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?