On the Ropes

If you're waiting
watching, writhing
from a distance
now's the time
to make your move
while there's still something left.

I'm very good at pouring gin
down my open throat
and making a name for myself
in a town too small to tolerate
like closed-mouth kissing
or a crooked half-Windsor.

I see you through my blindfold
with my shoulders to the wall.
The firing line of women
casually loading rifles
has you there among them
though your eyes don't look the same.

I wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.
The French call it
"the little death".
Tell me, are they wrong?


Currently reading:
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson.

Blunderbuss (for One-in-Four of You)

The bastard poured nails
down the barrel of his musket.
Now we're taking turns
tugging iron from our backs.

Remember the farmer
who defended his orchard
with rock salt shotshells
that stung without killing?
We didn't steal apples
from that corn-fed sadist.
His daughters would call
when they needed to scratch.

Daddy was jealous.
He used to get his
there in the hay
with gin on his breath.
No decent member
of Wilmington Parish
would believe little girls
with such faded dresses.

It went on for years
until that marked night
that we hopped the wrong fence
and heard signs of struggle.
We wish now we hadn't.
The sight was obscene.
He left her there bleeding
like it wasn't his blood.
You walked to Barstow
and left us to trample
what years of hurt silence
had built in her head.

The following week
we both met her sister.
The four of us dated
a month's worth of summers.
Then they shut down.
The damage was done.
Bruised, like sore apples
but no good for cider.
Their lovers won't be
in the fruit business, either.
The lists will grow long.
We've seen this before.

Remember the women
we both could've rescued
had sickened misfortune
not trifled instead?

Who are you kidding?
We needed our taming.
Now pass me that rifle.
I hear the police.

The Brood of Lucky '13

The next time the cicadas come
I'll be 46, with:
a mortgage or a hovel full of empties;
a woman brave enough to try it
or disproportionate arms;
kids, or more abortions
(more abortions, more abortions);
another list of the right people
I met at the wrong times.

Burrow back down your holes, bugs
and take your pressures with you.

I won't miss your humming
thrumming, buzzing
through my fumblings.
When the wind and rain
knock your vile remnants
from the tree bark
my pity will be elsewhere:

Seventeen more blinks.



Currently reading:
"Stalking Is A Contact Sport" by Fred Seton.

Rebound Blues (A Minor)

You don't want to be with me.
You want to be with someone.

You don't know the smells
that I emit when deep in sleep
or how my semen tastes
if I've been drinking too much coffee.

That habit I have of throwing clipped nails
between the wall and furniture
has yet to grate your nerves.

My transparency's still endearing.
The words can't come fast enough.

You don't hate my father for making me this way.
You're just glad he's back.
The kid's an added bonus.

The passages I've highlighted
in my attempt to find the answers
from the dead who line my bookshelves
haven't made you cringe.

My mother's silent threat
hasn't burned into your retinas.

Long Island remains a pleasant place
without me on its Tea.

And then I'll ask for sodomy
to make my birthday special.

You don't want to be with me.
You want to be with someone.
Thankfully
for both of us
I'm too punch-drunk to care.

Maybe There's a Tenth

Mickey went home last night. The first time we met she asked me to stay over, the wine as an excuse to avoid the drive, so long as we both agreed to keep hormones at bay. We did. It felt right. When I walked to my car the next morning, dress shirt slung over my shoulder, I swore there was an invisible force-field blocking all negative rays.

Last week she had me for dinner on a Wednesday and I didn't leave until Friday. She offered the invitation for Night 2 before lunch Thursday morning to alleviate the confusion of wondering, generous soul that she is. But last night, after a trip to the theater to see the cinematic telling of the most poignant pining novel of love, loss, redemption, and more loss, she gathered her things and left.

"I need space," was her rebuttal to the silent agony on my face. "Take as much time as necessary," I lied. When a man like me feels rejected he builds walls around his heart. I don't want time to do that. The risk here is too great. If only I hadn't asked her that presumptuous question two nights ago. If only I'd kept my suffering my own. Movie film is not the only thing projected. Try as we might, we carry our pasts.

It's been a hell of a morning: rolling in the sheets I changed before her arrival, wishing she'd left her scent in them, trying not to think of what this backward trend means, begging the cardiac masons inside my chest to stall as long as possible. The phone rang once between my dreams of the George Washington Bridge and my first car accident. It was a coworker, probably inviting me to a barbecue since today is one of those summertime holidays reserved for empty calories and socially acceptable alcoholism. I didn't answer.

I turned my phone on Silent Mode to avoid any further disturbances. I'd slept with the volume raised in case she changed her mind. Never turn it off, you'll seem unavailable. A lot is said by the status of a cell phone. "Here I am," or "I'm not here," or "Look at how pathetic I've become." The answers to all never matter. Only a prisoner of his own skull would dig that deep for meaning. I'm a writer by trade, a builder of rooftops to pay the bills. A man who tries to sell words as his own has to do his share of excavation in the mundane. Mickey loves that about me. Now, however, she's seeing its danger-- or she would be, if she'd felt comfortable enough to stay last night.

"The total package," her friend called me once during a conversation that spilled its way into ours in that gracious way reserved for winning affection through disclosure. Mickey was describing her newfound beau to her lifelong friend and confidante, suddenly teary-eyed, when the compliment came. What they often forget to acknowledge, however, is that these "total packages" tend to come with baggage. How can one expect it all without the addition of some caveats? The wheat is not so separate from the chaff. Character's built through fire, but it tends to leave some scars. Mine pop out at the worst possible moments-- like three in the morning, lying in bed with a tongue loosened by alcohol, a truth too honest to tell as the culprit.

I fight the urge to call her as best I can for a few hours. It's a tragic battle between What's Right For Me and What's Right For Us. That's what they don't say in the handbook: the transition from self-preservation to nurturing a bond is as bloody as birth and not as successful. Finally, and with heavy hands, my destiny can't wait. Her phone rings four times and I'm about to abort before the voicemail recording, but then her tired rasp greets me hesitantly.

"Good morning, Dave."

"Good morning, Mickey."

There wasn't enough time between dialing and speaking to compose more of an approach. I stare at the left half of my bed where she should be right now and go all in. My words can't penetrate that rare skull thicker than mine so I aim for the ribcage instead.

"The cat's dead."

"What?"

"That's why I called. I found him this morning, and..."

"Oh my God. Honey, I'm so sorry. I'll be right over."

"Are you sure?" I ask, faking humble reservation. "I know you said you needed some time."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a woman with rules, but I'm not cruel. You sound terrible."

She's not inaccurate. I do sound terrible, though not because of the alleged death of any pets. I sound terrible because of her, because of her absence, because of what I've equated that to in my mind after years of being abandoned by the ones who've mattered in my life. Mostly, I sound terrible because I am. And I'm not going to make a liar out of either of us.

"See you in a bit, babe," she assures me.

"OK," I say before she hangs up.

It takes only a small amount of convincing to rouse myself from the sheets in search of the cat. It never liked me anyway. It's probably hiding under the couch as usual. A jacket and gloves will protect me from the scratches. My illness will distance me from the shame. Nothing, short of God, will protect its fragile neck from the beckoning of my need for love.

We learned more in kindergarten than the sum of what came after.

Some kids pissed their pants for attention.

I used to sit there and not say a word.

Teachers call home for the latter.

Pant

She was there.
Waiting for me.
Without knowing it.
Making strides through the dark.
Expertly. Silently. Crafting the mold.
From the cloth we would share.

There I was.
Thrashing blindly in the night.
Against what seemed unfair.
But was only the ricochet.
Of a life once lived too boldly.

When away went a spider.
Replaced by a scalpel.
That would let us cut chapters.
Clean out, like cancers.

There we were.

Here we are.
Now groping at the other's face.
To confirm what seems unlikely.
Still in the black.
But seeing a vision.
That others ignored.
Mercilessly. Thankfully.

Now no one flick the switch.

The Eulogy Fabrication Department

Jacob wrestled with his angel.
I've been sparring 'gainst myself.
So far it's a draw.
There's a dentist taking bets.

And every laugh
she can't hold back
is a testament
to this madman's right
to continue.

One day I'll be
the model I think I am.

Necessary Evils: A Penis Upon Us

It's coined in cuprous saliva
and foiled by caffeine
but the notion
remains the same:
a Freudian slit indeed.

"I'm a passing dream
that makes sense
once in awhile,"
should've been my last words
though they weren't.

With nothing scripted
it's tough to play Bogart
especially without
the smoking indoors.

Gas station roses
and pharmacy cards
will have to suffice
for the rendezvous.
Some nights I envy all of you
until I remember:
you're faking it, too.

It's like when you drive so far
that road names and townships
from your realm are repeated.

It's like when your best friends
are headstones.
What would Doc Holliday do?

He'd make more.

Flagrante Delicto

There's a floral arrangement
on the glass coffee table
in my attorney's waiting room
that resembles something
from that dated cartoon movie
with the wizard-mouse
I never liked.
I want to flick ashes
in the bulbous cups of the flowers
but they'd have me out of here
in cuffs if I even finger-fucked
the Bic in the left pocket of my Levi's.
My copy of "Papillon" laughs from my lap.

"Excuse me. Mr. Vargas?" interrupts the receptionist.
"Anthony will see you now."
She leaves off his greasy Italian surname
possibly an Esquire at the end
for the sake of making me feel comfortable.
I'm anything but.
Their charade isn't helping.
I know an act when I see one.
That's why I'm here in the first place.

His office is on the third floor
of a recently renovated walk-up.
I'm winded by the time I find
his glass paneled door
and enter to the smell
of fresh paint and new carpet.
Crime pays his bills
and business is booming.

I land my ass in one of two
leather chairs, positive that they're real.
Naturally, he's shaken my hand
before a word has a chance to escape.
"How are you, David?" he asks
knowing the answer.
"That's understandable," he replies
to my face's response.
It boils my balls to see how easily
I fall into the script these people
have spent years perfecting.
Sharks are born swimming, alright.

I can't beat myself up
but I could've thrown it back at him
by informing this leech
that sex doesn't feel good anymore
and I want to invest
in people.
There are stories about fuck-sweat
and disco tears that'd have his Guinea ass
scrambling for holy water.
But I spare him and break silent wind
in his expensive leather chair instead
hoping that it reaches his nostrils.

We go over the case.
He embellishes for what he thinks
is my benefit.
"It's happened to all of us,"
when clearly it hasn't.
The best of us, maybe
but not the whole lot.
I can feel salty beads forming
on my forehead.
The oscillating fan on the corner of his desk
must've quit turning years ago.
It's focused on him.

"Is it hot in here?" he strategically asks
seeing the sweat about to run down my brow.
His designer shirt doesn't lose a crease
as he opens the window behind his desk.
I almost acknowledge the lovely view
since a brick building faces us
from across the three-foot alleyway
but decide that he's not worth
my brand of jaundiced humor.
I'm well aware that he wasn't warm
and when I suggest we kill the radio playing
to eliminate any distractions
he looks at me like I've never
had two women in the course
of the same Friday night.
Still, he wants my vote of confidence
since that's the key to funding
his shameful operation:
the converted tenement, the student loans
represented by calligraphed degrees
hanging on four walls, the sleazy secretary
doing her nails downstairs
between sadistic billing sessions.

"Women like bad boys, Dave,"
he reminds me, managing to add
clairvoyance to his list of credentials.
"Men take broken bones
better than broken pride.
They didn't hang Him there all that time
merely to drain the life out of Him."
I cringe at this, though not for
its borderline blasphemy.
There's a degree of sympathy owed
from one potential convict
to the most famous One in history.
Hopefully my tale won't end as poetically.
It unsettles me to think that my fate's
in this man's hands as opposed to some Creator's.
Mythology went to the curb with
the old reel-to-reels my mother
tossed in a box for the trash man.

He skillyfully leaves the question of numbers
to me, furthering his act of sincerity.
"Retaining the firm," he calls it
but we both know it's, "Buying your freedom."
"That's our flat rate," he says in the Royal We
"whether we appear one time or twenty--
short of going to trial, of course."
His offer to appear makes me think
of that big-eared cartoon mouse
in the pointy sorcerer's hat again
this time with the face
of this olive skinned extortionist.

"Of course," I repeat sardonically.
"And here I was worrying that everything
I've heard about you people was true."
"It is, and then some," he responds
with a smile that has perjured the jury before.

I sign a name that looks nothing like mine
glancing around the room for a razor
with which to expedite the process
through opening a vein.

He's won this bout
like I prevailed in the one that got me here.
Eight years ago that beer bottle broke my nose
for the debut defeat, but there have been
a few shots at redemption for that scar.

Retire a champ.
Go out on top.
Do what it is that makes you happy
and keeps a good woman corralled.
But retire.

Blaspheme's Sabbath

Oh foolish child-- Every time you're blessed with sunsine you thank the recently deceased. By that logic, when it storms will you blame them for not protecting you from the deluge? Is the burn of every scorn you've tasted the fault of some supernatural power? How long will it be until you allow yourself to heal? Come to the only conclusion:  the weather is the weather, regardless of you or any superstition you've created to cope with loss and the question of being. Don't mistake coincidence and science for angels. Neither of them care for you. Neither of them sacrifice.

The world owes you nothing; it was here first. Trying to make sense of it will only leave you betrayed, confused, and vulnerable. Accept the inevitable and save the ache of undue suffering. We are placed here to do good for whatever roll of Time's dice we pull. We are blessed with the company of sacred souls and cursed by the presence of others. Still, we persevere. Don't make it to be more than the brief inning that it is. You'll get your chance at the plate. When you're gone what will they say? Nothing, if you're lucky. May the last one out close the door.

Now fetch me my sandals and call off the disciples. I've got work to do today. There's a load to be carried. There's a weight you can't bear. Did I lead you to believe that these weary eyes are speckless? Oh foolish child-- You've got so much to teach me.

Jinxed By Reading 'Papillon'

The lighting caught
his left arm perfectly
to show the weathered scars
I'd never expect to see there.
Another righty
but one who lacked ambition.
Down the road, not across the street.
I suppose I should be grateful.
Dead men tell no tales.

But I shoot looks at my wrist
when there's no watch upon it
and I've been glancing at the wall
where the clock stopped last week.
There's a dog in that car
with the windows closed tightly
and a dancer of sorts
has taken a liking
to a man who's had his shelves and safe emptied
by clowns with dull badges
and no sense of humor.

There are tramps and trollops
mice and mere men
none of whom can explain what to do
with this drawer full of cardigans
and bobby pins left like landmines.

A man on a megaphone
is screaming nothing
but saying it well
while girls in stirrups
claim their own fates.

You take the north side.
I'll watch the south.
Friends save judgment
for after the barrage.
Never again
will I turn myself in
on my kid brother's birthday.
My laughter has limits.

Snarl

Beware, the Toecutter
that dastardly fiend
who's sworn to his seekers
they're wasting their time.
He's honed and he's crafty.
His madness makes sense.
Believe his threats.
They won't take him alive.

The mistake that was made
presuming your safety
will get your name on the list
of his mates.
Jack and his ripping
through dainty old London
pale when compared
to crime in the States.

The rumors you've heard
on the buses are true.
Most of them stop
at the coroner's door.
The Chief was seen sobbing.
The rookies called wives.
The Toecutter's signature
shows no remorse.

He sings with his shears.
They've never been sharpened.
There's rust and there's blood
and some patches of hair.
Learn, if you must, where he
worships his treasures.
I can't inform you.
I've never been there.

Rube Goldberg

You can talk to me if
you've got "surrender @ nine on Friday"
as a legitimate line
on your to-do list
and you mean
to the police--
Assault in the Third, a misdemeanor
but still.

There were times when you
would laugh it off
with a huge vat of bourbon on hand
but now it's not so funny
that you haven't put pants on
or seen someone's face today
and won't.
You'll just suck 'til it numbs you.

With biceps too thin
for the width of your shoulders
and gonads too small
for the size of your mouth--
who will be the one who claims you?
Who will choose to leave them out?

You know what's wrong with me
but refuse to share the news.
For shame.
For shame, with your cool million.
For humming like a heroin hooker.
For needing some fuzz on the peach
to come.
For shame.

I've loved all of you
despite your forgetfulness.
Somehow, I still do.

road dog digest

road dog digest, vol. XXIX:
they had my check waiting as soon as i got there. my partner decided that he didn't want to suffer the night without me and came along as a true union brother does. besides, i drove both of us to work and he'd rather walk than hitch a ride with certain others. "dragging up", as they call it, has an air of defiance that makes the ride home sweeter. let the clueless foreman and the blue-hair with eight fingers handle the last shift alone. my accomplice and i have five I's in our names between the two of us. the hypothetical team can go to shambles for all we care at this point after how we've been treated.
packing didn't take long. i threw my life into the back of my truck and sucked down two yuenglings, which may or may not come from america's oldest brewery. the four-hour ride will be rough on two hours sleep, but this wanderer's thirst for the familiar will keep his eyelids raised.
i wish i could say it's been as great as an experience as last year's nuclear debacle, but it hasn't. i won't start lying to you this late in the game. regardless, it's been real. lessons learned, bonds hardened, radiation absorbed, money made, and home sounds that much better. i hope ya'll didn't spend too much on the fireworks for my welcoming gala. i'll try not to scuff the red carpet since i know it's a rental. the rabbit will be pissed that i chose to show my face again. in lieu of pity sex, please donate to your favorite charity in the name of joshua james vahsen. it's too late for this old salt, but my little brother could use a running start in the karma department. there's a tough world out there should you choose to see it. some of us take that risk to make a buck.
road dog, signing out.
see you on the next big one.
[exit mouthpiece, stage left. fade to black as the orchestra dies.]
----
road dog digest, vol. XXVIII:
jesus christ, i missed session drinking. the sad parts are that: (a)my tolerance has been lowered due to work-related alcoholic inactivity as demonstrated by the fact that i was talking to myself before the first bottle of wine was drained, and (b)there is no (b), unless you'd like to count the constant which consists mostly of your jester's solitude coupled with the humor he uses to cover up the associated grief. regardless, the bottle of brew is warming against my side as i type this between sips. it feels more like home than most of the people who've let me inside them. i suppose that isn't saying much so i'll move on under the guise of ossified ineptitude. sorry, ladies. you whack.
my ball-busting brother just called me at 4:45 in the morning to inform me that two more members of our crew got the axe tonight. that means there are only three of us left. we all want that blade to drop. the fact that the foreman knows that makes it all the more frustrating. get us our fucking checks already. no one wants your blood money anymore. the gig is up, the jig is up. fuck the pain away. at least tomorrow is my double-time night. they can eat my ass with a nuclear spork for all i care after that.
one thing i won't miss: having to wear scrubs on the job. the irony involved in my previous psychotic irish-german nursing endeavors becomes too extreme after the first week of said uniform. those broads would be laughing their hypothetical nuts off if they knew i had to dress like them on a nightly basis to make a buck. please hold as i shake off the douche chills.
we need to shower and get ourselves in bed before the boys come home in half an hour. as the resident mother hen says: "when you're schizophrenic you're never alone."
----
road dog digest, vol. XXVI:
the company had last night's shift catered. it's a general rule of thumb that when a contractor feeds you the layoff check is close to follow. this phenomenon is referred to as the last supper. ask jesus christ how that worked out for him. he may have only been a carpenter who dabbled in fishing, but his opinion still offers insight in this case. we're about to get crucified. the thing that the powers that be don't realize is that they're only threatening me with a good time. i can't wait to get out of this dump and blow through the money i amassed while serving my sentence here immersed in madness.
part of that's due to the fact that it seems this outfit promotes based on incompetence. i'm an easy-going guy, but the constant violations of safety, procedure, and common sense have made it hard to keep silent with this moron at the helm. "your foreman's at it again," has become a common phrase around here; one that sarcastically implies that said man is not in charge of the speaker. good stuff. even when we try to help him he plays the part that we've come to expect of him: upper management's clueless pawn who's in above his head, taking his frustration out on those trying to get the job done. last night it came to a head and i had it out with him on the turbine deck. told him to go fuck himself, which he said he'd remember. i hope he also remembers that he doesn't belong running work. i find it hard to believe that he could successfully run a greased glove up his ass, let alone a job. the man couldn't lay out two flat washers or a fucking picnic blanket, yet we're at his ignorant mercy. it's fine. i have my show-stopper line ready for him if it comes down to it, but that one requires a multitude of witnesses and the element of surprise. yes, it's that good. hopefully the situation doesn't escalate any further and i get to ride the remaining few days out peacefully. i have no problem putting foolishness in its place if need be, however. all work and no play makes mike a dull boy. don't bark up this tree, brother. its roots run deeper than yours.
but it ain't all a soap opera called 'as the pipe wrench turns'. there are some good eggs to make up for the insanity. when i sat down with my plate of food last night there was a napkin full of chocolate chip cookies waiting at my spot. "i know you like these so i took a bunch for your lunchbox," my buddy said from across the table. "i know you've got a sweet tooth." the old timers usually take care of me, partially because they see a glimmer of themselves in a younger man trying to make the best of a crap hand. sometimes they see the same mistakes and tell me so. whatever it is, it's appreciated. i've already eaten four of those cookies.
the other guy under thirty on my crew left last night. he got a call to work in his own territory and informed supervision that he'd be leaving in two days so they laid him off instantly with promise of a mailed check. that's odd-- he didn't mail them the labor! lesson learned: don't be honest with your employer because they will screw you regardless. the sheep fucker is down the road, probably never to be seen again. that's the nature of our business. truth be told, he grew on me like a fungus. he may not know when to keep his mouth shut and makes an ass of himself by being such a goofy bastard, but he's harmless and has a good heart. i'll take that combination any day of the week, even the one where he dropped an inch-and-an-eighth socket into a turbine casing and six people had to spend time recovering it so it doesn't interfere with the production of nuclear power. here's to you, wayne of plattsburgh. long days and pleasant nights.
i'm off to burn mine. night off of laundry, reading, and a possible expedition to syracuse in the name of staying awake. love the one you're with.
----
road dog digest, vol. XXV:
last night in the smoke shack, where genius congregates, i learned that the bizarre shrieks of exotic birds that make you think you're in jurassic park if you close your eyes are actually a recording played by loudspeakers to keep real-life 'swego birds from nesting in the electrical transformers. how sadistically brilliant!
"dry?" one of the old guys on my crew asked me.
"it's about a fish in a martini glass," another chimed in, judging the book by its cover quite literally.
"you reading motherfucker," said the first.
"it's my escape from reality," i explained. "speaking of which, i'm going for a cigarette."
i kept my fingers crossed that they wouldn't thumb through that one while i was gone to see what the hell it was actually about. not everyone can read a book about a homosexual manhattan man's fight with addiction and forays into love with an open mind. the boys would've ripped me a new one, so to speak. people are people, love is love. i understand that scene where the two turn around after parting ways at the end of their date to see if the other is looking, even if they are both guys. i'll stick to the ladies, though, regardless of whether or not they choose to stick to me. speaking of which, can i please have my layoff check and go home? the book i'm on now is about a prison escape. how fitting!
----
road dog digest, vol. XXIV:
the transplant went well. they also found a source of internal bleeding and corrected it. there's a long road of recovery ahead, but it's not one that he can't handle. he's one of the strongest men i know. thanks for the outpouring of positive energy. now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
went on a field trip to syracuse the other night. the supervisors and safety coordinator on the job asked for a volunteer to do them a favor so i raised my hand since my book was in a lull. apparently one of the millwrights became queasy and disoriented, pale like a fish belly. they decided to send him home for the night and needed someone to drive him down to his hotel room an hour away. it made for a brief escape from the plant and i was treated to mcdonald's on the company dime midway through. thus completes my volunteer work for the outage. waiting on my ambulance driver merit badge.
my favorite source of entertainment was telling stories from his college days for our amusement. (it's an associates in plumbing, welding, and heating-- don't get too excited.) he reminisced about a spider that he and his roommates befriended in college. argyle was his name and he lived in a web behind a glowing pabst sign hanging in their living room. they'd disorient flies by whacking them and throw them his way, then watch him descend upon his victims. he'd drop himself down by a silken thread and sit on the arm of their couch while they watched tv. argyle got to be big in the process. one night, some female company of my cohort saw him dangling from the ceiling and squashed him. my buddy was so upset over the murder of his pet that he kicked the confused girl out of his place. loyalty to an arachnid was more important than an easy lay. this down time on the job isn't so terrible. it brings me a new level of respect for my colleagues-- the kind that shows their humanity as opposed to their piping prowess. i'll drink to that, though it'll have to wait for another evening since i've got to report to work in an hour.
----
road dog digest, vol. XXIII:
his kidneys are failing due to the liver problem and he now needs one of those as well. i don't know if they transplanted the liver or not. i'm having a hard time staying positive. smoked like a fiend and noted the oddly pink moon. spent most of the night in a remote corner of the room with my nose in two books to distract myself and keep my poker face on while i wasn't hiding behind the laughs. the truth is that i'm terrified. i want this job to end right now so i can be where i belong and find out if i am a donor candidate.
heartfelt thanks to a special brother member from local 420 out of philly whom i met during last year's nuke job. your encouraging text about keeping my friend (whom you've never met) in your thoughts and prayers epitomized the concept of brotherhood in a business often tainted by backstabbers. what they say about your city must be true.
going to sleep prematurely, then calling his wife when i wake up this afternoon to see if any progress has been made.
last year, before going on the road for the first time, he told me what his father told him about working out of town: "when in rome, do as the romans." if i could aspire to be half the man he is someday then i'd be a lucky motherfucker.
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road dog digest, vol. XXII:
i had some amusing scenes to relay to you today, but none of them are relevant right now. one of my best friends-- the kind who'd silently take a .38 slug for me without thinking twice-- has been under the knife for hours. a liver donor became available last night (read: someone else died) and he was rushed in for the transplant. he called to let me know, but i was sleeping due to my reversed sleep cycle. i wish i'd gotten to speak to him, and that i wasn't way up here while one of the few who have truly been there for me is at the mercy of millionaires practicing alchemy with blades.
my mind will be with you tonight, brother. much love from the north country.
over-n-out.
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road dog digest, vol. XXI:
last night in the break room i was approached by a tradesman who could pass for that hook-nosed hispanic guy from "sesame street" back in the proverbial day. this stranger carried himself with such confidence as if i met him at a pig roast or a spicnic in a past life. i warned him that i did not have any bananas in my lunchbox for him to fry, though upon later inspection i learned that he'd brought his own-- which i then schooled him on by suggesting that he store said fruit in a paper bag to help ripen them faster for platano status. he laughed and started making humorous observations about me to my partner. i then proceeded to ask him if he sprinkles adobo on his lady's downparts before proceeding with the act to make it more like everything else he eats. this was comedic gold which sent him reeling back to his table across the room. he returned with a single-serving snack package of some type of white pudding. naturally, i noted his flan addiction and scored one for team steamfitter. this guy is fun and can take a joke well. we'll have fun there among the Whites.
last night was a sham. too many chiefs, not enough indians. i try to stay working with the second youngest guy from my crew since we see eye to eye and bust shit out without any drama, but sometimes that can't be the case since it makes more sense to split up the two young bulls who are young, dumb, and full of-- anyway, i'm hoping i don't have to snap on an out-of-town wretch of a stranger who needs to retire in the near future, but can't make any promises. i can turn a wrench, pal. you worry about your own deal, like making funeral arrangements.
cracked a beer at 6 am to wash down my last smoke of the day on the porch of this rented fishing shack, the pink sky yielding to an indifferent sun ready to own its subjects again. there are some things about this gig which i could eventually get used to. be easy.
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road dog digest, vol. XX:
when i pay my weekly rent on tuesday the landlady will wonder where all these singles came from.
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road dog digest, vol. XIX:
tonight's my first night off in six days and it feels great to be sucking some sauvignon blanc.
my lodging situation has yielded a surprising statistic: only one-in-four pipefitters bathe between returning from work and going to bed. the other three slide into the sheets with the shift's grime upon them and use the hot water to rouse themselves upon waking instead. i find it mildly repulsive. then again, we're not in kansas anymore so this may be an extenuating circumstance. my rule of thumb has always been this: white collar-- shower before work; blue collar-- shower after work. i'm not saying i'm superior to anyone or have commendable hygiene practices worthy of penning an educational children's song cartoon a la "i'm just a bill" or "conjunction junction", but it definitely is interesting to see how many assumptions are discredited when you get the chance to live with others. at least i don't have to worry about hogging all the hot water since i'm the only one who uses it at that hour.
my last shift was another twelve-hour reading extravaganza due to the lack of work ready for our crew to perform. there's an immense amount of down time in the nuclear industry. i'll soak up the dough for as long as they let me. shakespeare shall be in the break room, boys. let me know when it's coffee time so i can put my novel down and go grab a cup.
for the first time in my life i just cooked an entire meal at four in the morning. didn't eat any of it, mind you. it's packed away in the refrigerator in individual containers for my colleagues to take to work tomorrow night. the pork chops come out better broiled, but this cabin is lacking a cookie sheet so i had to adapt and overcome.
funnily enough, one of the speakers at our orientation meeting said, "there is no 'adapt and overcome' in this business anymore." i rubbed the tattoo on my forearm with two banners that say both of those words and smiled at the guy sitting across from me. i'll keep making my own conditions, pal. you have fun holding yourself while someone publishes a thesis on how to accomplish your task. if it wasn't for creative problem-solving then i wouldn't be here today to roll my eyes in your general direction. these guys don't get it. their utopian dream of ideal scenarios does not exist. give me chicken shit and i'll make you chicken salad. if skinning cats was cool then i'd be the fucking fonz.
fact: i missed white wine more than i miss most of you.
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road dog digest, vol. XVIII:
last night our crew did not receive a work package. with no assignment there was literally nothing to do but sit there and wait for a task. i read for most of the night. at one point there was ground water coming up through the basement floor so we went and found mops, buckets, and a fan to dry it up. you know men are bored when they begin to clean even though it's not in their job description. not sure if i can take a second consecutive night of so much "ass time", but there's only one way to find out.
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road dog digest, vol. XVII:
out-of-towners usually get pegged with the night shift, not that i mind the pay differential or laid back atmosphere of those hours. i did, however, forget how hard it is to sleep during the day when the body wants to be awake. with lodging mates stomping around the place, doing dishes compulsively out of boredom, and slamming toilet seats it is almost impossible to get more than four solid hours. i nod off a bit after being ripped from slumberland, but it's never the same. dreams are also much more vivid during the day because you never really enter the realm of deep rest. i can't count how many times i've snapped out of one since sunday, grateful as all get-out to not be living its implications.
but now it's time to live the dream for another twelve hours of pipefitting bliss. until tomorrow, friends.
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road dog digest, vol. XVI:
the eagle took a shit last night. that's construction code for "we got paid." i don't do this for the love of the game, the sketchy camaraderie, or even the decent (yet sporadic) money; i sling pipe for the chance to be exposed to such hilarious jargon and ridiculous stories as the ones we hear on the job. like the one my coworker told me last night about how his kindergarten teacher thought he hadn't gone to class for the first three months of school. his parents showed up for conferences and asked how their son was doing, to which the teacher replied that he'd never showed up. "that's impossible, we put him on the bus every morning," they replied. the kid, my current partner, went by his middle name from an early age and therefore didn't answer to or associate himself with his first name in elementary school. when he was called during attendance he stared around blankly as the teacher marked that student absent. how no one caught on to this mistake is baffling, but stranger things have happened within the public school system. also, my buddy's still a space cadet. we never really change.
had a random piss test as soon as i reported to work tomorrow. it was a fun way to start the day and i got to go lone wolf for forty minutes, snuck away for a smoke before returning to the pack. there was some strange terminology on the forms i signed to give consent. one section referred to me as the "operator" which seemed a bit grandiose, though flattering. another part mistakenly called me a "donor". no one's accepting that vial of urine, or so i hope. i'm not giving a kidney, dammit. whoever developed that paperwork needs to reevaluate their position on some of these matters. regardless, it turns out i'm not pregnant.
i spotted an interesting character from last year's outage: one half of the brothers grimm. that's the nickname given to the twins that came to my last crew halfway through the job. they were in their early fifties, small and troll-like, bizarrely introverted, haggard, and insisted upon changing into their work scrubs in the foreman's office instead of out in the general population like the rest of us. last night while i sat and waited for someone incompetent to finish fouling up the rest of his task i noticed one of the brothers grimm walking down the hall as nervously as ever. he looked like the weight of the world was upon his shoulders. it made me thankful for the mindset i've developed. i'd tell you how i cope, but then i'd have to make a sales pitch for my self-help videos. you don't want that.
the inside joke of our cabin was taken from the speech given by our head honcho at the orientation meeting last week. it sounds like a line from the "edited for tv" version of "goodfellas" and gets a laugh out of us every time we say it. my theory is that it could defuse a tense situation if tactfully applied by making the intended recipient laugh. the next time someone gives you guff unnecessarily, proudly say, "go do yourself."
speaking of which-- it's time. stay thirsty, my friends.
----
in the event that i'm rudely awakened both prematurely and on multiple occasions for the second truncated sleep cycle in a row i am repeating the following mantra as i drift off to slumberland:
"do not go out there and strangle a union brother...do not go out there and strangle a union brother...do not go out there and strangle a union brother..."
if that toilet seat slams in the next three hours or anyone throws a dish in the sink from four feet away i may get medieval on their respective asses. goodnight, sunshine. go piss in someone else's cereal for a change.
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road dog digest, vol. XV:
be careful what you wish for. deliriously tired. birds outside my window may catch some lead for welcoming dawn. goodnight.
new day-sleeper.
intermission.
elevator music.
body confused.
need darker curtains.
payday. mayday.
zzzzzz.
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road dog digest, vol. XIV:
after being here in canada lite for almost two weeks of training and cabin fever doldrums i will finally begin what i came here to do:  work. the outage began today and my first twelve-hour shift starts at 6 pm this evening. i'm excited to start making the real money with 72-hour work weeks. time will fly by now that we're shifting gears. the sooner i can get this fucker up and running again with my nuclear pipefitting prowess, the sooner i can get the fuck out of dodge while laughing all the way to the bank. and if you didn't read that with a boulder of salt then clearly you haven't been paying attention.
someone who's weaved in and out of my life for the last fifteen years is moving several states away come summer. this came as a surprise today via text message. if it makes her happy then so be it, but it seems she's only running to that greener grass. we're all seeking something. it takes awhile to realize that happiness comes from inside as opposed to a new set of headaches. if i'm honest i'll admit that i'm only bitter because i didn't jump at the chance to seal the deal when i should've during our last fling. thankfully, i'm not honest with myself.
heard the sound of spring peepers through the raindrops the other night. strangely, it was cold enough to snow earlier that same day. i finished my smoke and called my mom since the sound of the tree frogs always makes me think of my futile attempts to find them while growing up. "my nature boy," she used to call me. no argument there, even here in loosely-defined manhood. i'm still curious about the nature of things-- like how the hell a piece of paper can make men sell their souls, or how anyone could detonate bombs at an innocent sporting event and injure dozens of strangers. the world needs love.
packing lunch, donning pants, preparing to get my nuke on. be safe.
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road dog digest, vol. XIII:
went to do my laundry today in what the locals refer to as "town". loaded the machine, pushed the button, went to read in my truck to avoid the populace. upon returning half an hour later to throw my wardrobe into the dryer i found that the cycle never started. had to reinsert quarters and wait all over again. felt almost as dumb as the obvious fellow tradesman who was wearing safety glasses in the laundromat. talk about being institutionalized...
tonight was my turn to make dinner here in the pipefitting commune. i was making mashed potatoes while the resident chef bird-dogged me from his perch at the corner of the table. i added one dollop of i-can-certainly-believe-it's-not-butter, then another; he told me to keep going until he said "stop". i was waiting for a whistle to blow or a yellow flag to be thrown. fortunately, i graduated from a large public high school so my meal came out just fine. note to self: don't volunteer if there's an audience.
but some things go down easier for me when people are watching-- like failure. the men are living vicariously through my foray into redneck online dating. they salute my shameless endeavors and their cheerleading fuels my willingness to crash the test jet. i made it home alive without becoming a statistic. what happens in 'swego stays in 'swego. next tattoo: my teeth marks on my arm where i gnawed myself free.
"is that why it says 'shakespeare' on your fitter's hat?" he asks. i affirm his deduction, explain how the nickname came about back as an apprentice when i'd read in my car on lunch break. give the abridged, two-sentence version of my college adventure. he goes on to tell me about a character in our hall called "the doc"-- a man who went to med school, then decided to join the ranks. "there are a lot of educated men in our local." i don't define the term, but agree based on its breadth. education, to me, means someone standing in front of a classroom. most of what i know i've learned from dead men. i'm learned, not educated. there's a difference.
i know-- you still want details. she had three cats. that's all i'll tell you.
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road dog digest, vol. XII:
we sat through presentations for seven hours yesterday. it was a catered event at a local restaurant where all of us would've died if fire broke out. they had us crammed in like sardines with barely enough room to maneuver our way to the lousy sandwich table. the sheep fucker cornered me while i snuck a smoke between speakers. asked if i'm on nights, too. he'll be my assigned partner when the job starts. this much i know, judging from past karmic experience.
the highlight of the day was the crucifixion of a painfully drab supervisor who had no business standing behind a podium. oration requires certain skills, none of which this man possesses. he droned on for over an hour without moving his hands, altering his tone, sneaking one dirty joke in to shake us up. i wanted to stab my eyes out with the toothpicks they used to hold the sandwiches together. about twenty minutes into the abortion of a speech i noticed that he used the word 'right' like a nervous tic. it came out as punctuation to every point and began feeling like a smack in the back of the head or a skipping cd. i made a game of it by muttering 'right' under my breath when i thought one of his was coming. most times i was, well, right.
the other 250 tradesmen in the room picked up on his issue and started whispering 'right' as well. the catering hall turned into a low-key chorus of sarcastic union craftsmen who were sticking their tongues out at a pencil-pushing white-hat. that's when i lost it. i blurted out a laugh and covered my mouth. turned bright red, bit my hand, closed my eyes, felt sweat on my forehead. my buddy next to me said 'right' and nudged my arm. i choked on my own tonsils trying to contain myself. the image of my silent torture made my friend sitting across from me smile wide. i had to look away to hold back, but made the mistake of looking at another gent from my local. 'right,' he said at the same time as the nerdy speaker who was quickly losing possession of the room.
i faked a cough and let out a neutered laugh. the welder from kentucky sitting to my left couldn't bear to look at me for fear of busting out. our table was directly in front of the microphone and in view of all in the room. my friend to the right looked me in the eyes and smirked. he didn't have to say 'right' that time. i lost my shit. tears rolled down my cheeks. and when i went to the bathroom at the next coffee break it was all anyone could talk about. one man counted the guy's fucking rights: 356.
when we returned to our tables it was even harder not to laugh like in junior high math class when the teacher said '69' due to the anticipation. i didn't think i'd be able to make it. feared expulsion from the room, possibly from the job. that's when the poor guy did the best thing he could've: he acknowledged the fact that he says 'right' all the time, then invited anyone else to stand up there and address such a large audience without feeling nervous. laughter and applause erupted in the hall. we all commended his honesty and the air was settled again. i didn't feel the need to laugh anymore. thankfully, the lack of mystique and rebellion made his 'rights' alright with all of us. mercy on the mount.
speaking of mounting-- i'm meeting an oswegan from my online dating site tonight for drinks and horizontal pity. this was an early entry for a reason (pun intended). what happens in north country stays in north country...including any bad decisions. if i don't make it back then assume the worst. tombstone inscription: "he went down with one gun blazing."
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road dog digest, vol. XI:
i forgot my father's birthday until he called. pretty sure i cursed myself out on the phone. it's a different world up here, not that location's an excuse. i have no sense of time relative to home; only money-- the main reason i'm pimping myself out like this.
it's been confirmed that a curious raccoon is what's responsible for the power outage at the plant that caused all of us to be sent home after two hours on tuesday. the good news: we still got paid for the day. thanks, suicide coon! tell osama i said hello in hell.
a stranger in my crew is missing the better portions of two fingers. i'm not sure i want to work with him. clearly his safety skills are lacking. and he's not even the one we've already dubbed "sheep fucker". that guy may get his mouth duct-taped shut before the outage is over. i don't pity people in coke bottle glasses for the mere fact that they look like apes from madagascar. for the record: he really did jokingly admit to sodomizing livestock. that's pretty baa-aa-aa-aad.
it rained, then hailed, then snowed, then sleeted. i was waiting for the frogs to drop next.
"you should've been a writer," he told me. "i enjoy your stories." i juggled it in my head, responded with, "always something." but i am one, goddammit; one who turns wrenches to pay the bills. there's no shame in that. i prefer it for the most part. keeps me humble, learning, pure. maybe that last one's a stretch. a writer's just a glorified liar.
best quote of the week: "they got two channels up here: news, and fuckin' alligator shows."
an instructor shared a tale from what seems like a past life in which he single-handedly took out the power and telephone connections of lancaster, pennsylvania with a crane while demolishing some unused railroad tracks years back. no one was killed, but the entire town showed up to chew him out. when the Man in Charge arrived and asked what moron was responsible for the offense the entire town proceeded to point at our poor instructor, who was then only a lowly tradesman. the image of him looking up to take that heat was the cover of the next day's newspaper. i appreciated that honesty. i'd trust him with my life. it's not the lack of fucking up that makes the man. it's the ability to step up and take the hit, but keep on walking. hear my boots?
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road dog digest, vol. IX:
god bless direct deposit. woke up, checked my account via text message, and decided to head to work since they paid me electronically under the cover of night.
entered the actual bowels of the plant for the first time today. saw a lot more familiar faces and shook one-quarter of the attached hands (since i only pretend to like half the people i meet and merely tolerate a majority of them). characters dubbed chicken and tone loc: these are the men with whom my radiological safety is trusted. it's perfectly normal to those who know. tone's face lit up when we started jiving. chicken gave me that silent, knowing smirk. we're all here for the same reason. the variety's what makes it enjoyable.
shortly afterward i ran into a fitter from last year's chem decon crew, but he barely opened his mouth when he said hello and didn't look me in the eyes. not everything's as golden as its crystallized memory. duly noted, shakespeare.
it's been thirty degrees colder here than back home and the clouds all seem to congregate over this not-so-great lake. part of me is happy that this shutdown won't be as long as last year's. there's an angry rabbit awaiting my return, and landlords who refuse to learn my name. "buddy" must be an all-encompassing designation in albania.
the amish farm has had a "closed" sign up every time i've passed it. it probably isn't wise to buy baked goods from people who don't have running water anyway. how do they wash their hands? you can eat that pie alone, pal.
speaking of which-- the locals have responded...mostly with "my daddy works at the plant, too!" i'll leave that be for now. endorphins aren't worth losing ones life over, especially in this land that god forgot. i can't go down with only one gun blazing.
and i couldn't have euthanized that buck if i couldn't've beared to look at it. that's my reasoning for not going back. it's working. i'm a pro.
thrice in nine days i've caught myself repeating the last word of a sentence as if for emphasis. it doesn't take freud to reveal the true reason. i'm trying to convince myself.
whiskey tango foxtrot.
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road dog digest, vol. VIII:
on the way to work this morning my partner and i witnessed death in its realest form. a deer was thrashing around in the shoulder, its rear legs demolished. hooves flailed around in desperation. one antler was broken off. it was a violent display of life's frail nature. i wished i'd had my gun on me to put the thing out of its misery. it would've been a noble first draw. the buck danced with death as we drove by slowly. my buddy said something appropriately somber, but it didn't settle my stomach. for whatever reason i noticed for the first time that one of his fingertips is missing. is it impolite to ask?
work was a joke. a power outage prevented us from proceeding as usual. after two hours of floundering around they decided to send us home with "shape-up time", an industry phrase for two hours' pay. the irony of a nuclear generating station not having electricity to operate was painful to the tune of six hours of billable time. you can't make this shit up.
the deer was gone when we drove back "home" to get drunk and make chili. hopefully a local scavenged it to put food on the table. fate's wheel spins on unaffected.
the party's already started. we're just waiting for the right time to dance.
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road dog digest, vol. VII:
never trust a man who hasn't pissed in the shower. he'll tell you the world doesn't spin on a tilt.
took the dreaded rigging class today. four hours of dry lecture from a man who needs to justify his position, no lunch (grumpy), written exam, "practical" evaluation, blessed 3:30. did well, got certified. lord knows i've ___-rigged enough things in my time.
maybe it's the spring's herald of tree frogs or maybe it's the high pitched hum of the electric lines stemming like arteries from the power plant, but i'll take it.
the great white north or the hudson highlands-- without a soul to share it with nowhere feels like home. be grateful. thanks for listening, even when i have shit to say.
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road dog digest, vol. VI:
this morning i learned that corned beef hash is kinda like dog food for (white) people. i ate it, but i'd rather pay the extra few bucks for some bacon in the morning. as a general rule i don't like meat in the can. regardless, i kicked our self-appointed chef out of the kitchen for long enough to make us some egg sangwiches on english muffins to accompany said puppy chow.
went on a mission to syracuse in search of some adventure. didn't find it, but on my way back i saw a caravan of amphibious armored trucks on the highway with soldiers hanging out of every port armed to the teeth. fort drum is in nearby watertown and home of the 10th mountain division. at least if the zombie apocalypse happens i won't be so vulnerable without my precious hardware.
and now, after an unfortunate unpaid day of doing nothing, i'm going to settle down to dinner with the men. later for this pipe nonsense. i'm going to refry beans for a living.
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road dog digest, vol. V:
this morning's cabin coffee talk went as follows: "hat do you need a hundred round "clip" for? then again, what do you need an ak-47 for?" i smiled, nearly bite my tongue off, and decided not to try to educate any temporary roommates on the purpose of the constitution. you can imagine how hard this was for me.
felt like a tiger pacing his cage so i wandered out to the local watering hole where last year's crew would congregate. redeemed a free drink token i had since last year, downed my solo suds, and left. some coffee house reading proved beneficial due to god's grace in the form of college girls in yoga pants. kurt vonnegut's unofficial autobiography wasn't so bad either.
called a union brother from the oswego local who has since moved to west virginia. was great to swap funny stories about belated revenge and catch up with one another as far as work and life in general. one of the most profound benefits that i've reeped through being part of an international organization has been the bond i've been fortunate enough to form with men i wouldn't have met had it not been for the pipe trades. within a matter of five minutes this cat offered to get me a sweet overtime gig alongside him in west virginia, then said that if i ever need a place to sleep here in oswego he'd be happy to make arrangements for me to stay at his unused house. brotherhood indeed. that stuff they feed us at meetings isn't all bullshit, believe it or not. during our discussion i also learned that two prominent men in the industry here were not permitted to work on this year's project due to dwi charges. i'm lucky to have a clean enough record to be here, even though "here" ain't always the greatest.
pulled some frighteningly appropriate vonnegut gems from the pages i read while nursing two glasses of canadian club and coke-- not double-fisting, mind you. it was one of those serendipitous instances of a writer reaching you at the perfect time. kurt came back from the dead to offer some coaching on getting the word down and spat some lines about loneliness that rang true. there are few things more precious than the right book at the right time. it's better than advice from a "real-life" friend in some ways since it seems somehow supernatural. how could this stranger possibly know to speak those words at the hour that you need them most without even knowing whom you are? behold the power of literature. the whiskey was deep, alright.
while returning my drained tumbler to the bar i noticed a middle-aged technician from last year's nuke plant shutdown. clearly he'd been on the road ever since. i saw it in his eyes and the clarity of his double-vodka. thankfully i couldn't relate; therefore, there was no hello.
on the ride "home" i realized another reason for my sticking out like a new wrench here: the japanese truck i use to haul my ass around. the mileage is better and the body will rust before the engine takes a shit. i'll absorb the looks of jingoist scorn for as long as my wallet allows.
one of my favorite songs of all time hit my ears during the last leg of my trek back to the fort. the words tattooed into my arm built their crescendo until the climactic end-- "where you are and where you want to be." the trick is to make them the same.
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road dog digest, vol. IV:
ghosted today in the name of rebellious exploration. passed by "10½ st" and "bankruptcy rd" en route to syracuse. if you didn't believe that this place is nowhere-- there's your undeniable proof.
monday i shall trade in my skippies for boots and start to dress the part. it's a slow process, this selling of the soul for a dollar. the weekend should prove troublesome. no overtime and idle hands; i'll be spending it instead of making it.
no one showered after work today. we're all too tired from doing so much nothing. sometimes they call their women and whisper like the beer's not talking. me, i have no one to lie to but myself. and i know better than to get drunk.
break even. all i wanna do is break even.
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road dog digest, vol. III:
finished my site clearance exams halfway through the day. was disappointed that i didn't have to take the absurd psych test that asks fun questions like "does your soul ever leave your body?", "do you blame your mother for your misfortunes?", "do you ever daydream about dressing like a member of the opposite sex?", "how loud are the voices in your head?", and "would you rather be a florist or a librarian?" perhaps, on the other hand, it's for the best that they spared me this year. more importantly, for the next six days i literally have nothing to do once i report to the training facility at the plant. the project hasn't started yet so i'm in a holding pattern. found a cozy couch in the lobby, set up shop with some books i brought with me. paid to read-- doesn't get much better in my world.
apparently i've been nominated the local shrink. people who come kill time in the office furniture next to me find it necessary to unburden themselves with whatever's on their minds. one boilermaker informed me that his 72-year-old mother had a hysterectomy this morning since she recently started menstruating again and her doctor said she shouldn't get knocked up at her age. great, pal. thanks for sharing. i went back to vonnegut as politely as possible before any other nuggets of knowledge could be wafted my way. went to lunch and saw a local fitter i met last year who told us the tale of how he "goofed in his pants while getting a lapdance" one time. needless to say, that's all i could think about when i saw him in the cafeteria-- not his name, but his premature ejaculation story. again, too much information.
passed by pointless protocol posters with images of easy metaphors like ladders and puzzle pieces: things us dolts can relate to, aside from dollar $ignS. found out that i'll be working nights. glad in a way. it makes you feel like you're here for a reason if you tackle that miserable shift. it's a different beast, though for now i'll soak up the dough with some novels. when that got tedious and the sentences had to be read three times to sink in i texted some guys i wish were around for this one. miss those cats.
killed my third smoke of the endless afternoon and strolled down an empty corridor with a mirror at the end. couldn't help but spread that maniacal grin as i approached. it's not that i'm enamored with this gig, but i like that i can say i'm willing to go. roll on.
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road dog digest, vol. II:
reported to the nuke plant this morning after checking in at the union hall up here in canada lite. it was the strangest sense of deja vu i've encountered sober and clothed: same training proctors, same lunch ladies, same armed security guards, and a lot of the same tradesmen. it felt like groundhog day, or that i'd never left this desolate generating station. regardless, the familiarity and structure were comforting. breezed through more than a day's worth of exams, got my security badge (complete with lazy eyelid photo), made amusing small-talk with the drug test lady to help distract us both from the presence of a cup of my urine sitting on the desk between us. even got to read some short stories while waiting for my next class. it was a bit uncomfortable when the middle-aged man administering one of my safety courses whispered "i've been meaning to tell you that i like your ink," but more odd was my internal reaction to the overheard "i love you" into the phone of a passing secretary. somewhere out there someone's lucky. for now i'm making hired gun money. asi es la vida.
----
road dog digest, vol. I:
to those complaining that it's cold for april-- i drove through a blizzard on my way up here this morning and had to take two detours due to weather-related accidents. oswego is like canada, except that you can vote in american elections (sheeple) and there are amish people tooling about in buggies. aside from the precipitation, the ride was mostly pleasant. i never thought i'd pass through coonrod, new york twice in my lifetime, but stranger things have indeed happened. at least this time my gps didn't shit the bed whilst traversing that abomination of a township. sounds like a lousy place to get lost, unless you're into that kinda thing. off to go grocery shopping for the overtime apocalypse. be safe.

Biblical Proportions

A lamb devoured by the Lion of Judah.
Soaked in the bowels of Jonah's last whale.
The milk in their mouths has soured so quickly
that honey and wine seem like cruel myths.

Here we place Job and his suffering story
in the middle to avoid mispronouncing his name.
Then at the end there's a series of horsemen.
Much is Revealed; though cryptic, at best.

It's hard to get passed the eyes of Delilah.
Samson's long hair had half of their strength.
My coat, while useful, has only two colors.
Father, I'm bluffing.
Will You still let me in?


Currently reading:
"Papillon" by Henri Charriere.

The Beach At Fire Island

It was one of his funnier failures.
My old man decided
to take me on a day trip
walking the shore
and exploring the dunes.
I couldn't have been
older than eleven.
He hadn't done his research
or checked the weather forecast.
We both paid the price
like so many times before--
two souls stumbling through
the aftermath of divorce.

The shells I found were useless;
huge, redundant clam husks
too large to make them worth carrying.
A horseshoe crab was rotting
in a tangle of seaweed spewed up
by the surf.
It smelled so putrid
that even the seagulls stayed away.
Clouds covered every inch of the sky.
Florida was better.
My mom used to take me to Florida.

"Turn your head,"
he told me
as the man with the leather cap
and bright pink sweater
sauntered passed us in the sand.
The man, you see, was naked
from the waist down
and beaming like a sailor in port.

At least the old Asian fellow
had the decency to set up a perimeter
of loosely planted barricades.
We still knew he was nude
and that made it awkward.

"Let's get out of here,"
my father told me, half asking, as
we reached the next pathway
through the mounds of moving earth.
He sounded confused by a world
that'd passed him by decades ago.

The parking lot was filling quickly
as cars of scantily clad men unloaded.
If the sun was any lower
an orgy might've ensued.

It was the only time
he didn't embarrass me
with snapshots.
That was a plus.

The ride back was silent
or so I'd like to remember
for the sake of a better story.
For all I know he went on and on
about his lentil soup
that won him the prize at work.
One never knows with Charlie.
That may be what I like about him
aside from the childlike innocence
and that whole conception thing.

We went to Jones Beach the next time
and left unchartered territory
for the socially lubricated.

I was too young to laugh
at my dad's folly then
but now, at almost thirty
it makes my guts rumble.

He tried.
I can give him that.
He always tried.


Currently reading:
"Dry" by Augusten Burroughs.

My Exes Hired an Actress

Who makes me
breathe deep
and stare into space
like I'm looking for a god
who feels he owed me something.

Leave Out the Fins

The kind that you want
wouldn't want you back
in this state
in this stupor
with that stump
for a fist.

Like that picture
you painted
with fresh watercolors
as a kid
for your uncle
to hang on his fridge
with the sharks in the river
and the sun over mountains
that made no more sense
than a Florida trip
in the middle of August

but you went somewhere special
and could write all about it--
Still boils to this.

Robed in Winter White

I had to piss so bad I could taste it.
A blue pick-up with flashing orange lights
blocked my shortcut home
so the bucket truck
could place the lineman
right where the squirrel had been fried.

My detour to Main seemed minor
until I hit another roadblock:
a squad car with its red lights rolling.
There was some sort of parade
coming my way as if they knew
how to thwart my bodily functions.

"Jesus Christ," I told my bladder
as I pulled down a one-way
to circumvent the hold-up.
And there to my left
between two city blocks
I saw Him, cross beared
and surrounded by Roman soldiers.
It was Good Friday
and the Knights of Columbus were bored.

By the time I drained myself
another six thousand
had been converted worldwide.
We're all behind the Eight
regardless of shared guilt.

I'll pay for my own sins
since the triumph will be mine.


Currently reading:
"No Easy Day" by Mark Owen.

To Skin an Omelet

"Time's up, Chippy," the Warden said hesitantly as he slid the key into the lock of the steel door. "The Governor hasn't called. We can't stall anymore. I'm sorry."

Without so much as a peep or a request for a last meal of choice Chippy rose from his cot to stride to his destiny in that small room seen by very few people. His hands gripped the bars as his eyes met his captor's.

"No problem, Merle. I reckon it ain't your fault. I'll tell St. Peter the same. Don't worry."

It was just like him to offer consolation though he was the one in peril. No one in the pen anticipated having a steady stomach shortly when those lights would dim and flicker. Chippy's hands fell from the bars gracefully as he exited his cell in meek compliance.

The two men walked that dank corridor, one of them for his last time, without the clank of shackles since the Warden shook his head when Sgt. Simmons moved to cuff the prisoner as protocol demanded. It was an unnecessary precaution in this case, one that had never been omitted since the prison's first escorted death march. All present would tell the tale in solemn awe until their own stories came to end through natural causes or otherwise. Some images don't leave the mind no matter how many times the eyes are closed.

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

"Sir, you've been hit!" Private Reilly yelled through the hail of gunfire ricocheting off the rockface. It seemed an obvious statement, but Sgt. Malstrom appeared not to notice. A combination of adrenaline and sheer bravado kept the daring non-com climbing that ledge as if he hadn't been wounded. Reilly only realized since his face had been splattered with blood from his squad leader's gushing injury.

"It'll have time to heal when Hitler's six feet under," replied Sgt. Malstrom through gritted teeth, his hands rhythmically pulling himself up the rope that their scout had secured the night before the raid.

A .45 caliber submachine gun dangled from a strap around Malstrom's torso. He reached down to grab it, pointed it nonchalantly behind him, and squeezed the trigger without turning his head to aim. The barrage of German lead ceased, its echo reverberating through the ravine like punctuation to a mortal sentence.

"You hit 'em, Sarge! We're saved," bellowed Corporal Clancy from his spot on the tagline above.

"Only until those Jerries down below get their machine gun assembled," Malstrom corrected the good Corporal. "There's a ways to go before we're up this cliff. I'm hemorrhaging too hard to make it. I'll take care of those Krauts underneath us. You boys complete the mission. Make me proud."

And with those last words Sgt. Malstrom cut himself free of the rigging, pulled the pins in the two grenades tethered to his chest, and plunged silently to his martyrdom as three terrified Nazis stared up at an American madman.

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

"Chippy" Charlie Malstrom got the name in grade school when his classmates pointed out how no cruelty their teachers doled out could faze him. When detention was over he had to be asked to leave. "Charles," his confused instructors would say, "It's time to gather your things and go home."

But now, decades later, Chippy would return to his hearth no more.

The fishing trip wasn't his idea. Not many things that came to fruition were, though he had plenty going through his head. A buddy had suggested this latest venture and Charlie went along for the ride. Who can't appreciate a drunken day in the sun catching dinner?

But the finned creatures below their fluttering feet were not to be quietly taken.

"Hang on, Chip!" his pal screamed above the thrash of the waves. "The Coast Guard's bound to find us if we can float here long enough."

The remnants of their chartered craft were buoyant and would weather the squall, but the true enemy was circling beneath them. The first fin broke the water's edge and cruised their way like a hungry torpedo.

"Shark!" the Captain shrieked through his strained vocal cords as he clung to the shattered mast.

Chippy was the first to go. He didn't have the time or forethought to call out to his Maker. "Strange," he thought as the predator chomped down on both thighs simultaneously. "This shark has a mustache..."

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

"Malstrom!" the Supe wailed from below the conveyor line. "Quit hanging from the railing like a hopped-up chimpanzee and pay attention to those cans. QC says that too many of them are going through the Cleaner on their sides whenever it's your shift. You have one task:  turn the flipped cans back up as they ride by your station. If you can't handle that then it's back to the broom for you."

Chippy's grip on the steel handguard slackened and his shoulders found their own gravity. He turned toward his Supervisor-- a wretch of a man with a nicotine stained patch of graying hair between his nose and upper lip and dentures that could decapitate-- smiled with a squint, and tugged at his suspenders as he jumped down from the platform into the realm of his reddening aggressor.

"Should I sweep or mop first?" he asked, quite unscathed.

Buck

We were running late
so I was speeding
but hit the pedal
on the left
as we approached
the troubled tail lights.

"I wish I had my gun."

In the shoulder
next to someone's lawn
a deer thrashed its last--
hind legs and pelvis crushed.
One antler was broken off.
Its hooves flailed
like piñata bats.

"I'd stop and put it down."

My partner shrugged
said something fitting
as my eyes hugged the yellow lines
to keep my stomach from turning
at the site of unfair suffering.

"The one time I could use it."

We drove by the scene.
My friend drummed his fingers
on the void above the glovebox.
For the first time I noticed
the tip of his index missing
on his left hand.
Is it impolite to ask?

"I should go back and get it."
But I didn't, and feel guilty.

The party's already started.
Some of us are just waiting
for the right time to dance.

Debutante Impostor

That first-and-last date
cemented into an evening
never to be redeemed
regardless of Our Fathers.
The stroll down the thoroughfare
and nursed grapes of reason.
A tentative cigarette
unsure of whether
lighting hers
or handing over the fire
is apropos.
Guilt over tossing the butt to the curb.

We both know it's over
but go through the motions.
"I'll call you."
"Drive safe."
Escape can't come fast enough.

Driving away
to the most fitting song
I pat my chest twice
and realize the rub.
I'll never see that sad girl again.
If I do she'll owe me a lighter.

Hepburn Again

The underbite worsens
molars grind against
ones opposite
which don't normally correspond.
Eyes cross
at the ceiling
but no one's there
who'll notice.
He tries to hold back
by thinking of
the forest across
from his mother's house
that they recently leveled
to build a nursing home:
The old steamrolling youth again.
He used to build forts there
with pals growing up.
Maybe those wooden huts
were still there when the dozers marched.
Hopefully all of the wounded escaped.

She almost looks like
the friend he's wanted
for years, but never
had the stones to tell.
"You almost look like..."
"Shhhh," she smushes
his mouth closed
with fingers reeking
of Newports.
"Just finish."
So he does
for the sake
of another untold love
who'd never take the gamble
and risk becoming
a poem.

The miles don't come between us
as much as the words.


Currently reading:
"Palm Sunday" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Heaven Is a Crease Too Narrow To Fit Your Favorite Appendage

Until your nose has been smashed with a bottle;
Until you've passed your blade to a friend
since you know you can trust your fists in a brawl;
Until you've broken hearts and hymens
simply because they were there;
Until you've put someone else first
regardless of if they deserved it;
Until you've been burnt on your knees by the carpet;
Until you've faked climax so the poor girl could sleep;
Until you've signed papers regarding your brother;
Until your dad disappears for five years;
Until your mother admits a missed pill;
Until you've consoled a vacuum-raped lover;
Until you've found life in a 3 a.m. mirror;
Until you've met Death and offered a drink;
Until you've felt victory, even while vertical;
Until you've graced loss with an unexplained smirk;
Until your eyes have drained on an angel;
Until your tongue's danced in the strangest of places;
Until you've been swallowed like sacred communion;
Until you've been spat like a hooker's last meal;
Until you've seen heroin stirred in a spoon;
Until you've seen medicine lengthen ones life;
Until you've carved verse into cardboard at work;
Until you've been served 'til you couldn't form words;
Until you've dealt pain that was needed for pleasure;
Until you've tasted your own secret salt
on the lips of another you'd sew to your own--

We've nothing in common; here's five for the juke.

Hips for Miles

A former rendition of myself
thanked him for letting us use
his apartment-- complete
with absent roommate--
to reacquaint one another
with our precious animal magnetism.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning,"
he said as he departed
down West 50th
after nodding her hello
and goodbye in one motion
under the shower of streetlights.
It didn't seem like long enough.
Now it feels fossilized:
the way it used to be;
an alternate dimension.

She had hips for miles
and could make a hipster smile;
dark features of my people
with a muse-blessed hand
and a mind I could wander
for a lifetime.
Her brute, she called me
or maybe that was someone else--
Yes, I'm positive of that.
I had softer nicknames.
We had softer nights.

She's already subway bound
by the time my buddy enters.
I'm standing in my boxers
drinking water piped from mountains.
"But what the Hell happened to the wall?"
he asks, his eyes interrogating spots
above the pillow where white slits of plaster
cry out against the hunter green paint.
I blush through my beard, mumbling no apology.
It's not my fault her nails are the claws of a tigress
though that safari should've been
the beginning.

Survivor's Guilt

He killed himself
nine years ago
by cheating on his chance.
It was her birthday Wednesday.
There was no call.
She's married.

A ghost of a joke
or maybe that's backwards
still wanders her poster-lined bedroom.
"Go for the gold," she said
so he did.
Virginity's much overrated.

Sex never means
"I'll see you again,"
though the images play on for decades.

No one in France blamed Anne Boleyn
but her head rolled hard just the same.


Currently reading:
Poetry magazines in which I'll never be published.

Idaho Apology

That potato's still there
shriveling to nothing
on the top shelf of my fridge.
A friend brought it
over the summer
after I'd been temporarily blinded
by an unexpected welding flash at work.
It only lasts a few hours, but the
feeling of having sand in ones eyes
is unpleasant.
There's a chemical in spuds
that helps ease the discomfort
so when she asked what else
she could bring
aside from her matching underwear
I mentioned a trip to the produce aisle.

She arrived with two varieties
in case one worked better
sliced two slivers off
and placed them on my eyelids
like coins for the ferryman.
Although I couldn't see
we made the most of a lousy night.
There've been times I've wanted hash browns
or a baked to go with steak
but that window is long gone now.

It's only there to remind me
that somehow
some of them
care for this mess
whether or not he deserves it.
And the truth is
more often than not
I can't see the obvious
regardless of work-related injuries.

Maybe she wanted more.

A Lush's Advice To a Novice

Dave marches into the bar with a purpose. He's been lied to before, but never as beautifully as this. It's time to seek vengeance or at least an explanation. The perpetrator's present and probably drunk. It is, after all, almost noontime.

"Goddammit, Hank. I've heard your lisp on the tapes. I see through your blind braggadocio. You've drank more screwdrivers than you've turned. You've probably never even owned one."

One of the neons in the gin mill's window flickers. Neither burnout fazes Hank. He continues staring straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar shelves. A small crease forms at the visible corner of his mouth. This is assumed to be the makings of a smile, thus infuriating Dave even further.

"You think this is funny, old man? There comes a time in every recordist's life when he chooses the pen or the promise. I've had my fun at their expense, and the more..."

But Hank cuts in before he can finish.

"You've chosen neither, kid. You've got to have both in order to decide on one. Do you really think you've mastered your passion? How cute, how precious, how sickening."

Hank sips his Vodka Seven and turns to a man propped up in the darkest corner, his hand on a mojito sweating profusely onto the oak. "Hey, Ernie. Can you spot me lunch? Martin's got a a check in the mail this week."

Ernie raises his hand in agreeance. The barkeep shouts an order to the cook without asking Hank what he'd like to consume. Regulars have it that way. Barflies take it, like it or not.

By the second gin-and-tonic Dave is almost back to normal. His ears have lost their redness. They flush when he's been prodded. He pulls his stool alongside Hank's, who's now working on lunch. The plate of ribs before him is half-way gone.

"So what am I doing wrong?" Dave asks, his tone exuding humility.

"Do you want the list in alphabetical order?" Hank quips. He sucks barbecue sauce from his bony fingers and turns to face his progeny. "Writing's not for weak of heart. That much you've got, but there's more to it than that." He swivels a bit to address the inquisition.

"It's like this rib," he says, holding a morsel of pork in his hand. "The bone is the truth: hidden, but there. The details of how her hair smelled, the plot you've pulled from dead-end jobs, the characters you've met at whorehouses: they're the meat of the story. And see this?" Hank asks while pointing to the blubbery edge of the rib in his hand. "This is the fat. Trim it at all costs. That's what most hacks can't muster." Ignoring the knife set before him on his place mat, he reaches into his pocket for a pearl-handled switchblade. With a flick of his right wrist he slices away a strip of lard from the rib he's holding up with his left.

"But you've cut too deep," Dave points out, more confused than accusatory.

"Not unintentionally," Hank replies as he brings the culinary metaphor closer into view. "See that sliver of white poking through? That's what separates the good from the great."

He sucks the meat from the bone and turns back to his stoic self, his work and good deed for the day being done.

Dave kills his cocktail and tips the girl heavily. He's back at his desk before the sun sets; and like that old pal who bought lunch for Charles says: that bastard sometimes decides also to rise.

Filed Incisors

The Riesling was weak
but the pint of lager
pleased them;
pried lips enough apart
for two strangers
to meet eyes.

He reaches
to light her cigarette
between street lights
on the sidewalk.
"You're good at that,"
she tells him
naively appreciative.

He smiles, sparks his own
and tries not to let on
that there's been a bit of practice.
His skill comes at a cost.

It's not in his nature
to let the last word leave her lungs
but the proudest wolf plays dumb
if he ever wants to eat.

Coughing Up Coffee Grinds

Then three of us
got anchor tattoos
since it seemed
like a good idea
at the time.
Mostly we don't speak anymore.
I conveniently forget
it's there on the back of my arm.
No one's safe from hope's cruel joke.

We could have everything we've wanted
if the thought of that didn't terrify us.
Our lives are sung falsetto
the same way that they're lived.

Amen.

The Devil in Headlines

A sinkhole in Florida
swallowed a man.
His bedroom was sucked
down the pit fifty feet.
They pulled his brother
away from the scene
unable to save his mortal remains.

"It wanted his soul,"
my mother said, spooked.
"A portal to Hell. They're out there
you know."

I think of the dozens of doors
that I've dreaded
and nod at her statement.
My hells are bulimic.

Crass Castrati

Cut off your face
to join your nose.
You're vexed by
such small room to talk.
A gentleman never tells
but those who claim so
aren't.

I've fudged too many tax returns
to let some skirt get the best of me.
Truth be told, John Q, it's unclear
what that would be
though there's a club
who sometimes sleeps with me
precisely for my faults
and another sadder sector
that wishes that they could.

(I'd kind of like to put things
where you didn't know
you'd like them.)

Keep calm until the sheriff comes.
He always carries breath mints.

Cold Chinese Food at 2:00 AM

No one knows it but me:
There's a bear in Riverside Park.
He's the only one on the isle of Manhattan.
As a result he's lonely
and fills the void by eating from trash cans
even when he's not hungry.
Sushi is his favorite.

It's almost as sad
as women who buy themselves flowers.
Almost.
And if I'd married that girl
like she thought I should've
then
and I think I should've
now
I wouldn't be wasting
our time
with this.

That bear.
He's not real, you know.
No one hibernates
for that long
and gets away with it.

Eulogy

How does one write about a life too magnificent for words? How does one honor a person who so selflessly changed a multitude of lives and lived to meet the fourth generation made possible through her existence? I knew for years the time would come when that precious task would be laid before me. Its gravity was intimidating, but its message is crucial. I brought pen and paper to the lake at Bear Mountain to try to capture some thoughts to share in the pastoral serenity of the setting sun mirrored by the water. As glorious as that environment was it pales in comparison to the place where I know my beloved grandmother, Maria Amengual, shall eternally reside. Please bear with me as I try to harness the comfort in this fact to make it through the rest of this as clearly and tearlessly as possible.

Many of us knew her as Tita, short for Chiquitita, the smallest of the small. Her family placed a ladder in front of their stove in their rural Puerto Rican home so this tiniest of their tribe could prepare and cook food for their household. The gift of a servant's heart was instilled in her from a young age. Most of us have had the pleasure of experiencing this quietly noble trait in the forms of her generosity, nurturing, and mouth-watering cuisine. Even those not fluent in Spanish felt what her secret ingredient was-- the universal language of Love. Don't be fooled by the sofrito, Adobo, or garlic-- it was her genuine sentiment that filled our grateful bellies for so many years at her table. She wasn't satisfied until she'd fed you. It was hard to avoid complying. And whether we knew it or not at the time, our spirits were just as sated as our bodies when we left.

After losing her faculties and moving in with my mother she was no longer allowed to operate any kitchen appliances. A gas stove and a forgetful woman are a dangerous combination. At first she'd be caught trying to boil water for coffee once in awhile, but eventually it set in that those days were done for her. I remember her offering me a cup at my mom's one time, then explaining that she would have to ask someone else to make it since it wasn't a good idea for her to operate equipment fueled by combustibles any longer. The grace of acceptance had set in. Even in her capacity as someone requiring constant care she filled her former role of caretaker. Adaptation-- another of this fine woman's many qualities.

It's no surprise that she excelled in that area. She came from a generation of those forced to cope with hardships that we can't comprehend today. Her husband died tragically in a car accident shortly after their young family's immigration to America. This was a devastating blow to a mother of two sons unfamiliar with her new home's native tongue. New York was a different place from the farm in Puerto Rico to which she'd been accustomed. Unbeknownst to her, the recurring sickness she was experiencing was a side effect of her pregnancy with her third child-- my mother-- who had been conceived earlier in the month prior to the loss of her miraculous father. It would've seemed a complication to most-- one more mouth to feed in an already impossible venture-- but that's not how she saw it. Some people are such survivors that they need an extra challenge to keep their wits about them. My grandmother was one of those individuals. Working in factories, selling food to blue collar men in the neighborhood, and running restaurants were a few of the ways in which she managed to make ends meet for herself and her three children. Government assistance was not in her vocabulary. Milking the system was not on her agenda. She worked hard to provide without Uncle Sam's handouts in this new land of hers. She was here to make a better life for herself and those she loved in the face of adversity, thereby embodying one facet of the American Dream, just as her husband and two brothers did their part as citizens by serving their country in World War II. We are a family of pride for a reason. Those who came before us have walked too tall for us to slouch, even those ancestors who didn't break five feet. Let's never forget that.

But this isn't a day of mourning, it's a celebration for a victory that's been won long ago. There are plenty of sunsets in ninety-two years. Our precious mother won't be here to see another, but the choices we make can honor one setting sun who set an example for all of us to follow. She was stronger than any man I've ever worked beside. Her sacrifices reverberate through the destinies of many in this room. Consider her the personification of unconditional love. The doctors are wrong-- her heart never failed.

Bendicion, Abuela Tita. Te amo siempre.

An Aberrator's Genuflexion

Speak not in victims' rhythms.
Hear not the liars' lure.
You are a son of Abraham;
no less, no Holy More.
To tell it on the mountain
wastes air where it's most thin.
Go sing it in the valleys
where the meek are soaked in gin.

All elbows need some skinning.
Don't waste time rubbing saints.
They're hard to find and hard to please
and paint life what it ain't.

A man knelt here, repenting
for a life's worth of remorse.
He rose rejuvenated
and rode out on the horse
that'd brushed him off a few times
on branches growing low.
Not all reduced to crawling
learn what seeds to sow
in the desert where arroyos
promise nothing of a stream
and beautiful mirages
have eyes and teeth that gleam.

It's not so bad, the Hell we make.
The danger's in the nest
of iniquities we foster
when we settle like the rest
for anything that's warm and wet
and listens when we weep.
Some searched the dust for forty years.
Thank God the wine here's cheap.

A Verse On Good Service

What roiling the blood does
when called up to churn.
No claim laid as a fighter
though still some lessons learned
like you lead in with an uppercut
and pour from underneath.
Nothing makes good neighbors
like fences and loose teeth.

If your might swings to one side
and inertia goes unchecked
then use those rigid forearms
to shelter and deflect
since you know the counter coming
will be a rookie's right
dig in with the left arm.
This chance won't come up twice.

From there you're on your own, kid.
A bar fight's not like chess.
Predictions there are limited.
It soon becomes a guess.
The trick is to keep swinging.
No mercy for the weak.
If the sloppy fool deserves it
then you won't let him retreat.

Hesitance is poison.
Your liver's overworked.
The novelty of winning
is a minor perk.
It's more about the mirror
and what is has to show
in the morning after battle.
How trophy bruises glow.

Moron Lobbed

"Take it off the pedestal,"
they said.
"Love the one you're with,"
they said:

All such sage advice
from those who've never needed it.

Ear plugs silence snoring moms
and county lines aren't thick.

I want to have a son someday.
I'd like to name him Jack.

Nicotine Stains

A stranger in his forties stops me
on the street for a light.
I pause to pass my Bic
and he shoves a pack of Reds
in my hand after sparking his smoke.
"Take them," he says
like he's known me for years.
"I'm hanging out with my girlfriend soon
and can't be caught with them on me."

"Been there," I confess, shoving the
Cowboy Killers into the breast pocket
of my denim work shirt.
I thank him and proceed to the entrance
of my apartment building
slightly more satisfied
with the state of the human race
even though they're not my flavor.

Anyone want a pack of Marlboros?