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.