10.28.2017

A Fool for the Wounded

But when it was her turn
she needed me to maneuver
in a way that hurt my back
during and afterward
so I stopped giving her turns
and mine stopped coming, too.

We keelhauled our contagions;
should've killed them in their cribs.

All too familiar:
She looks like her
or close enough.
The smell would throw the illusion
but it can be made to work.

Susceptible miscreants
run from the huntsman.
I think I died
sometime on Wednesday.

Tell 'em "Smile."
Tell 'em "Sorry."
Tell 'em anything but the truth.

10.23.2017

Crutch

It took six years
to notice
effects
of the marble Christ
at night
on that side street
where the church
spent dough
on spotlights
accentuating arms

outstretched.
Intricacies
in the stone
are afterthoughts
in low beams
there only for the timid
who pass
by day and legs.

An arm span
for measuring
two football
goalposts
an arrow
pointing downward
and those who fear
will follow.

10.15.2017

Avian Anatomy

I cross the street
to greet him
as he stands without purpose
outside a corner bodega.
He gives his standard:
"I haven't seen you."
I give mine:
"I've been working."

Pulling my pack
from the plaid pocket
above my heart
I pass him a smoke.
He reaches for it
with unwashed hands
the dirt under his fingernails
a different type entirely.
It's not the job debris
I'm accustomed to scrubbing
or paint from a local drinkslinger's daytime endeavors.
It's the accumulation of time spent
sipping from bagged cans on sidewalks
and sleeping on benches
while tourists take photos of the buildings
that the homeless population can't enter.
I shake his hand
despite the hundreds of times
he's used it to hold himself in alleyways
since his last gas station sink bath
splashing like a day-drunk bird
in grandmother's backyard garden.

"This is harsh," he says
inhaling the clove cigarillo far too deeply.

"You get used to it,"
I tell an expert on wear and tear
who's aged without grace
in a city of fools for the wounded.

I leave the intersection
and forget all about that bearded apparition
as soon as I place my order from the stool.

You can only owe someone
for so long.

10.08.2017

What They Don't Tell You About Becoming a Writer

[For a brother in arms, Phil Bram.]


Your childhood's speed bumps
and sharpened learning curves
will become pen fodder
that you'll exaggerate as thrifty therapy.

Even if your dog ran away
at Fourth of July fireworks
when you were five
due to your dad's innocent mistake
on paper it died in your arms.

You'll do less wrong
than a politician's conscience
since there's got to be a hero
even here in hell.

A teacher or two
who nurtured your budding talent
will be verbally deified
despite the fact
that they'd now shake their heads
while reading the words that you sling.

Your siblings will be mirrors
and means to fix bad blood.

Your first true love
and every other fake to follow
is in for a case of typecast tinnitus.

Every time a piece is published
that praises or curses a bedmate
you'll taste the wrath
of your muse that same month.

Your father will be blamed
for his years of anguished absence
although his own demons
appeared and pulled their rank.

Friends and acquaintances
will fear what they say
since all is fair game
in your desperate twisting of lines
while pursuing an answer.

Colleagues won't fathom
your switch of vernacular
when you fall out of character
for fleeting moments of clarity.

The cadence of time
will be warped 'til surreal
whipped into submission
for the sake of your story.

Yarns too rife with grit
will have to stay untold
despite their priceless merit
saved instead for deathbeds.

Your mother, who secretly reads
to know her distant offspring
will hand you a bag of leftovers
with a handful of condoms in the bottom.

An editor will befriend you
enough to tolerate your trash
and you'll feel like a toddler
in the lap of his father.

You'll be accused of untrue desires.
You'll be denied the right to privacy.
You'll view the world through a different lens
and document its beautiful flaws.

People you cherish
will hurt for your alleged art
while you, the ignorant creator
will selfishly wonder why.

The biggest misfortune
the largest lie
omitted from the brochure
by gods who seek sick pleasures
is that you had any say in your calling

But if you're worth a damn
then you'll grin through the madness
and rejoice that you were born this way.


Currently reading:
"Glock:  The Rise of America's Gun" by Paul M. Barrett.