1.27.2018

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.

1.23.2018

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.

1.22.2018

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.

1.21.2018

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.

1.09.2018

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.

1.07.2018

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.

1.06.2018

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.