Relapse

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

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

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

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

An Edible Peach

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

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

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

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


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

Vacationland

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

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

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

To successfully dupe others
you must first fool yourself.

Someone's got to preach
in this godforsaken wasteland.

Stage Names

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

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

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

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

Hypertext

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

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

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


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  January 2018".

Extortion Season

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

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

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

When the Eaves Fall

I overheard an overshoot:

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

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

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

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

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

"I can't," he said succinctly.

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

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

while we still can.


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

Channeling Garfunkel

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

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

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

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

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

No Backsies

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

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

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

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

Hypocrisy's for rookies.

Scaloppini

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

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

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


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

Mary on the Half Shell

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

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

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

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

Pinky Ring

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

Cognoscenti

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

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

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

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

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

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

The corrected authority
checked his ticking wristwatch.

Dave made it home
right on time.

Hellbent on the Horizon

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

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

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

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

The Second Coming

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

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

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

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

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

Devotional

Build a bear.
Build a bridge.
Build something
they'll remember you by.

Plant an aloe.
Plant a note.
Plant yourself
where you can help.

Burn a bill.
Burn a bridge.
Burn for what's bigger
than your landlord's account.

Bury hatchets.
Bury flesh.
Bury your heart
on an island.

60/40

You can't count
how many times
you've hit or rubbed your arm
accidentally against
the rusted anchor
dredged locally from the Hudson
and given to you
by a man over twice your age
who'd appreciate the irony
of how you've mounted it
to a cast iron vent pipe
rising through your apartment
dangerously close to your dinner table

nor do you recall
if your tetanus innoculation
is up to date
though your jaw would be hard to lock
regardless of infection
since you're the kind
that doesn't count a wad of cash
handed to him if eye contact's made.

Only the guilty defend themselves.

Pheromones

Half asleep
with a sore back
on your fake wood floor
your forearm as a pillow
you catch the sour scent
of your own sweat
and recollect it in others
from a time when such niceties
weren't ghosts misbehaving.

Storm Chaser

A lean, young doe
gallops at dawn
across a church meadow
in the first leg
of a worn commute.

My foot presses the brake
in anticipation of our
crossing trajectories
but her dash ends
at the massive stalk of broccoli
dying in the grass.

The eager deer partakes
of the tree's tender buds
without having to stretch her neck
or stand on her hind legs.

As we pile into the work van
half an hour later
the rest of the guys
start their daily ribbing
but my mind's not ready
to leave the day's first scene
yet.

Prolapse

In the shower this evening
my insides began to fall out.
I was surprisingly unalarmed.
It seemed like a natural progression.

I didn't notice while lathering
since parts are chopped
and added daily
to a body being borrowed.
That sting of the soap
is what gave it away.
The mucous membrane there
was affected and sent signals
to a place where thoughts occur
and fears are born of dreams.

This random revelation
was accepted as the latest
so I tucked myself
back in myself
grateful for limited taste buds.

A Driftwood Fire

We've had this rule
unwritten until now
for years of unbridled grace:
I'm only allowed
to love her sometimes.

13 lucky years ago
I did her dirty.
Since then I've been the reason
for her lack of self-esteem.
My penance should be paid by now
but you and I know
how history works
on the minds of inner children.

In the wake she goes for winners
out of jail and into hitting.
I was never that bad
though her psyche tells her different.
She gets drunk at Mahoney's
with the queers that she's befriended
and beckons me to drive
up the road that I hate most.

Usually we sleep
at her place with "Roseanne" playing
since she can't rest without it.
The script invades my dreams

But the last time she came south
and held my hand through dinner.
She took a page from mine
and paid while I was pissing.

We fucked like we were dying
faster than we are.
In the morning
while I brushed
she walked out to catch a cab.

I used to make her breakfast:
waffles, scrambled eggs.
Now I'm just a thought
in her cubicle
with water.

She's dating someone new.
I never had a crack
at a second up at bat
for all the times I answered
when the pipes would soon be calling.

Mumbling from the Masturbatorium

Prose--
The word sounds like
a precocious writer of essays
involuntarily celibate
standing with shoulders squared
and hands hanging stiffly.
It's not that I hate it
for making less sense
but rather, since I can't dance
pauses through line breaks
and punctuation
compensate for my deficiencies
in whichever life is real.

We sleep because
it's easier than waking
in a one-horse town
that pisses uphill in unison
thirsting for love
and choking on lust
that isn't worth it
compared to our collective
succumbing to loneliness.

Stanzas left to be discovered
like bobby pins on windowsills
depth charges in the darkness
slice and carve and operate
on tile floors in bathrooms.
Pretend you're unaware
that the blood will dry to brown.

It's not a lie if you believe it.
Gamble, spit, suffocate
and fuck with killer rhythm.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Fall 2017".

Two Drifting Dirigibles

It's been in my apartment
for over two months
outlasting most relationships
I've had in seven years
but when a seven-year-old boy
runs up three flights of stairs
to deliver a birthday balloon
in your misappropriated honor
for merely managing to exist
for another forlorn year
there's little motivation
to start being an adult
by popping and discarding it
in a manner that won't
strangle distant sea life
down the line.

The helium's dissipated
substantially so it hovers
two feet down from the ceiling.
This lack of persistent gas
has transformed the celebratory token
into a miniature ghost ship
floating through rented rooms
poorly passing for a home
like a renegade Zeppelin
that's evaded Allied flak.
Air currents that I wouldn't have
suspected in its absence
push the stubborn aircraft
around the empty space
between walls I've tried to enliven.

Late at night after dinner and wine
it creeps into my peripheral vision
often times startling a man
who's grown accustomed
to a motionless environment.
Too many Stephen King books
on one of several dusty shelves
conjure images more macabre
than its bright and festive colors.

It's in that contradiction
that I'm reminded of its source.
There's a child who still loves me
when I forget to love myself.

To Call in Reinforcements

There's a painted lady
who's seen better days
beside a road I don't travel
often enough.
Even at a speeding glance
I can see that it's in a state
of careful renovation.
The porch is missing
its fragile roof supported
by a battery of lumber
cut and angled
to provide ample support.

The craftsmen I most admire
are the ones who accept
this breed of task
boldly saying with surgical skill
"I can restore this.
You make sure the checks clear."
That silent confidence
is what defines the line
between a violin virtuoso
and a fool with a fiddle.

Take note of the man
who owns but one hammer.
He probably knows
how to use it.

Episiotomy Scars

The whirring in almost dog tones
commences for the night.
I ask her if she hears it
not so much to test her ears
as to question my flickering senses
while we gulp white
from safely stemless glasses on the couch.

She confirms the presence of sound
aside from my half-drunk rambling.
I state that it's also audible
outside my apartment
as it has been for seven years
seemingly swirling down
from the street lights overhead.

Her theory involves a vent
though that's as far as her words go.
Perhaps she's referring
to a spherical globe of slotted tin
that spins atop a roof arbitrarily
but I play coy for argument's sake
stating instead that the noise
is the voice of God
that we mere mortals can't decipher.

She looks at me like I'm a madman.
Maybe for a moment I am
but the droning has stopped
and stays silent
as though one of us
who tends to shoot left
has suddenly hit
when it mattered.


Currently reading:
"The Beast God Forgot to Invent" by Jim Harrison.

Hyphenated Surnames

There are times
and places
people
and things
leading up
to where we now are.

There are tired faces;
ripped and thrown rings.
Two cigarettes
walked to a car.

With pianist's fingers
and eyebrows that rise
we agree to let the check linger.

There are tired places;
laughter that stings.
Saturday feels
much too far.

Aces and Eights

All I wanted was enough coffee
to pry my eyes open for driving
through the headlit dawn.
Inside the nearest gas station
a retired Irishman
and his Middle Eastern counterpart
froze their morning screenplay
upon my quiet arrival.

The latter stopped punching numbers
and grabbed a can of electronics cleaner
to blast counters, screens, and keyboards.
His luckless customer stood looking
like a man guilty of espionage
in a country that still beheads.

I poured my share, paid the clerk
and made my way for the exit.
The script picked up again
as the white-haired hopeful
declared his precious numbers
in low tones used in confessional booths
since I was out of earshot
and his secret would be safe.

The rest of my day had no more subtle sins.
Without belief in magic
there can't be such infractions.

Resurrection

Leaning on a boulder
that lines my uncle's fire pit
I put myself in the kid's shoes.
When I was his age
there were cousins to chase
in the basement before dinner.
All he's got at almost eight
is a brother who's watching him
char up his hands
with a stick he's pulled
from the embers.

We say our goodbyes.
He's been well behaved.
On the ride home he sleeps
on the plastic tray of leftovers.

I hope that tomorrow
when he wakes to soak the day
the smoke smell on his hands
reminds him of our blaze.


Currently reading:
"The Hemingway Patrols" by Terry Mort.

Want Ad

SHM seeks SWF, 24-35;
nurses preferable;
smokers not discouraged.

Vague emphasis placed on dutiful desire
to court, help train replacements.
Coitus interruptus only a temporary solution.
Must love children.

Should appreciate barrel-chested physique
of Hemingway in his thirties
minus the ability to box, fish
take life of any kind, write objectively
or find beauty in bullfights.
Should appreciate
men who love Hemingway anyway.
Should appreciate Hemingway.
Pension will only appreciate in value
unless it fails.

Underdog lovers a plus.
Those amazed by merit
in the negative
like how a pound of bacon
cooks down deliciously
jump to almost the front of the line
second only to nurses.

An ability to comprehend
the meaning of the phrase
"so successful in the jungle"
strongly favored over cutters of cookies.
Points given for baking skills
and an affinity for chocolate.
Garlic is life.

Firearm friendly only.
What's a cowboy without it?

Might have stopped speaking
of beautiful things
once their frequency diminished.

It took three blown bulbs
in as many weeks
before the fixture was decommissioned.

Don't inquire within.

Breakfast in Bed

It's found on the floor
of your apartment
by two friends from your hometown
who've never been here until now.
Some sort of crystal
the color of your morning sink spit
after a night you've smoked too much
an inch-and-a-quarter long
with hexagonal sides
and a point on each end
cloudy in its interior;
it's probably plastic
like the rest.

You wonder where it came from
and if you've bedded a witch lately
or your landlords have cast a hex.

Cocksure without marching powder
you toss it on the dining room table
playing down its odd discovery
with another tale of undue glory
from nights you barely remember
making note in gray matter
to investigate its origin
on a morning much like this one
with a scratch on your thigh
from the heel of a stiletto
bought for a song
and a growling dog dream.

Consuming from dented cans
is dangerous.
It's not a secret
if two people know.

Youthful Mating Calls

It takes a sick word
like "vivisection"
to clean between the tines.
When your tongue's cut
licking envelopes
is the last sign
that it's over.

If the smell of citronella
doesn't bring you back
to swatting gnats
then it's best
we killed our baby
and whatever else was shared.

Quarter Rican Dixie

She's that cigarette
you find on the floor
of your passenger seat.
You have to try
although you know
it's long stale--
One puff to be sure
before it's tossed
out the window
at a late model sedan
that's been tailgating
for miles.

Local moguls will concur
that the merit of breakfast in bed
can be argued
but the West is rather wild.
Trust me since I've been.

Forensic Photosynthesis

It's become a unit of time
in a makeshift hermitage.
Two aloes every Sunday
in the eastward kitchen window
receive their pints
rain or shine.
The weeks shrink shorter.
Momentum builds.
Kinetic.

Today the water filters through
overflows from underneath
covering the sill
with excess undesired
like proposals scoffed
by ears too proud.
A towel's spread to soak it up
so the paint won't swell and chip.
The landlord will keep the deposit
regardless of this effort.

Their roots will suck the remainder
through capillary action.
Each molecule contributes.
Shoots will sprout their flowers.

Where nature's fooled
both art and science
is the inconsistent thirst.
What's measured and poured
and savored for months
is too much today
in tandem.

Marital Marsh

The cork broke coming out
of the wine you sent me
for my birthday last week
though you knew
it's not my varietal
and I understood
why I sat here like a charlatan
waiting for your invitation.

It scares me that antibiotics
won't work when I get older.
Karma will claim me
long before
red meat has had its chance.

Next of kin are notified.
The table of contents is altered.
I think now, looking back:
Three years is long enough.

Darling, how are you?
Is this for what you've asked?
Only allowed to love you sometimes
I feel, I grope for a future.

Corked Uncanny

It's been months
since he's been over
but he struts through my threshold
like Patton over the Rhine.
Not missing a chance to narrate
he describes what's new
and what's changed here
since his return.

At seven he's already
a master storyteller.
Entering the living room
he spots a foreign souvenir
stationed atop a bookshelf.
"I bought that for you on vacation
with mommy," he explains
while stroking the ship in a bottle--
visions of the Caribbean coursing
through his brain.

I grin and thank him again
for a gift that he can't understand yet
holding back a sermon
on other feats
that seem infeasible.

Have Gun, Will Travel

My second-favorite bartender
of all relative time
pops into the passenger seat
of a truck that's outperformed
its owner in ways the commercials
would never dare to mention.
Hypocrites ain't big on history.
It's hard to believe that I was 17
17 years ago, but my truck's
not like a rock.

It's almost her turn
to watch old men drown themselves
next to a murky river
but she's asked me to stop
on my way home from the same.
A white plastic shopping bag
laden with food containers
is placed on the floor
between her legs--
two places I know well
as she smirks at my amazement.

I notice that the tape
holding one of her hair extensions
is showing through the ponytail
she's thrown up in a rush.
She tells me that it doesn't matter
since she's not able to see it.
Pleased with her good deed
she exits, clad in black.

Before I shift the transmission
to head back where I hang myself nightly
I lean forward from the seat
to rub the surgical scar on my back
feeling the raised suture sites
and wonder if the doctor
removed more than he said.

The Nurse Who More or Less Killed You

Cleaning out closets
on a nearly pantsless Sunday
you drag bags and boxes
from corners you've never seen
since you were working
during the move.
She painted accent walls
and decorated;
put your books on shelves
though you'd begged her not to
because the order made sense
in your head.

Seven years later
you're bursting through beams
so it's time to purge
the person you evicted.
What you find brings you back
to an era more stable.
You see her hand
in the placement of things
and recall her brain's operation.

Cans of paint and some brushes.
Sheets that don't fit your bed.
A dress that you've never
peeled off her
still hangs from a hook
in the back.
The GPS that you bought her
though without you
she found her way easily.
There's a gray plastic bag
with a knot that's not yours.
You open it, expecting Pandora.
Some makeup, shampoo
a toothbrush, a razor
and a T-shirt
you can't help
but shove to your face.
It smells only now
of cast aside cotton.

Every ounce of your discovery
winds up in the dumpster.
San Francisco's too far
to ship and to handle.

Sea-Lashed

A wasted day at work
warrants a new wine.
Abortions are best
put to rest by a bottle.
This Sauvignon Blanc
from Southern Australia
lured me with its trout
on the label
like a fish in the aisle.
2014 was a better year
so it was worth a shot.

The notes, as described
reflect citrus and tropics.
There's nothing I hate more
than a liar put in print.
A tab on the left says
"To Remember, Peel Here".
I do so and look on the back
of the paper
but it's enviously blank.

I read the front again:
The brand, region
year, and varietal.
It's only a note
to stick in your wallet
for the next time
at the liquor store
in case you can't recall
what's worthy.

I shove it down the empty neck;
a meaningless message in a bottle.
I won't need the token.
Their marketing is brilliant
though millions
could be made
if it helped to forget.

My better hand rubs
a crooked coat of arms
and tries to bury a decade.

I wonder if I'll have
the tools I'll need for tomorrow.


Currently reading:
"Geek Love" by Katherine Dunn.

How to Get Laid Through Housekeeping

Before the big date
some cleaning's in order
but don't go overboard.
You've got to sweep
the cobwebs just enough.
If it's spotless
you're a serial killer.
Make it look lived-in
though lately
you're surviving.
Make it seem normal
though no one after 30
knows exactly what that is.
Sweep, but leave a few dust lines.
Wash that pile of dishes
but not the French press
like you made coffee this morning.
Show her that you function
on a daily, healthy basis.

The ashtray's always empty
since you hate that you smoke
inside at night
when you're sipping wine
and typing
with a box fan in the window
so don't worry about that.

Think of Hemingway;
the wars he was blown up in
and watched from the sidelines.
Remember how it happened in Spain.

Your friends would urge you
to toss the tablecloth.
Ignore them.
It's been there for you
through too many nights.
The burn holes only add character.

Under the influence of estrogen
clinging to clarity
and notes that you've saved
acknowledge the fact
that you've checked three times over:
There is no change
for the high altitude recipe.

Scratch your trigger finger
on a nightcap
and suck down the rest.

That dead fly you found
in the bottom of the fridge
has never heard of a husband stitch.
It's grateful.

Juxtaposing

I hunted down this print
I'd seen in an art show long ago.
At the time I couldn't justify
the dough
but soon after I regretted it.
Years later I found it again
and the photographer
as a bonus.
For a short time
we created together
though these collaborations
tend to ebb.
Then I was left
with a 20 x 30
and the memory of her taste
250 shy of my next antique rifle.

My allure made sense
after our fling had flung.
A visiting uncle recognized
the setting:
a mental institution, now closed
where three of my family members
had worked in the 70s.
Its source was awkwardly confirmed
on a night of too much Pinot.
With absence comes appreciation.
Redemption's far more rare.

For a year it fought
the good fight
on my living room's best wall.
The shadow boxes
and display cases
containing local war relics
closed in like rabid Huns.
Eventually it stood out
too much for wayward guests.
I took it down;
replaced it with another
frame of dust.

Last week I walked the line
from my kitchen to my bedroom
staring at the brick
that faced me from the wall.
Twenty feet of focus
through a doorframe
sparked a thought.
I hung the photo in that spot
with two nails and a level.
It helps to have a goal in mind
even if it changes.

Brand Loyalty

Whether headlights are flashed
because there's

a speed trap ahead
or an accident
or a deer in the median
or someone's forgotten them at dusk
or someone's got a burnt bulb
or someone's got their brights on
unnecessarily

there are two types of people
in this speeding world:

Those who slow down
take note
or dim

and those who are foolish
and don't.


Currently reading:
"Poetry" (October 2017).

Dumpster Sounds

There was a time
when I'd light candles
for shit like this.
Now I answer the door
in day-old boxers
and bitch if they toss their keys
on my glass-topped coffee table
like the scratches in its surface
aren't mine.

Sloppy after alcohol
the teeth rub freely.
Adam should've pulled out.
Now it's all gone nuclear.

She lies on my chest
a leg thrown across
my heaving abdomen.
"That hurts," I protest
on behalf of my bladder
too sweaty and drained
to go empty it.
"Did you miss me?" she asks.
Hating when they fish
for tenderness long gone
I reply in the negative
and cling to transparency
like a buoy with a hole.
"I don't miss anyone
these days."
It's more convenient
to lie for both of us.
She leaves
when she senses
it's time.

A carpenter's apprentice
is started inside closets.
My fuck-ups are on display
with arms too short
to box with God.

44

And if
even then
you can find
no one
or nothing
for which
to continue
think of how
cherry tomatoes
taste
like candy
even from the store.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

The strangest acquaintances come briefly
but hard with the Universe's sole intent
of making you grateful for your own
set of unwieldly problems.
That jackhammer-toting
toothpaste model motherfucker
had months of unemployment benefits
forged by his shacked-up whack-job
whose fake tits he bought
after leaving his wife for fellatio.
I went to the trooper barracks with him
when he found the Walmart receipts.

I was also there when the local PD
came another time during one of their several
domestic disputes fueled by Bud bottles
and pills he was once prescribed.
It was an odd home to have dinner in
for those wild months in Marlboro Country.
His bride-to-never-be
was deathly allergic to seafood
so that was off the menu.

She drove me unfairly nuts in her own way
despite our lack of carnal relations
though I'd seen all the silicone
and her Holiest of Holies
by Scout's Honor accident one afternoon
when that sociopath called me into his den
while seated at his obsolete computer
watching an amateur porn he'd made of them
complete with less-than-special effects.
People are fucking weird, man.

What pushed me over the edge, however
was the exaggerated way in which
she pronounced the letter T
at the end of a word
as though it added legitimizing emphasis
to whatever dull point she was making.
It sounded like a toddler
in an alphabet exercise.
It sounded like muted hi-hat cymbals.
It sounded like venom being spat
from a whore who'd never got the hang
of swallowing her trade.

Why do I ponder this now
seven years later
with a hefty mug of gin
and a handful of unfinished orange bottles
locked away
since I hate their evil contents?
Like I told you before:
People are fucking weird, man.

Popular Misnomers

It must be monotonous
managing a grocery store
so events like this are cherished.
Name tag freshly polished
she reprimands my leaving
of coupons near corresponding items
tucked into metal shelves
for unsuspecting strangers to find.
She asks me to come
to the customer service desk.
I comply for sheer amusement
unaware of what is waiting.

A man in a black polo shirt sweats profusely.
He asks to see my discount card
and depletes its 456 gas points
through four seconds of keystrokes
after I hand it over.
Once returned, both employees
inform me that I'm lucky to receive
a verbal warning as opposed to
fullest prosecution allowed for violators.
Lacking the patience to ask of laws
I proceed to the nearest checkout
foregoing the rest of my list.

My ride home rife with confusion
reminds me via radio spot
that I haven't played badminton in 24 years.
Fighter pilot or not
it takes five to make an ace.
The ones we spare today
are the ones who'll shoot us tomorrow.


Currently reading:
"History of the Great Iron Chain" by Francis Bannerman.

To Clear the Name of a Brother

[What is love]

Shampoo stings
the corner of your eye.
You peaked seven, eight
years ago
when there was still a witness
worth a damn.
The wise ones fled the field
leapt from pages
like every blade was ablaze.

[but unfinished business]

It used to be the litmus
by which you judged your salt:
If your life were a book
would you be
your favorite player?
Now you wonder
why the Author
didn't write that role out sooner.

[to which you surrender]

Art's aim is reaction
you'd argue
justifying life
through fibs sold as fiction

[each day that you can?]

each day that you can.

Weathervane

I found it in a pile
of detritus
and set it aside
like a handwritten shrine.
"200-
Paid in full"
scrawled beneath a date
that seems closer
than it is
below an address label
from the gallery
across the street.

Jay met Jackie once
and hugged her
like he knew.
For her birthday
two months later
I bought her the piece
with storefronts and trees;
duality, the change
that she loved.

I wonder now
as I've switched
from wine to beer
for the night
if it's hanging
in her condo
for sale in Chicago
or covered by feet of garbage
waiting to turn to dust.

We parted when she thought
she carried our kin
mistakenly, running again
with bourbon on breath.

Hemingway said
it's the task of a writer
to tell the truth
but that's boring.

Let the Children Play

Her basement apartment's
20 degrees colder than what
the digital thermostat reads
when I show up after her shift.
My feet feel the frozen concrete
through the cheap tile
once I've removed my sneakers.
The forecast calls
for negative overnight temperatures.
This improvised icebox is
the last place I want to be
after working in the elements all week.

No airflow's felt from the vents.
She says it's been like this for months.
Her landlord threatened to evict her
when she complained about the furnace.
I inform her that it's not that simple
and he's the one breaking laws.
Her boundless victimhood
and fear of confrontation
refuse to believe me.
Though not each other
we know our roles.

I yank the control
free of the wall
to check its connections.
She's got no screwdriver small enough
in the toolbox her father assembled
like a lackluster consolation prize
for letting your child down your whole life
so I use the tip of a steak knife
to back out the screws labeled R and W.
Nothing happens when I jump the system
by touching the wires.
The furnace doesn't hum
through the drywall.
The heat doesn't pour
from the ducts.
Usually it works as an override.
It's a party trick of mine
like using a toothbrush
until the bristles are mashed flat.
I don't bother explaining the concept
as I reassemble her thermostat.

We sit and shiver on her couch
unable to ignore the chill.
I offer to speak to her landlord
the next day, set him straight
like a company foreman.
The subject drifts south.
She lies a few times
but I catch her
and turn into the skid.
That's reason enough to leave
without seeming cruel.
It's another party trick of mine
like attending funerals
to make sure the departed
are dead.


Currently reading:
"Hemingway on War" by Ernest Hemingway.