Nor Be Forgotten

For lack of a better response

upon opening his final Christmas gift

he mentally calculates 

how much of a mess it'd make

if he were to spontaneously explode 

of irony

in that crowded living room:

Considering that the adult human male

is 60% water

and that his six feet weigh 240 lbs

he estimates the blast radius

and volume of red goo

dousing the walls, ceiling, furniture, floor

and mostly innocent family members.

The projected matter

lucky enough to land in the fireplace

would cook off slowly

its sizzling sound serving

as an eerie counterpart

to the silence of astonished relatives

coated in what'd remain

of a man they somewhat knew

who'd just unwrapped a framed photo

of himself, alone on a fishing boat

after nearly dying nightly

from a year of solitude.

Centering his stance on his sea legs

he thanks his well-meaning bestower

extends the frame's stand

to face his grinning countenance

for half a glass of wine

then walks the gift of a lifetime

to the trunk of his father's car

lest it be forgotten

in the revelry to follow

though knowing himself

he's not one to forget.

Currently reading:

"Raymond Carver:  Collected Stories"

The Holiest Act of the Sabbath

The second best way

to spend a wet

but unseasonably warm

Sunday afternoon

once the pile of dishes

has been washed

in water just shy of scalding

and your plans have been canceled

thus saving you from sin

is to listen to the compilation

of sentimental songs that an old flame

assembled for you

ten, fifteen, twenty 

years ago 

back when there was more

of you worth loving

if only to remind yourself

that you were once deserving

of that sacred gift

from someone you should've cuffed.

The best way, however

to spend the aforementioned 

type of afternoon

would be lazily in bed

with that ghost of a composer--

your children off being spoiled

by glowing grandparents

for a few hours as precious

as each note and line

heard now

like belated reminders

of what could exist

in a parallel universe;

not bitter, but grateful

to have have lived it.

The Meat Sweats, Decoded

It starts the same:

We see a swan killed

by an 18-wheeler

or the people

designated to protect us

prove their humanity

too soon.

We meet the smell

of blood; our own

and that of others.

Our turn comes

to return the favor

that is pain.

Then we're taught of blades

and where to stab them.

Next we learn when.

(Years later; decades

sometimes.)

None will get out

alive

and we'll all receive

spam emails

from the hacked accounts

of dead folks 

like ghost ships

in cyberspace 

eventually

but the blessed 

will come to laugh

when the priest

can't sing to save his life

at the funeral mass

of the departed

and embrace that the daggers

we're born to thrust

don't have to be

as buried

in flesh

as us.

A Silk for Your Filth

You can quote scripture.

We're playing with fire.

You can hope she

never called

another man "Sailor".

A cello

that we can't

choose to ignore

plays loudly.

There's enough

of our bloods

in the wood

of these floors

to claim it as kin.

We wanted that

too.

Closure's Overrated

A siren whom you've despised

took it upon herself

to tell me of your

engagement today

going so far as to send photos

now burned into my corneas

for the plot, the reaction

the proof that mankind

is cruel by nature

despite my hardest protest.

There in the background

across the river

that's been my only home

lay the mountain 

we tried to move

and its foothills 

in which we lived for years--

the perfect backdrop

for what you left 

twice, without warning.

I'm still there

behind a tree limb

outshined by your innocent grin

that's delighted by the thought

of children I would have given.

I can tell you this

without flinching

without wincing

without the aid of my gin:

I'm sorry I failed us

and I pray that he deserves you

every day.

Knock 'em Dead in the Photo Finish

It's been a year.

Too old for kids now

or to start over.

Apprentices'll have to do.

A Rubik's Cube;

the 9 of swords;

at 39

suddenly afraid of rainstorms

with headlights reflected.

Found snapshots depicting

the red sands of Bar Harbor

conduct recreational autopsies.

It's a town that doesn't forget.

None of us do, really.

It's been a year.

Insinuated Mutineers

For three long days

that patch of hardened mud

was cordoned off

by the Department

of Public Works:

One to fell the tree

whose roots had lifted

the sidewalk;

one to demo the concrete

that posed a tripping hazard;

one to plant a sapling

and pour a fresh slab.

In the midst

of local turmoil

for the lesser half

of a week

we all became

amateur urban planners

unable to manage

our own little lives

easily forgetting 

what the City

and the calendar

had in store:

A full moon

that had us all

off our paths.

Propagated

I pluck the forked twig

from her potted rubber plant's

soil and thrust it

into my aloe's earth

hoping it'll persuade

its growth back to center

where we all strive

to be

unsure of whether

or not

what she used

to prop the former

will help heal the latter

but it's important

to come off as being whole

when you're trying 

to help fix

what's broken.

Champagne Toast

What it sometimes

means to be

a friend

to the friendless:

weaponized sex

for strategic advantage.

The cigarette

ruined the photo.

The rest of it ruined

the rest of me.

I need you to leave

because I don't want you

to hear it.

Stalemate Understood

My head rests on his shoulder

in the Sunday stillness

of his bedroom.

I stroke his broad chest

back and forth

like the tide of the river

he's always lived along

waded into

and may or may not

have returned from

depending on who's asked.

If my hand stops moving

he'll assume I don't care

so my fingertips skate

across skin and hair.

I make the mistake

of stopping

and he shifts

half-an-inch.

"Sorry," I say.

"For what?" he asks

without opening his eyes.

"I'm not him,"

but in saying so

he's more "him"

than he would have been

in silence.

He swims in my stomach

until we both nod off

temporarily distracted.

What wounds to bear.

Outriggers

Between measurements

and cuts

at one of 

our many vices

he blurts 

what he shouldn't

with me 

as his only witness.

I remind him

of his transgression

as only 

a brother can.

"I'm an asshole,

but I'm your asshole,"

he reminds me

in the same way.

Together, as always

we throw rocks

from the shore

at an island.

Shortchanged

Few want the truth

partner

(as my newly departed 

uncle used to call me

a la spaghetti Western)

but you ain't 

the only one

who bunches up your blanket

at night

and tosses an arm over it

pretending that it's someone

who's worth a walk through coals

though a captain should know

survivor's guilt be damned

that loose lips

sink ships

with strange ejaculations.

Brother's Keeper

The garbage can stank

like meat juice on styrofoam

so I took it for a walk

to the dumpster behind my building.

After chucking the trash

I swung by my truck 

in the adjacent parking lot.

Half in the bag

I asked the guy

who's living in his car

if he's living in his car.

"Nah, man."

"Need anything?"

"Nah, man. 

I appreciate you."

I finished my smoke

and walked upstairs

to my lonesome luxuries.

We'd both reached a point

where it didn't make sense

to hide it.

New Jersey Necrophiliac

Afterwards

she rubs his bare chest

like it's a brass lamp

with a genie inside

though no wishes will be granted

to either party.

The smell of her perfume's reminiscent 

of the purple pew upholstery

in a Southern Baptist church

sending his mind 

to a highway rest stop in Maine

four years ago.

He'd scratched his face 

there in the bustling lobby

and his right hand

which had ridden a perfect thigh

in the passenger seat for hours

had the lingering scent

of elderly black women

in a state he'd never visited

and had never wanted to.

He'd finished draining himself

in front of foreign porcelain

alongside a dozen strangers

whom, Lord willing, he'd never see again

among poorly tiled walls and floors

or even the Pearly Gates

and was staring blankly

at undesirable food franchise logos

barely appetizing, in neon or not

when a familiar face appeared

within a crowd of other women

emerging from their corner

of the summer vacation ring.

There it was

her countenance

like the full moon

that keeps him awake these days

ready to get back in the car together

and share a bag of Skittles

he'd bought from a vending machine

more friendly than a teenager

in a greasy polo shirt

while waiting on

what he thought

was the rest of his existence

Bar Harbor merely one destination

of many for decades--

"'til death do you part."

"Can we go again?" 

"Maybe," he mumbles

his mind nine hours northeast.

She continues to paw

the urn that is his ribcage

not feeling the ashes within

and attempts years too late

to light another match.

Atoned

As with the most

intriguing nicknames

I never knew its explanation

but from as early as I can remember

my uncle called me Turkey Breath.

This moniker tapered off 

with the shedding of boyhood's 

naive assumptions

replaced, most times, with how

he'd address me hencforth:

Partner.

Unsure of whether 

it was a reference to Western films

upon which he'd cut his teeth

or a spillover term from his career

as a high-volume car-slinger

who understood that

taking care of business

was easier when 

the wagons were circled

or if there were other partners

in the world beyond our conversations

about which I didn't know

I see now 

albeit too late

that there was one thing

I called him in return:

Not often enough.

Olfactory

It takes this many

to wonder how many

curse the scent

of Polo Sport

in my wake.

DEFCON 1

The two main

European despots

defeated in the Second

World War

and the third supreme leader

of that continent

a tentative ally

later turned Cold War antagonist

are often villified

by the victors, the writers of history--

easier to attack in words

these days

since they look the same

as us

but let's not forget

the emperor

of the sun flag

who lived 'til '89

distant and malignant

declaring the sacrifice

of sex slaves

given to young men

who dove airplanes

into ships

as "Divine Wind"--

kamikaze

until desperation

overcame compassion

with projected corpses

outweighing 

the morality of physics equations

so men and women

on the justified side

built a bomb

to both end

and begin 

the madness

for the brief remaining history

of mankind.

A bloodless coup 

lacks passion.

Here we are

my brothers in Christ.

Boric Acid

Wiping flecks of blood

from the medicine cabinet mirror

after flossing

makes us war buddies now.

It pays the same.

"Long live the king."

Weak chin

wide eyes

and a strong lisp;

they weren't mine

to share.

Let's trade problems

not hearts.

Rhetorical Black Towel

On the warpath 

with nothing sacred left:

the high ground

the Heimlich

the wear and tear

of highway miles.

Outgunned:

to love

without having

to be in it.

It's vexing 

something fierce

rest assured

like inducing climax

despite your prescribed

medications

yet these charlatans say

there's no magic left.

Gutted

we wear

the innards of our ruins

festooned like garland

of the damned

and I can't carry

the Big Sad

any more.

You're far more tame

and trustworthy

than those who walk

undiagnosed, my dear.

I saw lightning bugs

for the first time in years

and wept.

Flatware Landing

While embraced in bed 

what they never realize 

until it's the worst thing

too late

and they're poised to spring 

like rats from a sinking ship 

is that I'm mostly rocking 

myself to sleep 

or maybe they do 

and that's why they stay

until the waves

have risen 

so high.

That Busker's Accomplice

Then an angel of

the Hebrew god

all safely clad in silver

impaled itself 

slowly

on what was never

meant to be said--

a dagger emblazoned

in gold cursive

as follows:

The Almighty coughs

after orgasm.

A Good Run

Get on that boat.

Stare into the sun.

Keep your mouth closed.

Blame it on the spray.

A friend 

who knows nothing

of your plan

is harder

to interrogate.

O Captain! 

My Captain!

We had this trip

by the bag

while it lasted.

Mainland Tribulations

Hydroplaning

down the Palisades

Interstate Parkway

while watchlisted in

the wild gin wasteland

but grateful

for

the growls

from widespread eyes

dry

South African

wine

that little fox

nestled between 

unlikely crevices

crawling out 

before sunrise

to tend to her kits

and friends 

who love enough

to refrain 

from party invitations

laced with cocaine.

The best defense

is a good offense.

The best penance

is this sentence.

It must feel so lonely

being on top.

Consigliere

Excited to decipher your surprise

after facing tribulations

back on the mainland

we practice for the apocalypse

with end cut maple.

Closeted

You don't know, and

you don't know--and

you don't know

and

you don't know:

That was the last

of the towels

that I didn't fold.

A Herd Unthinned

If only it were only

your cursive words in chalk

on fifteen magnetized spice shakers

half-full of leaves and peels

that we dehydrated

but there on that

once-shared refrigerator

are six canisters

still empty, waiting 

for what can't come

like a fool

who saves boxes

in overflowing closets

but doesn't know 

how to best use them.

& likewise

Not long enough to twirl at night

or matter to most passesrby

strange tufts of hair

stepped over

by coronated impostors

on an even stranger sidwalk

fade dully in the diorama.

We are built unlike goats

with nothing behind the eyes.

Analyses

Things I'm not:

Christlike.

Able to fix my dead 

grandmother's antique and bequeathed

dresser drawer handle.

Things I am:

Decent at calculating risk.

Proficient at finding cigarette lighters

on the pavement

and using them until they run out of fuel.

Things I don't strive to be:

Dumb enough

to open that damn drawer

ever again.

Christlike.

Rasputin's Assassins

Let's suppose

since we're being frank 

that there's no way 

to properly process

what's entailed

in quantifying

this tower-bound recovery

as a neighbor put it

for herself

but a gentleman's work

is never done

and neither is mine.

"Of course

I'm here.

First one."

Fleeting Rosacea

That sucker-punch

killed my butterflies.

Like a gutshot buck

I wander, confused

only knowing of the blood.

We've met many times before.

You just had a different face.

What a time 

to be told

you're alive.

Arm Candy

This Pisces 

ain't picking

a fight

or mentioning

your unmentionables

but I'll be goddamned

if I enter again

the War

of Northern Aggression.

The biggest mistake

that we can make

is expecting

ourselves

in return.

The Plans You Make

There are

worse fates

than being forgotten

like being remembered

by the wrong people.

And there are

worse plans

than breaking them

with folks

who are already broken.

And there are

worse words

than lies

like truths stated 

for illegitimate reasons.

And there are

better places

to wake up

but I'd rather do it

next to you

or not at all.

Carpool Commuters

The gas station coffee's too hot 

to chug at 5:58 AM en route to work

so we fill our first few highway miles

with recent recollections

of the minuscule victories

and minor defeats

that shape our daily lives

laughing ourselves to tears

at these predicaments--

acknowledging how we're turning

slowly into our fathers

just enough to be grateful

while achieving 

the one unspoken wish

that these better men 

maintained for their sons:

Not losing ourselves along the way

like the embers of our cigarettes

flittering off behind us

between white and yellow lines.

All the Wrong Places

The unrealistic

sexual expectations

prevalent in the modern male

are direct byproducts

of an Internet

with 20% of its phone searches

being related to

its 4% of pornographic websites.

You can tell

by the way 

someone's looking for love

whether or not

they've ever beheld it.

Submission's a choice

but you can't have

what isn't

for you.

Currently reading:

"On Love" by Charles Bukowski.

The Ohio Compromise

I've always lost

people

but never 

cigarette lighters.

The latter I find

on the pavement.

The former

find reasons

to hit it.

If you need me

I'll be swearing off

love 

in the closet.

If you need me

I'll be highly surprised.

Every Lethal Inch

An undeniable mess was made

but the umbrella's dry now

so I bring it inside

from the hallway

and return it

to the closet

horse-trading the days between

hijacked evenings

spent tracing a bird on a back

and wondering if 

the relevance of fingertips'

coordinates are noticed.

There's a word for it

that we can't say

due to different reasons.

We'll settle for existing

olive green with envy.

What to Assume When She Doesn't Respond

Maybe she's getting 

her back blown out

by a guy with more length

and less girth.

Maybe it's the reaction

that her skin has to mine

when heightened immunity

meets stubborn cologne.

Maybe it's how my eyes close

while hers look up from my shoulder

like lashes can lock doors

for the night.

Maybe it's the way

that I inhale so deeply

when close together

as though I'll never

experience those pheromones

again.

Maybe she's worried

that it's merely the idea of her

but she's altered the thoughts

of a mind hard to sway.

Maybe we're all warned

not to pet burning dogs

and the best of us do

regardless

since the Doomsday Glacier's fake

ain't nothing that a bottle won't drown

and how it all ends

is what matters

right?

A Unpopular Assessment of Aztecs

84,000 people

were sacrificed

over the course of four days

in the 1480s--

hearts ripped out

with obsidian blades

no neighbors or kin safe

from priests atop pyramids

appeasing a sun god, angry.

Either 

they didn't know

a thing about science

or they knew exactly

the nature of man:

There's no substitute

for flesh.

Currently rereading:

"Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame" by Charles Bukowski.

Come Correct

Somewhere 

out there

you're bleeding

and I wish

that I could help

but here we are

pretending

like we're able

to buy time.

Motorcade Hemorrhage

But oh the air

of the heir apparent

in coming home

to a glass of water

left by a guest:

You know 

that you can't

drink from it

as hard as you'd like

to bob for apples

in her wake.

Had a foreman once

turned friend

turned father

turned nemesis

turned nightmare

who said

"Don't complicate 

a glass of water."

As much as I mistrust him now

he's right.

Capisce

Jupiter and Venus

are pegged

above the moon 

tonight

naked 

to the eye

like you 

in a few more decades

all four sneering

at the marvels 

of modern science

resuscitated simply

by the basic understanding

that no rain checks exist

in this universal cul-de-sac

and sometimes 

there's blood.

Withered Spoon

You're probably pissed

that I vouched extensively 

over the phone

as to how valid a candidate he was

for 20 emphatic minutes

when you were interviewing 

potential tenants

for your shared rental apartment

since there was a ton 

of work to be done

as promised in unwritten portions

of his lease that you might as well shred

at this point in your grievance.

I'm more pissed

that my adopted brother's in rehab again

and didn't reach out to me

before he surrendered his phone

so I've got no way of knowing

what it was this time

how close he came

or how he's doing

aside from what's chirped

down the line.

Godspeed with your eviction.

Our rent's always punctual

but we are not the same.

Dishpan Hands

They ask what happened

after nearly five years

together, but not

as discovered

too late.

Shrugged shoulders

and blown lips

don't explain it

as well as this:

Today, stomping in my boxers

like on the best of Sundays

at what used to feel like home

I moved six houseplants

to different zones

of shade and sunlight

based on their color and turgor

instead of watching them

die.

That's my new response.

Final answer.

Disassembled

I'd propped the Remington against

a closet door frame

in the spare room

of what was my apartment again

since I could then

without question.

One night

bored by the film plot

with more holes in it

than my whiskey's cork

I repeatedly cycled the scattergun's action

in my lap on the recliner

ripping through the steel's shucking sound:

a song from a smoothbore

born in Ilion, New York

at the Turn of the Century.

Suddenly it jammed

leaving me with an ironbound headache

almost as jagged as newfound 

single-income living in our inflated age.

After three hours of attempted repair

sore and sooty fingers 

reached for the lamp switch

on my nightstand

wincing when a bloodied knuckle

rubbed brass unexpectedly.

Freshly defeated

by stubbornly stuck steel

for two nights 

I slept exclusively on my side of the bed

though it didn't 't matter any longer

like sliding into fresh sheets

as she'd always treated as a holiday

that these days were going to waste.

Soft-spoken, middle-aged

Midwestern men with too much spare time

lulled me to sleep through Internet anonymity

safely tucked away from their wives

with tutorial videos made in their basements

about this 12-gauge albatross of yore.

I dreamt of traveling back in time

to kick the firearm's designer

in a place he'd always remember

perhaps hard enough to dissuade him

from over-engineering the model in question.

If only our pasts could be changed.

On the third day I succumbed

and rebuilt the debacle

with intentions of confessions

to ill-advised disassembly

made during gunsmith surrender.

To my surprise the slide ran smoothly

and all moving parts behaved in the choir.

I pumped it triumphantly

for the better part of a minute

until a half-inch shard of steel 

shot from the ejection port.

The tune came to an end.

The tool no longer functioned.

I identified the broken component

and sourced a replacement online

grateful that this failure

had occurred in a safely controlled environment

as opposed to on a camping trip

in upstate bear country

that we'd never embark upon again.

Wood and steel.

Tried and true.

At least we weren't married

with kids and a mortgage.

That's what I told myself

while trying to decipher

the screws and springs

strewn about the floor

sharing the cause

of residual curse words 

stuck in my throat

beside her name

and those of New England towns

I'd never be able to revisit

in this lovely, limited lifetime.

Currently reading:  

"Rattle:  Fall 2020".

A Pervert's Prayer: Hollering From the Masturbatorium

One of these days

and days

and days

and days

the Universe will send 

a sympathetic seventh chance

who wouldn't leave anyone

on read

with eyes soft and brown

evasive like a feral cat's;

nipples perfectly asymmetrical.

Until then

my brothers in Christ

the couch ain't the only thing

that's pulling out--

driven to thirst

by ancestral expectations

and mediocre excuses

for only being taken

in small doses

like a Band-Aid

we all wear

but still insist

to hide.

Sayonara, Suckers

Not to jinx it

by being brazen

with Lady Luck

but we haven't had 

a major airline catastrophe

in what feels like longer

than I remember

growing up;

not one of those rich pricks

in a privately owned Cessna

that was probably grandiose suicide

or insurance fraud to save their heirs

sans golden parachute

but a media feeding frenzy

with images of floating fuselage

and mention of children

who could've grown

to cure cancer

had they been given

that imaginary chance--

news anchors spewing sea coordinates

and Boeing models with lots of 7s

that degenerate gamblers

like the ones I've grown to love

would later play 

in the lottery.

I'm not saying

we're overdue

but they must've fixed 

the plane problems

because we haven't fixed 

the people.

Being a Pisces

ain't all

it's cracked up to be:

a glider

adrift

with no landing strip

in sight.

Currently reading:

"Insomnia" by Stephen King.

Entry Level Survival Tools

I shaved my head

after bald spots developed

stress induced again

and my father asked 

if I wear a wool hat to work 

when he saw me

but I don't 

since I like the brisk feeling

of air on bare skin

though I wore a black

watchman's cap 

the next time

that I visited him

for his sake 

not mine.

Bonafide Aficionado

Walking by portraits

of men

in my home

and mannequins 

on the job

I can attest

to the fact

that we all wear

smiles differently.

Some of them hurt

like a trap expertly set

italicized

parts per million

but I see them 

and cherish them all:

Dead languages

other than Latin.

Currently reading:

"The Bear Speaks" by Eric Tomlins.

Gut Health

A charity organization

for cancer, but not for bald kids

line mine

finally sends 

her complimentary address labels 

though she's no longer

here to receive 

those invalid stickers

from invalids.

I save them

just in case

again.

"It's not my business,"

an old friend concedes.

"Hell, I never met her."

Maybe I didn't

either.