack
or a crippling case of the clap.
Liquor's not free or He would've
made rivers of whiskey. Love
along the same lines, takes
a conscious effort.
But where does one draw
that holiest of lines?
How far are we to go
on our quests to find
the partners whose eyes
reflect our souls?
That's the rub
that faces us
and for an addict
or a hermit
or an only child
with daddy issues
it's exponentially harder.
There must be some retention
of clarity, focus, patience
but don't trouble yourself
with dignity. A lot of proud men
have died alone amongst
a pile of spent shells and with
a long list of regrets
most of them being
things they didn't do
for the sake of an image.
One wastes time with
too much fear of losing
that which can be stripped
by an opened closet door.
We've all got enough
skeletons to make
our closest friends cringe.
Be more concerned with
the person who knows
what you look like
when you're not
sucking it in, that your
worst morning breath
may kill some small insects
and that you never really got over
the time your best friend
stole your high school
sweetheart. They're out there;
hundreds of thousands, in fact.
The Law of Averages is on your side.
Keep treading. There's no rush.
If you get stuck late at work
I'll leave the light on for you.
Sorry For Being Here
A weak start's
like a bad kiss
but this one cannot
be avoided.
He texted at eight
called at ten
and when he didn't
hear back for two hours
knew that I was sleeping.
When I roused myself
and checked my phone
I considered waiting
for the sleep to leave
my throat, but there's
no fooling a guy
raised on the corners
where he threw dice
way back when.
"Mornin', Sunshine," he says
and I deserve it. "Are you available
tomorrow? I could use a hand."
The gentleman that he is
he acts like I'm not desperate.
"Yeah. Sure. If you need me
I'm there," I assure him
while standing in the kitchen
rubbing crust from my left eye.
I inspect the hanging fruit baskets
and pluck a few rotten
items to discard. I always
get to them too late
bruises and soft spots irreparable
or a skin hardened like armor.
"Great. See you tomorrow,"
he says in his Bronxese
that's come to be a blanket.
"Sounds good," I say as the pear
thuds against the bottom
of the trash can. The lime
follows too, never reaching
its intended cocktail.
If only I'd done the same.
I go to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
There's a hair too long
to be mine in the sink.
I can't tell the color
to pinpoint the source.
There've been options lately.
I've been taking my victories
in small doses and my gin
with extra rocks.
I've been taking
it all on the chin
and it shows.
The mirror's unkind
as the pillows have been
to my hair. There's
no salvaging what's left
without a healthy splash of water.
I run the faucet and wait
for the warm molecules
to rise through the
copper piping.
Even on my days off
I'm haunted.
It's a hell of a way
to start the afternoon.
I'm sorry I had to share
it with you.
like a bad kiss
but this one cannot
be avoided.
He texted at eight
called at ten
and when he didn't
hear back for two hours
knew that I was sleeping.
When I roused myself
and checked my phone
I considered waiting
for the sleep to leave
my throat, but there's
no fooling a guy
raised on the corners
where he threw dice
way back when.
"Mornin', Sunshine," he says
and I deserve it. "Are you available
tomorrow? I could use a hand."
The gentleman that he is
he acts like I'm not desperate.
"Yeah. Sure. If you need me
I'm there," I assure him
while standing in the kitchen
rubbing crust from my left eye.
I inspect the hanging fruit baskets
and pluck a few rotten
items to discard. I always
get to them too late
bruises and soft spots irreparable
or a skin hardened like armor.
"Great. See you tomorrow,"
he says in his Bronxese
that's come to be a blanket.
"Sounds good," I say as the pear
thuds against the bottom
of the trash can. The lime
follows too, never reaching
its intended cocktail.
If only I'd done the same.
I go to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
There's a hair too long
to be mine in the sink.
I can't tell the color
to pinpoint the source.
There've been options lately.
I've been taking my victories
in small doses and my gin
with extra rocks.
I've been taking
it all on the chin
and it shows.
The mirror's unkind
as the pillows have been
to my hair. There's
no salvaging what's left
without a healthy splash of water.
I run the faucet and wait
for the warm molecules
to rise through the
copper piping.
Even on my days off
I'm haunted.
It's a hell of a way
to start the afternoon.
I'm sorry I had to share
it with you.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Today it came
freshly postmarked
and comically late:
The first card received
at my new apartment.
Thanksgiving may have strafed
on by like a Corsair, but my friendly
State Farm insurance agent
wanted to wish me a happy one
regardless, his laser-etched
John Hancock making it
all-the-more personal.
I guess I'll magnet it
to the fridge with that
political calendar I got
in the mail. It's good to
have friends in high places.
It's good to have friends
where you can keep an eye
on them, like across the room
on the Maytag door.
Speaking of doors
any knock on mine is usually
unexpected. I slide to the peephole
since creeping makes the boards creek.
Last week it happened
at my most paranoid moment
right after drowning my angels
in sleep. Who knew that the FedEx guy
banged with such authority? I thought
it was the end. I answered accordingly
aside from only donning shorts.
Luckily he didn't scope the hardware
behind the door. "Sorry it took awhile,"
I lied with a forced cough for effect
as I scribbled a fake signature
with my unoccupied left hand.
"I've been a bit sick lately,"
though maybe that wasn't fictitious.
freshly postmarked
and comically late:
The first card received
at my new apartment.
Thanksgiving may have strafed
on by like a Corsair, but my friendly
State Farm insurance agent
wanted to wish me a happy one
regardless, his laser-etched
John Hancock making it
all-the-more personal.
I guess I'll magnet it
to the fridge with that
political calendar I got
in the mail. It's good to
have friends in high places.
It's good to have friends
where you can keep an eye
on them, like across the room
on the Maytag door.
Speaking of doors
any knock on mine is usually
unexpected. I slide to the peephole
since creeping makes the boards creek.
Last week it happened
at my most paranoid moment
right after drowning my angels
in sleep. Who knew that the FedEx guy
banged with such authority? I thought
it was the end. I answered accordingly
aside from only donning shorts.
Luckily he didn't scope the hardware
behind the door. "Sorry it took awhile,"
I lied with a forced cough for effect
as I scribbled a fake signature
with my unoccupied left hand.
"I've been a bit sick lately,"
though maybe that wasn't fictitious.
11.30.2011
The Worst Scar I've Ever Seen
You swore it was yours.
It wasn't.
It was a desperate
frown on a kid's face
after some prick
told him there is
no Santa Claus.
It was the instant loss
of innocence that can't
be undone by money.
It was the undying promise
of death given at reality's birth.
Once it's there
it's there for life.
You see it in their eyes.
Whose?
Everyone's.
(I've clearly injected
myself too much here.
How can one not
and have it be real?
Go with it for the sake
of the story.)
There are some things, ma'am
I'd rather not know
like if I'd enjoy Kentucky.
All the rumors you've heard
are frightfully true:
I'm a self-declared bastard
gallivanting down Main
as a martyr too eager
with a pen in his hand
and a gun at his hip.
There's no Easter Bunny either.
It wasn't.
It was a desperate
frown on a kid's face
after some prick
told him there is
no Santa Claus.
It was the instant loss
of innocence that can't
be undone by money.
It was the undying promise
of death given at reality's birth.
Once it's there
it's there for life.
You see it in their eyes.
Whose?
Everyone's.
(I've clearly injected
myself too much here.
How can one not
and have it be real?
Go with it for the sake
of the story.)
There are some things, ma'am
I'd rather not know
like if I'd enjoy Kentucky.
All the rumors you've heard
are frightfully true:
I'm a self-declared bastard
gallivanting down Main
as a martyr too eager
with a pen in his hand
and a gun at his hip.
There's no Easter Bunny either.
11.28.2011
The Best Contraceptive
It's usually more
like babysitting than work.
The pipes are mostly silent
but my buddy's son is not.
He's nine and precocious.
He likes feeling useful.
If I can keep him busy I try to
though most times he's bored
and gets in my hair. My friend
brings him along on our
moonlighting jobs to get one
of three young sons out of
his wife's weary lap. It's no wonder
that he's going gray and balding
prematurely. I used to be envious.
That all has changed.
"My dad pays you way
more than me," he whines
in reference to his three bucks a day.
"There's an aggravation tax involved,"
I tell him, sending the joke
clean over his short-cropped hair.
"Did your dad pay you a lot
when you helped him as a kid?"
I think back to my first paying job
trimming tree limbs from the massive
pines on his property
in the Adirondacks. Five an hour
for back-breaking work. I was the same
age as the squirt kneeling next to me
but I had no one around to pester
and mistakes have no siblings.
With my meager earnings
I bought a fox pelt at a taxidermy shop
on the ride home from the mountains.
I've always made wise purchases.
I've always had sweet gigs.
"No," I tell him through
my teeth while wondering
what those trees look like now.
The pelt is long gone
if not in his basement.
The trees might be, too.
He's bad with his money.
My diminutive partner won't let it rest.
"What'd you guys do?"
"Not much. He wasn't very
good with his hands," I reply
with an understatement
as the wrench slips a bit
"or much else."
Junior takes a moment
to ponder the strange existence
of a mechanically useless father
unheard of in his neck of the woods.
I tighten the screws in the floor drain
wishing more than dirty water
could be washed down its void.
A staticky country tune I've begrudingly
come to love blares in the other room
where my friend's setting fixtures.
Aside from the God part the song's
got it right: booze is good, people
are crazy.
"You don't talk about him much,"
the boy says. Clearly we've never
tossed cocktails back together
and if we're lucky we never will.
I don't want to be the same man
when he's old enough to drink.
The next inevitable question comes
timed perfectly with the dripping
of sweat from my brow--
"Is he dead?"
My answer lands before
he can refill his lungs.
It's no lie. There's more
to being alive than breathing.
You've got to have a soul
and not only worry about
whether or not it's Saved.
The kid pulls out his pocketknife
and cleans dirt from under his nails.
If only adults could have the same
detached responses to answers
that made their questions regrettable.
I chisel out some tile to make room
for the drain. The floor guys never
remove enough. It's hard to willingly
destroy your own work, especially
when on your knees.
"Can I do that?" he asks, his knife
no longer relevant.
"No," I say in as kind a voice
as I can fake. "Go help your old man."
like babysitting than work.
The pipes are mostly silent
but my buddy's son is not.
He's nine and precocious.
He likes feeling useful.
If I can keep him busy I try to
though most times he's bored
and gets in my hair. My friend
brings him along on our
moonlighting jobs to get one
of three young sons out of
his wife's weary lap. It's no wonder
that he's going gray and balding
prematurely. I used to be envious.
That all has changed.
"My dad pays you way
more than me," he whines
in reference to his three bucks a day.
"There's an aggravation tax involved,"
I tell him, sending the joke
clean over his short-cropped hair.
"Did your dad pay you a lot
when you helped him as a kid?"
I think back to my first paying job
trimming tree limbs from the massive
pines on his property
in the Adirondacks. Five an hour
for back-breaking work. I was the same
age as the squirt kneeling next to me
but I had no one around to pester
and mistakes have no siblings.
With my meager earnings
I bought a fox pelt at a taxidermy shop
on the ride home from the mountains.
I've always made wise purchases.
I've always had sweet gigs.
"No," I tell him through
my teeth while wondering
what those trees look like now.
The pelt is long gone
if not in his basement.
The trees might be, too.
He's bad with his money.
My diminutive partner won't let it rest.
"What'd you guys do?"
"Not much. He wasn't very
good with his hands," I reply
with an understatement
as the wrench slips a bit
"or much else."
Junior takes a moment
to ponder the strange existence
of a mechanically useless father
unheard of in his neck of the woods.
I tighten the screws in the floor drain
wishing more than dirty water
could be washed down its void.
A staticky country tune I've begrudingly
come to love blares in the other room
where my friend's setting fixtures.
Aside from the God part the song's
got it right: booze is good, people
are crazy.
"You don't talk about him much,"
the boy says. Clearly we've never
tossed cocktails back together
and if we're lucky we never will.
I don't want to be the same man
when he's old enough to drink.
The next inevitable question comes
timed perfectly with the dripping
of sweat from my brow--
"Is he dead?"
My answer lands before
he can refill his lungs.
It's no lie. There's more
to being alive than breathing.
You've got to have a soul
and not only worry about
whether or not it's Saved.
The kid pulls out his pocketknife
and cleans dirt from under his nails.
If only adults could have the same
detached responses to answers
that made their questions regrettable.
I chisel out some tile to make room
for the drain. The floor guys never
remove enough. It's hard to willingly
destroy your own work, especially
when on your knees.
"Can I do that?" he asks, his knife
no longer relevant.
"No," I say in as kind a voice
as I can fake. "Go help your old man."
Fisherman's War Paint
Right hand on left flank
and the inverse correct--
This is what chromosomes
dealt were predestined.
Face in a pillow
almost forget.
Saint candles burning
straight down like a fuse.
Moans turn to whimpers
and back into moans.
Offer a towel, a cold glass of water.
They know not to call.
They know they've been used
led like white livestock
up three flights to slaughter.
It helps with the yearning
the passing of time.
She'll leave in the morning
with clothes from the floor.
It's hard to think twice
once giving the lines.
She came like a lady.
She'll leave a bit sore.
Fisherman's war paint
misanthrope's fuel
lush's reminder
that Christ drank the grape.
The love's on the mattress.
The heat's in the tools.
You may never find her
at this cyclic rate.
and the inverse correct--
This is what chromosomes
dealt were predestined.
Face in a pillow
almost forget.
Saint candles burning
straight down like a fuse.
Moans turn to whimpers
and back into moans.
Offer a towel, a cold glass of water.
They know not to call.
They know they've been used
led like white livestock
up three flights to slaughter.
It helps with the yearning
the passing of time.
She'll leave in the morning
with clothes from the floor.
It's hard to think twice
once giving the lines.
She came like a lady.
She'll leave a bit sore.
Fisherman's war paint
misanthrope's fuel
lush's reminder
that Christ drank the grape.
The love's on the mattress.
The heat's in the tools.
You may never find her
at this cyclic rate.
11.22.2011
(315)
I woke to bastard sunbeams
and the smell of 10 a.m.
There'd been a nightmare
of some nigger who tried
to steal my girl once.
The drool stains on my pillows
proved I'd told him how I felt.
Through the floor I heard
a man carve his day-old bird
to make a sandwich.
I'd spent the holiday alone.
My leftovers were internal.
There was a message on my phone
received at four in the morning--
when the good ones tend to come;
when the coming's all the same.
The area code was as baffling
as the words and punctuation.
An inquiry of the prefix
revealed a western New York number.
My past career of heartache
never spread into that region.
Another unknown psycho
closing in to make the kill.
I rubbed one out, did the dishes
went about my half-dressed business
until the missive piqued my interest
as the song remained the same.
"Who is this?" I asked
knowing there would be no answer.
These vague, clandestine messengers
never cough up their credentials.
I poured a second mug of jet fuel
though the grounds were in the mix.
Had to nuke it for a minute
since it cooled down fairly quickly
with the heat just barely running
to help save on the bills.
There's only one sucker
paying them now. It's equal parts
blood and money.
That's when it came again--
the same encrypted sentence.
This time I noticed a number
at the bottom, presumably a date:
*06*28*08.
I thought back to where I was then
and whom I was inside.
It held no relevance.
Didn't make much sense
as usual, though the message
as the good ones are
was tragically universal:
***LOVE IS LOYALTY!!!!
CAPS and symbols unembellished.
I dumped that cup of coffee
down the sink into the sewer.
The world had no mercy left
to divvy out today.
The sun's angle promised us that.
It was good to be inspired.
I'd have to lower the shades
creating my own fate
in the darkness
between bricks.
and the smell of 10 a.m.
There'd been a nightmare
of some nigger who tried
to steal my girl once.
The drool stains on my pillows
proved I'd told him how I felt.
Through the floor I heard
a man carve his day-old bird
to make a sandwich.
I'd spent the holiday alone.
My leftovers were internal.
There was a message on my phone
received at four in the morning--
when the good ones tend to come;
when the coming's all the same.
The area code was as baffling
as the words and punctuation.
An inquiry of the prefix
revealed a western New York number.
My past career of heartache
never spread into that region.
Another unknown psycho
closing in to make the kill.
I rubbed one out, did the dishes
went about my half-dressed business
until the missive piqued my interest
as the song remained the same.
"Who is this?" I asked
knowing there would be no answer.
These vague, clandestine messengers
never cough up their credentials.
I poured a second mug of jet fuel
though the grounds were in the mix.
Had to nuke it for a minute
since it cooled down fairly quickly
with the heat just barely running
to help save on the bills.
There's only one sucker
paying them now. It's equal parts
blood and money.
That's when it came again--
the same encrypted sentence.
This time I noticed a number
at the bottom, presumably a date:
*06*28*08.
I thought back to where I was then
and whom I was inside.
It held no relevance.
Didn't make much sense
as usual, though the message
as the good ones are
was tragically universal:
***LOVE IS LOYALTY!!!!
CAPS and symbols unembellished.
I dumped that cup of coffee
down the sink into the sewer.
The world had no mercy left
to divvy out today.
The sun's angle promised us that.
It was good to be inspired.
I'd have to lower the shades
creating my own fate
in the darkness
between bricks.
11.21.2011
Prom Baby Rain Cheque
My rooms are right
on Main Street.
They can come
maybe twice
if we're lucky
and I'm randy
but they can't stay
the night
and
they better swallow
the fact that
I've built walls
of copper tubing
lashed with hair
of buried queens
around the parts
that I was smart
to never give her
though my silence
was consent.
Chase, you lucky gambler
all your strikes paid off in rings.
I will wear your tux, and tucked.
I will spring for whiter teeth.
I will spare your friends and family
what would've been my gin-soaked speech.
Yours wants to share
her dark slice
of heaven.
Mine took the rugs
and corkscrew
when she left.
Convert.
Adapt.
Overcome.
What's three times a day
to the east
compared to begging
clouds for mercy?
There's not a better way
to squander three months'
worth of wages.
Is it after tax, or gross?
If it's real then it won't matter.
Your words were sound and poignant
though you know it's me to try.
on Main Street.
They can come
maybe twice
if we're lucky
and I'm randy
but they can't stay
the night
and
they better swallow
the fact that
I've built walls
of copper tubing
lashed with hair
of buried queens
around the parts
that I was smart
to never give her
though my silence
was consent.
Chase, you lucky gambler
all your strikes paid off in rings.
I will wear your tux, and tucked.
I will spring for whiter teeth.
I will spare your friends and family
what would've been my gin-soaked speech.
Yours wants to share
her dark slice
of heaven.
Mine took the rugs
and corkscrew
when she left.
Convert.
Adapt.
Overcome.
What's three times a day
to the east
compared to begging
clouds for mercy?
There's not a better way
to squander three months'
worth of wages.
Is it after tax, or gross?
If it's real then it won't matter.
Your words were sound and poignant
though you know it's me to try.
11.19.2011
Chaz and a Son's .38
An old friend
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.
As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...
I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.
I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.
As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...
I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.
I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.
11.17.2011
Wasabi For the Dater's Soul
Maybe I should've taken
my own advice
and not shat where I ate
by eating where I live.
Maybe I shouldn't've walked there.
Maybe she smelled
the smoke on my breath.
Maybe I shouldn't've been myself.
Maybe she didn't like
that I wasn't shy
and ate all of the sushi
when she put her chopsticks
down for good.
Maybe it was that I loved the ginger
but didn't speak up
when the geisha came
and took it all away.
Maybe it was that her psych major
finally came in handy
though I didn't mention
my dad this time.
Maybe it was my one glass of wine.
Maybe the green tea ice cream
froze her perfect teeth
or the twelve-dollar tip
wasn't good enough.
Maybe it was that
I was full, it was late
and with work the next day
a ride home would've been nice--
so I asked, and was looked at
as crazy.
Maybe I am for thinking
that everyone believes to their
own detriment
and that people are generally
good in this world.
Maybe my peacoat
made me look like a rapist.
Maybe I am in a way
that is latent.
Maybe I'm better off knowing
that two hours of flowing
conversation does not equate
to a shred of trust.
Maybe I'll stick to coffee next time.
It's cheaper, and about what
these hooers deserve.
Maybe I'll go crawling back
to the place I know
that I don't belong.
Maybe it's instant karma.
Currently (re-)reading:
"Love Is a Dog From Hell" by Charles Bukowski.
my own advice
and not shat where I ate
by eating where I live.
Maybe I shouldn't've walked there.
Maybe she smelled
the smoke on my breath.
Maybe I shouldn't've been myself.
Maybe she didn't like
that I wasn't shy
and ate all of the sushi
when she put her chopsticks
down for good.
Maybe it was that I loved the ginger
but didn't speak up
when the geisha came
and took it all away.
Maybe it was that her psych major
finally came in handy
though I didn't mention
my dad this time.
Maybe it was my one glass of wine.
Maybe the green tea ice cream
froze her perfect teeth
or the twelve-dollar tip
wasn't good enough.
Maybe it was that
I was full, it was late
and with work the next day
a ride home would've been nice--
so I asked, and was looked at
as crazy.
Maybe I am for thinking
that everyone believes to their
own detriment
and that people are generally
good in this world.
Maybe my peacoat
made me look like a rapist.
Maybe I am in a way
that is latent.
Maybe I'm better off knowing
that two hours of flowing
conversation does not equate
to a shred of trust.
Maybe I'll stick to coffee next time.
It's cheaper, and about what
these hooers deserve.
Maybe I'll go crawling back
to the place I know
that I don't belong.
Maybe it's instant karma.
Currently (re-)reading:
"Love Is a Dog From Hell" by Charles Bukowski.
11.13.2011
Scrambled
When I woke
still shaken
by Jeremy's dream
drool marks on the pillow
to prove that it'd been
a real barn-burner
a bird chirped
in the otherwise silent
air conditioner
perched inside
my window.
There was
a faint sound
of scratching
like some twigs
upon some tin.
That friend had
sold me out
put me right back
into debt. Even in my
dreams my back's
a magnet for their knives.
I stood, dizzy from
last night's medicine
and told the world
what I thought of friends.
When I turned the
fan off later on
no song came from
the grill.
Thinking of this
brought on a rare hunger.
Without milk for coffee
or orange juice
to quench the salt
an ironic egg breakfast
was out of the question.
Sausage sans peppers
it was
and delicious.
still shaken
by Jeremy's dream
drool marks on the pillow
to prove that it'd been
a real barn-burner
a bird chirped
in the otherwise silent
air conditioner
perched inside
my window.
There was
a faint sound
of scratching
like some twigs
upon some tin.
That friend had
sold me out
put me right back
into debt. Even in my
dreams my back's
a magnet for their knives.
I stood, dizzy from
last night's medicine
and told the world
what I thought of friends.
When I turned the
fan off later on
no song came from
the grill.
Thinking of this
brought on a rare hunger.
Without milk for coffee
or orange juice
to quench the salt
an ironic egg breakfast
was out of the question.
Sausage sans peppers
it was
and delicious.
11.08.2011
She Was Fourteen Going On Forty in 1968
Somewhere in the Simon
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.
"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."
where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.
He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.
It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.
"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."
where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.
He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.
It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.
11.06.2011
angio-
I used to have this nightmare
only it'd happen during the day
while walking on the wrong side
of the road or ordering an
Extra Value Meal
from some kid with fry-grease
acne. A non-descript assailant
would slice through the soft skin
of my forearms and rip out my veins
with a pair of pliers. It looked like
when you're pulling weeds from a garden
and the roots pop out of the dirt
in an intricate system that almost
demands your respect while destroying it
only this was no green thumb convenience:
this was real.
It played on a deep-rooted fear of mine
involving the circulatory system. Ever since
childhood the thought of things pumping
through tubes inside of me has turned
my stomach. Getting vaccinated never
bothered me, but once they tried
to take something out
to draw blood from those hoses I hated
to acknowledge
I'd turn a shade of green
uncommon to the living. The chapter
on arteries in ninth-grade biology
made my wrists go numb to the point where
I couldn't take notes from the overhead
projector. I still passed with flying colors.
I still learned to cope back then.
I used to have this nightmare
about the plumbing of my blood
being stripped of me in the most
gruesome manner, but now I'm
more afraid of never giving it away.
only it'd happen during the day
while walking on the wrong side
of the road or ordering an
Extra Value Meal
from some kid with fry-grease
acne. A non-descript assailant
would slice through the soft skin
of my forearms and rip out my veins
with a pair of pliers. It looked like
when you're pulling weeds from a garden
and the roots pop out of the dirt
in an intricate system that almost
demands your respect while destroying it
only this was no green thumb convenience:
this was real.
It played on a deep-rooted fear of mine
involving the circulatory system. Ever since
childhood the thought of things pumping
through tubes inside of me has turned
my stomach. Getting vaccinated never
bothered me, but once they tried
to take something out
to draw blood from those hoses I hated
to acknowledge
I'd turn a shade of green
uncommon to the living. The chapter
on arteries in ninth-grade biology
made my wrists go numb to the point where
I couldn't take notes from the overhead
projector. I still passed with flying colors.
I still learned to cope back then.
I used to have this nightmare
about the plumbing of my blood
being stripped of me in the most
gruesome manner, but now I'm
more afraid of never giving it away.
Serial Monogamy
Eggs over-hard and a .44 magnum
bathe in what's left of the Sun's
borrowed light. There are some things
Saint Peter will have to forgive
at the gates for the sake of His
cloud-fucking choir: overcooked
breakfast and overdue bills
and those blowjobs that came
when they needed them most.
There's no use for fathers
for an arrogant son
who's followed around
by some unholy ghosts.
Keep an ear to the ground.
Save a drink for the road.
There's nothing that's promised
except death and taxes.
Whatever you're gunning
you're gutting alone.
Here's twenty bucks.
Go bet on a horse.
And even the gambler
let us all down.
When I first heard his lisp
I felt I'd been duped.
No man with a soft voice like that
had been suckered or hit in the face
with a bottle, a stool.
No one's immune to the ringing
of churchbells. No one forgets
what it's like to miss home.
He's talking in tongues
without any whiskey
in need of a crowd
but prone to go rogue.
How does one die of exposure
exactly? What does it take
to break a man down?
Perhaps it's not literal--
a daily castration
performed by the kid
who can't wipe his nose.
Currently reading:
"More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns" by Charles Bukowski.
bathe in what's left of the Sun's
borrowed light. There are some things
Saint Peter will have to forgive
at the gates for the sake of His
cloud-fucking choir: overcooked
breakfast and overdue bills
and those blowjobs that came
when they needed them most.
There's no use for fathers
for an arrogant son
who's followed around
by some unholy ghosts.
Keep an ear to the ground.
Save a drink for the road.
There's nothing that's promised
except death and taxes.
Whatever you're gunning
you're gutting alone.
Here's twenty bucks.
Go bet on a horse.
And even the gambler
let us all down.
When I first heard his lisp
I felt I'd been duped.
No man with a soft voice like that
had been suckered or hit in the face
with a bottle, a stool.
No one's immune to the ringing
of churchbells. No one forgets
what it's like to miss home.
He's talking in tongues
without any whiskey
in need of a crowd
but prone to go rogue.
How does one die of exposure
exactly? What does it take
to break a man down?
Perhaps it's not literal--
a daily castration
performed by the kid
who can't wipe his nose.
Currently reading:
"More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns" by Charles Bukowski.
11.02.2011
What Happens in the Mekong Delta Doesn't Necessarily Stay There
We finish each other's
sentences to the point
of questionable genetics.
It's odd to have such
a familiar relationship
with a man double my age
whom I've only known
for five months.
Drive around in a van
with someone for long enough
and you start to think the
same things, like that
you'd rather have the headache
of the guy who wakes up to
that hot mess in the car
in the passing lane
any day of the week
and twice on Sundays
than play the hands
we've been dealt.
We joke about our fortune
in finding one another
somewhere along the trainwreck.
That latter part, the state of the union
makes me think I'm right
when I tell him we're both
being punished for past lives.
He was in the Seventies service, jokes
about commando operations
in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Classified, of course.
I toss out a flippant remark about
the likelihood that I was once in
his squad, the one that must've
burned a Gook village a la "Platoon".
My mind wanders as I lay in sour sheets.
I picture myself manning the 60
hanging from the side door of the Huey
hot brass shell casings and ammo belt links
raining down onto the rice paddy below.
The Stones' "Gimme Shelter" plays in
the background as a soundtrack requirement.
Little black-pajama'ed ants in pointy straw hats
scramble for their lives, praying to their rotund
cross-legged god that the napalm airstrike
doesn't come and torch their crops.
He, of course, only smiles wider
that glutton for pointless suffering.
My partner in crime taps my shoulder
enthusiastically and asks to swap spots.
I finish my run of 7.62, get up
from the gunner's seat, and pass him
my flak jacket to sit on in case an AK-47 round
pierces the fuselage and catches him
in the keister. Just as he rips back the bolt handle
and starts to give some yellowfolk lead poisoning
a bullet tears through the belly of the chopper
and severs my femoral artery. The blood sprays
the cabin in regular spurts through the spaces
between my fingers as I make a futile attempt
to stop the bleeding. That younger version
of my buddy lets the machinegun pivot forward
on its mount, its barrel smoking and smelling of sulphur
in order to reach over and light my last Marlboro
procured from the pack strapped to my helmet.
"See ya on the next tour, Shakespeah,"
he croons in that soupy Bronx inflection
which I've carried back upstate. We both know
it's a lie, but it's one that is expected.
The hum of the rotors lulls me into
unconsciousness as I bleed out onto
the diamond-plate floor of the helicopter
and pass into the dark.
Fast-forward forty years and I'm next to
that same wingman. He's older now, has some
more scars, but the eyes remain the same
as they always do in the Great Ones.
"Get a loada dis numba," he says
as he pilots his van to my left, our new
unsuspecting victims not so physically harmed.
The whir of the battered highway
rumbles underfoot to the tune
of ten-thousand regrets
none of them being
that I've met this denim-collared savior.
"Too rich for my blood," I honestly confess
before downing what's left of my coffee.
War, like plumbing, is a hell of a humbler
and they're both about the guy
next to you in the trench.
sentences to the point
of questionable genetics.
It's odd to have such
a familiar relationship
with a man double my age
whom I've only known
for five months.
Drive around in a van
with someone for long enough
and you start to think the
same things, like that
you'd rather have the headache
of the guy who wakes up to
that hot mess in the car
in the passing lane
any day of the week
and twice on Sundays
than play the hands
we've been dealt.
We joke about our fortune
in finding one another
somewhere along the trainwreck.
That latter part, the state of the union
makes me think I'm right
when I tell him we're both
being punished for past lives.
He was in the Seventies service, jokes
about commando operations
in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Classified, of course.
I toss out a flippant remark about
the likelihood that I was once in
his squad, the one that must've
burned a Gook village a la "Platoon".
My mind wanders as I lay in sour sheets.
I picture myself manning the 60
hanging from the side door of the Huey
hot brass shell casings and ammo belt links
raining down onto the rice paddy below.
The Stones' "Gimme Shelter" plays in
the background as a soundtrack requirement.
Little black-pajama'ed ants in pointy straw hats
scramble for their lives, praying to their rotund
cross-legged god that the napalm airstrike
doesn't come and torch their crops.
He, of course, only smiles wider
that glutton for pointless suffering.
My partner in crime taps my shoulder
enthusiastically and asks to swap spots.
I finish my run of 7.62, get up
from the gunner's seat, and pass him
my flak jacket to sit on in case an AK-47 round
pierces the fuselage and catches him
in the keister. Just as he rips back the bolt handle
and starts to give some yellowfolk lead poisoning
a bullet tears through the belly of the chopper
and severs my femoral artery. The blood sprays
the cabin in regular spurts through the spaces
between my fingers as I make a futile attempt
to stop the bleeding. That younger version
of my buddy lets the machinegun pivot forward
on its mount, its barrel smoking and smelling of sulphur
in order to reach over and light my last Marlboro
procured from the pack strapped to my helmet.
"See ya on the next tour, Shakespeah,"
he croons in that soupy Bronx inflection
which I've carried back upstate. We both know
it's a lie, but it's one that is expected.
The hum of the rotors lulls me into
unconsciousness as I bleed out onto
the diamond-plate floor of the helicopter
and pass into the dark.
Fast-forward forty years and I'm next to
that same wingman. He's older now, has some
more scars, but the eyes remain the same
as they always do in the Great Ones.
"Get a loada dis numba," he says
as he pilots his van to my left, our new
unsuspecting victims not so physically harmed.
The whir of the battered highway
rumbles underfoot to the tune
of ten-thousand regrets
none of them being
that I've met this denim-collared savior.
"Too rich for my blood," I honestly confess
before downing what's left of my coffee.
War, like plumbing, is a hell of a humbler
and they're both about the guy
next to you in the trench.
10.30.2011
For Rocco, Who May Not Get My All Tomorrow As a Direct Result
By the third flight of steps
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.
When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.
There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.
When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.
But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.
When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.
There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.
When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.
But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.
10.29.2011
Premature Hot Coke Hoe
They whine that the weather
has ruined their costumes--
so many minutes or dimes
sacrificed--
while failing to face
that the three sixty-four
are spent with fraudulent fronts
just the same.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm not so above it.
If there was a slim chance
in Hell it's now gone.
The lights flicker briefly
and taunt with a sentence
but the worst of this deal
requires no juice.
Can't even drink
on these antibiotics.
Don't want to smoke
with this hack in my lungs.
Almost put pants on
to let in a stranger
but some saintly neighbor
beat me to the punch.
It's not that it's messy
or messed up my plans.
It's not that the holiday
bar scene is curbed.
A blizzard is meant
for rib-sticking meals
and lovemaking 'til
the lovelies are sore.
has ruined their costumes--
so many minutes or dimes
sacrificed--
while failing to face
that the three sixty-four
are spent with fraudulent fronts
just the same.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm not so above it.
If there was a slim chance
in Hell it's now gone.
The lights flicker briefly
and taunt with a sentence
but the worst of this deal
requires no juice.
Can't even drink
on these antibiotics.
Don't want to smoke
with this hack in my lungs.
Almost put pants on
to let in a stranger
but some saintly neighbor
beat me to the punch.
It's not that it's messy
or messed up my plans.
It's not that the holiday
bar scene is curbed.
A blizzard is meant
for rib-sticking meals
and lovemaking 'til
the lovelies are sore.
The Women Wore Pink Sweaters
One of my new fathers died
in my sleep last night.
When his wife answered the phone
there was silence, then a yelp.
They hadn't seen or heard from him
in days, assumed the worst.
I was somehow teleported
to his basement. Women mourned.
My eyes burned red, I felt betrayed--
a jealous God again.
Sometime in the tangent
the old man reappeared.
He was tired, hair all mustered
in his camo and his boots.
"I was hunting, lost my way,"
his explanation came ashamed.
I threw my arms around him
smelled the copper in his blood.
The top sheet's on the floor now
from my writhing, dreaming grief.
There'll be a time where waking
won't save the day again
if the hunter doesn't find
his way back to the hearth.
Every person's got a shelf life.
All that carbon's got to give.
They're a blessing, these new mentors
but they come with loss inherent.
in my sleep last night.
When his wife answered the phone
there was silence, then a yelp.
They hadn't seen or heard from him
in days, assumed the worst.
I was somehow teleported
to his basement. Women mourned.
My eyes burned red, I felt betrayed--
a jealous God again.
Sometime in the tangent
the old man reappeared.
He was tired, hair all mustered
in his camo and his boots.
"I was hunting, lost my way,"
his explanation came ashamed.
I threw my arms around him
smelled the copper in his blood.
The top sheet's on the floor now
from my writhing, dreaming grief.
There'll be a time where waking
won't save the day again
if the hunter doesn't find
his way back to the hearth.
Every person's got a shelf life.
All that carbon's got to give.
They're a blessing, these new mentors
but they come with loss inherent.
10.27.2011
What Would the Lizard King Say Of Your Bass
If faces come out of the rain when you're strange then one can assume it gets worse with the snow. Maybe the bodies follow. The weather's as unpredictable as the events of these last several weeks. What overpaid, televised guestimators refer to as a "wintry mix" falls tonight a few calendar days before Halloween. The Doors play on my stomach-perched laptop as I lay in bed lazily since the internet connection's down and my CDs are in the truck I can barely afford. Maybe the precipitation will wash the birdshit from its otherwise clean exterior. It took me a week, but the dishes have been conquered and vanquished from the sink. I used to be a stickler for timely, efficient housekeeping. Now that I'm the only witness to my sinful filth it's hard to motivate myself to stay on top of anything other than my bed. Even that's not truly mine; she made me leave my mattress at the old place when we moved here a few months ago. Women seem wicked when you're unwanted; beds are taken for granted until they're repossessed. Now I'm wondering if she'll take this one, hers, when she comes with her mother on Sunday to get the rest of her things. The boxspring and frame are mine. Perhaps some pine boughs will cap them nicely; a bit of a rustic touch to contradict the industrial look of the brick and exposed pipes. How ironic, and therefore hip. That's the name of the game in this trendy town crawling with trust-fund kids. Faces look ugly whether you're alone or in groups. Angsty children piss in the streets of the nation's major cities for the sake of having a cause, ignoring the cue from uninvolved local citizens and small business owners that their welcome's been worn out and it may be time for a different tactic, and the Man's to blame again for speaking up in part for another portion of that already redundant percentage which I won't cite here. Streets may be uneven when you're down, but it's hard to notice through the teargas. The home movies don't lie; neither does the internet. We're headed for revolution with no leaders in sight other than the funnier talking heads who impart their biased knowledge to the Text Message Generation via sarcastic satire. All of this, like snowfall in October, we're expected to accept. Jim Morrison's right: Strange days have found us and no one remembers your name.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.
10.25.2011
Censored Ex Hell
They can't help it.
It's in the beast's nature.
It's the part of the fissure
that others don't see.
Some of them take a book or two
but I only read them once anyway
maybe go back and skim where
I've highlighted a few years later
rekindling love for a man long gone.
A titled spine staring at me
from one of my sixteen shelves
won't break me; not as of now.
They're lost in the mix.
Most of them ruin a few bands
for awhile. The songs that once
promised one thing suddenly
renege on the arrangement.
You give them time, you call
a good friend or drinking body
and blast those tunes
over cocktails to reclaim them
when you're ready.
It's a surefire way that's
always proved faithful.
But this one got me good.
She took an act of hygiene.
Whenever I shave now
that one tough time when
I'm forced to look in a mirror
for more than twenty seconds
I think of how she'd always want
to do it for me, would scold me
jokingly if I pruned without her aid.
There was trust there once
with a blade to my neck.
How does one get that back?
How do I pick up that razor again?
The same as anything else, I guess:
alone.
I'm finally getting down
to my fighting weight now
but there's no one in the ring
left to notice. And a truth
that comes in this late-night
confession is I nick with
my Bic just the same.
It's in the beast's nature.
It's the part of the fissure
that others don't see.
Some of them take a book or two
but I only read them once anyway
maybe go back and skim where
I've highlighted a few years later
rekindling love for a man long gone.
A titled spine staring at me
from one of my sixteen shelves
won't break me; not as of now.
They're lost in the mix.
Most of them ruin a few bands
for awhile. The songs that once
promised one thing suddenly
renege on the arrangement.
You give them time, you call
a good friend or drinking body
and blast those tunes
over cocktails to reclaim them
when you're ready.
It's a surefire way that's
always proved faithful.
But this one got me good.
She took an act of hygiene.
Whenever I shave now
that one tough time when
I'm forced to look in a mirror
for more than twenty seconds
I think of how she'd always want
to do it for me, would scold me
jokingly if I pruned without her aid.
There was trust there once
with a blade to my neck.
How does one get that back?
How do I pick up that razor again?
The same as anything else, I guess:
alone.
I'm finally getting down
to my fighting weight now
but there's no one in the ring
left to notice. And a truth
that comes in this late-night
confession is I nick with
my Bic just the same.
10.23.2011
The Laziest Faker East of the Hudson
I lay against an ill-advised Sunday
half-glow nap. Woke at noon, lounged around
beat by almost four. Dishes are piled--
a week's worth at least. There's an unopened
package screaming for a knife that
I can't muster the muscle to stab.
I know what it is: a suitcase for a trip
I won't be taking. It can wait.
It can all wait
with the sleeping bag in storage.
There are times I miss the strangest things
like the hot fermenting garbage smell
of the subway in July. This is one of them.
Sleep has no mercy, it won't come so soon.
The leaves on the trees like lightbulbs
to smash. People enjoy what could be
the last weekend where T-shirts aren't such
a rebellious decision. Strangers savor their lives
or pretend to. I roll onto my stomach
closing my eyes harder like a child scared
to death, though this kid's reconsidered.
A football announcer yells through the floor.
I can almost make out the words, it's disturbing.
What have the neighbors heard through
their ceiling and how have I not heard their TV before?
The sound's somewhat soothing, reminds me of
weekends when I'd fall asleep on my father's stiff couch.
It's probably there, blessed and annointed, praying
for an overdue trip to the dump.
The volume gets louder, perks up my ears. There's
no way to drift off with this kind of ruckus. I throw off
the top sheet, consider my options, succumb to
the urge, choke up on the bat.
The romance is clipped by a new sound
I notice, a generous portion of fresh humble pie.
There through the First Downs and Holdings
below me come whimpers and moans
from the cute pigtailed neighbor. The milquetoast
she lives with is telling her twice.
I hear, but can't listen.
I know, but don't care.
I pull up my shorts and go take a leak.
If you prick me, my friend, I promise to bleed.
The Hudson was once my personal moat
though now I feel like a shunned hot potato.
There are times, there are places
for starches like me.
A call from the union could change my
demeanor. It's not looking hopeful.
It's Third Down and Twelve.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
being chilled now should go to the couple
who earned it downstairs.
It's ripe and it's raw and it's rife with
transgressions. It could always be worse.
There's still some shaft left.
half-glow nap. Woke at noon, lounged around
beat by almost four. Dishes are piled--
a week's worth at least. There's an unopened
package screaming for a knife that
I can't muster the muscle to stab.
I know what it is: a suitcase for a trip
I won't be taking. It can wait.
It can all wait
with the sleeping bag in storage.
There are times I miss the strangest things
like the hot fermenting garbage smell
of the subway in July. This is one of them.
Sleep has no mercy, it won't come so soon.
The leaves on the trees like lightbulbs
to smash. People enjoy what could be
the last weekend where T-shirts aren't such
a rebellious decision. Strangers savor their lives
or pretend to. I roll onto my stomach
closing my eyes harder like a child scared
to death, though this kid's reconsidered.
A football announcer yells through the floor.
I can almost make out the words, it's disturbing.
What have the neighbors heard through
their ceiling and how have I not heard their TV before?
The sound's somewhat soothing, reminds me of
weekends when I'd fall asleep on my father's stiff couch.
It's probably there, blessed and annointed, praying
for an overdue trip to the dump.
The volume gets louder, perks up my ears. There's
no way to drift off with this kind of ruckus. I throw off
the top sheet, consider my options, succumb to
the urge, choke up on the bat.
The romance is clipped by a new sound
I notice, a generous portion of fresh humble pie.
There through the First Downs and Holdings
below me come whimpers and moans
from the cute pigtailed neighbor. The milquetoast
she lives with is telling her twice.
I hear, but can't listen.
I know, but don't care.
I pull up my shorts and go take a leak.
If you prick me, my friend, I promise to bleed.
The Hudson was once my personal moat
though now I feel like a shunned hot potato.
There are times, there are places
for starches like me.
A call from the union could change my
demeanor. It's not looking hopeful.
It's Third Down and Twelve.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
being chilled now should go to the couple
who earned it downstairs.
It's ripe and it's raw and it's rife with
transgressions. It could always be worse.
There's still some shaft left.
10.21.2011
No Way To Waste a Friday Night
The whirlwind swings by
to pick up some things
once her train's dropped
her off after work.
"Are you home?"
comes through crackling.
"Yeah," I reply
not sure if it's a lie or not.
"I'll be up in a minute."
Great. I'll still be down.
She keeps her shoes on
which is fine
since I haven't swept
since she's been gone;
asks to use the toilet.
I apologize in my mind
'cause my friends had bad aim
the other night
and I've found it hard
to get out of bed to eat
let alone clean
unless somebody's paying me.
Through the bathroom door
I can almost see her
searching for hairs
too long and light
to be mine.
She won't find them.
The sound of the flush
comes and the door
unveils light upon
my dark kitchen, a stage
perfectly set for the show.
Rotting fruit and vegetables
scream for mercy in the form
of a trash can from
the hanging baskets
that took so long for us to find.
She frowns. She doesn't fight it
as well as I do.
"Take some food with you,"
I plead, not wanting it to spoil.
Her hand pulls the fridge door open
and she inspects with minor distrust.
Sees the beer, probably wonders
who's been over since I'm in
a whiskey mood these days.
"You know there's a whole loaf of bread
down here," she says, rifling through
the misused crisper.
"Most of my grain's been distilled
as of late," I beam through crooked teeth.
She still can't find the humor.
That's the rub; the difference.
I'll joke all the way to the gallows.
She'll scowl all the way to the morgue.
Whatever she needed
seems inconsequential.
A few arbitrary items are tossed
into her big soccer mom bag
that'll probably never be true anymore
since that was my dream, not hers.
I used to help her put on her coat
after the check had been paid.
She taught me how to do that
without fumbling so much.
The urge is gone now
as she slinks into her peacoat.
This farewell will be as awkward
as a catcall at a funeral.
I'm right at a time
when I'd rather be wrong again.
By the time I reach the door
she's already at the stairs.
I stand there, three-quarters naked
and tell her. I have to.
It stops her in her tracks
although I'm no Bogart
and there ain't a plane to catch.
She turns and looks, bewildered
like that famous blurry photo
of Bigfoot stumbling through the creekbed.
"Don't," she spits, her bag seeming heavy.
But I do, and I will
because it's the truth.
If it wasn't I wouldn't be letting her go.
Sometimes that's what's needed
when the shuffle's been rigged.
We were doomed from the start, Kid.
Here's lookin' at you
from a distance
safe enough to wonder
what they would've looked like.
to pick up some things
once her train's dropped
her off after work.
"Are you home?"
comes through crackling.
"Yeah," I reply
not sure if it's a lie or not.
"I'll be up in a minute."
Great. I'll still be down.
She keeps her shoes on
which is fine
since I haven't swept
since she's been gone;
asks to use the toilet.
I apologize in my mind
'cause my friends had bad aim
the other night
and I've found it hard
to get out of bed to eat
let alone clean
unless somebody's paying me.
Through the bathroom door
I can almost see her
searching for hairs
too long and light
to be mine.
She won't find them.
The sound of the flush
comes and the door
unveils light upon
my dark kitchen, a stage
perfectly set for the show.
Rotting fruit and vegetables
scream for mercy in the form
of a trash can from
the hanging baskets
that took so long for us to find.
She frowns. She doesn't fight it
as well as I do.
"Take some food with you,"
I plead, not wanting it to spoil.
Her hand pulls the fridge door open
and she inspects with minor distrust.
Sees the beer, probably wonders
who's been over since I'm in
a whiskey mood these days.
"You know there's a whole loaf of bread
down here," she says, rifling through
the misused crisper.
"Most of my grain's been distilled
as of late," I beam through crooked teeth.
She still can't find the humor.
That's the rub; the difference.
I'll joke all the way to the gallows.
She'll scowl all the way to the morgue.
Whatever she needed
seems inconsequential.
A few arbitrary items are tossed
into her big soccer mom bag
that'll probably never be true anymore
since that was my dream, not hers.
I used to help her put on her coat
after the check had been paid.
She taught me how to do that
without fumbling so much.
The urge is gone now
as she slinks into her peacoat.
This farewell will be as awkward
as a catcall at a funeral.
I'm right at a time
when I'd rather be wrong again.
By the time I reach the door
she's already at the stairs.
I stand there, three-quarters naked
and tell her. I have to.
It stops her in her tracks
although I'm no Bogart
and there ain't a plane to catch.
She turns and looks, bewildered
like that famous blurry photo
of Bigfoot stumbling through the creekbed.
"Don't," she spits, her bag seeming heavy.
But I do, and I will
because it's the truth.
If it wasn't I wouldn't be letting her go.
Sometimes that's what's needed
when the shuffle's been rigged.
We were doomed from the start, Kid.
Here's lookin' at you
from a distance
safe enough to wonder
what they would've looked like.
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