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.
4.11.2011
Stranger Danger
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.
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.
4.10.2011
Take a Knee, Offense
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.
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.
4.06.2011
Agaricus bisporus
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.
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
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.
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
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.
4.02.2011
A Pome That Slept In Sodomy Til 'Twas Safe To Type
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.
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.
4.01.2011
Online Dating Tips, Volume One: The Beginning of the End
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.
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.
3.30.2011
Go Vomit on Your Idol's Shoe
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.
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.
3.27.2011
Karate Chops As Loud As Gunshots
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.
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.
3.25.2011
Red Hot Beef
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.
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.
3.24.2011
The Cavalry Only Comes When the Mortarmen Are Sleeping
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.
"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.
3.22.2011
An Accusatory Essay on Anachronistic Acrobatics
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.
3.18.2011
Swearing Off Jameson
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.
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.
3.15.2011
Wet Work of an Era and a Cure for Swimmer's Ear
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.
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.
3.12.2011
En Otra Vida
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.
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.
3.09.2011
Pluto's Not a Planet (Anymore)
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.
"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
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.
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.
3.06.2011
Dinner Party Flatulence and Other Minor Offenses
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.
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.
3.02.2011
The Conjugal and the Damned
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.
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.
2.26.2011
A Slow Growth on the Soul
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.
"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.
2.23.2011
Friends Don't Let Friends Write Bad Poetry.
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.
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.
2.22.2011
Missionary, Legs Over Shoulders:
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.
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.
2.20.2011
Whilst rinsing and repeating...
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.
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.
2.18.2011
Another reason why the Chinese deserve to win.
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.
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.
2.11.2011
How I'll Think of Manhattan While Burning in Hell
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.
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.
2.10.2011
Pest Perspective
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.
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.
2.07.2011
Snowjob
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.
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.
1.31.2011
Outlawed Pleasures of the Nuclear Age
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.
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.
1.28.2011
Frequent Flyer
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.
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.
1.20.2011
He found God in a frat house, waiting in line for the bathroom.
Christ, if I were any
younger and less apologetic
it would've been a drag
to lie and say I liked myself
but I still did
and did and did
and did them right
and wrong at the same time
and tried to out of town.
I'd gone to see a buddy
at school in central New York
where the rolling hills of Route 88
can almost cure a hangover.
We drank canned beer right
through the night
and well into the morning
giving up somewhere along the way
on doing and doing and doing
since the only likely takers
could eat their weight in pasta.
Besides, those nights of feigned
brotherhood meant more somehow.
All was fair and just in our world again
until it came time to claim couches and pass out.
When I came to in the morning
or rather, I should say
when the sun so rudely pierced my lids
there was a desert in my insides
past the dustbowl of my mouth.
I went to the kitchen in search of hydration
but the fridge was void of beverages.
I'd never been one for the Hair of the Dog
morning drink cure, but I would've tried it then.
The next bet was the tap water. Taped to the wall
right above the faucet was a sign written in marker
that warned not to drink the water. In those days
six years ago I was not yet a plumber with a thick skull
a knowledge of what can and can't hurt you
and the immune system of a soccer mom of three.
Needless to say I heeded the warning; back to the
fridge it was. And there, somehow shinier than upon
the door's first opening, was my salvation:
a half-gone jar of apple sauce, expiration date still good.
I pulled it from its place on the shelf, twisted off the cap
and sucked down its sweet, thick liquid without taking time
to close the refrigerator door. It was manna from heaven
in the hungover hell I'd created. It was the most satisfying
swallow I'd taken, or have since then, and it saddens me
to think that I'll never be so sated again, literally
or otherwise. The empty vessel posed a problem: put it back
or throw it out? But the beauty of not being the home team
is the ability to sneak out the back door and turn over your
engine-- which I did, and headed back to face a Monday
of warehouse shipping blues. That may have been
the last time for me. Since then it's been a read-through
in a language I've forgotten. Are there any tutors left?
younger and less apologetic
it would've been a drag
to lie and say I liked myself
but I still did
and did and did
and did them right
and wrong at the same time
and tried to out of town.
I'd gone to see a buddy
at school in central New York
where the rolling hills of Route 88
can almost cure a hangover.
We drank canned beer right
through the night
and well into the morning
giving up somewhere along the way
on doing and doing and doing
since the only likely takers
could eat their weight in pasta.
Besides, those nights of feigned
brotherhood meant more somehow.
All was fair and just in our world again
until it came time to claim couches and pass out.
When I came to in the morning
or rather, I should say
when the sun so rudely pierced my lids
there was a desert in my insides
past the dustbowl of my mouth.
I went to the kitchen in search of hydration
but the fridge was void of beverages.
I'd never been one for the Hair of the Dog
morning drink cure, but I would've tried it then.
The next bet was the tap water. Taped to the wall
right above the faucet was a sign written in marker
that warned not to drink the water. In those days
six years ago I was not yet a plumber with a thick skull
a knowledge of what can and can't hurt you
and the immune system of a soccer mom of three.
Needless to say I heeded the warning; back to the
fridge it was. And there, somehow shinier than upon
the door's first opening, was my salvation:
a half-gone jar of apple sauce, expiration date still good.
I pulled it from its place on the shelf, twisted off the cap
and sucked down its sweet, thick liquid without taking time
to close the refrigerator door. It was manna from heaven
in the hungover hell I'd created. It was the most satisfying
swallow I'd taken, or have since then, and it saddens me
to think that I'll never be so sated again, literally
or otherwise. The empty vessel posed a problem: put it back
or throw it out? But the beauty of not being the home team
is the ability to sneak out the back door and turn over your
engine-- which I did, and headed back to face a Monday
of warehouse shipping blues. That may have been
the last time for me. Since then it's been a read-through
in a language I've forgotten. Are there any tutors left?
1.18.2011
Lest We Forget the Sins of Basic Cable
A commercial on the Military Channel
advertises the next installment of a show
called "World War II in Color" while I
lay back digesting a far-from-kosher meal
in the fake warmth of the woodstove
appreciated only due to sacrifices made
by wrinkled men with liver spots
who trade change for little red flowers
made of cloth and wire
outside of the grocery store.
"It's a funny selling point," I tell the chef.
"I'm pretty sure that's how it happened."
Currently reading:
"Things Fall Apart" by Chinua Achebe.
advertises the next installment of a show
called "World War II in Color" while I
lay back digesting a far-from-kosher meal
in the fake warmth of the woodstove
appreciated only due to sacrifices made
by wrinkled men with liver spots
who trade change for little red flowers
made of cloth and wire
outside of the grocery store.
"It's a funny selling point," I tell the chef.
"I'm pretty sure that's how it happened."
Currently reading:
"Things Fall Apart" by Chinua Achebe.
1.15.2011
Cold Cashmere
We knew a kid in the cover band, but it didn't change the price of the drinks or the fact that women like dancers, and I use both terms loosely. He looked about ready to fall asleep with an elbow between his chin and the oak. I caught his eyes closing a few times.
"Do you not want to be here?" I asked like a fool for the second time in as many weeks.
"I mean...I'm bored," he replied, the froth of his dark beer dissipating at the top.
What was he expecting? The third bar of the night to be any more spectacular? Ours was a one-horse town with no good news on the cart. At least I hadn't encouraged his pursuit of the two uninterested college girls at the last gin-joint we haunted that evening. Unlike some of my less fortunate compatriots I'd developed a sense for failure. Sure, most times I ignored it; but in the most extreme cases, like this recent one with the co-eds' backs to my blindly blundering buddy as he tried so desperately to engage them in conversation, I let its wisdom reign. Besides: What kind of shameless twenty-seven-year-old would sentence some promising young sophomore to a fate such as his dirty sheets?
It was about this time that this may have set in with him. Perhaps that was contributing to his inability to sing along to the few tunes that we knew.
It seemed logical to bore him further if only to save him from himself.
"Sometimes I hate the fact that I never run into any exes at the bar," I confessed, the Captain strong on my breath as it reflected off the side of his head and back into my nostrils. "It's like they hate me so much that they won't risk seeing me in public. And God forbid I try to make amends."
He nodded in something slightly short of agreement; empathy, at best. Maybe it was because he only really had one ex, at least one from his adult life. Eight years was a long time, and now that time was over. I hoped my foolish comment hadn't sent him down that trainwreck of thought. There are times when I over-analzye and I hoped that this was one of them.
I took a sip and gave up trying to make the best of a wasted night. We were all defeated; some of us just knew it already.
The cover band didn't play any more songs that we knew.
"Do you not want to be here?" I asked like a fool for the second time in as many weeks.
"I mean...I'm bored," he replied, the froth of his dark beer dissipating at the top.
What was he expecting? The third bar of the night to be any more spectacular? Ours was a one-horse town with no good news on the cart. At least I hadn't encouraged his pursuit of the two uninterested college girls at the last gin-joint we haunted that evening. Unlike some of my less fortunate compatriots I'd developed a sense for failure. Sure, most times I ignored it; but in the most extreme cases, like this recent one with the co-eds' backs to my blindly blundering buddy as he tried so desperately to engage them in conversation, I let its wisdom reign. Besides: What kind of shameless twenty-seven-year-old would sentence some promising young sophomore to a fate such as his dirty sheets?
It was about this time that this may have set in with him. Perhaps that was contributing to his inability to sing along to the few tunes that we knew.
It seemed logical to bore him further if only to save him from himself.
"Sometimes I hate the fact that I never run into any exes at the bar," I confessed, the Captain strong on my breath as it reflected off the side of his head and back into my nostrils. "It's like they hate me so much that they won't risk seeing me in public. And God forbid I try to make amends."
He nodded in something slightly short of agreement; empathy, at best. Maybe it was because he only really had one ex, at least one from his adult life. Eight years was a long time, and now that time was over. I hoped my foolish comment hadn't sent him down that trainwreck of thought. There are times when I over-analzye and I hoped that this was one of them.
I took a sip and gave up trying to make the best of a wasted night. We were all defeated; some of us just knew it already.
The cover band didn't play any more songs that we knew.
1.13.2011
17 Fulton, All Present and Accounted For.
"Nice kicks," he tells me as soon as I sit down. The new pair of leather shoes he's referring to have yet to be scuffed by drunken fumblings or weathered by slush puddles. They're nice, but not that nice. A gift, and much appreciated, but not worth such honorable mention. He was obviously trying to use a modern term on a person half his age and see if he could get away with it. I decide to let him since our session's just begun.
"Thanks," I say succinctly and let him lead the way. As usual he wastes no time, shoots from the hip like Doc Holiday.
"You've said some interesting things since we've started talking every week," he says from within his white cardigan as I shuffle my feet. "There's one image in particular that stays with me."
My curiosity is piqued. He knows when to appeal to my vanity. What could I have said that's remained in his mind for so long? He sees fifteen, twenty people each week, all with their own baggage to unload in his direction. There's a wealth of trite imagery to ponder. Was something I said so poignant that it escaped the yellow legal pad?-- the eternal resting place for most of his sob stories?
"Yeah?" I ask immodestly, clearly anticipating his reply.
I've yet to catch him lying. There'd be no reason. The letters after his surname don't require it. He's not in this for the money like some of the others, at least not entirely. He clears his throat and continues.
"That image of you driving by your father's house once in awhile to check up on him; specifically, the fact that you see the two rocking chairs on his porch and are happy for him even though he never told you he got remarried."
"Or had a son," I cut in, my feet now firmly planted to the thin, commercial grade carpet.
"Yes. Or that. But still you love him and want him to be happy. Even though he fell short you watch over him like a sad, defeated angel."
"Take it easy, doc," I say, a quick jab at his lack of a doctorate's to even the score for those last few adjectives he chose to apply to his description of my state. "The Old Man hasn't won just yet."
Through the door I hear his partner slam a file cabinet shut. The white noise machine in the hall is only so forgiving. I can't blame the man for his blunders, though-- not in those cheap, oversized suits he wears. He looks like a weasel swimming in polyester. I'm glad that my guy wears jeans, plaid, and loafers. The cardigan is his worst sin. I can live with that.
"Do you say that every day?" he asks, his fingers woven together, except for the indices resting on his chin.
"First thing in the morning, before my feet hit the floor," I answer. He's won this round, I'll finish making his point. Maybe his worst sin isn't wearing the woven yarn. Maybe it's being a wiseguy like the crumpled folks who sign the checks, though we wouldn't have it any other way. Some people only take to tough love and kidney shots. Defeat: It's the only way we learn.
But if this ugly mug's the face of an angel, what does that make him?
"Thanks," I say succinctly and let him lead the way. As usual he wastes no time, shoots from the hip like Doc Holiday.
"You've said some interesting things since we've started talking every week," he says from within his white cardigan as I shuffle my feet. "There's one image in particular that stays with me."
My curiosity is piqued. He knows when to appeal to my vanity. What could I have said that's remained in his mind for so long? He sees fifteen, twenty people each week, all with their own baggage to unload in his direction. There's a wealth of trite imagery to ponder. Was something I said so poignant that it escaped the yellow legal pad?-- the eternal resting place for most of his sob stories?
"Yeah?" I ask immodestly, clearly anticipating his reply.
I've yet to catch him lying. There'd be no reason. The letters after his surname don't require it. He's not in this for the money like some of the others, at least not entirely. He clears his throat and continues.
"That image of you driving by your father's house once in awhile to check up on him; specifically, the fact that you see the two rocking chairs on his porch and are happy for him even though he never told you he got remarried."
"Or had a son," I cut in, my feet now firmly planted to the thin, commercial grade carpet.
"Yes. Or that. But still you love him and want him to be happy. Even though he fell short you watch over him like a sad, defeated angel."
"Take it easy, doc," I say, a quick jab at his lack of a doctorate's to even the score for those last few adjectives he chose to apply to his description of my state. "The Old Man hasn't won just yet."
Through the door I hear his partner slam a file cabinet shut. The white noise machine in the hall is only so forgiving. I can't blame the man for his blunders, though-- not in those cheap, oversized suits he wears. He looks like a weasel swimming in polyester. I'm glad that my guy wears jeans, plaid, and loafers. The cardigan is his worst sin. I can live with that.
"Do you say that every day?" he asks, his fingers woven together, except for the indices resting on his chin.
"First thing in the morning, before my feet hit the floor," I answer. He's won this round, I'll finish making his point. Maybe his worst sin isn't wearing the woven yarn. Maybe it's being a wiseguy like the crumpled folks who sign the checks, though we wouldn't have it any other way. Some people only take to tough love and kidney shots. Defeat: It's the only way we learn.
But if this ugly mug's the face of an angel, what does that make him?
1.12.2011
Navajo nightmare
So we killed off the cab sav
started in on the shiraz
until the dozing Beast
succumbed to the curse
of narcoleptic statistics--
sent his purple-lipped cohort
a-stumbling down the street.
But before that secret sojourn
being careful not to slam doors
and wake the sleeping T-shirt
a multitude of myths were discussed
and left for dead--
the most pertinent being the existence
of a dashing young damsel still owning all her wits
and moreover plausibility
of her interest in a lush
while the words read wrong
or the wine did no justice
though it never does, never does
and I couldn't spell
Nez Perce.
(Not to disappoint
but he's not
fall-down drunk yet
and stopped the sieve
an hour ago
not intending to return.)
started in on the shiraz
until the dozing Beast
succumbed to the curse
of narcoleptic statistics--
sent his purple-lipped cohort
a-stumbling down the street.
But before that secret sojourn
being careful not to slam doors
and wake the sleeping T-shirt
a multitude of myths were discussed
and left for dead--
the most pertinent being the existence
of a dashing young damsel still owning all her wits
and moreover plausibility
of her interest in a lush
while the words read wrong
or the wine did no justice
though it never does, never does
and I couldn't spell
Nez Perce.
(Not to disappoint
but he's not
fall-down drunk yet
and stopped the sieve
an hour ago
not intending to return.)
1.11.2011
Arterial Masonry
And it never fails
to salt the slice
the calumny of time unraveled
for another loss, another leak
another gun behind you
like the rule that comes to mind
about a lost (when borrowed) lighter:
the one you get to take its place
is never half as full.
to salt the slice
the calumny of time unraveled
for another loss, another leak
another gun behind you
like the rule that comes to mind
about a lost (when borrowed) lighter:
the one you get to take its place
is never half as full.
1.07.2011
Scuttleship
"Shut up," she said in a caustic Verizon font. "The truth
doesn't hurt."
"It sure don't set you free, either,"
I responded, comma for good measure.
From the relative safety of my couch
I chewed gum like a cow
loudly like my father
in between the swigs.
But no amount of sips or shots could do it.
General Pompadour tried and failed to reach the drunk
to end all drunks, the face to end all names.
Oh yeah, motherlover. What's that they say
about the definition of insanity? Repeating
the same actions and expecting different outcomes?
It ended in belligerent fried chicken
and a confiscated pistol locked up in my safe
for the duration of the dance-off.
Sometimes we mere mortals
should feel lucky that the night ended at all.
And in all due fairness
who doesn't love
the sound
of their own voice?
doesn't hurt."
"It sure don't set you free, either,"
I responded, comma for good measure.
From the relative safety of my couch
I chewed gum like a cow
loudly like my father
in between the swigs.
But no amount of sips or shots could do it.
General Pompadour tried and failed to reach the drunk
to end all drunks, the face to end all names.
Oh yeah, motherlover. What's that they say
about the definition of insanity? Repeating
the same actions and expecting different outcomes?
It ended in belligerent fried chicken
and a confiscated pistol locked up in my safe
for the duration of the dance-off.
Sometimes we mere mortals
should feel lucky that the night ended at all.
And in all due fairness
who doesn't love
the sound
of their own voice?
Fame would ruin you, Prophet.
Five people chipped in
to buy me a new laptop for Christmas.
It's the most expensive gift I've ever received.
I'm still getting used to the flat keyboard
and trying to avoid grazing the mouse rectangle
with my thumbs while typing, sending the cursor
to previous paragraphs.
It sure is fancy and a hell of a lot faster
than the eight-year-old desktop dinosaur
("Dude, I got a Dell forever ago!")
that my mom gave me when I went away
to college.
But I, the lonely creature of habit that I am
still haven't turned that humming beast off yet.
The loud whir of the tower's dust-filled fan
helps sing me to sleep on nights such as this.
It'll take some time to wean myself off of the
comfort that the familiar drone's given me
for what feels like ages, and rightfully so.
It's hard to say goodbye, even when it's best.
I lay here in bed pecking away at this
contraption on my hairy belly, scroll back down
to where the words should be forming
and continue on my miser-merry way
(short i sound there, of course)
as I have a thousand times before.
This one's almost over; I can feel it.
One develops a sense for such things.
After I'm done here, done rambling for the day
like I'm promising myself to do more religiously
if for nothing but the sake of my lukewarm passion
I will shut this thing down and reach for the book
that a rare, true friend gave me as a belated Christmas
gift this evening. It's a book on famous writers
and their cocktails of choice. It's a book on two
of my favorite pasatiempos. It's a book with a sincere
inscription that I don't know you well enough to share.
And though the price is clearly printed on the dust jacket
it's the best damn gift I've received in as long
as this tired, jumbled mind can remember.
Thanks, Boss.
Don't let 'em get you down.
to buy me a new laptop for Christmas.
It's the most expensive gift I've ever received.
I'm still getting used to the flat keyboard
and trying to avoid grazing the mouse rectangle
with my thumbs while typing, sending the cursor
to previous paragraphs.
It sure is fancy and a hell of a lot faster
than the eight-year-old desktop dinosaur
("Dude, I got a Dell forever ago!")
that my mom gave me when I went away
to college.
But I, the lonely creature of habit that I am
still haven't turned that humming beast off yet.
The loud whir of the tower's dust-filled fan
helps sing me to sleep on nights such as this.
It'll take some time to wean myself off of the
comfort that the familiar drone's given me
for what feels like ages, and rightfully so.
It's hard to say goodbye, even when it's best.
I lay here in bed pecking away at this
contraption on my hairy belly, scroll back down
to where the words should be forming
and continue on my miser-merry way
(short i sound there, of course)
as I have a thousand times before.
This one's almost over; I can feel it.
One develops a sense for such things.
After I'm done here, done rambling for the day
like I'm promising myself to do more religiously
if for nothing but the sake of my lukewarm passion
I will shut this thing down and reach for the book
that a rare, true friend gave me as a belated Christmas
gift this evening. It's a book on famous writers
and their cocktails of choice. It's a book on two
of my favorite pasatiempos. It's a book with a sincere
inscription that I don't know you well enough to share.
And though the price is clearly printed on the dust jacket
it's the best damn gift I've received in as long
as this tired, jumbled mind can remember.
Thanks, Boss.
Don't let 'em get you down.
1.05.2011
The Brutal Truth on Telling Lies
Take it from
the schoolyard charismatics:
The brutal truth on telling lies.
But whatever you do
don't bury me in a cardigan.
We perpetuate stereotypes
and fall in love
with people thrilled
with a B+ on a Final.
Can you blame us
for our love of complacency?
I consider scratching myself
'cause it would feel good
and don't.
It's too easy and doesn't match the rest.
But then again
nothing does
quite nicely.
Long walks on the beach?
The sand burns my feet.
I'll wait right here for awhile.
the schoolyard charismatics:
The brutal truth on telling lies.
But whatever you do
don't bury me in a cardigan.
We perpetuate stereotypes
and fall in love
with people thrilled
with a B+ on a Final.
Can you blame us
for our love of complacency?
I consider scratching myself
'cause it would feel good
and don't.
It's too easy and doesn't match the rest.
But then again
nothing does
quite nicely.
Long walks on the beach?
The sand burns my feet.
I'll wait right here for awhile.
Shortstop
My current tormentor in the form of red tail lights slams on his brakes in an overzealous attempt to stop for the yellow light. Anyone with half a set would've gunned it. Such is not my luck tonight. It's been feeling like the middle third of a romantic comedy without the laugh track playing in the background to establish that it's all in fun and the ending will be a happy one. It's hard to imagine how any good can come sometimes, especially without the haunting laughs of that audience recorded in the fifties. They're long dead, but their cheer carries on to falsely console the masses. The circumstance I’ve gotten myself into is quite the opposite.
My right hand shoots over to the passenger seat in a motion so swift that it's strange to admit I'm not used to having precious cargo. There's a new laptop there tonight, though; a gift from five people which I can't risk having damaged. The cardboard box doesn’t slide an inch, never hits my palm-- a false alarm again. “Bitch,” I mutter at the driver ahead of me. “Coward,” I add, my knuckles whitening on the wheel. But it’s not the senile blue-hair in front of me to whom I’m referring anymore; it’s the man who gave me the Emergency Hand Auxiliary Seatbelt Brake-Slam Habit.
It happened frequently, often because he was distracted by a tangent about God. The brown-eyed boy beside him heard elevator music during most of these soapbox sermons, or tried to. His driving wasn’t the best to begin with. We were practically run off the road on numerous occasions. Angry motorists habitually passed us on the right while shaking fists in our direction. I sank into my seat and prayed to whatever God would listen to my pleas to disappear. The embarrassment and road rage were two more crosses I bore as a child in the name of the father and the Father. It got to be too much by age fifteen so I told them so; neither of them taking to it very well, both of them still punishing me for it.
But when the hand flew out across my unformed chest I knew I was cherished, if nothing else-- or maybe it was guilt that drove him. Regardless, it’s clear now decades later that despite all his efforts he couldn’t save me from the biggest threat to my safety: himself.
My right hand shoots over to the passenger seat in a motion so swift that it's strange to admit I'm not used to having precious cargo. There's a new laptop there tonight, though; a gift from five people which I can't risk having damaged. The cardboard box doesn’t slide an inch, never hits my palm-- a false alarm again. “Bitch,” I mutter at the driver ahead of me. “Coward,” I add, my knuckles whitening on the wheel. But it’s not the senile blue-hair in front of me to whom I’m referring anymore; it’s the man who gave me the Emergency Hand Auxiliary Seatbelt Brake-Slam Habit.
It happened frequently, often because he was distracted by a tangent about God. The brown-eyed boy beside him heard elevator music during most of these soapbox sermons, or tried to. His driving wasn’t the best to begin with. We were practically run off the road on numerous occasions. Angry motorists habitually passed us on the right while shaking fists in our direction. I sank into my seat and prayed to whatever God would listen to my pleas to disappear. The embarrassment and road rage were two more crosses I bore as a child in the name of the father and the Father. It got to be too much by age fifteen so I told them so; neither of them taking to it very well, both of them still punishing me for it.
But when the hand flew out across my unformed chest I knew I was cherished, if nothing else-- or maybe it was guilt that drove him. Regardless, it’s clear now decades later that despite all his efforts he couldn’t save me from the biggest threat to my safety: himself.
1.02.2011
Flapper
Actors have it.
Why not the rest of us?
As the scientists say:
"There's always been something,"
though they meant Matter
created nor destroyed
not a mental source
to conjure tears
crocodilian or otherwise.
First it was
my grandma dying--
not the one who's truly deceased;
the one who's just a shell of herself.
Then it dawned on me
that she's been gone from us
for years now
and the body's only trembling
the aftershocks of death
the way that hair and nails
keep growing in the coffin.
For awhile I'd think of an Ex.
(For awhile An was The.)
There was one specific image
one twinkle of the eye, one braided hairstyle
an orange backpack for the weekend
and more often than not
a tight red tanktop.
That always made 'em roll.
It took a lot of sex and whiskey
to dig myself so low--
low enough to see
that it was never meant to be
and sure not what I thought it was.
But now it's a kid on Riverside Drive in Manhattan.
The sun's shining, it's early Halloween 2010.
His mother's too busy on her cell phone
to pay him much attention
even though he's dressed for the occasion
in a masochistic bird costume
with a phallic protrusion sticking straight up
from his head. The beak's swallowing his face
and his smile's slightly forced.
He flaps his little brown wings
at my girlfriend and me as we walk by
en route to my truck
parked safely in accordance
with Street Cleaning Regulations.
We try not to laugh for his sake
until we're out of earshot.
He's dressed so ridiculously yet has no idea.
His family will use photos as blackmail
later on in life. That pointless cone
at the top of his head will haunt him forever
like the thought that I won't someday
get to play the same joke on my offspring.
"But he was so happy."
"I know. That's why it's sad."
That's what I think of if I need to now.
God, if that kid only knew.
Currently reading:
"The Valley of Light" by Terry Kay.
Why not the rest of us?
As the scientists say:
"There's always been something,"
though they meant Matter
created nor destroyed
not a mental source
to conjure tears
crocodilian or otherwise.
First it was
my grandma dying--
not the one who's truly deceased;
the one who's just a shell of herself.
Then it dawned on me
that she's been gone from us
for years now
and the body's only trembling
the aftershocks of death
the way that hair and nails
keep growing in the coffin.
For awhile I'd think of an Ex.
(For awhile An was The.)
There was one specific image
one twinkle of the eye, one braided hairstyle
an orange backpack for the weekend
and more often than not
a tight red tanktop.
That always made 'em roll.
It took a lot of sex and whiskey
to dig myself so low--
low enough to see
that it was never meant to be
and sure not what I thought it was.
But now it's a kid on Riverside Drive in Manhattan.
The sun's shining, it's early Halloween 2010.
His mother's too busy on her cell phone
to pay him much attention
even though he's dressed for the occasion
in a masochistic bird costume
with a phallic protrusion sticking straight up
from his head. The beak's swallowing his face
and his smile's slightly forced.
He flaps his little brown wings
at my girlfriend and me as we walk by
en route to my truck
parked safely in accordance
with Street Cleaning Regulations.
We try not to laugh for his sake
until we're out of earshot.
He's dressed so ridiculously yet has no idea.
His family will use photos as blackmail
later on in life. That pointless cone
at the top of his head will haunt him forever
like the thought that I won't someday
get to play the same joke on my offspring.
"But he was so happy."
"I know. That's why it's sad."
That's what I think of if I need to now.
God, if that kid only knew.
Currently reading:
"The Valley of Light" by Terry Kay.
12.21.2010
On Jealous Skies and Wedlock
Neither of us had watched the sun set
over a prison yard before, at least
not to my knowledge. That rare
first for both of us was enjoyed
from the safety of my truck
as we drove by in the crisp evening air.
"I love when the puddles turn to mirrors
before dark," she said. "The ground is
black, but the pools of water reflect
the colors and light from the sky."
She said it from a trance without peeling
her face from the window or uncraning her neck.
Her genuine appreciation of the sight
made her words that much more convincing
as did the fact that she didn't take the image
too far with some sappy simile about shiny
coins dropped from heaven or something similar.
I held the wheel straight and looked over
at the scene to make my own observation.
"Or where the warm colors meet the cool ones.
The red turns to orange turns to yellow turns
to green turns to blue turns to purple."
Like most things, it sounded better in my head
before I went and said it. Hers was more creative
more poetic, more expressive, more everything
that I envied and would never quite tap into--
a gift she had and didn't use, but one
that I would die for if it made my tries less trite.
"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly, still staring
at the skyline. "Something like that."
over a prison yard before, at least
not to my knowledge. That rare
first for both of us was enjoyed
from the safety of my truck
as we drove by in the crisp evening air.
"I love when the puddles turn to mirrors
before dark," she said. "The ground is
black, but the pools of water reflect
the colors and light from the sky."
She said it from a trance without peeling
her face from the window or uncraning her neck.
Her genuine appreciation of the sight
made her words that much more convincing
as did the fact that she didn't take the image
too far with some sappy simile about shiny
coins dropped from heaven or something similar.
I held the wheel straight and looked over
at the scene to make my own observation.
"Or where the warm colors meet the cool ones.
The red turns to orange turns to yellow turns
to green turns to blue turns to purple."
Like most things, it sounded better in my head
before I went and said it. Hers was more creative
more poetic, more expressive, more everything
that I envied and would never quite tap into--
a gift she had and didn't use, but one
that I would die for if it made my tries less trite.
"Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly, still staring
at the skyline. "Something like that."
12.18.2010
When the Movement Loses Sight
The waiting room is not
entirely uninviting.
When the obnoxious
atmospheric music
gets too be too much
the stereo's within arm's reach
and easily turned down
or in my case, off.
It's clear that the bathroom's
cleaned once a week
whether it needs it or not
and there's a can
of aerosol air freshener in there.
Plush pillows line the couch
and the lighting's just right
for whatever book's been riding
in the back pocket of my jeans.
But the thing I can't stand is the sign:
"Behind every successful woman is herself."
And it's not that I don't think
that there are slick women out there.
Hell, I've been trumped by a handful
that could take over the world
one life at a time if they'd only apply themselves better.
Their combined force is too frightening to fathom.
It's that even the worst of the chauvinist pigs--
the Bukowskis, the Hemingways, even the
shock-jock Sterns-- can admit that they were
only alive and well and had something to write home about
because of the undeserved love of some
gracious woman too strong to be defeated by their flaws.
So why then, I ask, do the over-liberated feminists
choose not to go the same humble route
by making and hanging signs such as this one?
It's the equivalent of saying "Not bad, for a girl."
Are the goose and the gander no longer equal?
Last time I checked that's what they wanted.
Somewhere along the way it went sour.
So I sit and I stew and read my damn book
and wait forty-five minutes to be beautifully reminded
yet again that like most men far greater than myself
I'll always be wrong when the fairer sex is concerned.
As long as we know and accept this fact
the world won't slip off its axis.
"Yes, dear. I'm coming."
entirely uninviting.
When the obnoxious
atmospheric music
gets too be too much
the stereo's within arm's reach
and easily turned down
or in my case, off.
It's clear that the bathroom's
cleaned once a week
whether it needs it or not
and there's a can
of aerosol air freshener in there.
Plush pillows line the couch
and the lighting's just right
for whatever book's been riding
in the back pocket of my jeans.
But the thing I can't stand is the sign:
"Behind every successful woman is herself."
And it's not that I don't think
that there are slick women out there.
Hell, I've been trumped by a handful
that could take over the world
one life at a time if they'd only apply themselves better.
Their combined force is too frightening to fathom.
It's that even the worst of the chauvinist pigs--
the Bukowskis, the Hemingways, even the
shock-jock Sterns-- can admit that they were
only alive and well and had something to write home about
because of the undeserved love of some
gracious woman too strong to be defeated by their flaws.
So why then, I ask, do the over-liberated feminists
choose not to go the same humble route
by making and hanging signs such as this one?
It's the equivalent of saying "Not bad, for a girl."
Are the goose and the gander no longer equal?
Last time I checked that's what they wanted.
Somewhere along the way it went sour.
So I sit and I stew and read my damn book
and wait forty-five minutes to be beautifully reminded
yet again that like most men far greater than myself
I'll always be wrong when the fairer sex is concerned.
As long as we know and accept this fact
the world won't slip off its axis.
"Yes, dear. I'm coming."
12.17.2010
Duality of a Strange Custom
I remember as a child
hearing what they did before a funeral
for the first time and wondering
what the point could be.
It seemed bizarre and foreign.
Seven-year-olds have enough to worry about
without nightmares of the dead.
Where's the term 'wake' come from
in reference to the viewing of the deceased?
Certainly the concerned party
(or should I say 'no longer concerned'?)
won't be jolting back to life
which leaves two other options:
Is the poorly made-up face, wired jaw
and waxy complexion supposed to awaken us
to the fragility of life?
Or do they mean that something's passed
something's gone, someone's not coming back
like the wave behind a boat that rides out
'til it's flattened and one with the sea again?
It's up for debate
though I suppose no one
but my bruised alter ego
will waste time in contemplation.
The one certain fact
is that mine will be
a closed-casket affair
if not for one reason
then for a host of many others.
They won't get the last word with me, pal.
It's hard to hear through pine.
hearing what they did before a funeral
for the first time and wondering
what the point could be.
It seemed bizarre and foreign.
Seven-year-olds have enough to worry about
without nightmares of the dead.
Where's the term 'wake' come from
in reference to the viewing of the deceased?
Certainly the concerned party
(or should I say 'no longer concerned'?)
won't be jolting back to life
which leaves two other options:
Is the poorly made-up face, wired jaw
and waxy complexion supposed to awaken us
to the fragility of life?
Or do they mean that something's passed
something's gone, someone's not coming back
like the wave behind a boat that rides out
'til it's flattened and one with the sea again?
It's up for debate
though I suppose no one
but my bruised alter ego
will waste time in contemplation.
The one certain fact
is that mine will be
a closed-casket affair
if not for one reason
then for a host of many others.
They won't get the last word with me, pal.
It's hard to hear through pine.
12.16.2010
non-quitter, non-spitter
The same cologne's been mocking me
for thirteen years and counting
calling me a fool to think
it'll ever stop that stench.
Putrid comes to mind
and the nostrils of the players.
Who could blame them for the face?
I know the look because I've given it.
I know the trend because I started it
or at least made it explode.
And what of your list of Good Intentions?
It's a float soon forgotten
in the Macy's Day Parade.
So aside from Polo Sport bottles
Chinese food fortunes have piled up
in my room since high school
with the stubborn hope
that one of them is mine.
And I tell ye, brothers
that the man who fails is the man without a system
though more often than not
it's the man whose system
does not allow for change.
I've had my shirt picked out since Tuesday.
Bear with me, I'm a pisces.
The forked tongue that you notice
is the product of erosion:
It's not the asp that stung them;
it's the reason that they came.
for thirteen years and counting
calling me a fool to think
it'll ever stop that stench.
Putrid comes to mind
and the nostrils of the players.
Who could blame them for the face?
I know the look because I've given it.
I know the trend because I started it
or at least made it explode.
And what of your list of Good Intentions?
It's a float soon forgotten
in the Macy's Day Parade.
So aside from Polo Sport bottles
Chinese food fortunes have piled up
in my room since high school
with the stubborn hope
that one of them is mine.
And I tell ye, brothers
that the man who fails is the man without a system
though more often than not
it's the man whose system
does not allow for change.
I've had my shirt picked out since Tuesday.
Bear with me, I'm a pisces.
The forked tongue that you notice
is the product of erosion:
It's not the asp that stung them;
it's the reason that they came.
dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot
There, right there
the little bugger is:
stuck on my neighbor's roof
meowing away in vain.
The morning sun can't save it
as its paws slide along the ice
kicking and clawing at a pine cone
that finally falls off the edge.
There are no firemen coming
like they do on the TV shows.
Those guys are drunk down at
the station, an excuse to not be home.
I consider knocking on
the neighbor's front door
to alert her of the problem
but decide against it
since we've never spoken
and I'm convinced she's the one
who put her old man in the ground last year.
He and I only met a handful of times
mostly with no memorable exchange
but he seemed like an alright fellow;
alright enough, at least, that his rotting
Caddies in the driveway anger me
as sacrilege, a blasphemy against the dead.
Besides, the cat will find its way down
off that roof. It got itself into that mess;
it can make its way out.
Suddenly, as if it heard me thinking
the feline looks over and sees me through
my eighteen-by-thirty-two window
(I just measured that. Somehow it seemed important.)
for a full five seconds of simpatico bliss.
I sip my coffee and stare right back.
"Make your move, kitten. The world's your rotten oyster."
A few moments later it climbs down the tree
claws dug in for dear life, winter wind whipping its back.
One three-foot leap and its back on the ground.
Another false alarm, another bullet dodged.
Maybe we should stop tampering with the gods.
And there's further proof that we're all doomed:
the ones with dirty titles turn a lot more heads.
the little bugger is:
stuck on my neighbor's roof
meowing away in vain.
The morning sun can't save it
as its paws slide along the ice
kicking and clawing at a pine cone
that finally falls off the edge.
There are no firemen coming
like they do on the TV shows.
Those guys are drunk down at
the station, an excuse to not be home.
I consider knocking on
the neighbor's front door
to alert her of the problem
but decide against it
since we've never spoken
and I'm convinced she's the one
who put her old man in the ground last year.
He and I only met a handful of times
mostly with no memorable exchange
but he seemed like an alright fellow;
alright enough, at least, that his rotting
Caddies in the driveway anger me
as sacrilege, a blasphemy against the dead.
Besides, the cat will find its way down
off that roof. It got itself into that mess;
it can make its way out.
Suddenly, as if it heard me thinking
the feline looks over and sees me through
my eighteen-by-thirty-two window
(I just measured that. Somehow it seemed important.)
for a full five seconds of simpatico bliss.
I sip my coffee and stare right back.
"Make your move, kitten. The world's your rotten oyster."
A few moments later it climbs down the tree
claws dug in for dear life, winter wind whipping its back.
One three-foot leap and its back on the ground.
Another false alarm, another bullet dodged.
Maybe we should stop tampering with the gods.
And there's further proof that we're all doomed:
the ones with dirty titles turn a lot more heads.
12.14.2010
Ask a hooker how lonely Tuesday night can get.
And oh how quickly
life can go
from the jetfuel rush
of not knowing
she's a bottle blonde
until you get her pants off
to the humbling realization
that you've stomped upstairs
after a shower so long
that the hot water ran out
and you had to scrub your own back
for lack of better company
only to realize in your dresser mirror
that you forgot to rinse out
the conditioner again.
But it's not so bad.
I aged her with my eyes.
life can go
from the jetfuel rush
of not knowing
she's a bottle blonde
until you get her pants off
to the humbling realization
that you've stomped upstairs
after a shower so long
that the hot water ran out
and you had to scrub your own back
for lack of better company
only to realize in your dresser mirror
that you forgot to rinse out
the conditioner again.
But it's not so bad.
I aged her with my eyes.
12.12.2010
How It Almost Happened.
"You sound down," she told him.
"No lower than usual," he lied.
They'd known each other for ten years; knew the jabs and the counters; expected them even, or else something felt wrong.
"Let me amuse you with my latest failure," she pressed on. "You'll laugh and say you told me so."
He waited for what part of him expected to hear: the part that always assumed the worst, that knew that people don't change as much as they'd have you think otherwise.
"I'll do no such thing, but continue," he replied, crossing the fingers of his mind.
"I moved in with Brandon," she said as though dropping a predictable bomb of self-abasement, "for three weeks. Then he told me he couldn't be with me again, that I had to get it together. I got a bill for twenty-days' rent and utilities in his handwriting a week later." She waited for the laugh that wasn't coming. Even the cynics cringe at friends' failures.
His eyes narrowed in familiar sympathy. The road they'd known too well was upon them. "I'm sorry to hear that. He stopped deserving you a long time ago, Shayla," adding her name for emphasis. He almost hadn't done it at first for fear of it sounding too forced. Something else prevailed, though-- some opposite of pride.
"But I still believe in karma," she proclaimed with lifted spirits. "He was hospitalized right afterwards for an infected spider bite."
"Strange," he said. "The same thing happened to Melanie when she left me four years ago."
They paused to absorb the irony. It filled their souls like manna from hell.
"So do you want to meet for coffee?"
"No."
"Me neither."
And they went about their days comfortable with the knowledge that the other was still alive, still the same, and as shameless as clockwork for varying reasons.
"No lower than usual," he lied.
They'd known each other for ten years; knew the jabs and the counters; expected them even, or else something felt wrong.
"Let me amuse you with my latest failure," she pressed on. "You'll laugh and say you told me so."
He waited for what part of him expected to hear: the part that always assumed the worst, that knew that people don't change as much as they'd have you think otherwise.
"I'll do no such thing, but continue," he replied, crossing the fingers of his mind.
"I moved in with Brandon," she said as though dropping a predictable bomb of self-abasement, "for three weeks. Then he told me he couldn't be with me again, that I had to get it together. I got a bill for twenty-days' rent and utilities in his handwriting a week later." She waited for the laugh that wasn't coming. Even the cynics cringe at friends' failures.
His eyes narrowed in familiar sympathy. The road they'd known too well was upon them. "I'm sorry to hear that. He stopped deserving you a long time ago, Shayla," adding her name for emphasis. He almost hadn't done it at first for fear of it sounding too forced. Something else prevailed, though-- some opposite of pride.
"But I still believe in karma," she proclaimed with lifted spirits. "He was hospitalized right afterwards for an infected spider bite."
"Strange," he said. "The same thing happened to Melanie when she left me four years ago."
They paused to absorb the irony. It filled their souls like manna from hell.
"So do you want to meet for coffee?"
"No."
"Me neither."
And they went about their days comfortable with the knowledge that the other was still alive, still the same, and as shameless as clockwork for varying reasons.
12.10.2010
Sweet as cunt so tight it hasn't bled yet.
"Not my brother
not my sister
but me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my cousin
not my uncle
but me
Oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my friends
and not my neighbors
but me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my father
not my mother
but me
Oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
(Hallelujah.)
It's me
it's me
it's me
Oh Lord
standing in the need..."
And they wonder why
a child raised with songs like this
develops a co-dependent guilt complex.
But thank God
for His omniscient hand
in the invention of the counter
which has found its way
into every diner worth its coffee.
Even the misanthropic
have not gone forgotten
in the eyes of our Holy Maker
and can read the paper in peace
without the shame of an empty seat
across a greasy table.
That place for any and all
drifters to sit is the last resort
of many; no foul-play involved.
And when the waiters started running
it's only left to ask:
Who was the first to set the new standard?
(The answer's as simple as the song.)
The one who stood in need.
not my sister
but me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my cousin
not my uncle
but me
Oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my friends
and not my neighbors
but me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
Not my father
not my mother
but me
Oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord
standing in the need of prayer.
(Hallelujah.)
It's me
it's me
it's me
Oh Lord
standing in the need..."
And they wonder why
a child raised with songs like this
develops a co-dependent guilt complex.
But thank God
for His omniscient hand
in the invention of the counter
which has found its way
into every diner worth its coffee.
Even the misanthropic
have not gone forgotten
in the eyes of our Holy Maker
and can read the paper in peace
without the shame of an empty seat
across a greasy table.
That place for any and all
drifters to sit is the last resort
of many; no foul-play involved.
And when the waiters started running
it's only left to ask:
Who was the first to set the new standard?
(The answer's as simple as the song.)
The one who stood in need.
12.06.2010
Lights from a Fort Lee Love-Seat
Traffic up the West Side
shows no signs of dwindling down
as I sit and watch from a safe vantage point
high above the Hudson. It's a party
I guess, but I'm ready for bed
and Lady Death's overdue cousin.
Down towards Brooklyn
I focus on a single yellow light, one of many
in a flat stretch flickering.
And that's all that life looks like
from this far away, from a crowded Jersey
high-rise apartment where tonight
I'd rather not be.
Not tonight.
They're on and off and each one is five people
or twenty, or thirty, or none--
just a mirage. And when one finally dies
they all may leave, or maybe, if two are lucky
they've remained. Staying is the hardest part:
even for the stubborn; especially for the lonely.
A brat with no manners pulls a quarter from my nose
as I sit and sip my cocktail
painfully still the same. The ice has melted
and the crushed lime's gone bitter.
It takes a man to make me a drink anymore
though women are usually the reason.
I look for my light and find it again.
The kid points at my face
telling me not to move a muscle.
For once in my life it's easy to comply.
I'm no rock. I'm no island.
Manhattan is a cemetery
that I'll have to visit again sometime
if only out of respect.
Currently reading:
"Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army" by Jeremy Scahill.
shows no signs of dwindling down
as I sit and watch from a safe vantage point
high above the Hudson. It's a party
I guess, but I'm ready for bed
and Lady Death's overdue cousin.
Down towards Brooklyn
I focus on a single yellow light, one of many
in a flat stretch flickering.
And that's all that life looks like
from this far away, from a crowded Jersey
high-rise apartment where tonight
I'd rather not be.
Not tonight.
They're on and off and each one is five people
or twenty, or thirty, or none--
just a mirage. And when one finally dies
they all may leave, or maybe, if two are lucky
they've remained. Staying is the hardest part:
even for the stubborn; especially for the lonely.
A brat with no manners pulls a quarter from my nose
as I sit and sip my cocktail
painfully still the same. The ice has melted
and the crushed lime's gone bitter.
It takes a man to make me a drink anymore
though women are usually the reason.
I look for my light and find it again.
The kid points at my face
telling me not to move a muscle.
For once in my life it's easy to comply.
I'm no rock. I'm no island.
Manhattan is a cemetery
that I'll have to visit again sometime
if only out of respect.
Currently reading:
"Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army" by Jeremy Scahill.
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