11.19.2017

Zoning

You walk the line
of sycamores shooting forty feet
straight up from the sidewalk
and wonder which was there first.
That's how it works
in this world we've created:
First in, best dressed;
possession is nine-tenths of the law.

The same holds true
for this city itself.
Those who've moved
to its ranch grid of tree streets
and exposed brick walk-ups
have claimed it for their own.
An invisible gate
of vintage rack gentrification
has been conjured in the minds
of the visionary elite
slamming shut as soon
as they've paid their rental deposits
to keep out the rest
of those who would dare
to add to the roster.

You cross a busy intersection
beholding the non-bohemian behemoth
responsible for social outcry
among the congress of conquest.
The smell of the plywood
sheathing the incomplete
first floor hits your nostrils
but doesn't sting as smartly
as the wind that's brought November.
You wonder if the facade
is not the right hue of red
or the intended residents' demographic
doesn't wear the proper flannel.

Why the commotion?
Is life that bland?

A couple in their thirties
approaches the new building.
The woman snaps a photo
that she'll post soon from her phone
as her beau holds the leash
of the dog raised as their child.
It's wrapped in a plaid jacket
to fend off the season's bite
while across the street
in a gas station parking lot
two homeless men wear
a combination of piss-stained denim
and tattered army surplus
from a war with clearer lines.

One of them's named Patrick.
You've given him smokes
and bought him pints
at the dive on the corner
that lets him in
even though he doesn't care
about the game on either screen.
You've listened to his stories
and asked him where he sleeps.
None of this makes you a better person
but it angers you that the mentality in town
is more focused on what they deem an eyesore
than the people who need coats
more than some privileged cats and dogs do.

The menus are vast
and the rent is paid early
but this isn't a place
that you'll ever call "home".

11.18.2017

To Buy a Man a Knife

A ditch near a Garrison pine row
reminds me of the time
we helped a driver from the Russian mob
out of a snowy rut one night.
We slowed at the crooked tail lights
of the black Mercedes sedan
which somehow didn't seem his
when we spoke to him through the window.
There was someone he could call for help
but he was afraid to dial.
We could tell.
His hands were shaking as hard as his English.
Maybe he'd just offed somebody.

Barely old enough to buy booze
we shouldn't have been stopping for strangers.
None of us carried steel back then.
We thrived on immortality
and false promises made in song.
Shin deep in salty snow
the three of us pushed stubbornly enough
at that costly bumper to get our Russian friend rolling.
He kept his momentum going--
not a honk, not a wave
not a wink in the side view mirror.

Specifics of the evening's remainder unclear
I can state with firm candor
that details be damned
we chased the elusive unmentionable
and one of us managed to find it.

11.14.2017

Happy Hunting

My hands still smell like limes
from squeezing the night before
when I scratch my face
after buzzing her in downstairs.

She clatters by me
as though she rents the place
in a whirlwind of bags and winterwear
giving half a kiss in passing.

I stand in lucky boxers
and hungover bewilderment
unfairly agitated
that she never removes her shoes
at the door

but I sober myself
admitting
that I haven't swept since summer
and she hasn't arrived
to inspect my cleanliness.

It's quite the opposite
thank God.


Currently reading:
"The Regulators" by Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman).

11.11.2017

Fiction

"Tear right in,"
she says.
"I'm not the one
paying for it."

11.05.2017

Mentors and Monsters

It used to be
that the deepest cold
I'd known
was at age 10
hunting
with my father
in the darkest time
of morning.
I prayed
for a premature sunrise
to a god I still believed in
and mistook every squirrel
crashing through leaves
for a buck.

There are people
cropped and cornered
who are watching
for your fall.

Make them wait.

11.01.2017

Surviving the Transplant, Verbatim

She bounces back up
at the ping
possibly her boyfriend
as I notice the mark
on her forehead.
"A resident hit me,"
she says of the red
bobbing back down
for silence
more than me.

I tune out nerve endings
to hone in on the pattern:
A symmetrical stitch
perfect in its rendering.
She coughs mid-stride
so I make her laugh
against our stubborn will:
"Enter sickly Jew, stage left."

Afterward I inquire
of its origin.
"A bible," she protests
predicting my sad ecstasy.

Two sodomites giggle
in the throes of late white wine
as I chant "King James Version!"
and pretend to slap a face
that I'll never earn
in earnest.

[This is how the terminally ill
joke about the terminally ill
with the terminally ill
and we're all terminally ill
you idiot.]