Stay Still

Our refrigerator's lodged
in a two-foot-wide corridor
only visible
if you're looking
for food
or headed to
the adjacent restroom.

There's a paper towel
held to the door
with a magnet
or two.
Even with all
the compromise
of moving in together
consolidating
eliminating
she's never questioned
why it's there.

Carved with black Sharpie
in angular
capital letters
it says
"LOVE
YOU MIKE
DAD"--
the
most beautiful
haiku
ever written
after eight years
of silence.

Best made
with what
he had
I yanked it
from my father's
kitchen table
a few years
back
in case
of



Currently reading:
"No Heroes" by Chris Offutt.

On Islands and Mainland

Prior to adolescence
my mother brought me to Wildwood.
Neither of us returned from Jersey
with beach burns fading to tans.
I only owned a snorkel
when visiting my old man
but I begged for a diving knife
at a gift shop on the boardwalk
so it rode home in the suitcase
that divorced kids know too well.

The stainless steel dagger
serrated on one side
an inch above the ricasso
was stamped with shame:
"Taiwan".
Four holes spanned the grip
to lighten
or for fingers
if you wanted them all broken
in a fight you'd entered to lose.

Its sheath was black and plastic
with a lever on a spring
that held the knife in place
when it wasn't stabbing sharks.
Through four slots in the sides
wove holed and buckled rubber
to strap it to a leg
though it only fit my arm;
a measuring mistake
made by young Asian makers.

It collected dust
in a surplus ammunition crate.
A few years later
when I felt the need for change
I tethered it to the bedpost
nearest the door and window
within my teenage reach.
The shiny blade protected me
from what I didn't know to fear.

It remained a silent sentry
until I moved upstate for college.
Where my mother put it
I've never called to ask.
What do you do with a diving knife
that you don't and never needed?

I hope a kid left a yard sale
newly inspired to swim.



Currently reading:
"Outer Dark" by Cormac McCarthy.

To Mitigate a Wishbone

The neighbor's new dog's
been barking all night
at the nothingness it senses--

its only competition
the gurgle through copper
of inefficient heating
in this dark and silent place.

I wonder which one of us
better handles
being alone.


Currently reading:
"Child of God" by Cormac McCarthy.

Chokepoint

That ugly fucker's head exploded
before the day's opening rays
hit the night-cooled sand.
We're trained since basic
to aim for center of mass:
torso, chest, vitals
but Terry tends to give the first one
a whirl like he's back home
twenty years ago in the hills of Tennessee
squirrel hunting, trying not
to damage much meat.
When you're that good
you've got to entertain yourself
regardless of what the manuals
or screaming drill sergeants say
half a globe away.

"Contact," I said lowly
as I confirmed the hit
through the scope above my 7.62
a half-second after he cycled the bolt
and chambered the next round
in the .300 he'd been issued this deployment.
All hell broke loose in the desert
as AKs fired blindly into the dim dawn.
"Contact, contact," I reiterated in the same tone
as Terry pushed the second and third ones
back two meters to the ground.

The party began to scatter.
We'd seen movement at their knees
prior to engaging
and assumed they were goats
but livestock don't have arms to flail
when picked up as human shields
by cowardly targets.

We'd been warned in our briefing about this group's
ruthless tactics and ordered not
to compromise the mission at all costs.
That's Uncle Sam's way of saying
"Leave your conscience at home, boys."
The kids--humans, not goats--were
too far off for us to hear their screaming.
Terry and I were grateful for that.
When his next shot kicked up dust
we were equally thankful for that.
I'd never seen Terry miss until then.
I have a few times since.

His wife had recently gone through stillbirth
as he was on a bird back to the sandbox.
I knew it was on his mind.
He dropped his mag and inserted one
full of heavier-grain ammo
as if the mild crosswind had caused
the last lighter bullet to drift.

Before he could acquire his next target
I painted the middle of the hot spot
with the laser designator
affixed to the front of my rifle
and called in an airstrike
on the radio clipped to my vest.
It was easier to push one button
than to pull a trigger a dozen times
with each shot hoping to hit a narrow margin
or miss.
We're a team, right or wrong
no matter which god's eyes are judging.

The missiles cruised down as we covered
ourselves as best we could for impact
feeling the ground shake beneath our prone bodies.
A charred crater kissed by the scornful sun
was the only evidence that our objective had been met.
The trek back to base was silent
aside from the crunching of sand
older than our continent.

He never thanked me outright
but the next time it was my turn
to empty the latrine he volunteered instead.
That's as close as it gets with guys like Terry.

He and his wife could try for another child
whenever he'd go stateside again.

We were told a few days later
by westernized adolescents
selling candy bars in the nearest town
that the sunset in their province
is beautiful as well.

Appalachian

I nearly tripped over his walking stick
at the convenience store
where I buy smokes and brownies.
He said he was
a union carpenter from Ohio;
that his trail name was Solo
since he travels alone to set his own pace;
that he wanted a bottle
of cheap vodka for camp
up on the ridge
later that night
while he'd recap the scenes
and strangers he'd seen.

Two miles north
all of his current possessions
sat unguarded within his pack
in the bed of my truck
as I waited in the liquor store parking lot.
He wasn't worried that I'd leave.
Part of me was.

Back across the bridge
we said our farewells.

Maybe the lift
wasn't free.
Perhaps we traded--
that hitchhiker and I--
a ride for a few more
justified moments alive.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Fall 2019".

Regimen

Orange juice.
Coffee.

Water.
Lemonade.
Water.

Gin.
Wine.
Gin.

Crocodile Tears

Too often
the cautionary tale
its victim a caricature
swathed in erotic violence
and fever dreams
falling on a sword
winds up rusting in the rubble
a prototype untrusted
though timeworn.

We'll look at each other
and say with a shrug
"I hope it wasn't heroin."

It's as though
they have less to lose.
It's clear they live not
for God.

We lost a lot of good men
on that beach
pleased at being beaten
at their own revolver game.

Lobsters on the Titanic

I was nine or ten years old
and hadn't yet learned
how little family matters.
We all leave here alone.

My father
born under the wrong sign
and recently back a bachelor
tried his best.
I knew that then
as well as I do now.
I don't know why
but name brand orange juice
was served with every meal--
steak; pasta; orange juice;
no idea.

I slept in a bed too large for me then
in a room furnished like a child's hotel.
The sheets were hunter green--
distinguished, but not the best
for concealing my nocturnal salivation
that plagues me to this day.
I had one of those fans from the 80s
with a vertical line of square buttons
in darkening shades of gray
somehow meant to delineate speed.
Every night I'd lean it
on the head of my mattress
drape the top sheet over the back
and form a cocoon of wind to sleep in
until my father came to wake me.

I hated his voice at that drowsy hour
but now I miss it
and someday I'll mourn.

The grass in his back yard
is high these days
but the neighbors can't see.
I'm glad that he's too busy
enjoying life with my brother
to mow.


Currently reading:
"Merchants of Death" by H.C. Engelbrecht and F.C. Hanighen.

Powder Keg Progressive

They're suspended now
less lethal than ever
cobbled specials mostly
and some heirlooms here and there.

Only one's been fired
of the thirty relics present.
Metal wasn't mastered
by the time of their creation.
Modern ammunition
exceeds its rated pressure.
Tinkers tried their hands
at customizing tools
forming traps instead
for the brave of later decades.

Hanging there from hooks
as Americana slices
steel and wood
and rented dust
the fairest form
of gun control.

A Damned Indemnitor

Maybe this is what he meant
that dead man so admired.
When he warned what it'd cost
perhaps this was the Everything--
widthwise and bilateral
bemoaning the task
of keeping your powder dry
while trying to drown a fish.

The harbor pilot fornicates
on the grenade factory floor
but no one bats an eye
feeding fevers and starving colds--
the human equivalent
to the aftertaste of mayonnaise.

Finished With Feeling the Moon

With recently found free time
thanks to the roll of construction
I built her two shelves
out of galvanized pipe
and fittings, some spare
and some bought
in the kitchen windowframe
since in our consolidation
for the aim of cohabitation
I hadn't anticipated
the inheriting
of a jungle.

The dangly vines
went on top
and some saplings on the bottom
much to her delight
when she called me
with surprise.
I was equally shocked
when the locks that hung
from the latter
were shorn by the time I'd arrived.
Gone were the natural curtains
I'd installed with the greenest intentions
to block the studio view
of the middle-aged painter
across the three-floor alley.

The clippings sat in a box
near the door
prepped to be ejected
from the home that we're still building.
She said that she wanted
to toss them in the woodline
behind our apartment--
returning them to earth
as opposed to an Albanian dumpster.

Tonight after dinner
I walked the kitchen trash
and went to the bank
while finishing a smoke.
She rounded the corner
as I returned, refuse in hand
true to word as always.
I bent back around the brick
to see if she stepped
to the forest.

Red Collar Crime

Our closer was always
one I'd written in college
with a line about
hawks perched beside highways
regardless of one's car company.
Whenever my guitar broke
it was during that song.

Today on my ride home
a "help truck"
sponsored by an insurance firm
idled in front of a wounded red-tailed
that was lying in the shoulder
of the battle-worn pavement.

It was the noblest act of humanity
I'd seen in those fifteen years.


Currently reading:
"The Crossing" by Cormac McCarthy.

Piss Jug

I've never told anyone
but you were only
another whore.
The day I drove to you
through a blizzard
a year later
you'd rolled in bed
waiting for the liquor
and a stranger to leave
as you made promises
you couldn't keep to me
about someday wanting children
and a weight worth three months.

A quarter year later
I came again
this time to check
on your latest drunken fumbling
after a whiskey lunch with your mentor
who was nothing more
than an old pervert
kind enough to drop you off
and tuck you in
with his own false mindwalks
through places that wouldn't be.
You were mad
that I said it smelled like a bar
under your blanket
and I left again
memorizing your address
to send you that published piece later.

Now when it snows
I know to seek shelter
in the nearest place
that knows me
not somewhere in the offing.
My dreams have subtitles
and my antiperspirant's giving
me cancer quicker than tobacco.
I'm doing as the Greeks
when in Rome
only as sick as my secrets--
a total noncombatant
where perspective trumps perception.

A minor's still my favorite chord.
What more do you want from family?

Porthole Postulation

For seven unquestioned years
I've watched the rise
from my eastward perch on the third floor
of this pile of bricks stacked in the 1890s.
Thousands of fools have climbed
the mountain a stone's throw away
as though doing so will bring them closer
to what they do not know.
Some even time their trite accomplishment.
I've laughed at them in my coffee mug
ignoring a slight hangover
cured by greasy eggs
and whatever form of pork I desire.

The largest of God's creations
that I've seen
ascends above those ambitious buffoons
so we can engage
in the staring contest of a lifetime.
Even through three massive windows
it can't scorch me or make me look away.

The aloes I've cultivated
on my kitchen windowsill
cheer for my victory
as that burning sphere
of hydrogen and helium
sulks far out of view.
I go about my day in peace
knowing that I've won
and earned the simple pleasures
like finishing my coffee on the couch
with a book by a dead man who got it.

Even when Manhattan Bohemians
bought the adjacent building
two years back
and added a third story
to try to block my view
I've prevailed.
The cuck of a husband paints
in his prison of an attic studio.
I wonder if my awkward form's inspired
this middle-aged stranger.
Through his one westward window
that wasn't on the blueprints
I'm sure he's seen me waltzing
in boxers and my cups
unflinching at what was meant to be
and the way it sometimes is.
The aloes sing louder on those days.

It's time to consider
leaving this sacred place
and its illuminated dust
floating through morning rays.
There are few things
that I'll miss more in this world
than my apartment
on a sunny Sunday morning.
One of them is you.
The aloes will understand.

Our Vendetta With Trees

"Want to know
why I love
eating broccoli?"
the boy asks.

His eyes go wide
as I verbalize
his answer.

I was a giant, too
once.


Currently reading:
"All the Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy.