on writing chapter five

Take Her Home, Old Man

2012-01-15T15:04:00.000-05:00

The eggs Benedict try their hardest to settle
their greasy hollandaise place within my stomach
as I approach the red light
trying not to let my bald tires skid
on the cold and wet macadam.
A series of cars comes crawling by
in the opposite lane
led by a hearse and a limousine.
Minivans, luxury sedans, economy subcompact
commuter death-traps, and contractor grade
pick-up trucks roll by in the procession
all clearly designated with flags that say
'Funeral' on the red and white-crossed rectangles
fastened to their rooves via magnets.
There are loosened ties, one stiff white collar
on a priest paid overtime, and see-through scarves
on see-through women. Most of the faces
are pensive, if not utterly anguished.
I'm too far to notice tears through the
trails of neutral rain, but there must
be some there. Dying is a change
that most people can't handle.

My heel taps against the
floormat in tune to the beat of my stereo
while the ball of my foot holds the brake.
Then a car comes along with four happy passengers
who would seem to be regurgitating a performance's
best jokes on their way home from a comedy club
if that dismal flag wasn't fastened to their vehicle.
The light turns green in the corner of my eye
and I roll on to face the day and what it may bring
of my grandmother's fate in the hospital
suddenly comforted by the fact that at least
four folks know what it is to die well:
A celebration of having lived at all.

Both Jonesin' for a Spoon

2012-01-15T12:28:00.001-05:00

This nagging half-sickness finally comes in handy.
One stuffed nostril wakes me from my dream.
My partner in crime was trying his hardest
to convince me to enter an underground tunnel
we found in a seedy back alley somewhere.
I had to remind him that I'd been the voice
of reason since we first met in fourth grade
and that my blood had not been kissed
by the unfairly annointed good luck of the Irish.
Oh, and we were Ghostbusters. The slumbering
plumber shows his age through his heroes
as well as a touch of ironic desire.

A few hours later I call him to check
what he wanted to tell me at one in the morning:
that his meeting went well, that he loves me for caring
that he's trying his hardest to do the right thing.

For him that means waking up before noon
without the wrong person or belt on his arm.
I know that he'll make it, he knows that he has to
since this kind of chance doesn't beg when it knocks.
There's hope for the homeless, scripts for the addicts
and perhaps, if played right, some love for the lost.
If we can both rise from our pasts in this town
with a moat and a bridge and our saints to protect us
then maybe it's not too far-fetched to say
that our ghosts, like our trade, have limited days.

Dust, Shame, and the Dinner We Made

2012-01-12T23:33:00.001-05:00

The disappointment on her face doesn't require much reading between the lines to decipher. As soon as I walk in it's present and stronger than ever. She flicks her wrist in my general direction, trying not to seem too affected by my presence. It's an ongoing battle of wits which I'm ashamed to admit I'm losing.

Not much can faze me these last few days, though. Even a hard day of work with barely any sleep after three bottles of wine hasn't rattled my cloud. There's a reason to hope the hall doesn't call with that out-of-town job that had my fingers crossed for so long. It's good to have reasons.

"You blew it, didn't you?" her countenance asks accusingly, thinking she knows the answer. If hatred could be bottled this gal would make me rich.

"Chill out," I say with an unpeelable smirk that's been greeting the recent minor misfortunes unscathed. "It's not what you think."

She shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and turns her eyes away. My words, as usual, won't convince her to stop being negative. In an effort to seem disinterested she angles her head toward the wall, but I can feel her dark eyes burning their way through my skin.

"And to think I let you touch me last night," I hear under her breath. My apparent failure to bring an acceptable guest again has her disgust running rampant. "Go light your Mexican saint candles, loser. One of them has to work."

I laugh at the over-ambitious attack on what's left of my dignity. This only infuriates her more. She hops into the hidden portion of her cage and scratches at the bedding as if it owes her money. Even though I'm chipper I'd rather not be accosted by her claws. The opportunity to feed her while she's preoccupied is graciously seized. Never pet a burning dog. Never tempt a spiteful rabbit.

As soon as she notices the food she returns to the visible portion of her cage. My job here is done, I've fed my furry charge, I turn and walk toward the door. I swear I hear mention of hoping she isn't right about the fate of her new friend. When I spin back around she's chewing furiously with a blade of hay twitching in her mouth like a misfit's cigarette.

"Goodnight, you," I tell her before closing the door.

The scent on the pillowcase brings me sweet dreams. There are worse things than waiting to drift off entwined.

One Lump or Two?

2012-01-09T23:47:00.001-05:00

I must've been thirteen, fourteen
when the novelty first struck.
Shaving was new to me, and so was
that Gillette I still use to this day.
Dull blades and hackjobs
led to stinging nicks
that wouldn't stop bleeding
without bits of tissue.
Physical pain was worse
in those days, the other kind
only a seedling.

There must've been some secret, I thought
other than going down first
which has also paid off in spades.
Like much of the world
it didn't make sense.
For some reason then
it seemed wise to inquire.

"Dad, when do you throw
it out?" I asked, suddenly aware
that those mysterious black circles
on the vanity which had baffled me
since early childhood
were the result of his not wiping
the stubbly puddles when he was done.
"To be honest, when it starts to get rough."

My phone still hasn't rang.
Maybe that's what happened.

Clandestine Arrangements of the Strictly Fictional Variety

2012-01-08T02:20:00.001-05:00

Grace sucked cock like a scientist. There was always an air of professionalism about it, always some level of unbiased sanctity. Whether or not Harry was going to come, let alone how hard, did not seem to be an issue that crossed her mind when she was down in her lab. Each upstroke was an experiment in the name of cold pleasure, every drop of saliva an earnest attempt at keeping her subject aroused-- in this case the prick itself, not the one attached to it. Only a fool would try to stop her while the quota of her mouth was being filled.

Despite the base simplicity there were some rules to their game. Grace was a rare breed still too shy to strip naked with the lights blaring down, but to fellate was to live and life was to be seen. She'd rip his shorts off within seconds of entering the bedroom. Thankfully, and as an uncommon blessing from the ghosts of gods, he didn't have time to trip over his words before she was off to the races. Reaching for the light switch was a task too hard to venture. The edges of the mattress served as handlebars since her arms, her shoulders, the back of her bobbing head felt out of the question. That was too intimate. That showed attachment. There could be no mistake as to what Grace was doing. Hers was not a labor of love, but an acute fascination with phallus that caught Harry in its headlights. He didn't mind the little death, as the hated French called it. There were still some things worth suffering for and her lips were on that list. Sometimes.

Even in his pre-orgasmic state he often felt bad for something that he couldn't see: a remote possibility of having anything other than shallow sex with her. It was vain to think that she wanted more and he recalled her laughing at the mention of his guilt, but didn't all women yearn to be exclusive? The only thing specific to Grace's time below was the fact that she approached it unlike anyone he'd seen: a veritable pragmatist on her knees before the altar of unrequited lust. It could be any day that the saints would march in. Harry was to tumble down to darkest hell regardless. He was sure that its soundtrack would be laced with the voices of angels from a life too innocent to recognize as ever being his own. Thank God they couldn't see him now, at least not in the flesh.

When the lights and her pants finally went off there was a shift in roles and power. It was his show then, a rod to give a pounding. It was the one thing left that he could do whereas she, like the rest, had lowered herself through his loins. No longer was there any misconception over motives. When Harry came he told her by sprinkling on her bush. If her tonsils were the target he'd fetch a beverage afterward. The chivalry ended there, though, since a walk down called for dressing. Grace hung up her lab coat and proceeded to the stairwell. The passing through of doors left her instantly transmuted into every woman he'd already had and none he wanted to meet again.

If you're wondering who Harry is I can say he does the same.

Stable Mate Conundrum

2012-01-01T23:59:00.001-05:00

I can be selfless.
I can be shallow.
I can be told when to throw in the towel.

You can be ruthless.
You can be sage.
You can be happy with me off the page.

We can be lovers.
We can be friends.
We can be tricked into making amends.

I can be selfish.
I can suck marrow.
I can remember when all hips were narrow.

The Strangest Science

2011-12-27T12:46:00.002-05:00

"Why are you getting dressed?" she asks him. It's pitifully obvious that she's concerned about him backing out of the deal and leaving before morning. Her promise of sunrise coming through the window at the head of her bed wasn't enticing. To him it was a threat.

"I'm not," he gruffly replies, throat hoarse from exhaustion, too many cigarettes and a loud second climax. "I'm only putting my shorts on." He knows his answer won't suffice. He knows a lot more than he lets on, but doesn't let it stop him.

As predicted, his explanation doesn't satisfy her as well as various parts of his body did. They were both naked a minute ago while they laid waste to the sanctity of her bedroom. What changed? She pulls the top sheet over the dark form of her exposed body. A swimmer once; he can tell from the shoulders, arms, hips. It's got to be the fifth one he's landed. The type must gravitate toward him. There were a few state champs in the mix. One broke the other's record, but he never had the heart to tell either. It was strange seeing both of their names on the wall at the high school pool when he worked that summer renovation job. Irony's never lost on the observant.

"But I'm naked. And what if in the middle of the night we want to..." but he doesn't let her finish.

"But what if in the middle of the night someone busts the door down," he jokes. "Have you ever seen a man with no clothes on win a fight? It's unlikely." There's a guy in his union who took a drunken sucker-punch in the back of the head while using a urinal at a bar. As soon as his face bounced off the tile he spun around and swung at his assailant, his arm not the only appendage flailing about in the dim light of the men's room. Who won the fight was never part of the story, but it was enough to make him put the bottle down for good. For better. For best. Looking at the towering, lanky whisp of a man you'd never guess he was a barroom brawler. It's the ones who don't look the part you've got to worry about. It's the innocent girls who curl the most toes behind the blinds. This broad doesn't have any. The neighbors must watch with popcorn. He feels bold enough to ask her. There's nothing to lose anymore. He's gained the highest prize twice over. A dismissal would come as a blessing.

"There's an old ex-convict who lives across the street. He told me he saw that I was cutting people's hair and asked if I'd do his. When he realized how bad it sounded that he'd been looking through my windows he tried to back-track, but it only made it worse."

"So did you cut his hair?"

"Yeah. And he came back to tighten the bolts on my table and chairs afterward since he noticed they were wobbly."

It seems the perfect introduction to an episode of a syndicated detective show. Creep befriends attractive young neighbor. Strumpet disappears. Investigators beat around the obvious bush for the course of an hour minus five commercials. Mystery is finally solved. Justice system fails again through legal loophole regarding collection of evidence. The world is still a dangerous place. Dinner was digested more pleasantly somehow, though. The set is turned off, the alarm clock is set. America goes to bed with a million less brain cells.

"I hope the camera doesn't really put on ten pounds," he says as he waves out the window at the building facing her apartment. She coughs out an accidental laugh and slaps his hand playfully. It almost feels like they know each other for a fleeting moment. The illusion dissipates as fast as it came.

She rolls one leg over him at a time and gets up to use the bathroom. The elastic waistband of his boxers occupy his thumbs as he lays there uncomfortably. It's a relief that she didn't question it further. Forget about kindness. Kill them with laughter, even at your expense. The truth is that he can't feel safe if unclothed in that vulnerable state. There had only been two he could sleep next to naked. He's unsure which was the bigger mistake, trusting them or letting them go.

A familiar chorus plays in the living room where the internet radio was left on for ambience and remains for unwanted nostalgia. "But the truth is I miss you," condemns him in that nasally British croon which spat out four albums, three of which were decent. He can't take the torture, throws the covers off to go nix the noise. When he returns from his silencing trip to the living room he hears the taboo sound of water falling into water through the thin bathroom door and wonders how much of him is leaving her body. All of it, he hopes. There's no room for attachment in a hermit's crusade. It was a pleasant change of scenery, but if home is where the heart is then he lives in another's hands.

By the time she gets done removing her contacts he's already snoring on his stomach, the way he's slept since infancy. His underwear seems higher than when she left the room. It's too dark for her to notice that he's drooling on the pillow. She dozes off shortly afterward, their backs just barely touching. It's the most that one can ask for when compromised with a stranger.

He'll be gone before her alarm clock goes off at 8 a.m. That sunrise won't get the chance to sting his weary eyes. He knows himself too well to risk that. He's working on knowing the world. Their bodies differ in size and shape, but mostly feel the same; their minds are occupied with the wrong questions, let alone answers; their hearts leave much to be desired even though, unlike their lips, they're in the right places. Still, the search fills the days that work used to dictate. It's a tiring job that he reluctantly accepts.

Found and Bound Thermopylae

2011-12-22T18:10:00.005-05:00

"Open up or we're breeching the door!" yelled the SWAT cop in Leonard's hallway. There were probably five or six more behind him. It seemed like a shallow threat. All threats were shallow in one way or another if Leonard stopped and thought about it. He didn't like to think about it. It made his head hurt worse than it already did. The voices made so many threats that Leonard had to tune them out somehow. He preferred using classical music, it allowed him to write without bias.

"We'll give you to the count of ten," barked the team leader again. It was hard to respect a man who needed a half-dozen heavily armed thugs standing behind him in order to have the nerve to give orders. Leonard yawned, lit what he figured would be his last cigarette. Funny, he thought, this is the first time I've smoked inside this apartment. It was also not a count of ten, but a countdown from that ominous number. Maybe the commander had read the manual wrong, or at least that part of the script. Leonard took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. He'd never done that before either.

"Don't make us do this, sir," pleaded the adrenaline fueled policeman. Leonard could hear the fear in his voice. He recalled what that quavering tone had sounded like. "We don't want to have to neutralize any threats. Ten..." They must've read up on him, known what he was capable of doing if cornered by the wrong pack of wolves. Leonard was a dog, but they fought just as hard when desperate. He choked on the smoke in his lungs. "Neutralizing threats" was another great euphemism to come from modern-day warfare, much like "engaging targets". Leonard had dabbled in both when called upon to do so. In the flash of a shotgun shell primer he'd be reduced to a target, a sheet of paper, something thin and easy to perforate. He hated what politicians had done with the language he'd loved so dearly. He hated a lot of things and people, but somehow the members of the uniformed hit squad sent to neutralize the threat in Apartment 11 weren't among them. They were only doing their jobs. Leonard missed regular work and admired an ambitious career man.

"Nine, eight, seven," came almost on top of each other. The safeties of various firearms clicked off in the dim light of the tenement corridor. Leonard could hear them through the drywall. It reminded him of flashbulbs going off during a photoshoot of yore. There would be no pictures taken at this crime scene. The right folks would see to that. It was, after all, an election year. Messes of that nature hurt men at the polls. Enough men had hurt due to Leonard's decisions. Well, mostly women in the civilian world, he thought to himself. That list of poor girls grew exponentially. He'd find himself inside one of them eventually. It was easier to stick to sins committed on American soil, though the atrocities were there on both sides of the drink; the atrocities and the victims. He pictured a few of the local variety and wondered if they'd be surprised or not when they heard the news of his demise. He figured they wouldn't. Like most dogs, Leonard was shamelessly predictable.

"Six" and "Five" were more reasonably spaced. A firmness returned to the mouthpiece's timbre, perhaps from the weight of the steel in his hands that he suddenly knew he'd be using. Leonard remembered the feeling too well. Men are born killers and fall into the role quite easily. It's an instinct that can't be bred out of the gene pool. He'd witnessed it overseas. It was appalling how vicious his brethren could be. Those women he'd wronged were replaced in his mind's eye by men he fought and bled next to in the name of a nation that didn't understand. Ramirez was an animal. Slaughtered anything that prayed to the east three times a day without mercy whenever there were no superior eyes watching. Leonard remembered when Rammy took his bullet. Mysteriously, though not written in the official report, it had come from behind him. No one in their platoon asked anything. Leonard was decorated for the skirmish and transferred out to a support position. It was one of the last breaks Uncle Sam would give him. It was one of the few favors he'd incurred after twenty. Sometimes the gods smiled down on the hopeless. Most times it rained holy urine.

"Four. We've only got three left," stated the voice of authority too obviously to be feared. The black gloves were tightening around pistol grips and shotun pumps. There may have also been a few mild erections. Those were the guys you avoided at the bar.

"I've got fifteen," Leonard whispered through the butt of his cigarette as he racked the slide of his Glock, not sure if he'd be able to use it this way. After the ninety-day debriefing that the government mandated before sending him home he swore to never raise a barrel to a two-legged creature again. Three months' time to reprogram an assassin. It seemed the most optimistic estimate going. He'd fought, and in many days died, for his country. What could they begrudge him now other than a closet's worth of broken hearts? The cigarette was barely halfway done, but Leonard smashed it out on the coffee table in front of him. He set the Glock down next to his right thigh. A warrior decided when to fight. A dog was forced into action. Leonard would go out like the former. The sound of Axl Rose begging his mother to bury his pistols in the ground rang in his aching skull. As expected in any stressful situation Leonard laughed at the irony. He wrote once, long ago, that he wouldn't mind dying if the right song was playing. Caution should've been taken in the wish-making process. Prophecies, it seemed anymore, were as self-fulfilling as masturbation.

"Three, two," but One was interrupted by distant shouts from a bullhorn down the stairwell.

"Fall back!" cried an officer with a tinge of terror in his throat. "Wrong coordinates." He meant to say "Wrong building" or "Wrong apartment" or "Wrong anything-else-more-appropriate", but in the new age of law enforcement things were strangely paramilitary. Coordinates, especially wrong ones in Leonard's mind, only existed in places with hard-to-pronounce names depicted by satellite maps.

A cacophony of radio activity filled the building as what sounded like dozens of feet marched down the steps. Amateurs, Leonard thought as he dropped the magazine from his pistol and popped the round out of the chamber, catching the brass-cased bullet in mid-air with a swipe of his left hand. He never heard them turn their safeties back on before leaving. There was always something wrong with the world and the scenes played out in it. This frustrated him to no end. Why couldn't he call a few of the shots outside of his third-floor apartment?

Leonard walked across the room and opened a window to let the smoke out into the crisp November air. It was no time to start living slovenly. There were crucial matters at hand. She was waiting for him in the bedroom. She'd almost missed her shot at immortality. Leonard wouldn't deny her that. He'd fought too hard to come home and wouldn't disappoint.

Conductor, There Must Be Some Mistake

2011-12-21T14:26:00.000-05:00

They ride the same train
and don't even know it.
It's almost a sin to smirk at that fact.
Those bodies I've been in
share seats and rub elbows
while bouncing along
eyes fixed on the Hudson.

I wonder if one's held the door
for the other like some trite
video for a song long forgotten.
Then it dawns on me
that the doors are automatic.
My fantasy's deflated.
I go back to swirling ice cubes.
This is what happens when rush
and cocktail hours collide.

deep thoughts with dave vargas

2011-12-19T23:33:00.000-05:00

the friendly halfrican hipster (not half rican like yours truly, but part black) who lives below me texted me this evening. offered to give me some chili that he and his lovely ladyfriend made in exchange for a cigarette. i, unashamed of being the building's charity case, agreed to said arrangement. met him out front for a smoke, shot the shit about how ludicrous the fairer sex is, gave him one for the road, and took my little tupperware of chili upstairs to my fortress. he texted me ten minutes later asking how it was; the chili, not the bachelor cave. being that i hadn't eaten it yet but wanted to be polite i said it was amazing and thanked him again. (white lies are ok sometimes.) my creative side went a little overboard by adding that the beer i selected for the late-night mini-meal complemented it quite nicely and my palate was overjoyed. (it's the embellishing that gets you in trouble.) the conversation should've ended there, but it didn't. he went on to inform me that turkey meat was used in the making of the chili. at this point i felt misled, even though i'd fibbed as well. in hindsight, i should've responded by frantically saying i'm deathly allergic to poultry, then flopped around on my floor until it sounded like i was about to crash through his ceiling. after laying motionless for awhile he'd probably come upstairs and bang on my door to see if i was alive or not. i'd just laugh and they there on the faux hardwood floor until the conversation which he'd inevitably be having with his charming better half began mentioning key words like 'paramedics', '911', 'manslaughter', and 'alibi'. then i'd yank my door open really abruptly and shout 'just kidding!' i think this would be hilarious, and no i haven't been drinking. but hey, here he is, texting me yet again tonight to inform me that the bartender i'd sign my worldly possessions over to for a shot at marital bliss is currently slinging drinks from behind the oak at the dive next door. my heart says yes, but my wallet says no. it's a quiet night for me, perhaps interspersed with some hypothetical practical jokes at the expense of friendly neighbors. yes, clearly i need help, though if you actually read all this you may be worse off than i am. my condolences.

Jilling Off Linguistically

2011-12-18T14:29:00.001-05:00

It doesn't take much faked goading
for him to recite his latest line.
I wait for the rest of it
that doesn't come.
Time freezes as I try to control my face.
I can't. Never could. Bad liar. Better friend.
My mouth is part of it, which
in turn controls my fingers
that so often get me whacked.
"This is why Bukowski didn't roll
with other writers," I think to myself.
It's like watching the home video
of some self-absorbed whiner's abortion.

("Hypocrite," they're thinking now.
At least I only hang my trash out there.
They can choose to rubber-neck
or drive by.)

His plaintive countenance begs for validation.
My guts churn, but not due to the whiskey.
"It's very raw," I say with conviction. Raw
as in undercooked, incomplete, not ready
to breathe air in the open, critical world yet.
"I like it," and this time I mean the cocktail
swimming in my stomach that enhances my
poor acting skills. Most have some strengths.
We all have our weaknesses. The luckiest slobs
mask the one with the other.
I just keep on drinking and try not to hurt
feelings. At some point during the night
he'll buy me a round. It's too early to
burn bridges. I'm not even seeing double yet
and the hounds don't look like wives.

The ice clinks against my glass
as I pray that no more gems are spewed.
My muzzle has a shelf life.
The truth shall set them free
of any delusions of grandeur.
Stay out of the ring if you can't take the hits.
You do this 'cause you have to
or you don't do it all.
Make the old man proud
for once in your life
like you'll never get the chance to again.

Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.
Give him enough words and he'll do the same.
And time?
What do you know of time
other than how to waste it?

Quiver

2011-12-17T23:32:00.003-05:00

Some were standing
others crouched
but the sentiment
stayed the same:
the awkward mix
of fascination
and trauma
associated with
those first glints of death.

The animal, whatever it was:
cat, squirrel, puppy without tags--
laid motionless under
a makeshift paper blanket.
"Here, use this. Don't touch it,"
I could almost hear a parent saying.
The headlights of a van
brought the breath of the young crowd
into view, the cold December night
as good as any for a living thing to die.

When the traffic light turned green
it took a beep from behind me
to bring my focus to the road.
There were far more valuable things
being learned on that sidewalk
than in any classroom or tavern
that those kids would ever enter.

I let my foot off the brake
and scanned the faces of the boys
on the outskirts of the mob.
They were smoking. They were sophomores.
They had sworn they knew it all.
Been there. Done that.
Have the scars and poems to prove it.

Tomorrow, when the blood stains
on the concrete silently remain
the passers by will wonder
what transpired on that sidewalk.
The answer, though they won't know
it, is growth.

Poland is for Lovers

2011-12-16T11:56:00.002-05:00

He spins the globe
in his living room
and she stops it with her finger.
She guesses wrong at the continent.
He asks her to name them. She can't.
Calls Africa part of South America.
China and Asia are separate.
Still can't come up with all seven
let alone point them out.
That's when he knows it's over
in more ways than he'd like
to acknowledge. "Some people
major in geography," he snides
"but that seems so cut and dry."
It doesn't sink in that he's
trying to make her feel better
for her lack of fourth-grade
social studies skills.
She'll never know that he thrives
on what's gray, uncut, and wet:
that blurry interface where
discernment reigns supreme.
It's only a matter of time now.
The sacrifice sharpens the daggers.

"Are you on...?" he tries to ask
but is blatantly cut off mid-sentence.
"Don't do it," she responds
putting an oddly playful inflection
on the second word.
It shocks him how many their age
don't bother anymore, and don't
even say so unless asked. Maybe
they're looking to start something, too.
Maybe they're just as lonely.

She lifts the back of her thigh
up with her left hand
granting further access.
Deeper is better in their eyes
unless it's a matter of substance.
He knows what he must do.
He does it.
Both of their minds are elsewhere
by the time it's said and done, only he's
not the one waking up in five hours.

Their farewell in the doorway
may be their last encounter.
"You can stay," he lies
for good measure.
"I have to let my dogs out,"
she graciously declines
following it up with
"But thanks, it was worth it."
When he hears her hit the stairwell
he turns the three locks of his door.
There's something rude about
not waiting until they're out of earshot.
"Worth it," he regurgitates
like last night's bad salami.
None of them can speak of value.
It's a stab in love's cruel dark.

"A dog" one called him recently
but he fancies himself a traveler.
There are many places he'll never see
and many more he wishes he hadn't.
The globe stares from the bookshelf.
It was better when covered in dust.

Behumbugged

2011-12-14T01:33:00.000-05:00

Crack a porter near
the window, hear a she-cat
get it good.
That tom's got it made
down there in the alley.
When he's done
he's really done.
Make her scream
and make her leave.

Some boyfriend
in the hallway
hums a Christmas carol
more loudly than can
be stomached.
The suds choke
past Adam's Apple
like medicinal black tar.
Those cats don't bring wine.
They don't want to save
any wounded birds, either--
maybe eat them, if anything
and be done with the matter.
"Not tonight, Romeo,"
she expertly plays her rebuttal.
It's healthy to lose so
dare I say
poetically
once in a great blue moon.

A thick hot Bloody Mary
flung your boy back in the game.
That pending divorce called up again
asked if things had changed
though, of course, they hadn't:
still two retired whores.
The mattress left the brick
while we got lost in the lie.
A room that had been frigid
was suddenly a sauna.
"Some beds are too big,"
is argued. "Endless springs forever
with no edge in arm's reach."
She disagrees and croons a tune
unlike that hipster's yuletide hymn.
It took some yawns to drop the hint
that the doorknob needed polish.
Another drink was in order
but didn't make it to the tab.

There's mercy in the dance
if you stick to all twelve steps.
This ain't the song of a coal miner's wife.
It's more like the life
after party.

Impressment and 1812

2011-12-12T10:42:00.000-05:00

There are men who drive vans
two of them, to be exact
who've turned their heads
from traffic to tell me
I can't go back.
"There are worse things
than being lonely,"
the blue collar sages promise.
I even trust the one
who hasn't given me
a company shirt yet.
Maybe I trust him more.
He lets me wear my own name.

Her change of address
confirmation form was delivered
by my sadistic postman last week.
I tossed it without
the argument
my daylight half
wanted to have.
There is freedom
in an emptier mailbox.
It'll give him less reason
to crumple every envelope
before stuffing it in there.
I don't know what took her
so long to make the alteration
but then perhaps I do
and the nocturnal me
can't blame her:

The Battle of New Orleans
was fought weeks after
the treaty was signed in France.

A Trip to the Mall to Remind Me of Why I Don't Make Them

2011-12-04T01:01:00.003-05:00

There couldn't've been
a deeper puddle for me
to step in anywhere in
that miserable parking lot
other than the miniature lake
which greeted my feet like
an unwelcome mat
upon stepping out of my truck.
I lit up a menthol and made
my squishy-soled way to
the northernmost entrance
figuring that heat rises
in Hell as well and I should
get it over with promptly.

When the last drag left my lungs
I entered the portal and walked
all the way to the opposite end
in search of an album released
by a new band with some songs
that almost seemed palatable.
It wasn't there, and neither were
any of the other four records
I sought out in the racks.
The industry's planning on
phasing out tangible musical media
in the hopes of forcing online sales
and I'm its first victim
with my massive CD binders
that'll grow mold in the back seat.
The Loss Management Specialist
or Theft Prevention Technician
or Profit Retention Agent
or whatever the hell
they call security guards
in retail stores these days
looked me in the eyes
and bade me farewell
his sweaty buzzcut seeming less
imposing for a moment.
I didn't fall for the ruse
and stuffed my hands deeper
into the pockets of my sweatshirt
to make him wonder if he'd
done his job that time.

The next stop on my short list
was the chain where I buy
my boxers exclusively.
There's something about
the combination of their
fabric, stitching, array of selection
and perpetual sale price
that draw me to them.
A creature of habit;
who would've thought?
I found three pair
that suited my taste and
walked to the register.
There he was, in gunslinger
flick slow-motion, the tiny
Filipino who'd haunted
my dreams once or twice.
He was still sleeping with
one of the Great Ones
when we started seeing
each other years back.
It didn't take much to pry
her out of his Gollumesque
little clutches, but it still
bothered me knowing
where he'd been, and how.
She also had a habit of giving too
much detail. Maybe she wanted
to make me jealous by recounting
what they'd done in fits of blind
and meaningless passion while
I was still floundering on the fence.
There's no doubt now how I should've
played that out. Given fourth and long
today I'd go for the Hail Mary.
The Flip and I locked eyes briefly
as he headed toward the fitting room.
Something tells me he felt the heat in
my stare and was probably befuddled
as to its fuel. That's how it works
with these green-eyed monsters.
The latter one always despises the former.
I paid for my undies and let that dog lie.

Still seething from the sighting
I pounded the marble floor that
much harder en route to the exit
and safety of my pick-up. The mall
had filled itself with walking excrement
and women who'd never sleep with me.
Every step became a struggle. Window shoppers
tiptoed in my path, forcing me to weave.
The gauntlet had been laid out
for the defeated noontime shopper.
At one point behind me a flustered father
told his six-year-old son that he'd have to
walk the rest of the way, that he'd become
too heavy to carry, that he, essentially
was all on his own. It reminded me
of riding my dad's shoulders as a kid
his head between my knees, his hands
holding my ankles. I felt his long strides
in the form of gentle bounces that, though high
were somehow safer than the ground.
There was one time when we'd taken on
a walk too ambitious for our own good
that sticks out most in my mind.
The fireworks were over and most of
our quiet town was heading back
lawnchairs and blankets and coolers in hand.
I was young then, not up to his waist, and
my legs were so short that it took three
steps to keep up with one of his.
My flat feet were weary, my legs were
ablaze with lactic acid, and a desperate
whining fit was only a stone's throw away.
"Do you want me to carry you?" he asked
or maybe I requested it and am
revising history again; regardless, he lifted
me up and I rode home perched upon the shoulders
of a man who could do no wrong
in the eyes of a boy too young to question.
When did I get too hard to carry?

I searched my skull for the answer to that quandary
and before I had one I was at the glass doors.
A cigarette was out of the question. At the rate
things were going if I waited any longer
my truck might be stolen by the time
I got back to where it had been parked.
My wipers stopped squeaking
on the ride home. That, or I was too gone
to notice them. The rain, brother--
it's been here for years.

Take Your Own Advice, Descartes

2011-12-01T21:18:00.000-05:00

There are many women
I've met already
whom I could've held
for a long time;
maybe not forever
since that's not realistic
and they always find the ogre
but for a fair share of birthdays
and an album of drunken walks home.
To love is a noble aspiration
and anything worth your blood
takes work. It's an effort to trust
another beautifully flawed
collection of cells. Anyone
who says that God's greatest gift
falls in your lap is a fool
who should be silenced
with a muzzle or a smack
or a crippling case of the clap.
Liquor's not free or He would've
made rivers of whiskey. Love
along the same lines, takes
a conscious effort.

But where does one draw
that holiest of lines?
How far are we to go
on our quests to find
the partners whose eyes
reflect our souls?
That's the rub
that faces us
and for an addict
or a hermit
or an only child
with daddy issues
it's exponentially harder.
There must be some retention
of clarity, focus, patience
but don't trouble yourself
with dignity. A lot of proud men
have died alone amongst
a pile of spent shells and with
a long list of regrets
most of them being
things they didn't do
for the sake of an image.
One wastes time with
too much fear of losing
that which can be stripped
by an opened closet door.
We've all got enough
skeletons to make
our closest friends cringe.

Be more concerned with
the person who knows
what you look like
when you're not
sucking it in, that your
worst morning breath
may kill some small insects
and that you never really got over
the time your best friend
stole your high school
sweetheart. They're out there;
hundreds of thousands, in fact.
The Law of Averages is on your side.
Keep treading. There's no rush.
If you get stuck late at work
I'll leave the light on for you.

Sorry For Being Here

2011-12-01T14:14:00.001-05:00

A weak start's
like a bad kiss
but this one cannot
be avoided.

He texted at eight
called at ten
and when he didn't
hear back for two hours
knew that I was sleeping.
When I roused myself
and checked my phone
I considered waiting
for the sleep to leave
my throat, but there's
no fooling a guy
raised on the corners
where he threw dice
way back when.
"Mornin', Sunshine," he says
and I deserve it. "Are you available
tomorrow? I could use a hand."
The gentleman that he is
he acts like I'm not desperate.

"Yeah. Sure. If you need me
I'm there," I assure him
while standing in the kitchen
rubbing crust from my left eye.
I inspect the hanging fruit baskets
and pluck a few rotten
items to discard. I always
get to them too late
bruises and soft spots irreparable
or a skin hardened like armor.
"Great. See you tomorrow,"
he says in his Bronxese
that's come to be a blanket.
"Sounds good," I say as the pear
thuds against the bottom
of the trash can. The lime
follows too, never reaching
its intended cocktail.
If only I'd done the same.

I go to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
There's a hair too long
to be mine in the sink.
I can't tell the color
to pinpoint the source.
There've been options lately.
I've been taking my victories
in small doses and my gin
with extra rocks.
I've been taking
it all on the chin
and it shows.

The mirror's unkind
as the pillows have been
to my hair. There's
no salvaging what's left
without a healthy splash of water.
I run the faucet and wait
for the warm molecules
to rise through the
copper piping.
Even on my days off
I'm haunted.
It's a hell of a way
to start the afternoon.

I'm sorry I had to share
it with you.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

2011-12-01T11:33:00.001-05:00

Today it came
freshly postmarked
and comically late:
The first card received
at my new apartment.
Thanksgiving may have strafed
on by like a Corsair, but my friendly
State Farm insurance agent
wanted to wish me a happy one
regardless, his laser-etched
John Hancock making it
all-the-more personal.
I guess I'll magnet it
to the fridge with that
political calendar I got
in the mail. It's good to
have friends in high places.
It's good to have friends
where you can keep an eye
on them, like across the room
on the Maytag door.

Speaking of doors
any knock on mine is usually
unexpected. I slide to the peephole
since creeping makes the boards creek.
Last week it happened
at my most paranoid moment
right after drowning my angels
in sleep. Who knew that the FedEx guy
banged with such authority? I thought
it was the end. I answered accordingly
aside from only donning shorts.
Luckily he didn't scope the hardware
behind the door. "Sorry it took awhile,"
I lied with a forced cough for effect
as I scribbled a fake signature
with my unoccupied left hand.
"I've been a bit sick lately,"
though maybe that wasn't fictitious.

The Worst Scar I've Ever Seen

2011-11-30T18:07:00.001-05:00

You swore it was yours.
It wasn't.

It was a desperate
frown on a kid's face
after some prick
told him there is
no Santa Claus.
It was the instant loss
of innocence that can't
be undone by money.
It was the undying promise
of death given at reality's birth.
Once it's there
it's there for life.
You see it in their eyes.
Whose?
Everyone's.

(I've clearly injected
myself too much here.
How can one not
and have it be real?
Go with it for the sake
of the story.)

There are some things, ma'am
I'd rather not know
like if I'd enjoy Kentucky.
All the rumors you've heard
are frightfully true:
I'm a self-declared bastard
gallivanting down Main
as a martyr too eager
with a pen in his hand
and a gun at his hip.

There's no Easter Bunny either.

The Best Contraceptive

2011-11-28T15:45:00.001-05:00

It's usually more
like babysitting than work.
The pipes are mostly silent
but my buddy's son is not.
He's nine and precocious.
He likes feeling useful.
If I can keep him busy I try to
though most times he's bored
and gets in my hair. My friend
brings him along on our
moonlighting jobs to get one
of three young sons out of
his wife's weary lap. It's no wonder
that he's going gray and balding
prematurely. I used to be envious.
That all has changed.

"My dad pays you way
more than me," he whines
in reference to his three bucks a day.
"There's an aggravation tax involved,"
I tell him, sending the joke
clean over his short-cropped hair.
"Did your dad pay you a lot
when you helped him as a kid?"
I think back to my first paying job
trimming tree limbs from the massive
pines on his property
in the Adirondacks. Five an hour
for back-breaking work. I was the same
age as the squirt kneeling next to me
but I had no one around to pester
and mistakes have no siblings.
With my meager earnings
I bought a fox pelt at a taxidermy shop
on the ride home from the mountains.
I've always made wise purchases.
I've always had sweet gigs.
"No," I tell him through
my teeth while wondering
what those trees look like now.
The pelt is long gone
if not in his basement.
The trees might be, too.
He's bad with his money.

My diminutive partner won't let it rest.
"What'd you guys do?"
"Not much. He wasn't very
good with his hands," I reply
with an understatement
as the wrench slips a bit
"or much else."
Junior takes a moment
to ponder the strange existence
of a mechanically useless father
unheard of in his neck of the woods.
I tighten the screws in the floor drain
wishing more than dirty water
could be washed down its void.

A staticky country tune I've begrudingly
come to love blares in the other room
where my friend's setting fixtures.
Aside from the God part the song's
got it right: booze is good, people
are crazy.

"You don't talk about him much,"
the boy says. Clearly we've never
tossed cocktails back together
and if we're lucky we never will.
I don't want to be the same man
when he's old enough to drink.
The next inevitable question comes
timed perfectly with the dripping
of sweat from my brow--
"Is he dead?"

My answer lands before
he can refill his lungs.
It's no lie. There's more
to being alive than breathing.
You've got to have a soul
and not only worry about
whether or not it's Saved.
The kid pulls out his pocketknife
and cleans dirt from under his nails.
If only adults could have the same
detached responses to answers
that made their questions regrettable.

I chisel out some tile to make room
for the drain. The floor guys never
remove enough. It's hard to willingly
destroy your own work, especially
when on your knees.
"Can I do that?" he asks, his knife
no longer relevant.
"No," I say in as kind a voice
as I can fake. "Go help your old man."

Fisherman's War Paint

2011-11-28T09:47:00.000-05:00

Right hand on left flank
and the inverse correct--
This is what chromosomes
dealt were predestined.
Face in a pillow
almost forget.
Saint candles burning
straight down like a fuse.
Moans turn to whimpers
and back into moans.
Offer a towel, a cold glass of water.
They know not to call.
They know they've been used
led like white livestock
up three flights to slaughter.
It helps with the yearning
the passing of time.
She'll leave in the morning
with clothes from the floor.
It's hard to think twice
once giving the lines.
She came like a lady.
She'll leave a bit sore.
Fisherman's war paint
misanthrope's fuel
lush's reminder
that Christ drank the grape.
The love's on the mattress.
The heat's in the tools.
You may never find her
at this cyclic rate.

(315)

2011-11-22T19:35:00.000-05:00

I woke to bastard sunbeams
and the smell of 10 a.m.
There'd been a nightmare
of some nigger who tried
to steal my girl once.
The drool stains on my pillows
proved I'd told him how I felt.
Through the floor I heard
a man carve his day-old bird
to make a sandwich.
I'd spent the holiday alone.
My leftovers were internal.

There was a message on my phone
received at four in the morning--
when the good ones tend to come;
when the coming's all the same.
The area code was as baffling
as the words and punctuation.
An inquiry of the prefix
revealed a western New York number.
My past career of heartache
never spread into that region.
Another unknown psycho
closing in to make the kill.

I rubbed one out, did the dishes
went about my half-dressed business
until the missive piqued my interest
as the song remained the same.
"Who is this?" I asked
knowing there would be no answer.
These vague, clandestine messengers
never cough up their credentials.

I poured a second mug of jet fuel
though the grounds were in the mix.
Had to nuke it for a minute
since it cooled down fairly quickly
with the heat just barely running
to help save on the bills.
There's only one sucker
paying them now. It's equal parts
blood and money.

That's when it came again--
the same encrypted sentence.
This time I noticed a number
at the bottom, presumably a date:
*06*28*08.
I thought back to where I was then
and whom I was inside.
It held no relevance.
Didn't make much sense
as usual, though the message
as the good ones are
was tragically universal:
***LOVE IS LOYALTY!!!!
CAPS and symbols unembellished.

I dumped that cup of coffee
down the sink into the sewer.
The world had no mercy left
to divvy out today.
The sun's angle promised us that.
It was good to be inspired.
I'd have to lower the shades
creating my own fate
in the darkness
between bricks.

Prom Baby Rain Cheque

2011-11-21T16:24:00.003-05:00

My rooms are right
on Main Street.
They can come

maybe twice
if we're lucky
and I'm randy
but they can't stay
the night
and
they better swallow

the fact that
I've built walls
of copper tubing
lashed with hair
of buried queens
around the parts
that I was smart
to never give her
though my silence
was consent.

Chase, you lucky gambler
all your strikes paid off in rings.
I will wear your tux, and tucked.
I will spring for whiter teeth.
I will spare your friends and family
what would've been my gin-soaked speech.

Yours wants to share
her dark slice
of heaven.
Mine took the rugs
and corkscrew
when she left.

Convert.
Adapt.
Overcome.
What's three times a day
to the east
compared to begging
clouds for mercy?
There's not a better way
to squander three months'
worth of wages.
Is it after tax, or gross?
If it's real then it won't matter.
Your words were sound and poignant
though you know it's me to try.

Chaz and a Son's .38

2011-11-19T23:30:00.001-05:00

An old friend
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.

As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...

I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.

I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.

Wasabi For the Dater's Soul

2011-11-17T15:45:00.003-05:00

Maybe I should've taken
my own advice
and not shat where I ate
by eating where I live.
Maybe I shouldn't've walked there.
Maybe she smelled
the smoke on my breath.
Maybe I shouldn't've been myself.

Maybe she didn't like
that I wasn't shy
and ate all of the sushi
when she put her chopsticks
down for good.
Maybe it was that I loved the ginger
but didn't speak up
when the geisha came
and took it all away.
Maybe it was that her psych major
finally came in handy
though I didn't mention
my dad this time.
Maybe it was my one glass of wine.
Maybe the green tea ice cream
froze her perfect teeth
or the twelve-dollar tip
wasn't good enough.

Maybe it was that
I was full, it was late
and with work the next day
a ride home would've been nice--
so I asked, and was looked at
as crazy.
Maybe I am for thinking
that everyone believes to their
own detriment
and that people are generally
good in this world.
Maybe my peacoat
made me look like a rapist.
Maybe I am in a way
that is latent.
Maybe I'm better off knowing
that two hours of flowing
conversation does not equate
to a shred of trust.
Maybe I'll stick to coffee next time.
It's cheaper, and about what
these hooers deserve.

Maybe I'll go crawling back
to the place I know
that I don't belong.
Maybe it's instant karma.

Currently (re-)reading:
"Love Is a Dog From Hell" by Charles Bukowski.

Scrambled

2011-11-13T23:41:00.001-05:00

When I woke
still shaken
by Jeremy's dream
drool marks on the pillow
to prove that it'd been
a real barn-burner

a bird chirped
in the otherwise silent
air conditioner
perched inside
my window.
There was
a faint sound
of scratching
like some twigs
upon some tin.

That friend had
sold me out
put me right back
into debt. Even in my
dreams my back's
a magnet for their knives.
I stood, dizzy from
last night's medicine
and told the world
what I thought of friends.

When I turned the
fan off later on
no song came from
the grill.
Thinking of this
brought on a rare hunger.

Without milk for coffee
or orange juice
to quench the salt
an ironic egg breakfast
was out of the question.

Sausage sans peppers
it was
and delicious.

She Was Fourteen Going On Forty in 1968

2011-11-08T11:18:00.000-05:00

Somewhere in the Simon
a theme lost in the mix
a quatrain calls out
from between bookends
and my mother's quiet
croonings while she cooked
or cleaned or asked
if I had homework.

"Time it was, and what
a time it was
a time of innocence..."

where she'd longingly trail off
a son too young
to grasp her woes
lulled to peace
despite the split.

He gets it today, twenty
years later
and loves her
now and long ago
memories and photographs
thankfully not
all that's left
of her yet.
If he's as lucky
as he is blessed
the genes will pull through
'til at least ninety-six.

It's not Joe DiMaggio
for whom his lonely eyes
are looking.

angio-

2011-11-06T22:58:00.001-05:00

I used to have this nightmare
only it'd happen during the day
while walking on the wrong side
of the road or ordering an
Extra Value Meal
from some kid with fry-grease
acne. A non-descript assailant
would slice through the soft skin
of my forearms and rip out my veins
with a pair of pliers. It looked like
when you're pulling weeds from a garden
and the roots pop out of the dirt
in an intricate system that almost
demands your respect while destroying it
only this was no green thumb convenience:
this was real.

It played on a deep-rooted fear of mine
involving the circulatory system. Ever since
childhood the thought of things pumping
through tubes inside of me has turned
my stomach. Getting vaccinated never
bothered me, but once they tried
to take something out
to draw blood from those hoses I hated
to acknowledge
I'd turn a shade of green
uncommon to the living. The chapter
on arteries in ninth-grade biology
made my wrists go numb to the point where
I couldn't take notes from the overhead
projector. I still passed with flying colors.
I still learned to cope back then.

I used to have this nightmare
about the plumbing of my blood
being stripped of me in the most
gruesome manner, but now I'm
more afraid of never giving it away.

Serial Monogamy

2011-11-06T22:39:00.000-05:00

Eggs over-hard and a .44 magnum
bathe in what's left of the Sun's
borrowed light. There are some things
Saint Peter will have to forgive
at the gates for the sake of His
cloud-fucking choir: overcooked
breakfast and overdue bills
and those blowjobs that came
when they needed them most.
There's no use for fathers
for an arrogant son
who's followed around
by some unholy ghosts.

Keep an ear to the ground.
Save a drink for the road.
There's nothing that's promised
except death and taxes.
Whatever you're gunning
you're gutting alone.
Here's twenty bucks.
Go bet on a horse.

And even the gambler
let us all down.
When I first heard his lisp
I felt I'd been duped.
No man with a soft voice like that
had been suckered or hit in the face
with a bottle, a stool.

No one's immune to the ringing
of churchbells. No one forgets
what it's like to miss home.
He's talking in tongues
without any whiskey
in need of a crowd
but prone to go rogue.

How does one die of exposure
exactly? What does it take
to break a man down?
Perhaps it's not literal--
a daily castration
performed by the kid
who can't wipe his nose.

Currently reading:
"More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns" by Charles Bukowski.

What Happens in the Mekong Delta Doesn't Necessarily Stay There

2011-11-02T14:32:00.002-05:00

We finish each other's
sentences to the point
of questionable genetics.
It's odd to have such
a familiar relationship
with a man double my age
whom I've only known
for five months.
Drive around in a van
with someone for long enough
and you start to think the
same things, like that
you'd rather have the headache
of the guy who wakes up to
that hot mess in the car
in the passing lane
any day of the week
and twice on Sundays
than play the hands
we've been dealt.
We joke about our fortune
in finding one another
somewhere along the trainwreck.
That latter part, the state of the union
makes me think I'm right
when I tell him we're both
being punished for past lives.

He was in the Seventies service, jokes
about commando operations
in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
Classified, of course.
I toss out a flippant remark about
the likelihood that I was once in
his squad, the one that must've
burned a Gook village a la "Platoon".
My mind wanders as I lay in sour sheets.
I picture myself manning the 60
hanging from the side door of the Huey
hot brass shell casings and ammo belt links
raining down onto the rice paddy below.
The Stones' "Gimme Shelter" plays in
the background as a soundtrack requirement.
Little black-pajama'ed ants in pointy straw hats
scramble for their lives, praying to their rotund
cross-legged god that the napalm airstrike
doesn't come and torch their crops.
He, of course, only smiles wider
that glutton for pointless suffering.

My partner in crime taps my shoulder
enthusiastically and asks to swap spots.
I finish my run of 7.62, get up
from the gunner's seat, and pass him
my flak jacket to sit on in case an AK-47 round
pierces the fuselage and catches him
in the keister. Just as he rips back the bolt handle
and starts to give some yellowfolk lead poisoning
a bullet tears through the belly of the chopper
and severs my femoral artery. The blood sprays
the cabin in regular spurts through the spaces
between my fingers as I make a futile attempt
to stop the bleeding. That younger version
of my buddy lets the machinegun pivot forward
on its mount, its barrel smoking and smelling of sulphur
in order to reach over and light my last Marlboro
procured from the pack strapped to my helmet.
"See ya on the next tour, Shakespeah,"
he croons in that soupy Bronx inflection
which I've carried back upstate. We both know
it's a lie, but it's one that is expected.
The hum of the rotors lulls me into
unconsciousness as I bleed out onto
the diamond-plate floor of the helicopter
and pass into the dark.

Fast-forward forty years and I'm next to
that same wingman. He's older now, has some
more scars, but the eyes remain the same
as they always do in the Great Ones.
"Get a loada dis numba," he says
as he pilots his van to my left, our new
unsuspecting victims not so physically harmed.
The whir of the battered highway
rumbles underfoot to the tune
of ten-thousand regrets
none of them being
that I've met this denim-collared savior.
"Too rich for my blood," I honestly confess
before downing what's left of my coffee.
War, like plumbing, is a hell of a humbler
and they're both about the guy
next to you in the trench.

For Rocco, Who May Not Get My All Tomorrow As a Direct Result

2011-10-30T23:40:00.001-05:00

By the third flight of steps
my feet are cinderblocks.
It's not the friendly load of laundry that's
making it hard to climb any farther.
I don't want to swing that door
open for the first time since
she's taken the rest of her things.
When I do it hits me like
aforementioned masonry.
A good wail in the corner
where her dresser used to be
warrants a call to mom
who in turn blames
my father and the abandonment
issues he's so Christianly left in my lap.
We all have our crosses.
Some drag them too far.

When the pep talk's over
I strip for comfort's sake
and see what looks different
around the apartment. She spared me
some silverware. Stole the rugs.
Left me her two plants; company
I guess. Took both the frying pans.
So much for eggs over-easy this week.
It all seemed so trivial and static before.
Now my new home's a pile of objects
a few of them missing, in need of
replacements. More items for the
Things To Do List.
Great.
Next up: a shower.

There too are voids.
There's an obvious spot where
that bottle of facewash
which neither of us liked due to its
bug repellant odor once sat.
Her razor remains; disposable, like time.
I crank the shower handle as far to the left
as my skin can take it-- not scalding
but damn near close: how she used
to like it once I got out to dry myself.
My body slowly adapts to the temperature
and feels purified by heat. If I can't control
what I'm feeling over the loss of
two-and-a-half, on-and-off years
then at least I can swing that lever
and determine how much steam
is pumped into the room, how hard
the nerves in my skin cells tingle.
What's that Hump said to Sam in
the Casa? "If she can take it, I can take it,"?
The lathering's left to the bare essentials
since it's late enough and Monday's
an early rise. I rinse and blow my nose
down the drain. Part of me's miffed
that my brain doesn't follow.

When I step out
and wipe the fog from the mirror
it's hard to avoid a red-faced laugh.
Beneath the permanent wool sweater
afflicting my awkward form
there hides a boiled lobster
too stubborn and desperate
to turn down the heat.

But really, I laughed.
I have to.
My plants need carbon dioxide.

Premature Hot Coke Hoe

2011-10-29T19:06:00.001-05:00

They whine that the weather
has ruined their costumes--
so many minutes or dimes
sacrificed--
while failing to face
that the three sixty-four
are spent with fraudulent fronts
just the same.

Don't get me wrong.
I'm not so above it.
If there was a slim chance
in Hell it's now gone.
The lights flicker briefly
and taunt with a sentence
but the worst of this deal
requires no juice.

Can't even drink
on these antibiotics.
Don't want to smoke
with this hack in my lungs.
Almost put pants on
to let in a stranger
but some saintly neighbor
beat me to the punch.

It's not that it's messy
or messed up my plans.
It's not that the holiday
bar scene is curbed.
A blizzard is meant
for rib-sticking meals
and lovemaking 'til
the lovelies are sore.

The Women Wore Pink Sweaters

2011-10-29T12:53:00.001-05:00

One of my new fathers died
in my sleep last night.
When his wife answered the phone
there was silence, then a yelp.
They hadn't seen or heard from him
in days, assumed the worst.
I was somehow teleported
to his basement. Women mourned.
My eyes burned red, I felt betrayed--
a jealous God again.
Sometime in the tangent
the old man reappeared.
He was tired, hair all mustered
in his camo and his boots.
"I was hunting, lost my way,"
his explanation came ashamed.
I threw my arms around him
smelled the copper in his blood.

The top sheet's on the floor now
from my writhing, dreaming grief.
There'll be a time where waking
won't save the day again
if the hunter doesn't find
his way back to the hearth.
Every person's got a shelf life.
All that carbon's got to give.
They're a blessing, these new mentors
but they come with loss inherent.

What Would the Lizard King Say Of Your Bass

2011-10-27T21:46:00.000-05:00

If faces come out of the rain when you're strange then one can assume it gets worse with the snow. Maybe the bodies follow. The weather's as unpredictable as the events of these last several weeks. What overpaid, televised guestimators refer to as a "wintry mix" falls tonight a few calendar days before Halloween. The Doors play on my stomach-perched laptop as I lay in bed lazily since the internet connection's down and my CDs are in the truck I can barely afford. Maybe the precipitation will wash the birdshit from its otherwise clean exterior. It took me a week, but the dishes have been conquered and vanquished from the sink. I used to be a stickler for timely, efficient housekeeping. Now that I'm the only witness to my sinful filth it's hard to motivate myself to stay on top of anything other than my bed. Even that's not truly mine; she made me leave my mattress at the old place when we moved here a few months ago. Women seem wicked when you're unwanted; beds are taken for granted until they're repossessed. Now I'm wondering if she'll take this one, hers, when she comes with her mother on Sunday to get the rest of her things. The boxspring and frame are mine. Perhaps some pine boughs will cap them nicely; a bit of a rustic touch to contradict the industrial look of the brick and exposed pipes. How ironic, and therefore hip. That's the name of the game in this trendy town crawling with trust-fund kids. Faces look ugly whether you're alone or in groups. Angsty children piss in the streets of the nation's major cities for the sake of having a cause, ignoring the cue from uninvolved local citizens and small business owners that their welcome's been worn out and it may be time for a different tactic, and the Man's to blame again for speaking up in part for another portion of that already redundant percentage which I won't cite here. Streets may be uneven when you're down, but it's hard to notice through the teargas. The home movies don't lie; neither does the internet. We're headed for revolution with no leaders in sight other than the funnier talking heads who impart their biased knowledge to the Text Message Generation via sarcastic satire. All of this, like snowfall in October, we're expected to accept. Jim Morrison's right: Strange days have found us and no one remembers your name.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit Remembered" by John Updike.

Censored Ex Hell

2011-10-25T00:12:00.001-05:00

They can't help it.
It's in the beast's nature.
It's the part of the fissure
that others don't see.

Some of them take a book or two
but I only read them once anyway
maybe go back and skim where
I've highlighted a few years later
rekindling love for a man long gone.
A titled spine staring at me
from one of my sixteen shelves
won't break me; not as of now.
They're lost in the mix.

Most of them ruin a few bands
for awhile. The songs that once
promised one thing suddenly
renege on the arrangement.
You give them time, you call
a good friend or drinking body
and blast those tunes
over cocktails to reclaim them
when you're ready.
It's a surefire way that's
always proved faithful.

But this one got me good.
She took an act of hygiene.
Whenever I shave now
that one tough time when
I'm forced to look in a mirror
for more than twenty seconds
I think of how she'd always want
to do it for me, would scold me
jokingly if I pruned without her aid.
There was trust there once
with a blade to my neck.
How does one get that back?
How do I pick up that razor again?
The same as anything else, I guess:
alone.

I'm finally getting down
to my fighting weight now
but there's no one in the ring
left to notice. And a truth
that comes in this late-night
confession is I nick with
my Bic just the same.

The Laziest Faker East of the Hudson

2011-10-23T13:42:00.000-05:00

I lay against an ill-advised Sunday
half-glow nap. Woke at noon, lounged around
beat by almost four. Dishes are piled--
a week's worth at least. There's an unopened
package screaming for a knife that
I can't muster the muscle to stab.
I know what it is: a suitcase for a trip
I won't be taking. It can wait.
It can all wait
with the sleeping bag in storage.
There are times I miss the strangest things
like the hot fermenting garbage smell
of the subway in July. This is one of them.

Sleep has no mercy, it won't come so soon.
The leaves on the trees like lightbulbs
to smash. People enjoy what could be
the last weekend where T-shirts aren't such
a rebellious decision. Strangers savor their lives
or pretend to. I roll onto my stomach
closing my eyes harder like a child scared
to death, though this kid's reconsidered.

A football announcer yells through the floor.
I can almost make out the words, it's disturbing.
What have the neighbors heard through
their ceiling and how have I not heard their TV before?
The sound's somewhat soothing, reminds me of
weekends when I'd fall asleep on my father's stiff couch.
It's probably there, blessed and annointed, praying
for an overdue trip to the dump.

The volume gets louder, perks up my ears. There's
no way to drift off with this kind of ruckus. I throw off
the top sheet, consider my options, succumb to
the urge, choke up on the bat.

The romance is clipped by a new sound
I notice, a generous portion of fresh humble pie.
There through the First Downs and Holdings
below me come whimpers and moans
from the cute pigtailed neighbor. The milquetoast
she lives with is telling her twice.
I hear, but can't listen.
I know, but don't care.
I pull up my shorts and go take a leak.
If you prick me, my friend, I promise to bleed.

The Hudson was once my personal moat
though now I feel like a shunned hot potato.
There are times, there are places
for starches like me.
A call from the union could change my
demeanor. It's not looking hopeful.
It's Third Down and Twelve.
The bottle of Sauvignon Blanc
being chilled now should go to the couple
who earned it downstairs.

It's ripe and it's raw and it's rife with
transgressions. It could always be worse.
There's still some shaft left.

No Way To Waste a Friday Night

2011-10-21T20:51:00.002-05:00

The whirlwind swings by
to pick up some things
once her train's dropped
her off after work.
"Are you home?"
comes through crackling.
"Yeah," I reply
not sure if it's a lie or not.
"I'll be up in a minute."
Great. I'll still be down.

She keeps her shoes on
which is fine
since I haven't swept
since she's been gone;
asks to use the toilet.
I apologize in my mind
'cause my friends had bad aim
the other night
and I've found it hard
to get out of bed to eat
let alone clean
unless somebody's paying me.
Through the bathroom door
I can almost see her
searching for hairs
too long and light
to be mine.
She won't find them.

The sound of the flush
comes and the door
unveils light upon
my dark kitchen, a stage
perfectly set for the show.
Rotting fruit and vegetables
scream for mercy in the form
of a trash can from
the hanging baskets
that took so long for us to find.
She frowns. She doesn't fight it
as well as I do.
"Take some food with you,"
I plead, not wanting it to spoil.
Her hand pulls the fridge door open
and she inspects with minor distrust.
Sees the beer, probably wonders
who's been over since I'm in
a whiskey mood these days.
"You know there's a whole loaf of bread
down here," she says, rifling through
the misused crisper.
"Most of my grain's been distilled
as of late," I beam through crooked teeth.
She still can't find the humor.
That's the rub; the difference.
I'll joke all the way to the gallows.
She'll scowl all the way to the morgue.

Whatever she needed
seems inconsequential.
A few arbitrary items are tossed
into her big soccer mom bag
that'll probably never be true anymore
since that was my dream, not hers.
I used to help her put on her coat
after the check had been paid.
She taught me how to do that
without fumbling so much.
The urge is gone now
as she slinks into her peacoat.
This farewell will be as awkward
as a catcall at a funeral.
I'm right at a time
when I'd rather be wrong again.

By the time I reach the door
she's already at the stairs.
I stand there, three-quarters naked
and tell her. I have to.
It stops her in her tracks
although I'm no Bogart
and there ain't a plane to catch.
She turns and looks, bewildered
like that famous blurry photo
of Bigfoot stumbling through the creekbed.
"Don't," she spits, her bag seeming heavy.
But I do, and I will
because it's the truth.
If it wasn't I wouldn't be letting her go.
Sometimes that's what's needed
when the shuffle's been rigged.
We were doomed from the start, Kid.
Here's lookin' at you
from a distance
safe enough to wonder
what they would've looked like.

Cheating Salmonella

2011-10-18T12:00:00.001-05:00

The morning rain had drawn them out--
Betrayed by Mother Nature.
A few flattened shells lay scattered
on the two-lane highway which
cuts through Orange Lake
while I sped from one task to the next.
There towards the end of the gauntlet
I saw an intact one in the shoulder.
It's a rule of mine to stop and move them.
If not, the guilt and wondering
tail me through the day.
Did it make it?

The guardrails left no room to park
so I pulled over at the cross-street.
A fifty-yard hike against the grain
of traffic and I was upon the painted
reptile. Its head hung low against
asphalt, its tail turned to one eternal side
all of its claws descended into road dust.
I stood and stared at the crack
running down the back of its shell--
a near miss, but barely enough
to end its stubborn road-crossing life.
I was always too late to save them.

The walk back to my truck
was consoled by a Marlboro.
If there was a time to curse
the odds that day
it was then
it was there in that moment.
All too often What's Right
plays second fiddle
to What Shall Be.
We suck it up
or we don't;
we stop or we keep driving;
but those turtles there on 52
are coming either way.

Lefty Bats Righty (and Still Gets On Base)

2011-10-18T00:39:00.000-05:00

There's this wreck
I've slept with
a handful of times
over the weaving course
of the last eight years.
The sleeping was never
as good as the part
that came
before it
partially because
I turned and tossed
with one foot out the door
since sticking around
would make too much sense.

This last bout with the starving
lasso artist was almost
too hard to watch
like a naked rodeo clown.
She asked if she should move
or not, if I'd take her in
like a puppy.
A bit of an out-of-body
experience it was--
Is this what it looks like
when someone's hard up
for a godsend to leave their sheets
smelling differently?
Pathetic little pissants we are
made in His image or not.

I know where she is tonight
and I know where she'll be tomorrow
and more importantly I know
that my distant knowledge will be
the extent of it. That's not to say
she isn't a catch; to most
men she would be, but I've been
blessed between the temples
with discernment as harsh as my tongue
and it tells me I'd be asking
for trouble yet again
redeeming qualities be damned.

She's one of those girls
who's just barely pretty.
One minor change
would leave her bereft
I'd venture to say
irreversibly flawed.
Maybe then I could love her.
Until then she's a number.
Somewhere along the way
I lost count, and somehow
became a plumber.

With a Little Help From My Friends

2011-10-13T23:01:00.000-05:00

The sequins caught my half-drunk eye, pulling my head ninety degrees just in time to see her slip into the hallway. She'd beaten me to the punch in getting to the bathroom. It wasn't the first time I'd been bested by that woman; regrettably so, it wouldn't be the last. There was another lavatory in the apartment, surprisingly, but it had a door on two walls, neither of which locked. One could not be too careful in such matters, especially at a party with heavy-handed Irish folks pouring up the cocktails. I decided to wait for the safer option in the rear of the apartment. She couldn't be that long in there, or so I thought.

When she finally returned to the festive chaos high above Eighty-Second Street I placed my vodka tonic on the nearest coaster I could find and made my way for the coveted powder room. She must've reapplied her fragrance while in there. The scent hit me before I even turned the knob. It was winter, I remember, because I'm wearing my only sweater in the photos from that night. It was winter, but the small window in that restroom was open when I entered, a crisp Big Apple breeze running down the brick and in above the toilet. I was about to close it when I realized why it'd been opened. That faintly familiar skunk smell crept up my nostrils through the mask of fresh perfume like an out of place dealer at a grade school talent show. Was it really that necessary to indulge at this event? My mind's eye shot to my tumbler in the living room and I wished I hadn't left it so I could take a swig. Perhaps I was premature in judging her need to party to that extent. We all have our vices; some are simply more legal than others. I reached up, closed the window, and drained what my liver didn't soak up to escape.

There was a tinge of recognition when our eyes met over hors d'oeuvres. She saw the latent shame in my face, but her wrinkles caked with make-up lended no apology. Instead she gave a wink as she sipped her pinot grigio, whether or not she'd meant to, whether or not it really happened or my vodka was playing its game again. We carried on with pleasantries and feigned a pure existence. When the night came crashing down we went our separate ways: she, a waiting train; me, a stroll down Amsterdam. In a city where nothing's free we'd both paid our price and then some. I slept next to a lousy poem and woke to my sweater folded neatly on the back of the recliner. There's a reason why some things are saved for once or twice a year. Any more than that and we'd go bursting at the seams.

Inspired By a Bumper Sticker and Another Refugee

2011-10-13T22:09:00.004-05:00

So it seems that every second
slut that runs away
these days
male or female
or whore on a stage
who happens to be
packing for the City
sings of Astoria
like it'll save
their sorry souls.
What's there
so great to soothe them
but the warm-eyed
Greeks of Queens?
So close, in terms of time
to those curried Jackson Heights
where the dot-heads run around
adding arms and tusks to God
while us cowboys strip more
of His power every day.

I think it's more the sound
as it rolls off fattened tongues--
the syllables of promise
like parents in the pews
lying to young ears
meek enough to fear
an eternity sans water
like a week with no TV.

It's there in the road
in front of you, children.
It's every time that you obey
the daily curse of your alarm.
Astoria will get on
without your dreams
to crowd it.
You don't pronounce the 'gyro'
like the locals anyway.
And I, for one, am not
for rollicking fake times.

Yes, I have a truck.
No, won't help you move.

Confessions of a Modern Day Ahab

2011-10-10T20:26:00.001-05:00

I have a too-nice apartment
on Main Street in a hip town
that I can barely afford
now that I've fired her.

I have a trade that'd make me
a hell of a buck if only
the economy was better
and there was enough work
to go around.

I have friends
whom I can throw
farther than I can trust.
I have a lot of nights in bed.

I have a father twelve miles away
who denies my existence
despite my desperate letters
and thirst to break the curse.

I have an addictive personality
that gets me in just enough trouble
to make me feel alive
with its consequences.

I have a penchant for drinking
alone at home or in crowds
and swear the bottle off
at least thrice per week.

I have a smoker's cough
that'll undeniably turn
to cancer one day or another.

I walk around with a gun
and act like it'll save me.

I'm a grower, not a shower.

I have an ex who finally realizes
that despite my faults
I was right.
I have a lot of exes
in various boats
and mental albums.
Most of it upstairs is skewed
so I can paint it over.

I fall in love with random
strangers in public
multiple times a week
with the excuse
that I have a sixth sense
for beauty.

I'm terrible at sleeping alone.

I can drink you under the table
and out of the closet.
I'll probably ask to try
or try to ask.

My eventual triumph
will be far more
monumental
than anything
your degree promised you
as I laugh all the way
to the unemployment line.

I'm twenty-seven
finally living
and wouldn't trade it
for the world.
Hallelujah, motherfucker.

The Surgeon General Wastes Breath With His Warning

2011-10-06T20:35:00.002-05:00

The shit-show takes
a much needed break
as half of our posse
vacates the bar.
My newest and best
wanders off to an alley
relieving himself
between the brick walls.
I reach for my pack
and conjure a lighter.
A third party notes
that it's white, there-
fore smart.
"No one will steal it,"
he states
too damn sure
that old pothead lore
of jinxes applies.
I smile through smoke
and nod like he's got me
but really I know
that's it's not
what he thinks:
A person hard up
is a person hard up
and an addict in need
will steal from a leper
regardless of what
the mystics believe.
Their greatest fear
is that we smell it on them.
The sweat?
No, the fear
and a Bic's worth of butane.
I never quite get
why they wager that bet
but over and over
the numbers don't lie.

My friend saunters back
a stain on his jeans
where the joke is on him
like the tip that he'll leave.
"Gimme a light," he demands
through his teeth
and he pockets my fire
when he's done sparking up.
The sad humbled genius
swallows his words
and straightens his specs
without superstition.
"Matches next time,"
I think to myself
as I leave them to ponder
their new Fifth Dimension.

For Fear of More Than Backwash

2011-10-05T22:12:00.001-05:00

Main Street was a ghost town lit up for seemingly nothing. The night was young enough to make believable promises though the sidewalks were mostly deserted. Perhaps the recent drop in temperature was discouraging the locals from venturing out into the fray. I was running a few minutes late, but knew I'd still beat her to the restaurant. Late in my mind is only two minutes early.

A traffic light changed and halted my forward progress. Neon glow from the convenience store on the corner bounced off a three-day-old puddle too stubborn to disappear. I pulled hard on my cigarette as the autumn air crept up the loosely rolled sleeves of my red cowboy shirt. Part of me felt like the essence; part of me felt like a fraud.

A rattling sound approached from behind while unaffected cars sped by. I turned and saw a shopping cart full of empty bottles and cans being pushed by one of Beacon's resident homeless. A gray sweatshirt broke the wind from his back and a pair of navy slacks somehow matched. The standard ancient running sneakers propelled him along, this time in my direction. His salt-and-pepper hair sat above a sun-wrinkled face accented by shining blue eyes that were deep in forming a question.

"Smrgls grb," he said with unflinching conviction.

"Excuse me?" I asked the undecipherable pilgrim.

"Arltm fwp, brg," was his puzzling response.

This'd get nowhere and there was somewhere I had to be. Couldn't keep an old friend waiting; ten years was long enough. It was one of two things he probably wanted and my pockets weren't jingling with change. I pulled my pack from my breast pocket and handed him a smoke. He thanked me with a nod and slipped the menthol behind his ear, clearly not ready to indulge in its sick pleasures. His eyes were still glued to my face like there was something more he wanted. My left hand rummaged through the pocket of my Levi's. Nothing but a lighter, a pen, and my bulky set of keys. I was prepared for the awkward denial of currency that always made me feel like less of a decent human.

"Are you new around here?" he asked in a suddenly recognizable idiom.

"Yeah. Why?" Was I an obvious outsider? Was my plaid shirt not up to snuff with the downtown hipster regime? Were my cigarettes not trendy, maybe even disgraceful? Was I a dead give-away for a new Beacon denizen because I stopped to chat? The endless paranoid possibilities raced through my mind in the brief time it took for him to respond.

"I haven't seen you around. Want some beer?"

He lifted a brown-bagged tallboy from his cart and extended it my way.

"No, thanks," I told him as politely as possible. "I'm heading to dinner," unsure what that fact had to do with taking a swig of brew. The truth was that I could've used a drink. The last several weeks had been brutal. They were nothing compared to this man's problems, of course, but difficult in their own right relative to my own trivial life.

"It's my last one," came the humbling reply from my one-man welcoming committee. His tone wasn't sad, it was sincere.

A tingle ran down my spine at the thought of what had happened. Bukowski reincarnate. Another man in the trenches. The snowflake tattoo made sense again: we're really all the same, as different as we are. A man who's lived so hard that there's not much left, like a piston never oiled and worn away by friction, took the time of day to trade some beer for a smoke and make an honest man out of a kid in needless haste. He wasn't aware that the busier of the two bars in town had a limit of two Long Island Iced Teas per customer. He didn't know, and I didn't care. A friend could order those last couple anyway-- a friend like the one who was waiting to meet for dinner. I was lucky to be where I could start over whether or not I deserved it. Beacon was a blessing, even without the intended roommate.

"Take it easy," I said as the light turned green, not stopping to think that it was the only way he could take it.

"Rflp dwt," was barely audible amidst the rumble and clang of a shopping cart starting up again.

I was only one minute late.

What Used To Get Me Sex Now Just Gets Me Sleep.

2011-10-04T22:43:00.000-05:00

The shower tastes like sulphur
like the flavor I'll be damned to
when the crowd decides to wane
when the weak ones fall away.
The beer spit comes up thick
in this bloody shotgun throat.
Tonsils swim in the saliva
where she could always smell infection
and the burning of tobacco
that I reserved for secret weekends.
You fooled no one but yourself, kid.
You're not so Double Agent.
Rocco, you father, I've duped you yet again.

Johnny Unstoppable left pill bottles burning
in the parking lot where
I keep my junk, let me save the photos
of me thirty pounds lighter
eight years happier
in the arms of a German Angel
too right to wrong with words.
(Those awkward jawbones, those crisp eyebrows
that longing Spanish tongue, a virgin
before me.)

A gentle giant notes
the recent rise in chloroform
and the evening bleeds out normal
while the Firethorns down their swill.
You could've been a lot of things
but instead you chose to fold.
You could've had some teachers
though you'd rather just become one.
You could've, would've, should've
but you'd rather shut your eyes.

Fredo Deserved What He Got in That Rowboat

2011-09-26T22:05:00.003-05:00

Before running out
for drinks with an ex
my latest mistake
made one last request:
"Turn the stove off
in thirty, the soup'll be done."
I flipped through the pages
and coughed through the door
something compliant
responsible, even.

A hunch or an itch
or a hair up my ass
caused me to put down
my book for a moment.
When I went to the kitchen
the room smelled of gas.
The burner went out, the flame
was long gone, the timer was set
on the microwave dial.
A fuse had been left
to even the tally
to settle the scorn
and shake up a sinner.

A laugh chased a shudder
and then the reverse.
I opened a window
to get some fresh air.

When the new regime comes
to tear down your art
I won't ask her to take off
her shoes at the door.

Uncorked

2011-09-24T17:23:00.001-05:00

We fucked like starving strangers
while both still half asleep
by accident last week
in the 2 am darkness
of our hollowed out apartment.
Even in bitter dreamscapes
we somehow knew the way.

The following day
I plumbed for the rich
in a county I'll never call home
while she cracked the bottle of white
I had in the fridge
like some sort of sad reverse date
or perhaps a salve to stop the heartache
of over two years down the tubes.
Either way I couldn't blame her
when I saw the cork protruding
next to the crisper later that evening.
A ten-dollar bottle of grapes
is the least a man can do
for a woman whose fire forged him.

Last night my gut was warmed
when I saw the familiar bag
with our liquor store's logo on it.
There it was, replaced
and doubled:
two bottles of wine--
white, my favorite.
I lifted one up off the counter.
The same as the one
she'd polished off alone.
A payment. A replenishing.
A tithing of the damned.
The second one felt heavier
in my hands as I read the label
and laughed. A company called
Clean Slate from some dry shithole
of a California valley.
An apology. A promise.
A rewinding of the clock.
I put them both in the wine rack
and headed off to bed
not sure if we'd meet
in our sleep again
like lovers out of time.

"Where's the other bottle?"
I asked today, oddly frantic
after coming home from work
and noticing the new brand was gone.
"I brought it to Becky's," she said
barely glancing up from her book.
"We drank some of her stock
the other night, figured I'd replace it."
So much for the clean slate.
I read the title in her hands.
'A Farewell to Arms' by Hemingway.
So much for a lot of things.
"Is that my book?" I asked
already knowing the answer.
"Yes," she replied in that tone of hers
that promised not to bend the pages
break the spine, or underline anything
in case it should be more profound
than something my highlighter missed.

I went and ran the shower.
The hot takes a long time to rise
way up here on the third floor.
It's a sad thing, a break-up;
but sometimes it's as needed
as that magic on the rocks.

Behold the Passive-Aggressive Widow-Maker

2011-09-14T23:06:00.001-05:00

It's a lot like drowning; no, it's exactly like it, if the timespan could be stretched and drawn like Lucifer's taffy over the course of wasted months and years. Would his favorite flavor have to be cinnamon? And what is time anyway? Relative, like the rest of it; like the lake beyond my black-socked toes as I lay here on this un-pulled-out couch in the cabin of a withered, bitter man who hates me without my calling him Father (and to think I threw my dad's knife into this tea brown abyss two years ago to keep her necklace safe after she'd lost it in the drink). I sip my third beer of a seasonal variety twelver and stare at the deceptively glistening September water. It's seventy-six outside and the ducks still dive for snails so big it looks like they should choke. I watch the shells squeeze down their necks and almost gag vicariously. Still, this isn't swimming weather, or dying weather, as far as the animal kingdom is concerned. The denial-smiled boaters floating by are safe from hypothermic shock, but only a fool would venture out on what we've ironically got here: one-and-a-half working jet-skis and a partially-inflated rubber raft. Then again, only two fools would've made most of the decisions we have thus far, collectively and on our own separate failings. The fucking, the dating, the moving in together and consolidation of commodities. What kind of moron gives away his mattress so soon, and to a kid who doesn't put sheets on his bed? What kind of self-respecting genius would succumb to all that loathsome locked-downedness; oh, right: a self-deprecating one, or the two it took to Tango this time as it always does in tales such as ours. So here we sit, myself on this hand-me-down, farted-into-a-million-times couch and she on the non-matching cushioned chair in the corner that'd be ideal for any number of deviant sexual positions that we'll never attempt again in the company of one another, maybe not at all until we're finished licking our wounds and ready to look and lick elsewhere. I'm pecking at a dusty keyboard between swigs, she's nose-deep in a borrowed book that she'll finish today if it takes her last sarcastic breath and we're both knee-deep in shit that neither will own up to for the sake of battered pride and the dreaded fear of Who Gets To Keep The High Thread-Count Sheets? Who will lay the final sword down? Who will swallow their well-chosen words? Hopefully neither one of us yet since it's a four-hour drive back to civilization and we took her car for gas mileage purposes. I love my Jap truck and have made beautiful lust in it, but it's no subcompact sports car on any day of the week. It's a hell up in Harlem and no different here in the Adirondacks, but at least the terrorists didn't blow anything important up on yesterday's tenth anniversary of The Day We All Hate To Remember (aside from many Hellos and a handful of Goodbyes). Or maybe they did their dirty deed and we don't know it yet. Maybe the effects are still pumping down the pipeline, not ready to be felt yet, like a shockwave from a distant bomb that knocks us off our feet and into a vat of refuse more repugnant than our own. Maybe they poisoned the reservoirs and aqueducts and the outcome won't show until nine months from now when the first batch of mutant babies are born. I'd like to think we're safe from all the sadistic hocus-pocus of the madmen, but if we're scared enough to wonder then the turbaned ones have won. Besides, it's not shrill-voiced Arabs who will kill us in the end; our battlefield lays on the inside of our fortress, in the mind that's left to wander, on this lake that looks enticing but will only yield shameful shivering and an awkward ride home lined with broken promises and threats that sound relieving. Go West, young infidels. Carry your baggage to freedom, or at least out of harm's way of your parents' shortcomings. It's not so bad, this poisoned, frigid lake they've left us. Once you get beyond the smell you've practically got it licked. This last beer's hit triumphantly. I see the sun through the leaves again despite handprints on the sliding-glass door. Anyone care to take a dip?

It's not a fruit, Goddammit.

2011-08-14T23:07:00.001-05:00

Nothing's sacred anymore.
You've spent your evening washing down
three-day-old taco meat
with pre-packaged diced peaches in pear juice
while the droplets pelted pavement
like firebombs in Tokyo.
(We killed more Nips that way
than with the atom bombs combined.)

The homeless woman
slightly out of place
in this hip new town
a stone's throw from Hell
is a mere memory now
swimming somewhere in a wasted Sunday.
You wonder if she found that change
that you denied her, mush-mouthed
or some shelter from the rain
that a jealous God cast down
and beat yourself up
for not making her a sandwich
since you made her what she is.
You could've spared a can of tuna
and pawned off some produce
that'll only go to waste this week
since the Boss is out of town.

"Free 'maters for friends"
the sign should say tomorrow
as you pass them out at work
and try to buy some time.
It's a vegetable if kids take convincing.
It's a fruit if it tastes too good to last
and runs down your chin
like the salt of forbidden seas.
It doesn't matter; "Nature's hardest
hue to hold..."

The meat, the fruit, the cream, and your future
mother-in-law's never-ending tomatoes;
only the grain is missing
but you'll drink that down tomorrow
if it's anything like today--
that is, to say, if the bricks
don't float away overnight.
Forgive me, father. I see you now.

Better left for an unlucky tourist.

2011-07-21T18:58:00.001-05:00

The first pool in years
and it goes down like this:
a call, a change, a reach
a remembrance.
One hundred and six
with the heat index, kids.
Try not to over-exert the old man.
Conned into trunks
with the lure of her love
and a few cardboard boxes
of pizza, cold beer.
Wade in chlorine
til she knows what I mean
when I say that the sweat
burns the eyes more than tears.

The squat in the shorts
in the shallow end smarts
when I check the side pocket
for sea shells left over
from the ride that we took
through the Keys
we were hooked
and we are
and we'll be
like that pocket
(empty)
if we ever forget
that we'd never get closer
to finding ourselves
in another weak shell
rolling and trolling
for crimson and clover.

Onomatopoeia

2011-07-16T08:30:00.001-05:00

I made her a bloody one.
The tomato masked the vodka
while the flavor still remained:
a heartache is a heartache is
a heartache is a shame.
We sat on the porch, blinds down
to hide my unsheathed body
and our intoxicated bickering
while I buzzed my head
between sips of Summer Ale.
She scratched her arm while
hot sauce, horseradish and worcestershire
fought for dominance in the drink
the vodka laughing all the way
to the bank or the liver or the brain
and the heart.

A cheap cigar cutter forgotten on the spare chair
read in gold from the black plastic makings--
"El Mundo del Rey", "The World of God"--
and the Wind blew a broom
down on my leg to remind me:
If all you carry is a hammer
every problem resembles a nail.

The First Lie I Was Told Of Christ

2011-07-10T08:54:00.002-05:00

When I was still a sprouting seed
fresh from the first-grade swing set
a curly-haired kid came up to me
en route to Sunday school
with a tale on his face next to the jelly stains.
"They used railroad nails to put Him
on the cross," he whispered, as though
an older brother had shared the news
and sworn him to secrecy with fear
of wedgies or worse. "Still, they
couldn't keep Him there," he boasted
with the blind Christian pride
instilled by his vanilla parents
who'd never lied on their taxes.

We were getting closer to the
twelve-by-sixteen room with folding chairs
and on-sale snacks for the church-dragged kids
to devour while their parents caught the wrath
of the fed-up preacher's fire and brimstone
so I had no time to spend
pointing out what he'd missed:
They could and did kill Him, and He let them
for the sake of mankind, supposedly.

It didn't dawn on me until today
that the food-faced little bastard
and his conspiratory older brother
were more full of shit than I'd imagined--
Railroads didn't exist two thousand years ago
like God and His offspring don't now
to most of us cut from the same cloth
as Abraham. Don't thank me for
the belated forgiveness; I've done
bigger favors for lesser men.
Just ask my union hall.
(If they don't pick up the phone
keep calling.)

Thrifty Deductibles

2011-07-08T14:30:00.000-05:00

In awe of the brash-tongued hexes
scrawled on the fitting room walls
in marker, pen, and pink highlighter
I tried on some shirts given by WASPs
for tax credits and more closet space.
"For a good time call..." no longer a phrase;
replaced instead by expletives and threats
of colorful misspelled diseases, complete with phone
numbers and names to request.
Demand for a tongue in the Valley of Sin
'til tears emerge at the corners of eyes
wins the prize for Most Likely To Make Grandma Cringe.
Some racial slurs thrown in for crisp collar effect
constrict around the white-washed room
like the neck of the cheap Little League Tee
that'll wind up back on the rack in a few
waiting to shame another passer-by.
Grammar traps and a Swastika and at least
three area codes, one of which I don't know
litter the peeling paint worse than the
dust-bunnied tiles scuffed by rubber soles.
The wise guy in me wants to write sense
into some of the sayers of things best unsaid.
My thumb clicks the pen in my left slash pocket
prepared to pass it right to chime in
but the better half wins, the Good Wolf is fed.
I look up as though a Not-For-Profit could
afford surveillance cameras
and resume my afternoon trying on used clothes
like the joke's not as old as the clown
juggling through it.

"Discretion," my new best friend
said once as we rattled home in his van
"is the better part of valor."
He wasn't boastful, only teaching
in the ways he knows best:
through action and goading and turning a wrench.
Men like that should have names carved in stone
where dressing room artists will never ascend.
It's a process. It's a promise. It's a way out of Newburgh.

Pete fell off. Who was left?

2011-07-05T19:24:00.001-05:00

The truth is that if you don't wake up tomorrow no one will scribble a word in your direction, let alone pen a song.

The truth is that I like when the fireworks go off lower than they probably should because the thought of half-drunk firemen scrambling from the embers is not so entirely unentertaining.

The truth is that I didn't pull over when a tractor-trailer changed lanes and forced a sports utility vehicle into a ditch while doing seventy during my morning commute last week since I was running late and my coffee wasn't working.

The truth is that I've smuggled switchblades on airplanes and would again without thinking twice.

The truth is that those greeting cards with the New Love heading which probably should read Psycho may have been written with me in mind.

The truth is that driving by my father's house when I happen to be in the area is my own modern-day version of poking my head into the dragon's lair to remind myself that there are worse things than singed eyebrows.

The truth is that plumbing happened to me for a reason and I wouldn't be blessed with the adopted family I've constructed if it wasn't for pipes and fluids.

The truth is that I miss you.

The truth is that the government ending the Space Program is another sign that it's the Beginning of the End, though Orwell and Vonnegut and the boys had the details all wrong.

The truth is that I don't mind the fuzzy feeling of one hundred ten volts of electricity.

The truth is that I roll the windows down just enough to smell July's roadkill, even though no one actually rolls them anymore.

The truth is that every time I pass my high school track I cringe and wish that life was still broken down into one lazy-paced quarter-mile at a time.

The truth is that I apologize for the things I shouldn't and blame myself for what's not my fault.

The truth is that I've squandered time and money in equal parts to the point of self-pitying karmic equilibrium.

The truth is that I'd rather have two good friends with which to porchdrink than a list of acquaintances who may or may not do justice when the ammo runs out.

The truth is that I like the ideas of things, writing and guns included, more than the things themselves.

The truth is that there's a full load of laundry waiting to be folded and I've got limited moonlight before work.

The truth, they forgot to tell you in college and union meetings, is as highly overrated as blood relations.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit At Rest" by John Updike.

Operative Phrase

2011-06-28T00:23:00.001-05:00

The reason you hear
trucks' air-brakes at night
from the highway that's far
by the toils of light:
The ionosphere lowers
to bounce back the waves
that castrate our ears
and rally the slaves.
(He's not listening, Jim.
He won't sit down.)

A genius once
and again told me this
and I mumble his name
as I aim my clear piss
in a toilet that's stained
with the water that's hard
while the house crumbles down
disgraces the yard.
(Pull it, sir. He's Rogue.)

But the hours they lurk
while the weeks drag on by
through the months that tell tales
and the years that don't lie.
There's a snake in the grass.
There's a wrench in the plan
that lost a good boy
in the mazes of man.
(Engage target: John Doe.)

The Rising Tide Will Float All Boats

2011-06-19T20:51:00.000-05:00

The day's almost done. The pipes are back together. Water runs steadily from Point A to Point B as Bud and I carry our tools towards our trucks. We are the sole reasons for its availability of use at each fixture in the building. Faucets, toilets, and drinking fountains have been given life again due to our careful craftsmanship. Don't be fooled by the assumptions of a lesser caste status; plumbers have a power perceptible in absence. One may not feel their omnipotence until gravity and physics don't suffice to tame the flow. It's a perk they don't teach in apprenticeship school. It's a reason to solder with pride. The middle-aged man to my left's been directing fluids for a living for thirty years and has another twenty left in him. I'll be lucky to learn half as much as he's forgotten.

"Get all the grease off your hands," Bud tells me as he wheels the tool cart towards our men's room pit stop. Its left rear wheel pleads for oil with a steady squeak. "I've got something to show you."

My curiousity is piqued. I ask him to tell me what it is as we rinse the day's grime from the webs of our fingers, saving the scrubbing of nails for our designated shower toothbrushes at our respective homes. He smiles at me in the mirror and stirs the mysterious pot. "It's nothing new to you, though you haven't seen it in its current state."

We dry our hands with the brown, industrial strength paper towels stripped from the roll that sits on a shelf in the men's room. The dispensers are empty. Housekeeping is lax. It's hard to find good help these days.

The sun beams down on the asphalt with promise of a few more hours 'til dark. Bud lowers the tailgate of his truck and returns his tools to their buckets, cases, and bags. I follow suit, then return to my friend's vehicle to see what familiar item he's brought for Show and Tell this week. He opens the driver's side door, plops down on his beaded seat, and looks me in the eyes.

"The gun you sold me's even better now that I've installed a laser sight," he says, conjuring the firearm from thin air before making sure it's unloaded and passing it my way.

I grip the familiar hunk of steel and activate the laser by depressing a button built into the grip. The eighth-inch red dot illuminates a safe portion of the ground in front of my non-steel-toed boots. In actuality I'm glad to be rid of the thing. It never felt right in my hands for some reason though others swore by the brand. It cycled properly and put tight-clustered groups on paper targets, but left me wanting more. There was something I sought instead of that gun. It behooved me to pass it along, and the one that came to replace it is now the pride of my safe. It's an older piece that has to be manually cocked with the thumb before each shot, but I've got time and patience. I've got loads of both. My mother used to tell me to become a teacher because of my abundance of the latter. I have, in a way, though the student's still the same and more stubborn than ever.

Out of respect I entertain his ego. "Care to sell it back?" I jest, regardless of the fact that I'm thankful for my decision.

"Not for what I paid for it," Bud says as he reaches out his hand to make his hardware disappear again. I pass it back, relieved to be rid of it again.

It's someone else's headache now. She's better off in his hands; I'm better off with mine. I know what I have and I want it. What else is there to happiness, aside from trusty plumbing?

Mousse Trail

2011-06-18T16:33:00.000-05:00

Twelve consecutive days of carpentry can wear on a man, but Dave's been making up for lost time lately. This balmy June Saturday is a much needed reprieve from the morning's rat race and eight-plus hours of ten-penny nails. It's odd how the sounds of hammers and chop saws have blurred the edges of his hearing. Years on the jobsite have taught him to tune out background noise, for better and for worse. Sometimes this adaptation is useful on the home front like when Linda's on a tear in the next room, though it can also be limiting. Today it's the latter. The birds in the yard are unreasonably happy considering the weather, but Dave doesn't notice at first; nor does he let the overcast skies or mild temperature discourage him from opening the freezer for some ice cream. Linda's already two hours late in returning from her cousin's baby shower, but she'll be home soon. Home and fed and ready. The plaid print of Dave's boxers reflects in the chrome handle on the refrigerator as he stands mostly naked in this kitchen that's been half-his for four years, the longest place he's lived since high school. Dave misses high school, more so when he thinks about it. He misses a lot of things, though he'd only admit to a fraction of them. The logo on the lid of the ice cream promises familiar comfort, but the flavor is a new one that the two of them tried last week. It was a stressful selection at the gas station since he'd been trusted with the critical task of choosing the variety. A full three minutes went into the decision. Both he and Linda take their snack foods seriously. He didn't want to disappoint. When he tried making small talk with the clerk about his decadent woes it fell upon deaf, inbred ears. The woman stared blankly above rabbit teeth in silent prayer for No More Like This Guy until the end of her shift. Dave liked the ice cream that night, as did Linda despite its containing multiple forms of chocolate, and he likes it even more today as he stands in burly bewilderment. In a lazy effort to avoid dirtying a spoon he opts to scoop it from the carton with his left index finger. One bite, two bites, three and then four. The cream becomes sweeter as time drips onward. The birds in the maples come into aural focus. The moment is savored as much as the paycheck he received yesterday. If it was any more zen he'd be floating. Four bites turns to eight, turns to twelve, and he stops himself. The pint's quite lighter, he knows that she'll notice. If there's one thing that Linda's good at it's watching the stats, especially when they're decreasing. For a woman with four siblings she's not so good at sharing. Dave always laughs at the irony in that, though there's not a brother or sister of his own in sight with which to share the humor. In sight, he reminds himself somberly. But what is perception if not relative Truth? Dave pictures the cross-bar of the capital T in that last word dropping down to a humble lower-case position. He's learned a lot about that overrated factor, one of them being the misconception that it will set you free. Linda's delayed discovery of the missing ice cream is a prime example of his new stance on the matter. His pointer finger's cold and numb from being used as a utensil in the frozen debauchery. Dave sucks it clean after returning the carton to its shelter of ice and walks upstairs to his bedroom. Maybe Linda will come home soon and they'll do something that'll require him to put on pants. Maybe she'll strip down and they'll take a pleasantly unnecessary afternoon nap. Either one is an inspiring prospect that makes him miss her more, like the dull ache in his jaw when the ice cream took its toll upon his teeth. Sunday is Father's Day, he remembers. He'll have some phone calls to make. With the equivalent of a mental groan he climbs back into bed and waits; for what, as is often the case with a tired carpenter, he's not sure.

The Current Sea

2011-05-28T11:42:00.000-05:00

Andrew Jackson dictates more of your life than your mother ever did and your lover ever will. Money makes the world go 'round, especially when it's in the form of that common denomination spat by ATMs every second of every day. Inflation's hit our pockets hard, but you can still tell a lot with a twenty dollar bill when it comes to judging character. You used to be able to do a lot with character, too.

There've been times when the green got the best of me, or someone else got the jump with the help of some cash. When I was in the fourth grade a mysterious tissue was sitting on the floor near my desk for an entire day. No one stopped to pick it up and throw it in the trash can a mere five feet away. Just before the afternoon announcements came over the PA system, my teacher-- a barrel-chested black man who cared more than he should have, walked over and picked up the crumpled tissue. "No one bothered all day long," he said disappointedly as he glanced at me quickly and lifted it from floor, revealing what was taped to the bottom: a crisp twenty-spot. We all learned something that day, or at least the more precocious of us did. The bus ride home was spent pondering what we could've done with such an unheard of sum of money. Twenty bucks could buy a lot of candy in 1994.

Then there's the aggravation tax trade-off. How many times have you loaned someone a small amount of money and actually been repaid without asking? Sometimes, as Sonny points out in "A Bronx Tale", lending a pest twenty dollars is the best way to get rid of them. They'll never bother you again with that debt hanging in the air. It's a cheap investment for a simpler life. It's one less headache to rattle your day. It's one less day in God's barrel of laughs. The punchline's in the pudding.

The theory spreads and mutates from the social scene to the construction site. There's the story of the foreman who asks his apprentice if he lost twenty dollars on the job. He holds it up and rubs the folded bill against itself, a visual aid to further the illusion and sweeten the bait. This money, of course, came from the foreman's wallet and is merely a test of the young man's character. If he says Yes he'll get his check in the afternoon and be asked not to return. If he says No he can continue to get coffee for the men every morning and continue his rite of passage. This hasn't happened yet, but it will in a few years. Revenge for that fourth grade mishap, perhaps.

Guilt, or fear of it, can drive a man just as easily. I had a friend who got a call about money that had gone missing in his driveway one night. He brought out his flashlight and combed the whole yard, but nothing turned up with the effort. It frustrated him so much that his friend had lost his money that he was prepared to lie and say he found it. Dipping into the liquor store fund didn't seem to be so bad in comparison to the alternative. No one likes to be a suspect. No one likes to lose that trust. The phone call came later that the money was found in a pocket or under a car seat. It was there all along, the seventh president of the United States grinning and hiding in darkness, not far from the skeletons dangling from cobwebbed hangers.

And what of your shadows? What's worth the money? You'd pay arms and legs to send them away. Twenty bucks is a drop in the bucket. Twenty years as a flash in the pan. Twenty rounds left in the banana clip, and the zombies are still coming.

Fear the Rapture, fear the Reaper, fear your Local Congressman.

2011-05-19T20:25:00.001-05:00

What makes the month of May
worse in terms of vermin
is that they're not the moths of March
or April's spiders, the heralds of Spring
being washed down the drain
during afternoon showers;
they're six-legged titans
capable of carrying
one hundred-times their weight
and working together
far better than most.

It's hard to watch as the suds lather
less impressively than the ads claim
'cause they always almost make it, they nearly
fight the tide effectively, but eventually
like lesser men, succumb to the holes
in the chrome-plated drain cover.
Somewhere in the septic
or leeching out to fields
is a half-inch reminder
of what we're all to do:

March to the beat towards what's wrong to eat
as Cortez burned his boats after landing.

Selling Tickets to the Abortion

2011-05-10T17:42:00.000-05:00

A study aired on the boob-tube news revealed that co-ed military training facilities have been facing new problems brought on by the latest wave of the post-millenium cultural/sexual revolution. There's a fire in the barracks in the bases of the nation. Recruits of all branches are routinely asked to strip and checked for fresh tattoos and piercings acquired on weekend leave in the one-horse towns where they're stationed. Female personnel are impregnated and sent home after nights of drunken fraternizing miles away from anyone who cares, thus wasting tax dollars spent in their training. Marines spread STDs like it's nobody's business; as far as they're concerned it's not. (Maybe that's why they're such a notoriously hot-blooded bunch.) Orgies are not uncommon in the on-base saunas, lesbian activity runs rampant in the gang shower rooms, and the rumors we've heard about lonely men being "ship gay" are true. Many female privates defend theirs by wearing cheap engagement rings on their fingers. It seems a fake rock is sometimes enough to deter the Southern gentlemen, at least when it comes to sober sexual advances. A coward, you see, is someone who's given the chance to do the right thing, but doesn't. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and herpes is forever.

A later segment-- nay, a snippet before commercial break-- stated that scientists have discovered that smelling a woman's tears automatically softens a man's erection due to the chemical make-up of sorrow. We'll laugh, we'll cry, we'll bide our time gracefully until the cows find out that home is regretfully nowhere. Bad advice, if sincere, is still worth two in the bush: a loafer, a hypocrite, a closet sucker for the home team.

Prone to Lung Infections

2011-05-06T08:41:00.001-05:00

My father didn't teach me much
except for what's a shame.
He thumped his thick Good Book enough
that Christ forgot His name.
The old man didn't have such skills
that anyone would want.
Forgot to sow the ground he tilled
and aimed but never shot.

I asked him once of politics
the difference in the men.
He said "Well, son, conservatives
and liberals both pretend
to know what's best to save a guy
who's drowning ten feet out.
The liberals throw such extra line
since that's what they're about.
Conservatives, those frugal men
throw five and tell the chap
to swim and take the rope in hand
and learn to close the gap."

I shook my head, a bit confused
while dad unfurled his rope.
Alas, it was too short to use
for drowning men or hope.

Shotgun Correspondence

2011-05-05T12:18:00.001-05:00

Sent: Tuesday, May 03, 2011 1:53 PM
To: Emedia Rifleman
Subject: Better Editing?

As an NRA member, attentive reader, and firearms enthusiast I was rather insulted by this month's issue of American Rifleman. The age-old "ads on the same page as positive, 'unbiased' reviews" routine (i.e., Rhino write-up on page 88) is to be expected in any gun magazine, but I feel we've had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit too blatantly in another example. How can the trusted editors at your publication call the Remington Versa Max "Shotgun of the Year" in the 2011 Golden Bullseye Awards article when on page 94 of the same issue there is a factory recall on the very same shotgun which states the possibility of property damage, personal injury, or death? Those conflicting messages imply one or both of two things about your staff: they're ignorant, or think their readers are. This type of behavior isn't just misleading-- it's irresponsible. Please consider yourselves caught, and hopefully not just by one avid reader.

Regretfully yours,
Mike Vahsen

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Mr. Vahsen,

Thanks for your note. The voting for the Golden Bullseye award occurred before the recall came out.
We seriously considered rescinding the award, but chose to go forward after long discussions between our staff and Remington.

Essentially, early in production, first several hundred guns, there was a burr on the cartridge carrier that could cause the carrier to hang up on the receiver's interior, thus retarding the forward movement of the bolt. If this occurred, the hammer had already been freed and could travel forward and "follow" the bolt after its movement had been slowed. Our samples did not exhibit this issue.

Essentially, the gun would not fire, then the weight of the bolt would overcome the friction of the burr on the receiver's interior, and then it would fire--not an ideal situation, obviously.

Remington implemented a production fix as soon as it was known and got almost all of the VersaMax guns back before those with this condition entered commerce.

But they didn't get them all, thus the recall. Comparatively, Remington is not a huge advertiser with Rifleman, nor would we play monetary games with NRA member safety.

We judged the problem to be one that was easily corrected and that Remington got out ahead of the issue quickly enough not to merit revocation of the award.

Sincerely,

Mark Keefe

American Rifleman

Catsitting and Caste Systems

2011-05-04T14:33:00.001-05:00

It seemed a shame to wake him
but still I stroked his back
curled into himself
at the foot of my sour bed.
A brief, diminishing glide
of the right paw
was all that it inspired
while the rain continued downward
soaking grass in need of cutting.

His black-and-yellow eyes
barely opened as I lifted
his limp body, more fur than flesh
to the head of my bed
nearer to the pillow
on which I'd soon be drooling
in a midday dreamless nap
that the dreary day demanded.
As I positioned him under the top sheet
his head sticking out
from just behind his pointed ears
he pressed his feline foot against me
in a gentle plead for sleep.
Like a person gesturing, half-awake.
Like a reincarnation of someone long gone.
"Were you a human once, Buddy?" I whisper
towards the clump of domesticated hunter
drifting off beside me in a race to painlessness.
"Raise your right paw if you were," but there's
no motion, and I too follow suit in slumber
the two of us snoring gracefully
like champions of lazy rhythm.

When I wake he's gone, possibly to
the litter box downstairs
or his pink and empty food bowl
or another peaceful perch
unmolested by the likes of Yours Truly--
the only evidence of his presence
a warm spot next to me
on my lonesome mattress.
His undetected exit exudes prowess
unparalleled by any male creature
put on God's green Earth.
I come to the conclusion
that not only was he human once
but must've been a woman.
It's a fitting fate for both of us.
The odds and stakes are noted.

Buddy-Boy, the lover
is paying for her sins.
If it's a sign of what's to come
I can only beg for mercy:
"Please, God. Not a rat-dog.
This bark still has some bite."

Memento mori, Canis familiaris: A Scene at Three Corners.

2011-04-25T23:13:00.000-05:00

The springtime grass is slowly greening as two female twenty-somethings stand in their mismatched scrubs; one in teal pants and a floral top, the other in a violent mish-mash of polka dots and pink. Flower Girl is smoking a cigarette and keeping dirty-blonde hair out of her eyes with the help of a glorified rubber band. Dottie's reading a dime novel through thick-rimmed glasses worthy of a nerd-rock superstar. Neither of them speak or look at one another, though there are only fifteen feet between them in the field behind the brick animal hospital where they've chosen to set their stage. Their left hands both hold leashes, one more element that binds the two unlikely co-conspirators. It's a snapshot worth a fortune to the right man.

A dog at the end of each leather strap paces until it tugs, then turns around and does the same in the opposite direction. These pets are clearly as medicated as their over-anxious owners sitting in the waiting room or on a beach in Bermuda. One of them wears a twitching beard, a terrier of some sort that'd almost look dignified if not for its nervous condition. The other's an unidentifiable mutt, the kind that'd loyally walk the kids to school if the parents didn't drive them to the bus stop every morning instead. Neither canine appears willing to squat and see to the duty that requires the hiring and bi-weekly payment of the two aloof girls too ashamed to lock eyes. We all die wasting time, and vice versa.

Uncaring, the reluctant employees remain relatively still, silently reveling in the fact that they're paid by the hour, not by the turd. Flowergirl-turned-perpetual-bridesmaid-who's-never-going-to-throw-the-backwards-bouquet-if-she-keeps-it-up-like-this takes a deep drag on her extra long menthol, an ex-boyfriend in the back of her brain working his way down into her lungs. The Bookworm tries to turn the page, one-handed, and drops her distraction of choice to the super-fertilized lawn, innocently oblivious to the fact that she's becoming quasi-fiction in the process.

(Billy's "Merely Players" speech comes to mind. That poor Danish prince was doomed from the start. Other than the crazy woman who does the world a favor by ridding it of her shadow it's the only thing in the script that's half-believable; even that's redundant to anyone who's faired enough flawed friendships and been blinded by the sun more than would like to be admitted for the sake of being the fool. Yorick, you ain't missing much.)

The light turns green, the observing deity pivots His right foot from the brake to the rubbed-raw accelerator while wanting the Smoking Girl's number and the Reader's hand in marriage, and the intersection of the creatures' Venn diagram is made clear: All three are waiting for shit to happen; all five feel trapped by present circumstances.

There. I'm finished. What have you done to realize your dream today?

The Home-Row Isn't Strong Enough to Rid the World of His Shadow

2011-04-25T14:32:00.001-05:00

We were taking coffee break in one of the building's three designated lunch rooms, the four of us tired of choking on welding fumes and grateful for the reprieve. Our snacks were gone, our drinks down to one remaining chug. It was that awkward conversation time when no one wants to get up first and head back to the task at hand, but nobody wants their boots to drag last-in-line, either. Like a gift from God my phone rang. I stepped out into the hallway to answer it, a bit afraid since I didn't recognize the number aside from the middle three digits that told me it was a cellular line.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Michael?" a faintly Jewish-sounding voice whined. Could he have changed that much in a few years? A wife, a son; I guess he could've.

"Yes?" I asked more cautiously now that the chips were on the table

"Michael, it's your father! Where are you?" He sounded legitimately agitated at this mysterious Michael's absence. It couldn't have been whom I thought it was. That Christ-fearing coward couldn't care less about his first attempt at family, the holy hypocrite that he is and will be all the way to the grave. He started anew in one of life's rarely granted do-overs without as much as a card dropped in the mailbox. I'm not an afterthought he'll have in his precious afterlife. Sometimes that burns me as much as the flames of Hell someday will. There's comfort in knowing what's coming.

"You've got the wrong number. I was confused at first because my name is also Michael." My explanation trailed off. It didn't make sense to continue telling of the irony to a stranger in search of his son.

"Hmph," he half-laughed, half-snorted. This mystery man of mine hung up and I walked back into the break room. The three wise men were waiting: my stepfather, a forty-five-year-old friend who'd taught me the most in the pipe trade, and a man I'd worked for since the age of eighteen looked up from their styrofoam cups in silent anticipation of a report. I stood in the doorway, suggesting that I was ready to go back to work.

"He was looking for his son Michael," I told them. "Wanted to know where I'd been. I told him I've been wondering the same for the last four-and-a-half years." I felt the familiar muscle movement of that painkilling smirk used in defense of what lies beneath the bearded facade. It'd take a wrench or a bottle to pry it from my face. I know. I've tried it before.

The three of them laughed the laugh of the knowing uncomfortably, none of them wanting to admit their sources, and downed the rest of their beverages. Their chairs squeaked against the commercial tile floor as they rose to take on the rest of the day. None of us knew it'd be fourteen hours, but one of us knew he was lucky. As trite as it is, the woven blue-on-white framed number is right-- that thing on God and doors and windows.

Three or four fathers are better than one. Three or four anythings are better than one nothing. Three or four more sentences would make this more believable. I can't come up with them, though; there's too much truth in what really happened sometimes. Saved by a semicolon again.

SCANTRON

2011-04-21T23:00:00.002-05:00

I'm made aware
inconveniently
that Leonard's sent a message.
Leo, we always called him
but no one calls him now--
not since the move down south
the arrest, the shotgun wedding and kids.
I ignore Leo, Leonard, whatever he's called
these days, continue my night
thinking back to the time
when we had to put our full names
one capital letter per box
on those state-examined testing sheets.
How perfectly LEONARD fit then;
how terribly he does now.

We're all in a high percentile
though the standards
like the outcomes
have changed.
When in doubt
pick C.

Slippery Freudian Slopes

2011-04-19T12:11:00.002-05:00

"Do I still resemble her from this angle?" she asks, her head dipped back in the nest made by her pillow. His forearms shift uncomfortably on her hips as he lays prone diagonally to her naked form.

"Who?" he asks in a poor purchase of time. They never forget the slips, he thinks. It makes him wonder how people stay married for forty years. There must be a lot of lying involved, Oscar-worthy performances from the altar to the grave. Was he drunk and spilling his guts when he told her two years ago? Of course; he must've been. Why did he always fall into that trap? Dimitri Karamazov indeed, beard and scars to prove it.

"Becky," she answers coolly without looking down at his quivering brow, perhaps out of pity for a man on the run.

Her butchering of the name bothers him like it always does when someone fouls it up casually as if they knew the girl, but didn't. Not Becky, not Rebecca, but Beck. That was how she referred to herself eight years ago when they were young and in that first form of amateur love, and that is how she's to be addressed now as long as he has a say in the matter. There was something less feminine about her version of her name that made the two of them seem even more alike in addition to their dark features, sarcastic humor, and similar taste in music. She could take the Jack straight better than he could, though. He attributed it to her father, but neither of them spoke about it. Her career has probably moved her towards Rebecca status, but that doesn't matter now in the dim light of the apartment in which he still holds a candle. He remembers seeing a parochial school dedicated to Our Lady of Pompeii and laughing at its morbid implications. That's who Beck's become to him: a patron saint of Better Times buried in yards of ash. Eight years. God, has it been that long? he asks himself.

"You mean..." he begins, quickly realizing that correcting her nominal mistake will only make it worse. The vague opening words make it easy to recover. "...to tell me that you don't think I'm over her?" Brilliant. Masterful. Bond at his best.

Her eyes finally peel from the ceiling and stare down at his waiting countenance. Did she buy it? For that matter, did he? Only the coming reaction will tell. Eight years of locking a child in his heart. It seemed like yesterday, yet also eternity. The lovely, long-haired girl that made him who he is today, for better and worse and mostly unintentionally, still has a hand in his daily affairs. It makes him breathe more deeply. It relieves his troubled ghosts. They're still with us when they're gone. It's all an illusion, this passing of time and faces. We're not alone. If we'd reach out far enough they'd still be there in some way, shape, and form. The problem is that we're too afraid of what we'd find now, so we wait. We wait for something, not knowing what. Deliverance. Salvation. Another turn up at bat.

"I know you are, silly boy," she says with a half-hearted smile. "I just want to be as beautiful to you as she was."

The bait won't be taken, as tempting as it is with the current rush of nostalgia coursing through his veins. That's too rich for his blood, not worth an afternoon of apologies. She knows he hates this kind of fishing, but they're also both aware of who's got the upper hand.

He parries with a compliment he'd been saving for a rainy day, neither of which worth mentioning. She coos and gives a childlike kiss on his forehead.

When the smoke clears they make love in the lazy haze of the afternoon, neither of them saying names for some hours. It's a hell of a life sometimes, but someone's got to live it.

Diurnal Emissions

2011-04-18T06:38:00.000-05:00

Blood has gathered twice--
once in me, once on me.
It's no longer recreational
this crime scene in the name.
Add it to the list you keep:
The things we do for love, etc.

She wipes it up, a loving maid
throws it overhand
to the darkest corner of her room.
When the nightstand candle's blown
it smells like birthdays
for some seconds, but really
both of us are dying:
slowly, surely, surreptitiously.

They'll hang us high for these
sins and mortal treasons
but for now we'll savor
the afterwards bliss
and try to dream of better places
where the dream has yet to crash.

Don't judge the man who says
what you've only dared to think.
When the bricks fall you'll need friends.
The roster will surprise you.

Candy Wrapper Semaphores

2011-04-16T19:32:00.004-05:00

The train's almost to the last stop and my aching back is thankful. There's a race going on in the novel on my lap. Three more pages to go before the end of the chapter; with a little gusto I can make it, big and small picture implied. The highlighter's been working overtime with this latest read. Updike's unapologetic words hit hard like polished stones honed from the same primordial observations that I've made through my travels and travesties, loving corrections humbly offered by an unmet friend who's barely been underground long enough for his hair to stop growing: another one of life's great misses. We're mostly born to die again, hopefully encountering some kindred prisoners on the way. My luck's been less than enviable. My best relationships are traditionally of the posthumous persuasion. It's a blessing and a curse to have this passion, this search for the word, though we wouldn't have it any other way.

I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?

"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.

"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.

"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.

He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.

"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.

"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.

"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.

Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.

I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.

As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?

"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.

"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.

I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.

As Time Goes By In a Chain Restaurant

2011-04-14T12:13:00.002-05:00

I knew the date would bomb when I drove by and saw her standing sulkily in front of the restaurant upon which we'd reluctantly agreed; a frumpy mess in all black, she wasn't fooling anyone. My night's well-groomed attire felt like a waste. It was never possible to pull off when it mattered. I, for a change, was looking halfway decent; or perhaps the upper hand simply made me feel that way.

The weight in her face made her seem like a liar or a drunk or, most logically, both. I'd learned that last truism the hard way and tucked it inside my chest pocket. This glutton for punishment marched through the parking lot and greeted his damsel in obvious distress, swearing in his mind with every step that blind dates and downcast camera angles should be banned from the Constitution. It wasn't going to get the best of me, though. "If she can take it, I can take it," I assured myself and the invisible black pianist.

The seats are taken, the stage is set. We order after perusing the menu for ten minutes. When the food finally comes I'm practically ecstatic. Not even the man-sized margarita had made trudging through conversation tolerable. The Lord works in mysterious ways, sometimes via Mexican cuisine.

"The salsa looks good," she says between bites. It's actually a coarsely-chopped pico de gallo, but her ignorance goes unpunished. Pointing out the difference between salsa and what's on my plate would be like correcting a first-grader for calling a crocodile an alligator. It'd be like accusing a true friend of thievery. It'd be like trusting anyone: pointless.

"It's as good as it looks," I say, mouth agape, trying to convey the onions. "Lots of cilantro." They say those who dislike cilantro have more highly developed taste buds. It's supposed to taste like soap to people who are further down the evolutionary path. I'm not ashamed of being simple. I relish in my caveman state. It makes the mirror easier.

She pokes and prods at her salad, but none of it seems to disappear, much like a pasta dish's conundrum. The curvy girls get salad, the rails get cheese fries, and the Puerto Ricans get Mexican food. It makes as much sense as moving to Morocco.

"I'm full already," she admits, a hint of pride in her retraint hiding behind her tonsils.

"Don't force yourself, really. It's fine. The rent's paid up."

She smirks, unsure if I'm kidding or not. My face doesn't break, I don't come out of character with a chuckle or a grin. Years of practice in dry delivery make it feasible. My restraint is more sharpened than hers. Something tells me my everything is more everything than hers, it's part of the reason I know this'll be the last time I see her. There's comfort in that. There's comfort in every loss if one looks hard enough.

It doesn't seem worth it to impress her with cash. Let her think it'll take me five months to pay off this mistake of a meal. The waiter can run my plastic if it means keeping green in my wallet. Currency's convenient, fast, liquid. I'm drowning in this date, a miniature me in the shot glass of sour cream served with my quesadillas; but the wounded shepherd surrenders to fate. He'll ride out the rest for chivalry's sake and an addition to his quiver of sharp, quickened stories. The thought of the tragic comedy obtained makes it easier to wave my hand in a swatting motion as she reaches for her purse when the check finally comes.

"Not even half?" she asks daintily like a dark-featured Ingrid Bergman sticking to the script.

"Not even the tip," I reply, sans fedora and cigar. The plane's taking off, alright, but I can't wait to put her on it. Sam, my trusty black friend, will never play this again, and I am grateful; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life.

Stranger Danger

2011-04-11T19:42:00.000-05:00

They say in the City
when the falafel hits the fan
to pull the nearest fire alarm.
New York's Bravest
have to arrive
within two minutes
or their funding is cut
or their kids wear old shoes
or their lives are reduced
to safe, risk-free doldrums.
So if you're in trouble
while seeking it out
where dreams are born
or dashed to bits on the pavement
run for the pull-switch
since the hills are too far
and hope for the best
or what you deserve
or how they make it seem better
in movies.

There is not an answer.
Every question leads to more.
Like jellyfish, now, together:
transparent, toxic, washed up
on the shore.

Take a Knee, Offense

2011-04-10T16:41:00.002-05:00

That last shot of Irish whiskey, the same brand I'd sworn off after the Saint Patty's Day debacle, had hit me like a ton of Emerald Isle potatoes. One of the evening's co-conspirators had ordered it foolishly as an attempted display of bravado. Peacocks were God's last crafted bird, a joke to remind the world of pride's downfalls. The doll sitting beside us at the oak was talking to a college lad far below her standards, or what they should've been had she known better. My friend's flawed drunken logic aimed to prove something by downing a man's drink. Fortunately, she never looked our way during the process. Both of us made the post-shot grimace and reached desperately for our cocktails to chase the gasoline down our throats. In trying too hard one loses sight. In wine there is truth, but only pain in straight whiskey. I pointed out our failure and my punch-drunk accomplice agreed. It'd been a long night for both of us; still, like stubborn children, we'd refused to go to bed. Why pass up a perfectly good Friday? Maybe the miracle would finally transpire.

A new face approaching from the recycled crowd at my six saved us from our newfound miseries.

"Jamie," my pal called out. "Come meet my friend Mike."

The ambiguity of the name frightened me at first. I'd met enough lackluster females lately, didn't need another awkward introduction. Turning around provided some relief. Jamie was a man, and one I recognized from a past life. We shook hands while my eyes peeled the years and beers off his face. There he was, alright: the starting quarterback from the Modified team on which I played during my one year of football. Jamie, in all his post-pubescent glory.

"I know you," I said enthusiastically, the vodka and whiskey mixing to create a grin on my face that no sadistic coach could remove. "You probably don't remember me, but I used to watch your blind side." I turned ninety degrees to the right while patting an imaginary football with my left hand that my right hand nestled confidently, imitating a quarterback's movement.

Jamie's eyes smiled wide. He didn't want to shoot me down, but wasn't sure how to field my statement. I respected his choice of silent approbation.

"I played Left Tackle. Number eighty-five. They put me on the line after learning I couldn't catch with those shoulder pads in the way." The last clause was my excuse, a thin and unimpressive alibi. When they gave me the trophy for Most Improved Player at the end of the season I failed to realize what it really meant: I was the worst kid who wound up not being quite as bad by the end. Only time would teach the art of the effective use of euphemisms. Still, it was the one trophy I'd ever earned.

Jamie laughed this time, but still came out with nothing. Maybe it was the alcohol that stole his tongue that night. Such a curse is not always a bad thing. There are always benefits to the crutch. Even broken clocks are right twice a day.

My buddy chuckled at my shameless revelation while Jamie walked away. It wasn't to bigger and better-- only the bathroom. Even quarterbacks eventually met reality. There were no cheerleaders for Modified, probably because fourteen-year-olds had enough hormonal issues. There weren't many women chanting our names now, either. And the coach was replaced with a mental image of an amalgamation of our fathers, our teachers, and the cops who'd pulled us over throughout the years. We were calling the plays now, some more sound than others. There was no one to thank, but no one to blame, either.

"Good ol' Jamie," I said before sipping my drink.

"No one in this bar's good, Mike."

I didn't acknowledge or deny. I was still in '98, and thankful.

Agaricus bisporus

2011-04-06T22:37:00.002-05:00

a fist hits stuffed cotton
repetitively
tightens for the finale
can't beat gravity
and is shamed
as cheeks puff out
like Louis Armstrong
in an attempt
to keep it in--
thin walls, thin veils
thin threads between us
about to be snipped.
the white worm crawls down
lazily like
an old friend told an old friend
to tell a man who used to have some
to look out for his love
through cheap headphones.
the laugh defied the drywall.
a roll, a wipe, a basket;
the crowd goes wild
and Pistol Pete goes to sleep:
incorrigible, insatiable
incapable of unadulterated love.

On Hanoi Jane and Other Traitors

2011-04-06T16:35:00.001-05:00

That tail twitching
on the roadkilled squirrel
isn't the wind
or an earthshake--
it's the nerves of fresh death.
Can you smell it
in the headlight dust?
Taste it in the carbon?
It's a heart at half-mast
like a weak-willed rising
late into her night
when the sheep get loud enough
for the drooling wolves to hear.

Go big or go home
or go home with someone big
more than likely
but regardless
put the Jazz Hands away:
The adults are talking.
Alas, the pineapple went to waste.
She was too gone to notice the taste.

Water Sports and Weddings

2011-04-06T12:16:00.001-05:00

It was time to do the unspeakable. It was time to let them go. There'd been too many casualties lost under the pile. A man can only wear so many shirts; it's hard enough swapping hats all the time. Some good old friends were tossed into the heap of rejects. A heavy hand is needed when weeding through the ranks. It was hard, but overdue, like most things lately. There were gifts and there were gags, there were reminders of some keepers that I managed to lose along the way. Some trophy tees I kept simply because of their sources, their stories. A white Section IX Swimming Champs number, the names of two girls I'd entered printed on the back; how could I get rid of that ironic cotton? The sweeter of the two broke the record set by another person I used to date, several years her senior, in a strange twist of fate. A few more T-shirts later and I find one from an Empire State Games rowing medalist. Crew, they call it, but I never liked the term. She was another one that irked me, mostly since I wasn't ready. I never am until it's too late. The swimmers, the rowers, the fishers of faulted men: It must be because I'm a Pisces. Some of them fall for it, myself included. It's not a shirt that one can shed. That's why they'd be inaccurate in calling me a snake.

A Pome That Slept In Sodomy Til 'Twas Safe To Type

2011-04-02T12:42:00.000-05:00

His body clutches the mattress
through sour-smelling, sweaty sheets
like a panther clinging low to the ground
though this cat's strike is over.
In his heavy, sideways head
temples pound with tainted blood
and he can hear his eyelashes
against the pillowcase
which now smells of perfume
and overpriced conditioner.

He licks his salty lips to try to bring
them back, but they are too far
in the process to reverse the aftermath.
The friction, the rhythm, the giving
of a world where nothing hurts as much
at least not for the moment: these are what
contribute to the tingle in his tongue
and the scratches on his shoulders
and his hair all off in rays
and if he had a say about it
the soreness of his loins;
but tonight his mouth is good enough
and tonight is foul and fair enough
as the grasslands fall away
and transform into sand.

The panther shrinks to human form
a wounded gladiator laying, gasping
bleeding in the dust as the crowded
coliseum cheers the carnage on.
Brass soldiers grip their spears and await
their mortal orders as the Governor stands
and stretches out his hand, thumb still sideways.
The most honest moment in a man's life
is a brief and precious time directly afterwards.
He slips into a dreamstate somehow safer
than this current mocked-up nightmare
before that thumb can tilt down
or point up towards the sky.

He is grateful for not knowing.
He is tired from the fight.
He will empty trashcan contents
in the morning when she's gone.
For a man who claims to read
he's sure slow with the patterns.

Online Dating Tips, Volume One: The Beginning of the End

2011-04-01T14:57:00.000-05:00

In honor of April Fools' Day I am posting the valuable lessons I've learned thus far in my epic foray into the terrifying hell that is Internet Dating. Thank you for all of the encouraging feedback I've received via email, text message, and random drunken pat-on-the-back at the various local watering holes we mortals stubbornly frequent. This experiment is made far less painful by knowing that others are reaping the benefits of my literal labors of love. If, by chance, you do decide to follow me into the dark, please take some of the advice listed to heart; I didn't make this stuff up out of nowhere, folks. Most of it was witnessed firsthand or learned the hard way. At some point, and I'll only know when that point is reached when I come to it, I will eject from this burning plane of an experiment with enough time to release my 'chute in the form of a compiled list of Online Dating Tips to submit as an article somewhere shameless enough to publish it. For now, friends, laugh beside me at my failure. Here's to having a sense of humor about the heart and human condition...Enjoy.

Online Dating Tip #492: No one should be judged for having children from a past relationship; but for the love of your bastard offspring, don't post pictures of them in your profile. There's a spot in the questionnaire for this information. Why subject your kid to the shame of being taken along for the internet dating ride? That'll only reserve you spots in a nursing home and hell, both of which you'll deserve.

Online Dating Site Tip #339: Don't list some random, WPS (White People Shit) hobby for the sake of seeming interesting. You like camping? Passing out drunk on your friend's couch doesn't count. Look, horseback riding! You rode a carousel twenty years ago, big deal. The beach? Last time I checked we were landlocked. Gas is $4/gallon. Unless you have a magic carpet I'm staying home. Give it up. We're all pretty boring.

Online Dating Site Tip #164: Don't post too many pics. An overzealous attempt leads to failure. The odds of someone so pathetic as to resort to 'net dating being photogenic are slim. Listen up, Myspace tricksters of yore (you know what camera angle I'm talking about): delete the date stamp. If your last good shot was taken four years ago you've probably taken a turn for the worse. But I can keep a secret if you can.

Online Dating Site Tip #238: If the recipient of your message does not respond it's merely because they read your profile, saw how amazing you are, realized they could never be enough for someone of your caliber, and decided to bow out for fear of wasting the time of such an eligible bachelor(-ette). No, really. It's not that they don't like you.

Online Dating Tip #74: When the cheerleader/quarterback rejected your prom date invitation, how did you cope? Did you pursue it to the point of humiliation? No, you went home and masturbated. Don't change the gameplan now, at least when it comes to moving on. Follow-up messages to already ignored pleas for validation only put you that much closer to restraining order status. Take it from me. I've been blocked. Twice.

Online Dating Tip #28: If you find out a same-sex friend has stooped as low as you have by creating a dating site profile in a sad attempt to fill the void don't search for it or ask for the link. This is akin to glancing over the fiberglass divider between urinals in a public restroom. If you want to see a sad excuse for a penis just look in the mirror. You, friend, have done this to yourself.

Online Dating Tip #170: Posting a group shot is not a terrible idea. Proof that you are not a reclusive ax murderer couldn't hurt. Keep in mind that guilt by association is a very real thing (See also: poor roommate selection) when choosing which friends you want to admit to having. Make sure you are the most appealing specimen, at least in that particular photo, unless you want to be asked for someone else's number.

Online Dating Tip #27: Let's talk about sugar-coating, euphemisms, softening the blow. Social drinker? Raging alcoholic. Occasional smoker? Drug addict. Few extra pounds? Morbidly obese. Undecided about children? Men: I'm neutered. Women: I want eight kids. Not into intimate encounters? Women: I'm a recovering whore. Men: I'm hiding my intentions. Be honest. Anything less is a waste of time, not to mention bandwidth.

Online Dating Tip #151: Alcohol mixes poorly with first impressions, especially when it comes to maintaining an air of respectability. Laying in your skivvies while decimating a liter of rum and sending potential suitors overly sincere introductory emails may sound like a great idea, but be warned: the shame you experience upon reading your outbox the next morning will be the only thing to rival your wicked hangover.

Online Dating Tip #243: If you "poke", "wink at", or "want to meet" someone and they ignore your limp-spined attempt to make contact don't send an email, too. Back when you bothered with foreplay did you try to steal Third Base after having your hand swatted away from Second? No. Why try to run across the field like a nutjob now? Cut your losses, take better pics, remove lame hobbies from your profile, and move on.

Online Dating Tip #244: Doling out rejection is your chance to play God. Don't ruin it by avenging your teenage acne catastrophes. If someone contacts you and you're not interested don't respond. That way, when you finally realize you're going to have to settle, you can tell the truth: You were in Cambodia helping amputee orphans and didn't feel you could dedicate enough time and attention to such a special person.

Online Dating Tip #57: Here are some signs that you've found a nympho, be that good or bad. Very athletic = Can put my ankles behind my ears. Like to have fun = Put out on the first date. Very understanding = Won't be mad if you come prematurely. Like to cuddle = Like to cuddle after awkward sex with a stranger so I don't have flashbacks of whatever terrible experience turned me into a raging sexfiend.

Online Dating Tip #44: If you honestly believe that the survey that whichever site you've sold your soul to actually gets entered into some brilliant information-analyzing database to compile a list of appropriate matches based on your answers then you've also probably tried to chat back with the webcam girl pop-up ads that were brought to your monitor courtesy of your favorite porn sites. Don't play dumb now, champ.

Online Dating Tip #32: Don't show up to your first "real" date wasted from a redneck family birthday party. If the person you've disrespected by appearing in said state suggests rescheduling, take them up on the fake offer to end any further shame. If you lack the common sense to do this, at least remove your Bluetooth earpiece while sitting across from them over coffee. Never order watermelon at a diner. True story.

Online Dating Tip #33: Telling your date "They made me put pants on before leaving the house" may raise some questions. Following it up with "I had a miniskirt on" will raise some eyebrows. But insisting upon "a need for ventilation downstairs" thrice in an hour will certainly earn you this snide remark: "Do you have a condition I should know about?" Where do these people come from? Walden, via Missouri. FML.

Online Dating Tip #98: You post a pic of a textual tattoo you have. Someone emails you citing the source of the quotation, then goes into an analysis of its possible meaning. You probably shouldn't respond with "I just got those words 'cause they sounded good. I assumed I'd figure it out later." This happened, too. Lyric: "Love is watching someone die." More people in the online dating world need to be that someone.

Online Dating Tip #73: If a SMILF (Single Mom I'd Like...) you're trying to seduce asks if you have siblings don't say "No, I was a mistake." This one gets a good laugh from most people, but may not fly with a woman whose firstborn was a result of wing night at the bar. It's bad enough this kid's picture is on mom's dating profile. Don't add insult to injury by pointing out the fact that neither of you were planned.

Online Dating Tip #64: Don't copy/paste your hobbies from what you've seen on "Jersey Shore". Gym/Tan/Laundry is not the mantra of champions, it's a sad slogan for unoriginal people to apply to their boring lives. Clubbing is something that pederasts do to seals to curb the urge, not a hobby you'll be sharing with someone for decades as you try to beat the beat up without breaking a hip. Fetch my grenade whistle.

Online Dating Tip #68: If you ask a girl what her routine is and she says anything to the effect of "First I spin around on the pole, then I take the rest off, twirl some more, and finally crawl around collecting singles," you've probably met a stripper. This isn't always a bad thing, depending on your goals, but don't plan on taking her home to mom, discussing literature, or having clothes sans lavender and glitter.

Online Dating Tip #219: Don't waste time talking to people from more than twenty miles away. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but you have no need for separation from human contact if you've sunk this low. Keep your sites local for the sake of that late-night booty call which you'll barely be sober enough to make. Besides, it's not stalking if you always just happen to be at the grocery store you both use.

Online Dating Tip #6: Mentioning sex in your profile is akin to bringing up wrecks at a racetrack: Everyone's there for the same reason, there's no need to advertise. Most of us also seek love, companionship, permission to pass gas after Mexican sans judgment (only in a well-ventilated room), but we're also tired of using our hands and/or battery-operated devices to ensure that we don't go on hormonal killing sprees.

Online Dating Tip #80: Trying to pick someone up at a bar is like checkers. It's fast-paced, straight-forward, and relatively inconsequential. Email flirtation, on the other hand, is like chess. Moves are deliberate and planned, possible responses must be considered before committing to a play, and tactics must be honed through trial by fire if success is desired. Feel free to tip your martyr for his painful legwork.

Online Tip #42: Please post one focused, well-lit body shot. Suggesting that you don't exist from the shoulders down implies that you don't think I exist from the neck up. I know that you know that I know what you're hiding, tubby. Maybe it's time you stop lying to yourself and the rest of the Online Dating World. Find less sedentary hobbies than playing poker with cupcakes as chips, like training for triathlons.

Online Dating Tip #62: If you're a woman who needs things fixed at home please wait until after the third date (or a foolishly premature consummation) to ask for any manly favors that don't involve a bed. Yes, I can fix your sink and dabble in electrical. Need some spackling done? I'm no artist, but I have a friend who can for a fair fee. Keep in mind that although men are useful for repairs nothing in life is free.

Online Dating Tip #464: It must be hard to be a trophy specimen with so many desirable applicants, but refrain from talking to more than three people at once. Let the herd thin before replacing more potential exes with new contestants, otherwise you'll forget what you've told whom...not that you to need to worry since you're telling the truth about your weight, your accomplishments, and your criminal record. Right?

Online Dating Tip #591: Millions of people enjoy recreational activities in oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams. Some of those uncomfortable with the chance of bacterial infection and/or animal attacks opt for swimming pools instead. These are valid interests that may help define you as a person, but remember: Don't mention being into water sports in your profile unless you plan on attracting a special breed of freak.

Go Vomit on Your Idol's Shoe

2011-03-30T00:52:00.004-05:00

There's no such thing
as common sense
or fair foul-weather friends
when those you trust
waste precious time
studying the trends
in what you've done
and where you've been
and where their lives aren't going.
The fever broke.
The bubble burst.
There are so few worth knowing.
So pack a bag and clear the shelves
and burn what you can't carry.
You've got your health.
You've got your gun.
Only fools get married.
There's not a goal.
They've killed the dream.
There may not be a God.
Some hands you fold.
Some cards you keep
until the Dealer nods.
The difference, then
is knowing how
to play out this last hand.
Your Valley's dry.
Your mouth is, too.
Your friend's too drunk to stand
but that ain't you
and that ain't me
unless it's Friday night.
It's best to cut out cancer cells
with sharp and borrowed knives.
We'll steal a book
that used to be
a joke among the boys
and learn a lesson from a man
who knew to ditch his toys
even when it meant a move
so bold it looked like running.
What did Edna say of light?
The faintest can be stunning.

Karate Chops As Loud As Gunshots

2011-03-27T22:13:00.000-05:00

His therapist said owning a television was a good idea, that it'd make my weekends at his place less boring, especially since there weren't many kids in the neighborhood to play with. My mother was right for leaving that one-horse town, and him, for that matter. His therapist was right, too, but may have crossed a line by suggesting appliance ownership. The good ones make you come out with what you need to hear, they don't leave the answer in your lap like a gift from someone better off and wiser. He bought a cheap set a few months after the divorce. His favorite slogan prevailed in its purchase: "Quality goods at discounted prices." By that I mean the remote control stopped working one day. We didn't have cable and the connection was frustratingly fuzzy, but there was something to look at if I sought distraction.

One such relief came in the form of a now-laughable modern cowboy cop show. A certain Texas Ranger, who shall go needlessly nameless, roundhoused his way to the triumphant end of every predictable episode. His black partner, the suggested token minority, was the downplayed brains of the operation, though he was always a step or two behind the great white martial artist's Old West instincts. Even back in the mid-Nineties when the program was first aired the hero was in his fifties. He seems an unlikely protagonist, at least for a show based on shootouts and terribly choreographed fight scenes, but the hand he had in producing and directing squashed any possible doubts or dissent. It must be nice to have money, even if it helps you shame yourself on national television.

The washed-up action hero also managed to convince his way into writing and singing the show's theme song in the form of a monotone, half-spoken cowboy's chorus. My father, long-time struggling do-gooder that he was, appreciated the lyrics as much as the song made most others cringe with secondhand embarrassment. "The eyes of the Ranger are upon you. Any wrong you do he's gonna see. When you're in Texas look behind you 'cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be." It was terribly trite, but undeniably effective; so much so, in fact, that my tight-wad dad bought me a reproduction Texas Ranger's badge, silver star inside a circle, at a junk store disguised as an antique shop across the River. It was his way of saying he supported my respect for justice, or what I thought justice was at that young, naive age. No therapist had to talk him into that purchase, though ten dollars isn't quite a bank-breaker. Those words contribute to the irony of our estrangement now. He's ignored my existence for years. His eyes haven't been on me or the wrong I've done, partially in my futile attempt to avoid making the same mistakes he did as a younger man. And I wish that last part of that simple song was correct, but clearly the Ranger's not behind me if I'm still trying to make sense of his refusal to be in my life anymore. I would've gone to the wedding. I'd like to know my new brother. I'm not the result of a test-run version of his life. I'm his son and always will be, whether we like that or not.

Does anyone ever get over the pain their family caused them? I'd like to believe so, but it doesn't seem to be in the cards just yet, at least not for a few more hands. Perhaps that's God's way of motivating us to be better people than those broken souls who raised us. In the meantime I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it. My nightmares are far more feminine these days. You know where my scars are. Don't use them against me. Now pull that red and yellow lever, Conan.

Red Hot Beef

2011-03-25T17:28:00.000-05:00

I wake from an unneeded nap
under a loosely woven blanket
on the plush down of my couch
a chill from March's last laugh
sneaking through the fabric.
It's almost four in the afternoon.
My mouth has yet to meet
a glass, a fork, a toothbrush.
It's clearly time to add that fact
to the list of things to change.

My quadriceps ache as I rise
in the living room.
Have they atrophied from disuse?
Battery acid has replaced my blood.
I rub my goosebumped thighs to try
to get them back again.
Funny, my legs were her favorite.
Now, like the rest, they've gone.
I can almost taste the alcohol
that'll serve me once the sun's down.
A gentleman can wait for that.
Only fools rush in.

The kitchen greets me quietly
as I rummage through the refrigerator.
No leftovers left, no one-shot deals.
I open the freezer and pull a burrito
begrudgingly from the door.
I lived on these six years ago.
I thought I'd sworn them off.
The microwave does its thing
to my frozen Meximeat while
something squirrely draws me back
to the fridge to check one more time
as if the contents have changed
as if things shuffle around
when the light goes out, other
than in a bedroom.
All present and accounted for, though this time
I notice a package of chopped meat
that looks how my leg muscles feel.
The sticker on it reads 80% Lean.
At least I'm not the only one
making poor decisions here.

Summoned by a bell
I grab my sad brunch from the nuke
and stand on the faux hardwood
to dine in pseudo style.
An elderly neighbor speed-walks by
hoping to suck one more spring from life.
The smile makes it obvious: Cancer, two more years.
The tortilla burns my tongue since I could never
heat those things right, even with years of practice.
My left hand gets bored, finds a new distraction
in a comfortable place it's rested before.
It's OK. The neighbors can't see me scratching.
Character is what you do
when no one else is looking.

When the last bite's taken
I wash both hands in the kitchen sink
and make way for the couch
where indigestion will begin.
The sun's angled afternoon rays
pour in through drafty windows
as my eyes try to find green
in the yard, notice more in the neighbor's.

"Maybe he can't handle it,"
I say aloud when wondering why
the response never came.
Maybe the word "friend" crossed a line.
Should've kept a safe distance.
Should've kept the plan the same.
Should've brushed my teeth
right after the burrito.

The clock chimes, the needles prick
another day is spent
ripping nails from toes and fingers.
It's not the lack of money anymore.
It's that every day's the same.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit Redux" by John Updike.

The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping

2011-03-24T00:35:00.000-05:00

I was asked to write this so I did. Jeff Buckley's arpeggiated Fender Telecaster cried reverb-soaked notes as he sang his rendition of "Hallelujah" in my ears through ancient headphones at least eight times in the process. Make of it what you will or won't. No holds barred, no punches pulled. I hope it's good enough, Babe.

"The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping"

The American Dream is perhaps the biggest lie of the previous century. Americans, as citizens of a rising and ruling superpower, needed something to cling onto to justify their goal of global Manifest Destinty; something wholesome, something sweet, something different from the imperialistic continent from which they came-- so they centralized their goal and made it succinct: two-and-a-half kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. What honest person wouldn't aspire to that dream? It's humble, it's pure, it's seemingly obtainable with enough diligence and a democratic government to protect its existence. I, on the other hand, have far more honest reasons for wanting it: I missed it on the first time around, as did my parents, and I want to better the world that I call home.

Is it so wrong that I'm trying to break a cycle started generations before my life began? Stubborn, maybe; a small fish in a big pond trying to make a difference with a meager flick of the tail. But haven't you heard of the tidal wave on one coast starting due to a butterfly's flapping wings on the opposite shore? It takes some action, no matter how small, to start a revolution. It takes a family getting it right to make up for years of wasted effort, wasted youth, wasted potential, wasted space. Frankly, I've spent enough time being wasted. There were many things I never had as a child, one of them being a home. My mother didn't literally; she moved thirteen times within the same three neighboring towns during her childhood due to the tough economic circumstances faced by a single widow of three who couldn't speak the native tongue. My father, wherever he is, had a house on a hill in the nice part of town where his family owned a profitable tavern and restaurant. Regardless, it was no home. My grandfather, a drunk I never met and hope to never meet in any possible Afterlife, would come home from his establishment drunk on Puerto Rican rum, ironically, and beat the innocence out of the boy who would someday sprout me. Even the family dog would hide under the nearest bed. My dad, then a gangly wuss at a prominent Catholic private school in Westchester County, took it like a man-- more of a man than his father would ever be, World War II veteran or not. I never knew about my dad's struggle until six years ago, and even then it wasn't because he told me. My aunt and mother filled me in on those quiet years of which he never spoke. It broke my heart to hear how he ached, and it hurt even more to learn that he'd hidden it for so long. A true martyr doesn't show his stripes. I suppose my hobby denies me that status, but so be it; I'd rather use my talent. My father tried not to expose his anguish, but in the end his lack of a proper home cost him. He wasn't able to build the domestic eutopia he'd longed for as a young man; in fact, he did quite the opposite. His dream was like a feather floating on the water: the harder he tried to get closer to it, the further away it slipped. And for most of the first twenty-seven years of my life it's been quite the same. I haven't seen him for more than four years, but I know now why my mother left him when I was seven. It took years to understand her motives. Even though I know she did what was best for both of us, the lover of the underdog in me still weeps for that broken man who gave me the last name by which I've come to be known-- that is, to say, if anyone really knows me. I've walked in your tired steps, old man. I've made the same mistakes and curse myself for it.

But not now. Not anymore. Hopefully, God-willing, never again. I want to right those wrongs. I know the dangers of both traps: the physical and the emotional. I've seen both parents fail, but I've also seen them triumph. These eyes have witnessed a lot in their brief time on Earth. In some light they look like my mother's. I'm proud of that, the warm chocolate comfort that hers have always exuded reflected in my own; but more often than not they look like my dad's, those foreign dark globes which mine haven't met for over four years. They're searching, they're hurting, they're his. Maybe it's time to change both views. Maybe it's time to make them mine. Maybe I need to set my sight, my sites, on something bigger: painting that white picket fence that both parents failed to obtain. It's only a heap of wood driven into the ground, but I've yet to buy one. In fact, last week I ripped a few haggard sections of it out of the yard where I live temporarily since they were a peeling-paint disgrace to the neighborhood. But deep inside this cynical walking wound of a plumber I know that there will be a time, there will be a reckoning; and when that time comes I'll revel in its holy glory. Even the greatest sinner has his moment next to Christ. Ask the redeemed thief hanging by his hands on Golgotha. No; in ten years ask me.

An Accusatory Essay on Anachronistic Acrobatics

2011-03-22T01:36:00.000-05:00

Our existence is a constant trade. Those who are honest admit to being guilty of the sad cycle-- exchanging one thing for the next like a reckless Wall Street amateur (you, yes you, you know who you are). This seems fair for That, and That is bettered by Over Yonder, and Over Yonder's hills are eventually no longer as green as those Rolling Meadows on the horizon just shy of that blinding sun. You can plug in whatever specifics you like: a career path; a home; a bottle blonde in too-tight business attire. We've traded, we've bartered, we've hurt and been hurt in the process, and as a result we've walked away unfairly unscathed (I stole that line from a high school sweetheart kind enough to refuse the taking of my innocence who later rescinded her stance on the matter) like a drunk driver from an accident that killed three innocent people (I borrowed that scenario from what usually happens since the drunk's body's been loosened by the alcohol and flops around like a ragdoll upon impact); but more often than not we've been disappointed, and by the most dangerous people possible: ourselves. Somewhere along the way we fouled up. One of those deals was not as kosher as we thought. The one that followed was even less copacetic. Finally, too far down the spiral to swim our ways back up, we realized all was lost. We were lost. We were headed for the plumbing trap, sometimes quite literally. That hopeful kid in the yearbook photograph became a painful joke. We weren't destined for Great Things like those blank stares and airbrushed complexions suggested. Hell, we'd be lucky to survive, and Hell itself became very real; as real as Death and taxes. So now towards the end of this soapbox manifesto I implore you: chase that passion you'd like to be paid to pursue; find that place good enough to hang up your holsters; seek out that poor girl you wasted and say Hello for the Hell of it; and then, if you're a fool like me, you'll find that broken link in the chain and try to undo the hapless years of missteps. Don't worry. They're only laughing because they know you're right and can't deal with another abortion. Who can? I can't. We can't. Amen.

Swearing Off Jameson

2011-03-18T22:39:00.002-05:00

The station sign blurs by
through a window, southbound train
and he wonders if the others
seated near him know
what Spuyten Duyvil means.
It's Dutch for Spite the Devil.
It's not a place, it's a promise
like the short life expectancy
of currency on a New York City street.

His stop comes up, he stands
and shoulders his heavy burden.
The nylon strap digs in, draws blood
from tender neck-flesh.
It's the price to pay to travel
where he'll never call his home.
Another price, another promise
another good excuse
for threadbare socks and dirty heels.
He's glad none of his lovelies
will see him act the fool
or lose his lucky boxers
in the worst of human ways.

Metal jaws close behind him.
He's committed to the night
and thankful that it's young.
There are worse fates than the Bronx.
There are worse friends than he's got.
He lights a long-awaited smoke
and sets his course for Broadway.

Wet Work of an Era and a Cure for Swimmer's Ear

2011-03-15T00:11:00.000-05:00

It's been a long travail
with this yearly lung infection
and the color that I cough
is not the color that I sneeze.
Sunday's gin and Monday's menthols
didn't help the cure, but what is life
without some living? Only bores
avoid the vice.

I've been eating lots of oranges
and maintaining fluid intake.
Chicken soup, garlic, and the word
will fix the rest.

But in the middle of my mucus
there's a small dab of salvation.
I'd been tossing snotty tissues
across the ballfield of my room
missing the can every time like a lush.
It dawned on me, the fourth day in
to move the basket to the bedside
since no one claims that half
of the floorboards anymore.

See, you doubting Tommies:
I told you there was room.
When the organist starts sweating
it's not always a bad sign.

En Otra Vida

2011-03-12T11:24:00.000-05:00

I could hide five
inside my chest cavity.
I could cram two
in the valves of my heart.
I'm no more me than you.
I'm no more green than blue.
We should hide behind our pen names
since the master's gone for good.

Walking wounded to the rear
of this medicated nation.
Catholic girls in pleated plaid
can grind the guilt away.
Don't look at me in that tone of voice
turning lesbians straight
and the opposite, too
pissing out fires and backpedaled mantras
while the welterweight champion
draws blood in her room.

Currently reading:
"Rabbit, Run" by John Updike.

Pluto's Not a Planet (Anymore)

2011-03-09T14:30:00.001-05:00

The townie counters, posts a rebuttal.
"Who are you to dream of Artemis?"
An artificial offering to a god too high to care
in the form of time and street soot
wiped from white-topped appliances
fails to sate the blood's shameful call.
"Your form has less splendor by the syllable."
There's little left to argue.
There's no one left who cares.

The townie counters, rolls over in bed.
There will be other chances to knock
down doors begging to be skipped.
For now it's a nap, a brief wrestle with
a salty subconscious too laden with loss
to be the sleep of the just. There is rhyme
and there is reason, but they're both
so out of reach.

The townie cowers, masks his queer pain.
There will be a reckoning.
No one gets away forever.
In the meantime if you miss her
read the book of Revelations.
She's in it a lot
along with her horses;
a nightcap; a footnote; a brief taste
of cyanide.

Smoker's Cough Soliloquy

2011-03-09T03:01:00.001-05:00

A rattlesnake's a gentleman.
He warns before he strikes.
The shaking tail, the tell-tale noise;
you've earned it if he bites.

There are rainstorms in the desert.
There are dust clouds over seas.
There are lots of things I'll never grasp
like why such Beauties fell for me.

It's a dry spell if it happens
intentional or not.
Who wants to be a rebound?
I'd trade my key in for a lock.

It's a date if David's paying.
It's a shame if David does.
At the rate that David's going
the drunk will fade to buzzed.

He likes to speak in riddles.
He likes to talk in maths.
He likes to like to like to like.
He tends to like too fast.

The rattlesnake's a gentleman.
He tries to play by rules.
He's well aware they don't exist.
The rattlesnake's no fool.

Dinner Party Flatulence and Other Minor Offenses

2011-03-06T23:32:00.001-05:00

The wind's whipping, howling
through the high-rise apartments
of the Upper West Side
and I feel like a fake:
Here I am in an aunt's guestroom
like a thief amongst the righteous.
(They crucified them both
on the same holy hill.)
I'd kill for arms across my chest.
I'd kill for frighteningly less.

A recent conversation comes
recklessly to mind.
He tells me he gave her a lift
from the bar, she and another girl.
They wound up at someone's house, maybe his.
He got distracted, forgot she was downstairs.
When he went to fetch a glass of water
from the kitchen she asked for a ride home
from a corner of the pitch black living room.
"Scared me half to death," he laughs
as my heart sinks with the familiar image.
An invisible hook tugs at the spot
where my large and small intestines meet.
I shake it off, keep rolling. It was getting
back at me, and failed. Pity is a wonderdrug.

My plumbing's better than my painting.
My whining trumps them both.
And the next person to make a Charlie Sheen joke
will be plucking their teeth from my knuckles.

The Conjugal and the Damned

2011-03-02T00:03:00.000-05:00

I pace the porch
cigarette in hand
like a caged tiger
itching to get out
and taste the flesh of the world
or what it's supposed to be.
Even now at midnight
there are some expectations.

"I can't do it yet,"
I shadow-box to the overhead bulb
between drags on my menthol.
"Then it's really over."
It's not so much that absence;
it's that I'm forced to shop alone
but I've been saving cardboard boxes
because I know it's time.
My room's spewing enough
books and thrift-store T-shirts.
Perhaps someone will help me--
the clothes and the pictures, at least.
"No, that's no good either,"
my wiser side counters
like a sweeping left hook
to the clock that stopped last year.
"I'd beg them to stay
for ice cream and a movie."
You clingy, predictable
bastard, you.

Though it's by choice
that I'm still chaste
at least for twenty-seven;
a self-induced dryspell
thinly veiled
as making change.

The old lady next door
sees me chatting with myself
and Mr. Marlboro.
She rubs her curlers, lowers the blinds
frowns at the fate of her progeny.
I can't see the latter
but I feel it just the same.
I smash out my smoke
in the tin ashtray
and go inside to take
what's left:
a good, foamy piss.
Aim to hit the bubbles, kid.

There.
You've said it.
Now get up, put pants on
and go outside
to make what you've written real.
The imagery was decent.
You've almost got yourself
convinced.

If only local women
were impressed
by hearts on sleeves.
Chat Roulette, I hate you
and may move to Indiana.

Currently reading:
"Secret Diary of a Call Girl" by Anonymous.

A Slow Growth on the Soul

2011-02-26T15:51:00.003-05:00

By the time the volunteer ambulance rolled up to 37 Onnit Road the window of opportunity had closed-- not the one to save Gary Schlecker's dwindling life; the one to justify turning the lights and siren on while escorting his body to whatever white, sterile walls awaited it. That was the only reward in a case like his, especially if you'd ever loaned him money or bought him a drink.

"Here, Sam. Wipe this under your nostrils," Lonnie said as he handed Sam a jar of Vick's. He conjured it from under the passenger's seat of the meat wagon after it pulled into the driveway. "The cops on Gary's porch have that twisted look on their faces. It's gonna be a ripe one."

Sam spun off the lid of the pungent cream and spread an over-zealous, two-inch length of blue well past the edges of his nose.

"You're the best tech this town's got, Lon," Sam said matter-of-factly.

Little tricks like the Vick's impressed those who worked with Lonnie. He never discredited their claims, but deep down in his simple, suburban heart he knew that he was an observer, not a genius. He saw the odor-fighting trick on a detective show once. The hip, shoulder-holstered cops applied the ointment under their noses before fingerprinting an especially rancid crime scene. He made a mental note of the technique before retiring to bed next to his slightly overweight wife. I'll wow them with this one, Lonnie thought as he drifted off to the pleasant land where his thirty-year mortgage didn't exist. The monsters of dreamscapes didn't work in the medium of paper. For Lonnie, Sam, and most other men in their tax bracket with similar IQs, the worst things encountered during sleep consisted of the fairer sex and younger versions of themselves. Tight-bodied cheerleaders had transformed into cottage-cheesed soccer moms in the familiar scenario that the game of life churned out over and over. Quarterbacks retired to armchairs and beer packed on pounds with a vengeance. It seemed unfair to all parties involved, including the electric company. Few folks over thirty had their weekly consummation without turning the lights off first.

The things they could've done. The places they could've gone. The love they could've made. The horror of the long list of possibilities crept into Lonnie's distracted mind as he and Sam walked to the back of the ambulance.

"Gary's better off," he slipped, half-consciously.

"What's that?" Sam asked. The overabundance of noxious chemicals under Sam's nose was beginning to affect his brain slightly. It was a side effect Sam looked forward to every time. An innocent buzz was one of the many simple pleasures that Gary would no longer be eligible to enjoy. He'd gone and died. Safer, but limited. It seemed a fair trade to those who knew the score, or could at least read the board. Lonnie was one of the latter.

The two men wheeled the stretcher to the side entrance of the house. Anyone from town could tell that the door near the stone porch was the one to use. Only new delivery men bothered with the one out front. Sgt. Daniels was wiping sweat from his forehead with what looked like a lace handkerchief. No one questioned Sgt. Daniels when it came to his decisions.

"My mouth won't do your eyes justice," the sergeant said in his guttural voice. "And it smells even worse than it looks. You may want to..." but he trailed off after noticing the streak across Sam's oblivious face. "Take a deep breath before you go in there. It looks like old Gary's been gone for awhile, maybe more than two weeks."

"Yeah, haven't seen him at O'Malley's lately," Sam blurted out, instantly regretting his statement and hoping that no one could smell last night's folly on his breath.

"Hasn't been to church much, either," Lonnie said as he locked eyes with the chief. "At least not according to the bingo demographic." Sam exhaled lightly. He loved going on calls with Lonnie. He could get him out of anything.

"You boys leave the investigating to me," Sgt. Daniels told the two unlikely small-town paramedics. "We're all done in there for now if you'd like to dignify the deceased."

That last phrase was one that always stuck in Lonnie's head. It sounded so grandiose, gave his part-time role a true sense of meaning. There were nights when he considered the legitimacy of the siren rides that led right to the morgue. The front page of the 'Herald' was a better place than the obituaries, but someone had to bring them there-- 'them' being his neighbors. "Dignifying the deceased" was about as good a way as anyone could put such a morbid task as corpse removal. Lonnie wondered if Sgt. Daniels had coined the term himself in his years on the force or if it came pre-packaged in some little-known law enforcement handbook.

He doubted that Sam or any of the other volunteer ambulance drivers had the same line of thinking. He doubted if a lot of people thought much at all. It all started with the eyes; sight, an awakening. Too many people wore blinders complacently. Half as many over-indulged in their not-so-innocent thrills of choice. Sam wasn't alone in his cups. Lonnie was alone in his skull. Even his well-meaning wife couldn't help that. She could barely work off last winter's hibernation roll that had formed around the waistline of her jeans. Lonnie didn't begrudge her that. Truth be told, he'd always liked his women a pinch on the plus side. Skinny people, like Sam's habit of chewing gum religiously on every morning call, couldn't be trusted.

"Let me get the door for you gentelmen," Sgt. Daniels said as he turned the volume knob on his radio all the way to the right, putting himself on the grid once again.

The medical examiner was packing a bag of instruments as Sam and Lonnie rolled the stretcher through the kitchen. Neither of them knew his name. He worked for the county and was not as permanent a fixture as Sgt. Daniels. His title sufficed. The harbinger of death was not someone with whom any small-town locals wanted to be on a first-name basis.

"If the fall didn't kill him, the black mold would've," the M.E. uttered. "Another few months at best." His tone was frighteningly professional. It justified the sentiments held by the two men there to collect their neighbor.

"And all this time I thought it was only smoker's cough," Sam whispered to Lonnie, trying not to speak loudly enough to give their ominous colleague a reason to chat any further.

Lonnie maintained his silence. There was a level of reverence he believed should be present when performing such a task. Gary's last passage through his doorway would be an honorable one if he had anything to say about it, or not say; but when they reached the bathroom where Gary's body was sprawled out on the floor that silent state of grace changed.

"My God. Gary's a flower pot," Sam blurted. It was true. Their deceased acquaintance was face-up, mouth gaping, vast expanse of black mold creeping from his throat. It spread down from his face and covered the linoleum floor around him. The shower curtain that he'd grabbed and pulled down in an attempt to break his lethal fall covered his naked body. All that protruded was that cracked, gushing head and the mold to which it gave birth.

"Looks like all the drywall's going to have to be ripped out," Sam said as he locked the stretcher's wheels. Lonnie usually had to remind him to do so, but that was not the case for a change. "They'll probably need a barrel of bleach to scrub this place, too. Once that black mold gets into a house it's almost impossible to..."

"Sam. Shut up and help me lift him," Lonnie said. Sam lowered is head and complied. There'd been enough speculation for one day. It was time to do what they'd been called to do. Silence was golden and Gary was dead and nothing anyone could say would change either of those facts.

Sam reached through the shower curtain and grabbed the backs of Gary's calves with his rubber-gloved hands. There was an unmentioned understanding that Lonnie always lifted the top half of the body, no matter whom he was working with that day. He seemed like a header.

"One. Two. Lift," Lonnie said, his hands hooking Gary's armpits, as they hoisted him onto the stretcher. They covered the body with the white sheet they'd brought in and prepared to wheel Gary out to the daylight. For some reason, as was normally the case, they both paused and turned back towards the spot where the corpse had lain for two solid weeks. The mold hadn't grown on the floor that Gary's body had covered, leaving a perfect outline of his final pose in the form of a white-on-black silhoutte on the cheap linoleum flooring.

Sam couldn't bear to keep it inside of him. It was worth another scolding. Out with it he came. "It's sort of beautiful, Lon."

"Yeah. It sort of is."

And the two of them turned and rolled Gary home.

Friends Don't Let Friends Write Bad Poetry.

2011-02-23T03:28:00.000-05:00

Operator! Operator!
We've got a live one on the line.
This is as close as you'll get
to Christmas this year.
What's that I hear
of tactical advantage?
Another flouncing fawn
upon the sacrificial floormat
that like motives
never change.
There are times to run
and times to fight
and times to ration your ammo
'cause the cavalry ain't coming
and the General's dying orders
were lost in garbled lung-blood.
So suit up in the intermission
and lace up for the let-down.
This is not your chapter six.
It's not time to move on yet.
When the barbecue grill's smoking
and the dough is reeling in
you'll laugh off 3:00 am
pretending not to know
these nights.

Missionary, Legs Over Shoulders:

2011-02-22T23:40:00.000-05:00

That's how Lady Luck's been
givin' it to ya' lately
and you take it like a champ
not a chump
not crying
about your cervix
to the closest
set of ears.
What's next but
the old Navy saying:
"BOHICA"--
Bend over, here it comes again.
And ya' don't stop
'cause ya' can't stop.
Let the boys be boys, lieutenant.

I spent a lot of time
trying on bodies
and found one that fit
but only at night.
Dammit, corporal.
Fetch her some slippers
and if there are none in this town
we'll blow the next one
to pieces
in the name of the Father
the sun, and the Whole-Wheat Ghost.

A curse upon the silent eye;
the taste of too much pressure.
I don't like it anymore.
It smells like sin and failure.
It's never too late to quit, private.
Not even at twenty-seven.
You can keep her, brother.
I know the scent already.

The truthful scars will free themselves
long after stripes and shots:
Grandpa never jumped
on a grenade to save his buddies.
He was working on the boiler
drunk when it exploded.

Rub-a-dug-dub.
Thanks for the grub.
Greece must be better than this.

Whilst rinsing and repeating...

2011-02-20T15:53:00.000-05:00

Pisces, unoriginal--
you modern, model youth.
With your phone and late-night glow
you show such little couth.

Driver, now suspended--
who will lead them to the end
searching crowded taprooms
til Last Call for making friends?

Son, not so prodigal--
your dad's laugh sounds the same.
You sold his birthday shotgun.
All that's left now is his name.

Are you wearing ruby slippers?
'Cause you might get blown away.
New York's the same as Kansas:
Nothing gold can stay.

Another reason why the Chinese deserve to win.

2011-02-18T11:56:00.001-05:00

In our silent stupor
we pound them back
like lumberjacks.
I drizzle syrup over rocks
on the stainless altar
of the night's slow demise
placing my emptied glass
on the right
because it's easiest to remember
since that's what I am.
A mnemonic device
they call it.
In my case
a condition
though I'm not the only one.

If you're ever in the market
for a comfortable casket
I have a friend
who'll help you look.
Don't worry about his mirror trick.
It's no different from the way
we'll all disappear.

Mea culpa, Father.
It's not one to stick on the fridge
even if there were
magnets strong enough.
I blame its lack in substance
candor, cadence
on a forestalled morning
cigarette: thank God--
something I can remedy.

For every action there's a loss.

Currently reading:
"Narcissus and Goldmund" by Hermann Hesse.

How I'll Think of Manhattan While Burning in Hell

2011-02-11T21:52:00.002-05:00

We lay entangled
in her vermillion bedsheets
a lazy Friday night
as we wish the rest of them to be
in our midst
after a meal that more than satisfied
our bellies.
There may be wine or cocktails later
but it matters little to either of us.

I feel the suction give way as
I pull my ear from her right shoulder
to praise the silhouette of her stray hairs
in the nightstand lamp--
a lunar eclipse of the fairest kind.
Lowering my head back down
to hear the ocean of her precious inner workings--
the ebb and flow of a system
that I'm thankful to have found
and pray to mix with mine someday.

My sideways view is simple
but as complex as it need be.
An orange glow illuminates the fine paths
in her skin as I breathe in the smell of home.
She shifts her weight from one shoulder
to the other and for the first time in my life
I fall in love with the tendon in a person's neck.
The strap of her bra curves over her left shoulder
not six inches from my face; though straight
as an arrow, it's the most imperfect line
in my present privileged view.

I'd be lying if I told you
I'm this lucky every night
but the greater shame would be
to deny the truth
that when it's there
I see it
and am grateful.

Pest Perspective

2011-02-10T00:09:00.002-05:00

It was a good one, and snuck up on me
like any good one does. The book I'd
recently received in the mail on Papa's guns
kept me company while I sat on the porcelain
and did what I'd gone there to do.
Just as quickly as it started
it was over; conveniently, I'd just finished
a chapter. I love when that happens. It seems right.
Take what you can get and be grateful.
You'll lead a fuller life.

Like most honest people I peered into the bowl
while I stood and wiped. Nothing out of the ordinary.
No blood-- always a good sign. But then that claim
of normalcy changed. Something moved. Then it
moved again. I saw legs and antennae swimming around
at the surface of the water. The venison in my gut
re-sprouted its antlers and turned ninety-degrees.

At first I thought it came from me; a parasite, a tapeworm
a demon from hell. Then I sobered up. It was a silverfish
common to my house at night. It must've fallen into
the toilet before I'd entered the bathroom and I hadn't noticed.
What honest person looks before they squat?

Relieved, though slightly disturbed, I resumed with the
customary wiping. The next wad of tissue landed on the critter
intentionally. I couldn't bear to see its grotesque dance with
death anymore. It made my dinner quiver.

But when I pushed that chrome lever down it dawned on me
which of us was the lucky one. I would return to my nightly routine
only to go down the tubes in a figurative sense if the laid-off pattern
of empty-wallet misery progressed. The bug, on the other hand
would shortly be quite dead after a putrid drowning death
sans company of Davy Jones in my overfilled septic tank.

And yes, I mean to call myself the victor in that scenario.
It could always be worse, ladies and hosts.

Currently reading:
"Hemingway's Guns" by Calabi, Helsley, and Sanger.

Snowjob

2011-02-07T18:52:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure which one of us invented it. Lower middle-class kids growing up in a suburban condominium development are always a touch on the sadistic side. Call it an occupational hazard if you must give it a label. It's simply part of the territory. Regardless, we were all to be blamed for its widespread success in our neighborhood, just as the entire group present was responsible if a ball hit a window during an impromptu game. Sure, the glass never broke, but that didn't matter to the bitter old folks inside. We were hoodlums as far as they were concerned, and our parents were to be notified if necessary. Little did they know, and little did anyone know since it never came down to it, but our parents wouldn't have cared. They had bigger things to worry about. They had mortgages and mouths to feed. They were losing sleep at night.

When that snow fell in blankets and school was closed we weren't playing ball anymore. It was snowball fight time. Fortresses could be built out of the heaps left by plow trucks. The older kids learned not to bother with that strategy. Nothing lasted forever, be it the spring thaw or the change in power that rendered its construction pointless. We could all cope with that sun's rays making our winter battleground dissipate, but to see our bunkers taken over by hands other than the ones that built them and then used against us was a price we weren't willing to pay. We tried to avoid being overrun in very much the same way that adults have done it since the beginning of time: we formed teams, alliances, coalitions. Somehow, be it through human nature or the will of the gods, the lines drawn in the snow always made sense. One side was comprised of the honor roll sector, the chorus kids and band kids, and a handful of the less talented sports players. The other team was made up of mouth-breathers, bullies who picked on nerds and music geeks, children of parents who'd blamed their divorces on their offspring, and the sports players who could've gone pro. The little league pitchers with arms worth anything never wound up on the former team. It was strength in numbers and maybe a stroke of luck or two that won wars. That still happened for a few of us back then.

The battle could start at any time. All it took was one innocent throw to commence the onslaught and one well-aimed ball of ice to some poor sap's face to end it. Somewhere in between was where the magic happened, where the early stages of character development shone through: acts of bravery, acts of cowardice, maliciously packed iceballs hurled at wool-capped heads, the celebration of the sore-armed victors, the dispersion of casualties across the white terrain, the retreat of the snow-caked losers-- all of these would shape who we'd become, would act as unnoticed foreshadowing for the rest of our lives, would be the excuse we'd use for being late for dinner.

All of that was fair and good and righteous in its chaste simplicity. But God forbid it came to hand-to-hand combat. Wrestling in the snow never ended well. All parties involved became covered in ice crystals that would penetrate their clothing and make the walk home that much more miserable. It usually started with a bum-rush and ended with the single, most contemptful act that I can remember growing up: the snowjob. As I said, I don't remember who came up with the idea. Maybe it was always there and only had to be discovered by each up-and-coming generation, like French kissing and tax fraud. The snowjob was a cruel maneuver used in desperation by the underdog or as a demoralizing deathblow dealt by the soon-to-be-winner. Its execution was far simpler than its repurcussions-- all one had to do was shove their unfortunate little buddy's face in the snow and hold it there for a few seconds. The aftermath, on the other hand, was not so succinct. There was yelling, there was crying, there were comical forays into cursing which had yet to be explored. All of these were made funnier by the victim's bright red face. Snow, it turns out, burns quite nicely when it comes in contact with human skin, especially that of a tender young specimen. Devices from the Spanish Inquisition weren't needed to perform our childhood torture; nor was an increase in age. There's a bit of a monster in all of us. The only difference is what action it takes, and to what extreme, for that mean beast to come out.

"My pal with the plow truck almost killed some stupid kid the other day," my friend and sometimes-coworker told me as we discussed our current laid-off adventures over the phone. Apparently, as we get older, building a fort in a snow mound goes from being a bad idea for tactical reasons to a down-right deadly decision. The conversation continued, but all I could think of was my days of cupping snow into ammunition. "Hey, are you listening?" he asked after noticing my prolonged absence from the dialogue. "Yes," I lied as I silently considered if I was finally paying for all the snowjobs I'd given over the years, literal and otherwise. Now I know why my mother wouldn't have cared about a ball hitting a window. Now I know why she's suffered from insomnia; still does. Even with only my mouth to feed the world's a harsh enough place. Now I wish that I could endure the receiving end of one last snowjob if it'd make this relentless daymare go away.

Who am I kidding? I invented it.

Outlawed Pleasures of the Nuclear Age

2011-01-31T00:13:00.002-05:00

I want to live
in a stick-built house
where I can hear
an old man
snoring.
(That kind of comfort
can't be bought
much less traded
by Brookes Bros. boys.)
Instead I settle
for volleys of lead
aimed at the coalmine canary
and if they so happen
to pierce precious lungs,
so be it;
I'll crank out the obit.

Enough of the wailing.
The proof's in the posture:
What kind of angel
leaves the seat up?
If it comes down
to the break or the bend
confer with your local
congressperson.

And when that fails
to calm your seas
flip a coin, catch it
invest it in gold.
Like inside jokes
with high school friends
some warnings, if heeded
never get old.

Frequent Flyer

2011-01-28T11:29:00.001-05:00

Teeth an uncommon white
with no one here to see them.
The Power of Club compelled me
'til the whiskey closed my eyes.
That's alright. I begged it to.
There are nights that bleed
like virgins. If we only knew
how fucked we were
we'd've saved ourselves in vain.

Your patients aren't the only ones
actively dying these days:
your patients, my patience
our belief in some intangible.

And like a hamster with no wheel
I lay in my own excrement
bored, adrift, and pointless
while the world laughs through my cage.
It's hard to watch the parallels
with the loathsome list of "Ch"-men:
Charlie, Chris, and when arrogant
the man that they called Christ.

The rent's paid up, I've got my tomb.
I drag my cross on hardwood floors.
Your order's tall, I'm under six.
You've got your wings.
Now use them.

Currently reading:
"The Bureau and the Mole" by David Vise.