Something Else to Scare You

Take it from someone
who knows of the lonely:

A friend is someone who drags you out
when you don't want to be dragged.


Adapt & Overcome

To the men who've surprised me
with a precious egg sandwich.
To the men who've whispered jokes
in our redundant safety meetings.
To the men who've tossed me
a piece of candy in the eleventh hour.
To the men who've reminded me
to shut up and take the money.
To the men who've helped me rig 35000-lbs pipe
into place with cranes and chains and ropes.
To the men who've made me smirk against my will.
To the men who've called me in the evening
to congratulate the prosperity.
To the men who've mentioned
the merit of keeping one's chin up.
To the men who've taught me the value of a Day's work.
To the men who've broken my balls wide open
for the sake of keeping me humble.
To the men who've seen something in me
that reminded them of their youth.
To the men who've fostered
what I failed to see when the odds were against me.
To the men who've left voicemails
I've saved for rainy days:

The trade can be lucrative
but your Brotherhood means more than the check.


Elusive Solutions & Comfort Food

"Your insight was right,"
she says with no surprise.
"I'm getting back
with my husband."

You feel the gin bite.
A lime wedge squirts your eye.
All's well on the oak.
Kids drown by the pint.
You're laughing.

Currently reading:
"The Sexual History of the World War" by Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld.


68 Days of Hard-Boiled Eggs

Leave No Marks:
The mattress rule
for women who have men.
Although they like it rough
it's uncouth to bruise the fruit.
The goods are damaged inside
but their skin's as pure as bleach.
No evidence.
No love bites.
No handprints on their thighs.

Start in fire, end in fire.
Lies within the ashes.
Tread lightly, son.
Carve slowly.
It's not a kissing story.

This is all there is.


Decapitated Vines

I used to do this thing
where I'd save the corks
from wine bottles shared
with my beloved
of the month
and spread them out
on a shelf that houses
Catholic patron saints
burning above my bed springs.

The price of genius is sanity
but He called my wooden nickel.
I cheated on my lovers
with my writing.
Fire has no loyalty.
I purged and built again.
The corks were swept methodically
into an open trash can
and a new collection started
within the week
or less.

I used to do this thing
where I'd drink with other people.
Their voices became grating.
They took up too much space.

It's me and wine and cigarettes
and wedding season's over.