Catching Up

Any longer
there's no ketchup
kept at my
mother's house
the kids having scattered
to starve elsewhere.
I learned this
when I brought
a fast food
burger and fries
for lunch.
She confessed
the condiment's absence
with a weary widow's voice
her husband
at the gin mill
his headstone
not yet carved.
Holding back the curses
for the Shadow
slow approaching
scythe and contract
in bony hands
I finish my meal
and starve elsewhere.

State of the Union

Waking with his watch on
he ignores the morning news
another workless week lined up
and apathetic bedclothes.
It stinks there
like a slave ship
his mother teaching nothing.
The atlas in his back seat--
that's his father in him.

Necrotic limbs
too weak to chop
spare the amputee
but the heft of muscles atrophied
becomes a latent anchor.

The novel reads like prophecy
foreshadowing a storm.
No man can be an island
for longer than a heartbeat.

De Rigueur

Aroused on numb wrists
from sleeping off a decade
of a Pisces night with warpaint worn.
There are laws passed to prevent this.

Bite a bottom lip
and wake up still a dreamer.
Scrawled graffiti promises
on urban concrete lie.

Hair too long to cut
like a house too old to paint
swiped around the ear
to help amend the stubborn.

Judge a man by numbers:
statistics, accounts, dimensions.
The objects most protected
are not found in his safe.

Papal Resignations

I'm draining myself in a way
less scandalous than five minutes prior
into one of those faulty toilets
that requires you to hold its lever down
for the duration of the dismissal.
It's mounted so crookedly
one corner of the tank a solid inch
further from the wall than the other
that I almost pity its owner.
She's fifteen years my senior
and has dealt with far worse
than skewed plumbing fixtures
with weak flushes.
If I had any intention of returning
to this place I'd bring my tools along
but that won't be happening.
We haven't exchanged numbers
after meeting last night
and there's a silent thieves' agreement
that none of that will change.
Her bedroom's down the hallway.
She's in it, feigning sleep.

I wash my hands symbolically
and chalk it up to hygiene.
There are gadgets on the vanity
with purposes beyond my comprehension.
A white contraption with hoses and dials
and a tube of some sort, all centered around
a reservoir of blue liquid. With a gun to my head
I'd guess it somehow cleans teeth, though
how blue can yield white is beyond me.
Next to it there's a smaller device
with less frills and specifics.
It's plugged into an outlet
blinking to verify it's alive.
There's a handle, a head, and
what seems to be some rotary component.
I flick water from my hands into the sink
since I'd rather not touch any towels
swearing to myself that I'd make a terrible woman
the opposite also being true.
I've made some women terrible.

There's a photo on the wall;
one of those themed numbers
they take at amusement parks
with people dressed as cowboys
or Prohibition gangsters.
This one has the Western motif.
She stands, dressed as a harlot
behind her two teenaged children
the boy bracing a rifle over his shoulder
while his left hand fingers a holstered revolver.
If he was here he'd shoot me
but her offspring are down south
for the summer with their father.
She'd advertised that at the bar
where we met. I called her out on it
but dropped a line of my own.
"I'm not leaving here without you."
I didn't.
She acknowledged my acting prowess
in the darkness of 4 a.m.

I close the bathroom door behind me
making sure not to trap any cats inside.
The floorboards creak menacingly
as I navigate this gin-soaked vessel
back to its latest port
and fall asleep dreaming
of a life spent in one harbor.

Photo Albums Died in the Digital Age's Wake

The caffeine hasn't taken hold
since you've yet to brew it
but there's a subtle tremble
in your hands that breaks the eggs.
It's not the pan.
It's not the spatula.
You're slipping.
You haven't flipped them without popping
in months, though it used to be
an art you'd proudly honed.
Yolk oozes out accusingly, solidifies
and mocks you.

Your bike sits flat-tired in the spare room.
No one's around to justify making the bed.

"Looks like we'll have to take
over-easy off the menu, Jack,"
you tell your stubborn self as you dump
a late breakfast onto a plate
that won't be washed for days.
There's something subtly magical
about hearing your voice
for the first time in the morning.
It's proof that you're still here
if only talking to the dust
standing naked in your kitchen
with food you make from habit
and a cloud that rubs your brain.

The coffee goes down
better than she ever did
or would have, given a chance.
The rest of your day
seems a blessing
irreversible.
There's a god still on your side
whether or not you deserve that.
If you ever learn her name
you'll have to carve it somewhere.

Your Clitoris Is an Inside Joke

A woman in scrubs could make me move mountains.
I've witnessed it.
They didn't.
Be that as it may, stethoscopes are expensive.

The difference between Disney World and Disneyland
has nothing to do with Mickey.
Walt was not a fascist; a mere fan of efficiency.

Stuffed bears strapped to stop signs at intersections
where some faceless kids died make me cringe
for the wrong reasons.

The Irish Goodbye should be an Olympic event.
Perfecting it is high art.

My landlords raised the rent fifty bucks
but refuse to repair the intercom system.

If you love something
(more than from the waist down)
let it go.
When it doesn't come back
hunt it and kill it with fire.

No lie can be told in the pre-dawn purple
of a bedroom so beautifully desecrated.

Your clitoris is an inside joke

and Jill went tumbling after.


Currently reading:
"William Carlos Williams:  Selected Poems" edited by Charles Tomlinson.

Repeater 21

Mary's favorite flowers
had been propped upright
in the back seat of Troy's sedan.
He took the time to position them carefully
nestling the bouquet betwixt his
hard hat and a case of Coors Original
which, with any luck, would aid
in the redemption process
picking up where the flowers would end
and increasing the odds
of horizontal reconvergence.

Troy savored that part of romantic quarrels.
He, like his contemporaries, had
become accustomed to the delicate cycle
and reveled in the art of dangling in the
emotional no man's land tightly tethered
to relationships which burn too fiercely
for their own general health.
His mother always warned him
of that passed down zealous passion
but Troy was the type of man
who sought his own Battle of Waterloo.
Besides, Mary loved the flowers every time
and the cans of pale lager
could soften the edges
of any jagged evening.

The summer heat subsided
by the time he hit the highway.
Air conditioning seemed to be
a waste, the compressor stealing gas
so Troy rolled down the windows
of his car and laid his arm out.
A feeling of July reflected from his limb
and smacked him in the face
with decades of fond remembrance.
It was the first time he'd allowed
himself a windblown ride this season.
The thought of summers dead and brewing
added to the admixture
of pleasant mental images--
he and Mary rolling in the dark
like apologetic panda bears
though it wasn't all black and white.
Still, he soaked the night
through pores as best he could
anticipating solace in the form of his beloved.
Counting down the miles in his head
he joined the chorus
of a song played on the radio
that fit the mood too well.

When he arrived at Mary's cottage
in that godforsaken valley
he heard his mother chuckle
at his stubbornness and swore
as soon as he reached back
to grab his feeble gift
and saw that all the petals
had been blown off by the wind.
Troy cracked a can of Coors
and thought of what to tell his girl.

The ride home was in silence.
The boys were at the bar.


Currently reading:
"American Gods" by Neil Gaiman.

Another Deadly Hoax

The French missionaries to Cameroon
left that radio as a gift
to their pygmy converts
in the early 20th century.
It's hard to blame them
for the aftermath.
Even Orson Welles
walked away unscathed.
The low-hanging clouds
of the ionosphere
would be safer scapegoats.
They bounced those radio waves
from CBS headquarters in New York
to the coast of western Africa
on that ill-fated evening
of October 30th, 1938.

When "The War of the Worlds"
was translated
by an elder of the tribe
who had learned
the White man's tongue
a massacre broke out
leaving fifty lives
hacked to bits
by steel machetes
while hovering above
in their spinning Martian saucers
the only intelligent life
within a thousand light-years
laughed at man's irony
and waited.

The Test

Someday we'll look back on these weekend nights and laugh--
Maybe at the party of another married couple
whom we seem to charm enough to earn frequent invitations.
The white wine we bring will be chilled
and safer to us than our hosts' amateur Margaritas.
I'll shamelessly raid their cupboard for chocolate
after the third glass.
Not a chip shall remain by the time of our departure.
At one point we'll be introduced (against our will)
to a fellow bride and groom
who will bore us with the tale of how they had first met.
"...Then I moved across the country, but she waited
for two years," the beaming fool will croon
pausing for the sighs that usually pour forth
but our pupils will be locked across the coastered table,
our feet will meet and rub, and we'll laugh
within our minds at amateur Margaritas
and cookie-cutter romance.

Our story is a secret
and that's what makes it real.

Family on Parole

His seventies have left him
looking like a jack-o'-lantern
but no one with half a heart
would say so. In his time
he was an athlete, an officer
an eldest son, a lover
a fisherman who took
his nephew chasing trout
on long summer days
that started and ended
with strong Spanish coffee.
That's the hero I choose to remember:
Rafael, a man of the Renaissance.

There are five lives
directly the result of his own;
twelve if you go downstream
to his great-grandson
whom he's never met.
His youngest daughter, a wisp
at thirteen, plays on my mother's computer
in the next room while my uncle and I
pretend to watch a program
on the history of the Underworld.
Hieronymus Bosch paintings of Hades
from the era of Columbus
have been chopped
doctored, and animated
with demons floating
across the screen
for the sake of this
fake documentary.
He keeps muttering
protests under his breath
a recurring one being
"The Bible doesn't say that."

The subject matter
swells too much. I offer up
the title and plot of a book
I've been reading
as a merciful sacrifice.
"I know that one.
Great story. Books are like
taking a trip," he states
in the mystified tone
of an old man who once
was excited by life.
It sounds like there was more
to his thought, but the words stop there.
A man who did fifteen years
in state prison would know about
the various means of escaping one's mind.
Literature, that trip, can tunnel under walls.

I remember the river we were fishing
when he told me. I was ten. I didn't care.
My uncle was not a manslaughterer to me.
Our eyes return to the screen
though we already know what Hell is.
"Do you need some more water?"
I ask as I rise to stretch my legs.
"I'm good, man. I'm good," he says
without adjusting his bifocals.

On my way back from the kitchen
I slip a crisp Fifty in my teenage cousin's hand
as she plays a game on mom's computer--
the only time she'll get to use one outside school.
My right index finger hovers above my lips
in the international code for
"This can be our secret."
Her eyes light up as she snatches
the bill and shoves it into the pocket
of her shorts, mouthing two words
that I should learn to say more often.

It's the first decent thing I've done all month.
I decide to ruin it later by sharing it with strangers.

The Purge

Round them up like derelicts

prisoners of war

to eliminate the risk

of wishing for the miracle.

A spine compresses

from ceiling weight

and clouds above a world of ants

while shaking hands burn 

en route to closet corners

with real-life Kryptonite 

in the form of left belongings.

Reduced to Mr. Kent again

dreaming through alarms.

The rent's been paid to Caesar

though home has driven south.

Still We Let It Choke Us

"Which hurt more? The first or the last?"

You have a lot of time to think about it afterward, not that it's a question that anyone would ask you. It's the type of debate you have with yourself in front of a mirror at three in the morning, often under the influence of an overserved evening. The hangdog look of confusion in your eyes betrays the truth hiding behind your lips. Five of your front teeth are missing and you know that neither option is correct.

The first you barely felt due to the adrenaline. The last were not as bad because the shock had numbed your mouth. The ones that bastard yanked in the middle are what inflicted the most pain, though not for the reason expected. With enough time to think between threats made by the loan shark you'd crossed and the chemicals coursing through your bloodstream you managed to decipher the true source of the suffering:  a human being, by definition only, is capable of torturing another individual over money, for revenge. That is what struck you the hardest. That is what made you curse birth. Duct-taped to that basement chair you found a reason for heartache.

Your physical affliction was gruesome and acute, but the psychological damage done by those rusty pliers lasted longer than the ache in your gumline. There's no phantom limb syndrome for teeth. You learn to live without them, eating foods more appropriate, smiling with your eyes instead; but the fruit from Eve's tree cannot be spat out. You know what man is capable of now. Feel free to throw that accusation at the fairer sex as well.

If you had insurance--the type with dental coverage--then you wouldn't be reminded every time you take a bite. But hey, if you could pay, then you wouldn't need Albanians. He must've gotten his rocks off. He never called you back.

Amateur Oncology

It's not the first time
she's rubbed it discreetly;
a fifty says it won't be the last.
"How long has this been here?"
she asks of the small mark on his forehead.
"As long as I can remember," he blurts.

It's one speck of the spatter
that flecked his skin at birth--
an external flaw doled as counterpoint
by God the Father's left hand.
There are hundreds on his body
but this one catches her eye.
She would know.
She's an expert.
She doesn't like its color.
He fears her mistrust
of his faulted epidermis.
He'll never tell her this
but the irony seems right.

It's a year since her mother
was eaten alive by cancer.
Her own skin that betrayed her
was washed and clothed
by her daughter until the end.
He quit fifteen years of nicotine
the weekend that they met
though there was no ultimatum.
There can't be
if it's to last.

Scrolling back through years of pictures
zooming in to check his head
would seem like cheating fate.
Who needs reassurance with a memory like his?
That brown spot's been there forever.
Right?

Key West Blues in C#

In the back of his throat
there's a gallows
where he hangs himself
with the wrong words.
None of it will matter
in his own private Idaho
when celebrities die
to be quoted.

It isn't how the rules are rigged
but why a ghost would abide.

The service is lacking.
The liquor is watered.
Regardless, they come for the brass.

Currently reading:

"Sunlight Here I Am" by Charles Bukowski.

Isis, Cease to Weep

The sincerest of greetings

from an aerated chauvinist

comes after nightmares

of standard transmissions

guns without bullets

botching escape.

The fortunate wake with their teeth

still intact.

It's Shangri-La versus Valhalla.

All day long

stuck in your rhythm

with better places to be.

Good god

I see women from my father's hometown

and wonder why he ever left.

Springing to your assumption

is the part begged to play.

Mistaken for a misogynist

with only a weakness for women.

New wine fills the skin.

A pack of year-old cigarettes

medicates this latest retreat

after meeting the same bird

with a different wounded wing.

It's not the best Sunday for breathing.

Ride the Mattress

The State Department regrets to inform you that Mr. David Vargas has become a parody of himself. Like rape, it's worse than death; but there are no made-for-TV movies about this crippled fate. He'll, you'll, however the Royal We shall choose to address Itself this time--will only fade into oblivion, another silent casualty of apathy; though in your case, Dave, the sinking isn't silent. You're a writer, or so you think since you wave your arms and throw words at the shore. There will be a record for whatever fouls you commit. There has been for a decade, and it's cost you friends and family. It's cost you love. It's sentenced you to lust, to the search for a gourmet meal in the soup kitchens of Skid Row. And still you let it choke you.

That's what you're supposed to do. This laying in bed until four is expected. While others are returning from work you are still basking in the self-pity of your sex-stained sheets, a mouth unwashed and hair uncommitted to any compass points. Your back is so sore from laying on your weight that the rolling and switching of postures does nothing. You swallow anti-inflammatories, careful not to call them painkillers, and medicate the sore reminder of your syndrome. It's not the first time you've gone that route, though no one's around who remembers such an old yarn.

But this is how they did it, right? You are the quintessential. Congratulations on your complimentary toaster oven. The Network regrets that you've missed the Grand Prize, fallen barely short of its omnipresent glory. The image fades to a laugh in your bathroom. There is no Network, no network, but there certainly is an audience: schools of sharks swarming since your first release of blood. It came as unintentional then. It felt right to allow that slice. When it was over your smile was less crooked. You read it three times in your hovel of a bedroom, foolishly proud of what any sap could accomplish. And so began the cycle that has hounded you ever since: the creative recounting of fallacies, the abhorrent rehashing of crimes, a revisionist history so drenched in self-pity that even the meek must cringe in disgust. You claim it's all cathartic, but you don't learn from the lessons. You type them out and ship them out and now sometimes they're published. Here we are in the wide world that credits a fool for his folly. There's no money in the lines they print, though once in awhile some fresh thighs spread for you. Nothing you have entered in these last years has been sacred. No one's felt the overwhelming urge to stay, yourself included in that spiny accusation. You are the man you loathe inside, and lately it's been easier for the sharks to see straight through. The taste of copper rides high in whichever seas you navigate.

Once you tried to cook with a pot you had just washed. The water had to boil for the process to commence. Something didn't seem right minutes later on your couch. You could smell the looming danger. The moisture on the pot had extinguished the stove's flame. Another twenty minutes and the whole place would be poison. It would have been a headline. They would've all assumed. You ordered out instead, newly grateful for the menu.

You're unsure of what you're doing. That's no secret, friend or foe. The women you've made tender did it more to spare the world. "In a scrape", they used to call it, though it hurts much more than that. Karmic justice triumphs in your recent lack of life. There was once a line of women who would save you at your door. Now the line's retreating, pouring shots for bullets dodged.

Instead of seeing sunlight, calling day a chance, you pull the blinds tighter before covering your head with a blanket that's only smelled of yourself for far too long.

You'll be skipping Happy Hour. There isn't room for acting. The only wings you want adorn some angel out of reach.


Currently reading:
"The Hunt for Red October" by Tom Clancy.

For a Shoebox in a Closet

So strange, these clumps we deify.
Golden-hour lighting yields saints with vulvodynia
while the scrotal exfoliation of senators
determines the outcomes of our lives.
Lou Reed is dead and Seeger's dead
and we're supposed to feel awful
for that Seymour Hoffman junkie.
We dump wine atop our cereal
to slurp down liquid dinner
smoking cloves instead of menthol
since mint's a faster kill.

There's wet work for rapists in prisons
where all our best felons are made.
The horror of dating has not been the bar tab
but how many women were robbed in the dark.
A truer use of lead and steel
would put fathers and Fathers
coaches and confidants
with the monsters their hormones
have burned underground.
Right as rain, sworn on a stack of Gideon Bibles
their silent equalizer should be praised
with union scale.

Somewhere in his chest
there's a bullet you can't catch
bouncing off his ribcage
breaking bits of bone
and they say that when it stops
or he ships those hidden letters
then the tide will shift accordingly
to hail the highest bidder.

Right as rain
but still the village fool.


Currently reading:
"The Breathing Method" by Stephen King.

Sarcophagus

It's been nineteen months since we put her in the ground. There still is no tombstone, but my uncle is working on that. My mother's picking a style, he's prying some cash back from his wife, my grandmother's waiting for a name on her grave. These things take time. It's not like in the movies. At least she's next to her husband after fifty-eight years apart.

In many ways she's with us now more than she was during her last few years topside when her mind was truly gone. The wounded who preach of love never dying have a leg to stand on, though it can be misconstrued. It changes, you see. It has to. The departed aren't present to give themselves back, but love is meant to be selfless. We carry the lessons and laughs that they brought us. We wear their hardships as stripes on our skin. We throw back our shoulders when words hit our ears that give us the cue to carry the name.

And that is how my grandma still lives: through the words.

She spoke only Spanish, at least for the record. Ninety-two years is a long conversation. Her lexicon was that of a small island farm girl from Puerto Rico, peppered with wit she dragged in from the streets of New York like gravel that sticks to the bottom of soles. There's a list I have of her phrases; aphorisms from a wiser generation. None of them are dated. Most of them are funny. Some of them don't translate. All of them are true. I won't write them out in their native tongue for you to butcher. That would be disservice. That would be irreverent. Here's a prime example of the type of lines she carved: "He who doesn't want broth, you give three cups to." Her third-grade education made more sense than much of college. I had my share of cups there, though not enough was broth.

We revel in her words still--certain rolling R's and salty lady syllables. Even her cough is something that we mimic when with the closest family: "eh-heh, eh-hao."  We know who that is. We miss her all the same, though in different ways. My mother called this morning, mentioned weekend chores. Her condo is a mess, she claimed, though only by her standards. I let my grandma's word for "mess" fall into the phone and the two of us remembered how she'd go off on some tangent. We could smell her small apartment, rice on the stove and dark meats laced with garlic in the oven. We could see her tiny apron adorned with handstiched flowers. This four-foot-nothing giant who loved without limits taught her children well. Be not "zeroes to the left", as she used to term the worthless. That sounds like a title. When it's time to print I'll use it.

There's a lot to say for language. There's a list of those I've loved. One can only hope that the actions match the words.


Currently reading:
"The Body" by Stephen King.

Shorts Above the Knee

He used to have this saying
he'd tack on
to ends of phrases, messages
and Hallmark cards:
"...and know that you are loved."

I haven't heard him say it
since I could drink in public.
The old bird still believes himself.
Half of me is jealous.

Those words the vodka mumbles
come as soothing threats:
"I'll never be my father."

At least I have his eyes.

A whore's demise is marriage.
The greatest death is love.
Your sign at city limits
and its welcome are suspicious.

Springfield '03

My granddad had a relic
hanging in his closet.
I saw it once
while rifling
for his favorite
blue umbrella.

"What's this?"
I asked excitedly
not needing him to answer.
"My service rifle, sonny,"
he said through custom teeth.

All steel was blued
the highest shine.
Its wood was well intact.
A dulled edge on its bayonet
coerced my mind to wander.

"They issued these
with leather slings?"
my anxious tongue inquired.
"No. They came with canvas."
He didn't seem impressed.

I stroked the strap, its stitching
worn, admiring its craftsman.

"You bought it then?"
"My best friend did."
"...a gift?"
"He died in France."

That was the last I asked of war.
I found him his umbrella.
And when he passed
a few years back
no weapon plagued his will.

Drunk on Shirley Temples

Spit at him the ways
he's been down this lane before:
Oversexed, underfed
with a welcome outstayed
by days.

There's always a cat
who gives too much affection
as if to make up
for those nights in between.
The drinking of time
and passing of water
becomes his old blur--
familiar at worst.

Six pounds were lost
though not ever missed.
He means to buy matches
to keep for her porcelain.

He almost braved to hitchhike back home
leaving a note on her mother's best lace
but then came the fear
that no one would stop
and no one would start
to know him again.

A Prowler Unsabered

Spent the last four mornings
learning six a.m.
by the light through her blinds
in lieu of an alarm clock.

Favorite time of day:
Five minutes after
our last release
as I hear her gentle snoring.
There's trust in vulnerability.
What more can lovers give?

And in one of those talks
coached by long-dead men
I broke it down in concrete:
"Someone's got to love you, woman.
Why shouldn't it be me?"

A Flower You Can Eat

There are rules
in dusty books on this.
Their writers are all dead;
still trusted.

A Luger's
luminosity
felled me, spread the wealth.

"So now what?"
Heather asks, flora
in her own right.

It turns out I'm a monster.
It turns out that won't change.

Her earrings are here
on the night stand
though that means nothing, detective.
Not all mistakes
are implications.
Not every thorn
stems from red petals.
Can't read the future
in a puddle's oil slick.

All hands on deck
to hear these proclamations.
There's a list of tunes
I pray are in Hell's jukebox.

So, now what?


Currently reading:
"Apt Pupil" by Stephen King.

Sugarbush

Since Christ had Mary Magdalene
then I demand a saint;
perhaps another slattern
accused but not convicted.
There is no record printed
of washing dusty feet
on their gold-inked
see-through pages.
It's folklore for the barstools.

Who wouldn't love a god
so humble to scrub seed
from between the toes of harlots?
It trumps the evening news.
But you never lose a button
on a shirt that came with extras
stitched in some hidden place
that even lovers miss

so while we're missing lovers
and playing Cunning Linguist
here's a dose of braggart's folly
that the unsubscribed won't share:
The only sight that's sweeter
than a note found after work
is a second hidden deeper
in the same excited scrawl;
a cinema star's signature;
more I wouldn't risk.

Shakespearean Iambi

"To be
or not to be,"
he booms striding by
arm extended Heavenward;
a dramatist in yellow.
I look up from my pages--
the butt of this friend's joke.
He's grinning as much as he will
on our shift.

"That's right," I concur succinctly.
"When I was an apprentice
they used to call me..."

But he's already back
to his lunch break brethren
before I can finish my sentence.
An antiquated nickname
embroidered on my cap
twitches in the breeze
as we all savor roles
beyond terms like
Steamfitter, Laborer
Anxious General Foreman.

Life's too short to wear one hat.


Currently reading:
"Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption" by Stephen King.

Conjugal

And we're family
but we're not.
And we're graceless
skipping Grace.
And we're eating
from the table
too careful of our toes.

And we're armed
beyond our teeth.
And we're sober
as the Pope
half pitching double-headers
or sharing beds alone.

And we're grateful
there aren't albums
and the photos aren't in print
since we'd have a lot to conjure.
It hasn't been nostalgic.

We were warned to stay away.
We came, as Catholic raised.
Eve was hexed a harlot.
Now will you pass the fruit?

The Last of the Mohicans

It greets me
like that tentative friend
on the playground:
A book
lightly used
bought off the Internet.
Hardcover.
First edition.
Grease stains adding character.
I saved 20% with my discount card.
The couch feels more comfortable
as I crack the old whore's binding.

Someone left a message
with black marker in the cover.
An inscription from its giver.
"A quickie existential crisis."
Some praise.
Some page numbers.
A "Happy birthday"
and the Love

but the part that makes me cringe for "Ed"
comes right before he signed it:
"I want to spend every year
of your life with you."

It seems she sold the book.

Heavy Petting

He hacks at the windshield
blood vessels in his eyeballs exploding
and tries not to spill his coffee
clutched by fingers that the nicotine can't stain.
He grew up fishing the pond he passes
on his morning commute
now reduced to a milestone for punctuality.

Today's trek is different.
There's a swan standing oddly
at the side of the road.
Fifty feet more and the crime scene's revealed:
Its mate sprawled backwards, legs pointed to God
on the other side of the poorly named guard rail.
The surviving bird stares into traffic
as though considering the march
that'd send it to eternity
alongside its ill-fated lover.

He takes a deep drag
fleeing the latest tragedy
eight miles over the speed limit.
Teeth clench like chalk
in the mortar morning.
The acid of last night's grapes
wears away their enamel
as scenes such as this one
have done to the rest.
Petals from a blossoming tree
flutter through his window
at the next traffic light
and choke on exhaled smoke.

There shall be a fifth Horseman.
He'll come bearing gifts.


Currently reading:
"Survivor" by Chuck Palahniuk

Technicalities

A rap sheet.
A rent cheque.
An SSN.

A library card.
A union card.
Birthday cards on the refrigerator.

A credit report.
A driver's license.
Unsolicited mail-order catalogs.

Dental records.
Planned Parenthood bills.
An insurance ID that works sometimes.

But the only thing that proves
that this life was ever lived
is a photo from five years ago:

Two stubborn lovers
naked from the waist up
laughing in the yellowed sheets
of a queen-size hotel bed
on the Maine-New Hampshire border
with no knowledge of the ending.

For that I will save documents.
For that I'll play their game.

By Proxy

Charlie opens his door
to a man he's never met.
"You're late," Charlie tells him
and laughs
as expected.
The man doesn't flinch.
A gold watch
from Chinatown
weighs down his wrist.

Outside, on Main Street
a woman tries three times
to parallel park, but fails.
Her car speeds off down the block
in search of another spot.

"Do I have time for a smoke?"
Charlie asks
tapping the unbuttoned breast pocket
above his heart.
The stranger yawns
tired of his typecast role
without an agent to blame.
He produces a pack of Lucky Strikes
and lights two, handing one
to the man across the threshold.

Charlie, unaware of the rules
takes a free drag and waits for words
from Sleep's tired cousin.
They don't come.

"Making the rounds?"
Charlie asks while exhaling.
The man in borrowed clothing
pulls long and hard
at his cigarette.
Its cherry lengthens at once
and turns to ash
which he flicks
on Charlie's unsuspecting doormat.

His mouth finally opens.
Perfect teeth.
"Time's up."

But the kid is faster on the draw than most
and no one's ever thought
to shoot Him in the knee.
The stranger chokes
on the embers of his cigarette
as Charlie slams the door.

"Jehovah," Charlie shrugs
to the woman
curled up on his couch.
"Where were we?"


Currently reading:
"Chump Change" by Dan Fante.

Bachelor's Ball

A sadist would make this
some problem of math
questioning the Sun's angle
as it moves up his legs
warming more of his lazy skin
slowly, by the fraction of the inch
helping him to remember the sensation
after what felt like his life's longest winter

but he's no sadist
so instead he stares down
at the face rising and falling
framed by naked thighs
eyes closed, lips welded
recognizing this as a symptom
not a cause.

Swinging for a Ring

In names like Love
she bares her breasts
to strangers on the Internet
so that her knight with bedroom eyes
won't have to weave his web of lies
to bring home strays
and feed the beast
cursed by sunsets in the East.

There are few creatures pitied less
than birds on roadsides, broken necks.

Not for Sport for Once

She rides me
as she has for years--
a cold offering
to an idol we'll never share.
"That's a new one,"
I observe between thrusts
and the setting sun.
The ink is fresh;
the body isn't.
Somehow
she's more beautiful
than in high school.

She shivers in affirmation
and pleasure that's forbidden.

Black text.
Two dates.
Her ribcage.
Foreign epitaph.
Beautifully under
her bra strap.
Her grand-someone
left last year.

But it's false:
We don't die
all at once.
The French say
a little at a time
and they're right.

There's a fine line
between man's laughter
and manslaughter.


Currently reading:
"The Art of Racing in the Rain" by Garth Stein.

Crossing the Double Yellow

Longer days with looming light
giving reason not to sleep
though he's ginned and catatonic.
Spitting on streets was illegal once.

A mother confides her woes
asks her only son to pray.
He can't lift words to gods
he's sworn off like friends in debt.

His stance on the masses:
Brake when they're passing.
There's no reason now for rushing
to other worlds than this.

Conspirators cast out
like merchants from the temple.
It was comfortable and easy
like missionary
like taking one on the starboard side
like her tenderest of parts
that tasted of grapefruit
and are gone now.

And are gone.

In Vino Mendacium

There are people
skinning people
with the sole goal of profit.
The Corporation wins
regardless of your vote.
If Congress turned honest
we'd see trademarks in cheap suits.
Credit pays the bills
and the wine tastes good.

There are hungry children sleeping
with their eyes glued to the screens
that their parents placed before them
to replace the food of learning.
Overfed and oversexed
they rely on backs of busses
to teach of fornication
and the wine tastes good.

There are teachers
pulling wrenches.
There are soldiers
sharing secrets.
There are victims
droved and shorn
who believe that freedom's free.
There are peep shows in Manhattan
where a man can skip the dinner
and go straight to feeling lonely
and the wine tastes good.

Finding Orion

Piranhas and pariahs;
neither much desired.
Eating not for sustenance
but to fight the pangs.

Touch fire to the box.
He's bred of noble stock
but foreign constellations
make no compass claims.

Postmature and panting
they tire of the ranting.
Cauterize with quips
instead of heated blades.

Style points are given
though never to the living.
Read and eat and write and drink
and hope our brand's the same.

Long Island Viticulture

Ambushed saints
roll around in underbrush
throttling each other
through the din
of sin's confusion.

He saw this in a man
straightening a photo
hung on a rented wall
that no one cares to see.

"This is where the war
was waged," a tour guide
tells some Asians.
"This is where the war was lost,"
he mutters, off the clock.

Dishes in the sink
are proof of last week's guests.
A truth that doesn't make you ache
is not worth your remembrance.

Caveat Emptor

His work jeans are delivered--
slightly irregular, highly discounted.
Tearing them from their clear plastic packaging
he notices small strips of white masking tape
near the imperfections
that deemed the pants unworthy
of full retail:
a tattered seam here, a crooked stitch there.
The hands of poor Mexicans
in both senses of the adjective
have clearly delineated
all flaws on his behalf.
He barely paid half-price
and his friends will never notice
but that denim seems much darker
with the stark white set against it.

An itch subdues his chest.
He scratches, checks to see
if there next to his pocket
someone's tagged what is defective.
Even through the laughter
some can recognize the mark.
He likes those seers dearly
or as best as he knows how.

15

A ship becalmed
four words reneged
and lies like dioramas;
Liberals in their bomber jackets
toss the burning filters.

Caesar scoffed an omen
and bled out from his Senate
on a date that we'll remember
while the others seem to wane.

Women loved the fugitive
far more when he was hiding.
Friends and kinsmen called
when there was still much to offer.

Windless sails and raincoats.
A cracking masquerade.
If one god trumps another
then let's hope that we chose wisely.

Plus One

Two words
drop mail
in the stairwell--
An unexpected
return address.

First guess: belated birthday card.
An invitation ensues
and the falling.
Postage paid envelope. Nice touch
like a cruel joke, strategically timed.

Picking up the papers
demands a second glance.
A cousin's marriage. Relief.

They share the same first name.
The last one came close.

Almost.
Almost.

A has-been hangs up his holsters
and waits for a candle to ring
but she's forgotten.


Currently reading:
"The Road to the Dark Tower" by Bev Vincent.

Cryptic Prophecies in a Fugitive's Red Pupils

I am not a snubnosed revolver. I am many things, but a wheelgun in .38 Special is not one of them. I've ridden in pockets and stung a few hands, though that doesn't make me a Smith nor a Wesson.

I am not Nick Adams, Jay Gatsby, John Galt. Gregory Peck smoked better than me and Humphrey Bogart's less typecast. The problem with some assumptions is that not all martyrs are saints.

I am not Sub Rosa. The Chatham House Rule does not apply herein. Occam's Razor is a joke of the most perverse sort and Murphy's like Gravity without any conscience.

"Anaphora"'s a word redundant as another."Eutony" sounds like "eulogy" and means about the same. Listen through the laughter if you care to know the man.

My work here is done. We should all be committed.

Portrait

When I feel it's
only sometimes
but when it's there
it's there

and if I'd done a better sweep
and the frame had not been shattered
and the wall had not been moving
and the wine had not been there

then this glass stuck in my heel
would not remind a heathen
that his brother deserves more
than a mess who drinks alone
when not smiling alongside him
for a camera and a man
who bore the both of us
twenty-some-odd years apart

so tonight I feel the shard
so tonight I suck the bottle
so tomorrow when the bombs ring
I'll know I'm still alive.

A Terror to the Savage

I've seen their palest skin
where it's calm under the cotton
the curtain call of twenty-four
and all the King's best men.
Compared to petting burning dogs
I'm a solid wager.
The theater has been emptied;
still all these palls to bear.

A threat posed like a mannequin
seeps down beneath the rifts
that we never would suspect.
Some eat the windfall apples.

When father's lure caught lakeside branch
there never came rebuke.
A sentence that would slice too late:
"You've got a lot to learn, son."

$12.99

She came bearing a gift
contained within a bottle:
New Zealand's proudest grape
as per his request.
Some friends converged
in honor of a day
they draped in scarlet.
The march home
had cigarettes, missed calls
from one missed lover.

In the morning
when he found it
there wasn't much surprise.
The bag held the receipt
and the value of his life.

There are terms
like "martial artist".
The female knows of blood.
He hopes seats aren't assigned
in whatever they deem Hell.

The Breakdown

Photographers are painters
with slightly less ambition.
Painters are but writers
afraid of the true challenge.
Writers are skewed historians;
scientists stumped by time travel.

Let's hope the threat is shallow
and those who can't
don't teach.

We All Have Our Reasons

This hellion stands
smoking at his post
listening to the flakes
as they hit the awning above
and a stubborn motorist
in the distance of a still night.

Across the street
a known neighbor
works at the sidewalk's snow
though he doesn't live
on that side of the drag.
The Samaritan pauses
looking up from his silent toil
causing the guilted party
to retract into the safety
of his building's concrete vestibule.

We wonder what it was
to catch and kill magicians
but really, through some sifting
the meek already know.

Battered, resilient
in clothes befitting peasants
a better man throws
what Mother Nature's dropped.
Having defeated much
but not enough
he shovels for himself.


Currently reading:
"Texas Devils" by Michael Collins.

The Spinster That Scares Me

My greatness is not readily perceived.
Even when I let neighbors
smoke in my apartment
it's unnoticed.
They probably assume
I've made a habit of that.

I dated a man once
who used his knife
so gingerly
to persuade food
onto his fork.
Three years later
I do the same
and cringe
at picking up
his mannerisms
like poison from a plate
my stomach's rejected.

A woman like me
says more by saying nothing
neither waving nor drowning
in this river of indifference.

I almost felt bad
for my overripe onion
that sprouted and tried
to set its own roots.
Had it been summer
I would have tried planting.
Instead I chopped chives
and fried a blue omelet.

He's out there flailing.
For now I paint sunsets
and hang them in closets
where no one can see.
It's a matter of shared profit loss
before I'm discontinued
like my childhood perfume.

Serrated

The mail-order quality knife set
that Meg bought for my birthday
two years ago is slowly falling apart.
Handles break when there's company.
Blades rust in the sink.

Rather than ditch it entirely
I let the joke play out
like, "Maybe I won't answer
the next time that she calls,"
or, "Maybe that cutlery's
stainless as it claims."

It's hard to replace
what you never had
and China will never be Germany.

A Reluctant Matador

Exiled from bed
by a stranger's shameless snoring;
a sin only endearing
when the victim
paws at quarry.
Instead these novice saviors
flood the gates
with raw incentives
though none taste like
stale cigarettes
nor other ancient innocence.

Fellate, filet, and file.
Incinerate the vine.
A mattress is an altar
with a sacrifice that varies.
Listen for the asthma.
Spare none but the willing.
Plug your ears with cotton.
That's not Christ.
It's heartburn.


Currently reading:
"Lana Turner, Vol. 6"

Tail

We're careful observers
who may or may not offend
those who aren't careful.

We're kids who loved to play
but hadn't enough toys.

We're that special breed
of craftsman
who swears he could rebuild Troy
through skilled renovation
and without any horse.

We'd rather excrete than eat.

No secret we hear is sacred.
Every word uttered is fair game to field
as long as we change the names
at least slightly.

If we pooled all our knowledge
there'd still be a question.

At the end of the day
and the end of the sentence
we do it for the same reason
that rock stars first picked up guitars:

For a Vagabond Who Could've Housed Me

You disappeared
so hard and without warning
that snow fell from the sky
and the sun sank backwards
the next morning.

They still can't prove
what day of the week
He was crucified
but I know you left on a Thursday
and I know you took everything with you.

We could've been our greatest regrets.

Soma Smithereens

Neither parent
recalls the making
of my first memory.
I asked them last week
in their separate houses
when their second spouses
weren't around.

I'm grateful that night
is all mine, shriek and all.
And maybe that's why
when I turn on a lamp
three decades later
I still expect it to fly.

The Traps of Small-Town Dating

This week's toll necessitates the oak
but the only seat in the house
is right next to another botched attempt.
You take it anyway
because if you don't
then you've lost twice.
There are worse fates
than sitting next to the most beautiful woman
in the room who's pretending not to notice.
You could be laying in a hospital burn unit
or your socks could be wet.

Of all people
she's with the biggest fraud in town
laughing at his overplayed jokes
writing notes on napkins
shoulder dancing on stools to the band
you wish you'd cordially ignored.
The first time her arm brushes against yours
you think she's rubbing it in
but by the fourth offense you realize
it's that you're not even there.
You could tell her how much
that latest painting moved you
a moment captured in a medium
respectfully out of your grasp
but you settle for watching her buy
their round of beer
and take the consolation
in knowing you wouldn't
have let that happen.
You wash your aspirations
of chivalrous nobility
down with one last swig
clap for your friends
descending from the stage
and walk back to the guillotine
where you pay to lay your head.

On your way home
a handful of stars
maintains your gaze
and you remember
that you met her
at a barbecue
where you caught fireflies.
One of you's still trying.

Bastard's Apology

To Whom It May Concern:

I'm writing in regards to a shower curtain
your company produces and distributes
("THE WORLD"
RN#61945
Saturday Knight Ltd.
100% PEVA
Wipe clean with a damp cloth
Made in China
[Spanish and French translations, respectively]).

While it "makes" the bathroom
with its novelty nature
and has provided hours of efficient
multitasking in the name of education
I find it necessary to voice a concern.

There's a small country
between Pakistan
and Tajikistan
without a label.
Everyone deserves a name.

[Oh God, Olivia--
I'm sorry.
If we had a place for you 
right now
I swear on my life
you'd be here
breathing.]

Please devise a plan
to alter future runs.

Graciously,

[Unsigned]

Ahab's Lament

The vain do not suicide.
The meek never live.
Those who bless most
have nothing to give.

Caught archers lose fingers;
trapped thieves, robbed of hands.
Brash fornicators
meet higher demands.

The whoremaster's humbled.
Prepare the harpoons.
Here come more allies
to suck on his wounds.

So march from the gallows.
Rise from the Chair.
Heaven's tomorrow.
See you all there.

An Antephialtic Sabbath

I remember Sunday afternoons. They've been crystallized in brain cells, impossible to repeat.

Church was a prerequisite for lounging on the couch with Dad. Mom couldn't get me to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich like normal kids did, but I'd wolf down sardines and Saltines with my sole male role model. Childhood is a time of emulation in its most comedic form. Life gets more perverse as the cans and communion cups pile up through the years. It seemed that "Stand By Me" played on Channel 11 every other month. That adolescent quest became a form of pop-culture folklore. Rays of orange sunlight would pour in at low angles through the windows and all would be well in the world, at least until the school bus made its rounds on Monday morning.

Fast-forward fifteen years and the imagery gets bleak. A man without a father fumbling through young adulthood. Unchecked debauchery of Gomorrahan proportions. Hangovers so bad that legs are nearly useless. Sunday afternoons in bed with sour whiskey on the breath and sour women driving home from an evening of regrets. Sleep is the best option and water can't work fast enough. The words of long-dead men fill the few waking hours until the time comes to drop the novels and pretend to be fit to pull wrenches on Monday.

Now they're not so polarized. God is arguably dead, but we understand the intended purpose and find our own replacements. Father figures abound and brothers conjure themselves in the strangest of ways and places. Protein comes in multiple forms, some more appealing than others. Bottles are reserved for the coming of company. Dirty laundry never goes away, but its washing guarantees a break from the race. River Phoenix is now dead in reality as well, but at least we had him for a little awhile. Now, more than ever, the back ends of guns and pens feel like home.

There's good news for most species: The sun has not burned out yet.


Currently reading:
"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley.

With Benefits

I tried to sneak between her ribs.
Her thighs have done just fine.
I'd love to be the man she calls
when family's on her mind.
I'll never play the song she needs.
It's me or stranger swine.
I'll eat her like an elephant:
One bite at a time.


Currently reading:
"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley.

Frightening Words From the Lips of Children

"Mommy and Jesus made me this scarf."

Zero to the Left

To rape a sage who lives by signs.
To hope she doesn't notice
the mascara on the pillow.
To speak now of lassitude
seems a trite endeavor.

The Morning Star's aroused
by talking his way into temples.

Had I known what you meant by "never"
I would have acted the same.

Another Crock

"Snowed in," he sighs to the showerhead.

"I should make soup," he says to the soap.

That would've happened three years ago 

but now green sprouts grow from the onions 

hanging in baskets they searched for and bought.

He'll finish and rinse and try to repeat;

trim eyes from the spuds, thaw ancient stock.

None of what stays in her wake is malign.

He knows what ingredients stick to his ribs.

Curently reading:

"American Gun:  A History of the U.S. in Ten Firearms" by Chris Kyle (RIP).

The Sixth Sunday of Nevuary

An echo of laps
reverberates
against the brick of bedroom walls.

Between panicked gasps
she asks
(something irrelevant)
but all he can think
aside from "keep moving"
is that scar tissue itches
and a Pisces can't live alone.

Rubbed Out

How I'll remember my father--
my adult father; the one who listens
when I beg him not to try
to make home repairs without me--
is sitting on the edge of his recliner today
shining his shoes
before my uncle's Christmas party.
His hands worked patiently
as he stared at the television
chiming in with chosen words
when he heard my punctuation.

It took some heavy brushing
and a few layers of polish
to work out the scuffs
and make the leather respectable again
but when he was done
they could have been sold:
An old trick by an old man
who grew up shining shoes
for his namesake.

He still had the knack
and sense of humble wisdom.
He wasn't too proud
to make due or amend.
My three-year-old brother
ran into the room and I thought
I'll have to tell him someday.

A Cenotaph Somewhere

He fucks better in his own bed
downplaying skill for the home team advantage.
He's still searching
for that lady's lost unmentionables
before they turn up
at the worst time possible.
He never brings the bottle
there with him in bed
so the walk to refill glasses
helps him gauge his state.
He's gone to strip clubs sober
for captive conversation.
He has shallow, meaningless sex
with shallow, meaningless people.
He doesn't get to see their eyelids anymore.
He's gifted his seed, though not for the money.
There's a cenotaph for his dignity somewhere
but no one will give him the address.
And if you see him out there
careening through the streets
please remind our vagabond
that addiction is addiction.

The Coriolis Effect

Neil pleas for a gold heart
through the static as I park.
It's possible to want something so badly
that you don't.
The sidewalk feels harder
than last year underfoot.
There's a view of my brick tower
from my path, though I don't notice.

My eyes stick to pedestrians.
Maybe. Hopeful. Christ.
And then, like in my nightmare
Mary Magdalene appears.
Perfection is propelled
by her feet in my direction.
This is how it's meant to be.
Organic. Random. Chance.

Her bangs fall from a hat
that can't disguise her sainthood.
Strength pokes through her face
with stubborn, rigid cheekbones.
The things that I would tell her
over Sunday morning coffee
lighten every step
as we breathe steam in the night.

Like living locomotives
we head for our collision.
I rifle through my lines
like a drunken understudy.
Before I can recite them
she breaks our dear formation
by crossing to her lover
who waits across the street.

There's how it's meant to be
and then
there's how it is
and somewhere in the difference
lurks the humor that we're given
to help with unpulled punches
and moments that we've jinxed
with the notion that a human heart
is anything but shining.


Currently reading:
"This Is How You Lose Her" by Junot Diaz.

Friday the Thirteenth and Other Irrational Fears

Falling in love
at abortion clinics
and battening down
a decade of hatches
is enough to make me wonder
if I could have loved the waitress
whose insides smell like pennies.
Copper is an element
I've come to work already.
She made such perfect dinners
and never kicked me out.

I've given diamonds
and white gold for Christmas
against the urging of women
but I've sworn not to do it again
until I can give all they want:  myself.


Currently reading:
"Letters To a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Kicking Your Soapbox

Waiting in line
I see a Marine.
Tucked underneath
his left shoelace
a spare dog tag shines.
It ain't there in case
he loses his boots.

I won't tell you
to "love it or leave it,"
and much of what We do
isn't right
but the fact that you
can disagree in public
is due to the men and women
who are willing to adopt
a morbid dressing habit
that will guarantee a name
on the grave that may await
so that you can wave a finger
or a flag that doesn't match.

Kristallnacht

And he knew the wine had worked
by the tiles upside-down
on the dusty Scrabble board
he'd stolen from his father

and he knew he didn't care
when he won and killed the lights;
another vixen smitten
with a man he never was

and the note he left at dawn
had the number for a cab
so she could catch her train
and he could come home tired

to a bed made for a change--
empty, but his own.

And he knew the stench of fate
as it crept into his nose.

Belated Chestpiece Envy

Deathbed graces
shall come as truths clandestine
like how it could have been
if you'd fessed up when you noticed
how her one eye smiles wider
a signal flare, a martyr
crying not about the hurt
but that we cannot show it.

A Splash of Cabernet

He strokes a patch of ceiling
in his mother's empty kitchen
taking note of which spot
at the table is below it:

Her husband's seat.
The brute in buck's clothing.
A wedge driven deep
between blood and family folklore.

With fist raised to mimic
a tossing of the glass
he recreates the action
that left those purple stains.

"This is why I didn't come,"
the son says of Thanksgiving
to a sad and full refrigerator.
His mother saved the food.

There are shames that thrive in alleys.
Death loves fluorescent lighting.
The criminals use banners
to hide their sins in view

but there are some sadder scenes
that one never would expect
like a man without a home
and all his family living.


Currently reading:
"We Are What We Pretend To Be" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Over-the-Counter Remedies for Contagious Genuflection

"Padre Santo, Padre bueno..."
my mother would begin
while pouring medicine
to cure me
or help her sleep better.
She'd end the Spanish prayer
in the name of the Holy Trinity.
Salvation had hints of berries and alcohol.
Not much has changed
though I've ditched the pajamas
and I don't need a chaser
when downing my poison.

The taste of the syrup brings back that scene
as I stand comparing bottles
wondering if there's a difference
in the night and day formulas.
So much of healing occurs in one's head.
I rinse the plastic shot glass
as a cough shredding phlegm
rips through my chest
and transforms into self-aware laughter.

My mother's been right
about many things
but my Savior
will never be one of them.
Am I sick since I'm here
or here because I'm sick?
Whatever that Holy Ghost is
has got a sense of humor.

Better Living Through Chemistry

In a crowded bar last night
I met her.
Cynics have mocked me
said she didn't exist
but I've always known better.
Her tangibility dulls the pang.
I didn't even get to buy her a drink.

Brown strands of hair
that escaped her ponytail's cinching
landed behind her ears.
Every few minutes she'd
swipe her hand across her forehead
to gather any rebellious conspirators
and return them to their cousins.
Somewhere between sips
I imagined having the honor
of doing that for her
on a hungover Sunday morning
with the blinds drawn
as we smiled, close-mouthed
to contain the stench of stomachs.

Then she snapped me out of it.
Asked what I do.
I stammered on about writing and piping.
Left out the part about falling for strangers.
She seemed content with my answer.
So did her husband.

I met him shortly after she told me
the tale of buying a house
here in town.
He seems great.
Undeserving as the rest of us, but great.
Couples like that are rare outside film.
I meant both handshakes.
Even the second.

I wished them both the best
and walked her friend home instead.

It's about a search for
a sweet spot in this killer life
or at least not becoming
an ascetic hermit
who blows out candles
for the smell of it
over and over all night
since he never once surprised them
by leading with the left.

If you want me to talk
about snowflakes landing on eyelashes
I can, but wouldn't mean it.


Currently reading:
"American Short Fiction: Volume 16, Issue 56 (Fall 2013)".

Que Lastima, Amigos

Ridley didn't see himself having much need for his canteen any longer. He tossed it five feet from where he was sprawled out, his back against a stone outcropping, and watched the dirt around the water jug dance. It was as he'd expected: his pursuers weren't taking any chances and compensated for their lack of skill with volume. A cloud of dust rose from the site of his experiment with lead replacing soil in a violent display of physics. Then a stray bullet crashed through the tip of his right boot, taking two toes in the process. He wouldn't need those again either.

From beyond the confines of his rock he heard the frantic directives of the low-ranking officer trying to earn a few stripes with his scalp. His orders, if executed and successful, could amount to a promotion. Little Generalisimo would switch to private school. Ridley had no problem with the way the world trades energy, though he wouldn't make it easy to sacrifice his own. He opened the loading gate of his Colt revolver, swapped out spent shells for fresh ones pushed from his belt, and spun the cylinder with a swipe of his left hand. The last move served no purpose other than compliance with habit. The Mexicans would receive him in his entirety, superstitions and idiosyncrasies included.

A spurt of blood sprayed from his hemorrhaging foot, drawing his attention back to the tactical specifics. He saw a brown mess of leather and flesh in the sand and wondered if they'd take the time to bury him completely, or at all.

"Come out, Comandante," the sergeant taunted in his best pidgin English, the sarcasm implied not lost on its target . "It doesn't have to end this way," he lied without a tremble.

The blood finally clotted in Ridley's mangled foot. The throbbing stopped and the adrenaline in his veins evened out to be of use. As the sergeant made silent hand motions that were meaningless to his poorly trained subordinates, Ridley leveled the blind barrels of his shotgun against the baking desert floor and squeezed both triggers in tandem with the hopes of one last Ace. Another barrage of gunfire chipped bits from the boulder, but this time there weren't statements from the sergeant's thirsty throat. A man so bent on glory would have stood in front, invincible. Ridley knew the type well; he'd beaten him before. Little Generalisimo would now be half an orphan.

The familiar echo of government issued rifles raced away toward the horizon. Things like sunsets did more than inspire a pensive smoke after supper--they could save a man's life, since darkness eases escape. Unfortunately it wasn't yet noon where this standoff was transpiring. Tokens had been thrown across the table and landed on one side. That lucky shot which folded the sergeant was the last favor granted by a god who thrives on numbers.

A corporal rose to fill the boots and split the squads for flanking. Ridley couldn't clone himself. It would come down to which side would first succumb. When seconds are precious and breaths on earth are numbered choices like this one would have to suffice. No more hollow offers came from his relentless assassins; only cocking hammers and footsteps crunching pebbles.

His shotgun was now useless since he'd emptied both its chambers. His clenched Colt felt like a crucifix forged in carbon steel. It had been there for some blessings and would now bestow last rites. He growled a quaint obscenity in his version of their tongue, though it wasn't necessarily meant to curse these strangers.

He'd made them chase him this long. He'd rationed out his ammo. There were no delusions of cavalry thundering over the ridge.

Ridley trained his pistol on a buzzard that was circling. Mexican conscripts cared not for shovels. Death was one thing; being spread across the desert by a scavenger of carrion was another. The .45 rang out twice, felling the vulture and stopping the advancing Federales in their vengeful tracks. By the time the last feather floated to the ground to join its humbled source the soldiers had circumnavigated each half of the stone. Had they not been distracted by dispensing hot brass from their borrowed hardware maybe one would have noticed the freshly carved inscription: "Here lies..."

They left him with his Peacemaker, but divvied up his rounds.

Trifecta Dentata

Somewhere between the sambuca and Chardonnay
we established where she'd be staying: in me.
The exposed brick strikes again
and an alley kitten's killed
for resting in an engine.

If you don't read poetry
with a shotgun on the coffee table
then you don't read poetry correctly.
If you're not writing lines
like there's one aimed at your head
then you're wasting your time and mine.
Saint Dave of the Wilderness would never understand.

So life, or what's left of it, is reduced
to an absence of the shepherd
in search of billable hours
to cram into the day.

"How do you sleep at night?"
his detractors ask in unison.
"I put my head down on the pillow
and close my eyes," he says.

Now let me help you down
off that cross.

Show Review Written On an Obsolete Cell Phone

The drummer was faking the pain on his face. That denim jacket wasn't worn enough to have lived, but he closed his eyes as convincingly as the next rhythmic cat while massaging his cymbals.

The guitarist needed shoes and a friend to tell him that ponytails aren't alright, even for jazz artists. His gear was solid and deliberate. I have a pair of boxers in the same gray and black print as his flannel shirt. The rest I could do without.

Sometime between blurred songlines a half-way to Florida businessman asked if he could sit at my booth. Not having a valid argument in opposition I made the universal face of indifference, sans shrug. That sentiment soon changed. He began smiling with too much tooth for no reason toward the stage. His head rocked so hard that the stubble of his salty goatee began to shake loose. And then the laughing commenced. Maniacal. Senseless. Caught up in a moment that I knew wasn't there, like a Born Again Christian speaking in tongues. It's no wonder this man would leave alone after the gig. A fraud in a herringbone blazer blowing inaudible whistles of approval through cracked lips. When he took the microphone between sets to play MC I wasn't surprised, especially by his quip about "working the box" when it came time to beg for donations.

"I don't know. I guess I'm getting old," I told the kid across from me.

"I'd prefer that to constantly embarrassing myself."

The kid had a point.

But the jazzmaster stole the show--switching between brass and woodwinds, equally war-torn, in three layers of collared shirt; pockmarked and fragile, thrusting his thin hips at the mic stand during a bold improvisation that made my stubborn head spin on the inside. Years of humble penance at his muse's bloody altar showed as scars through the tight curls on his damp tobacco face; raging against pain with the jowls of a black Bukowski, his watchman's cap unquestionable, his jeans worn at the knees. If you saw him on the subway you'd swear he'd never left it. This is why I came here. This man had truly lived it, unlike his choice of  cohorts. It's too bad there's no whiskey. We'd share our fun renditions of making our own blues.

A Flicking of the Switch

I won't mask this in a faded gray font. There shall be no need for dictionaries. I am me and you are you; the cowardly use of pronouns--he, she, they--was done away with when the boxing gloves came off after coffee #3. If I want to address Angela or Stephanie or Joy I will do so. It doesn't matter. Their last names are different now anyway, and rightfully. But Mike Vahsen? (Do you hear that, Mr. Editor? It's Mike, not Michael.) He's been the same since seventeen, at least when it comes to the core and its termites; still searching, still stinging--both getting and giving.

The sentence has been excessive. It's going on two-and-a-half years now in solitary confinement. If a court had been involved I'd argue the Eighth Amendment, but in this case it's merely karma and fate. I come home to an empty apartment on Main after working alone with the boys from the hall. A crew of fifteen, all with their partners, except the odd man who sees his way out. I joke with the steward, mentioning the necessity for a dog, though a shameless accomplice is all that I want: a brilliant belle with a laugh that's infectious for whom I can bring sincere bread to the table. 

Instead there are stand-ins, holders of places; women who throw the predictable pitch. One makes the perfect Bloody Mary, multiple variables be damned. Another has the ultimate lust handles. Way up north there's a reflection of my mind who may be too much like me for her own good. There's always an artist, some self-loathing muse--the beautiful trainwreck the knight longs to tame. These archetypes continue. Don't feel so left out; likewise, I mean not to lessen your worth. I suspect the desire to fall in love with the writer. They'd settle for the steady steamfitter, get stuck with the part-time plumber. For that I pity them. Life's so unkind. I know all of their lines before they can say them, with their eyes or otherwise. I've read too much Hemingway. The dialogue's predetermined. These poor souls don't see the script that they're reading, or maybe they do and stare through the act. 

The coffee's yielded to its cousin. A waxpaper cup filled with water collects the remnants of one vice, though maybe it's time to invest in an ashtray. Kristen would kill me for smoking inside. Kristen would kill me for smoking in general. And to set the record straight, Kristen never killed me. It's the blur of the sidewalk and the weight of my Levis that make it seem wiser to put a box fan in the window and suck out the stench of a man's last cancerous refuge. I lied again: look up "hiraeth".

The solution sounds simple. Keep my head down and work. Be a productive member of society. Install the pipes required to heat and cool, clean and nourish, move some fluid from Point A to Point B. But I've seen what complacency does to a man, the soul's slow erosion that drains one of talent and dreams. I know great tradesmen who've honed their craft exclusively, giving up on passions that once pulled their veins. Look into the eyes of a colleague on coffee break. Find the sacrifice, expose the dull ache. I fear becoming that man who's got nothing but pension credits and consolidated debt to show for the decades. Most are divorced, some went to rehab. Half have some kid whom they see once a week. The dream is a tease. We punch cards for nothing. Then, once we've realized, it's time to pick plots. Bury my heart at Wounded Knee. Leave the rest for the coyotes.

But it's not what you think. There's no cry for empathy. You may keep your shoulder. I've got two of my own. Those blessed with this affliction don't do it to see their names in print. It's not about the glory, nor the mercy, nor the sex. We type to suck the poison like the fan propped in my window. Maybe someone gets it. From this stage I see no lighters; some yawning, a few cocked arms, and a more-than-met two-drink minimum. 

Your ears I'm now returning. My feet are all I need. Tomorrow my alarm clock will silence the madness of dreaming. (She lays her head down nightly somewhere safely far from me.)

I wonder how much less we'd respect our favorite mentors if they didn't show discretion that we amateurs ignore. My defense reverts to childhood: that monster in the dark disappeared with bulbs electrified.

The Stubbornness of Sprinters

He's burning to tell me
but his words can't leave fast enough.
It's something I share
with my three-year-old kinsman.
"I got hurt, Michael.
I was running and fell."
Even through the miles
I can hear his fettered thinking
and wince at lines of anguish
forming on his brow.
"I scraped my knee and my chin."
He's rubbing at least one of them.

Our father reclaims the telephone
to clarify the message.
"The girls track team was running laps
around the lake where we were fishing.
He took off after them with his little legs
and somehow got to the head of the pack.
It was amazing," the proud parent beams audibly.

But Newton and Murphy caught up with the kid.
His triumph was short-lived.
Those ladies were going for distance; not speed.
They're smarter than that.
It's science.

He'll learn this again when the stakes matter more.
He'll find his own limits; be his own man.
Even big brothers can't cushion those blows

though damned I shall be if I don't try regardless.


Currently reading:
"The Bear Went Over the Mountain" by Lester Grau.

Blackguard Buzz Aldrin

For all I know
the world ain't shaped the way they draw it.
The continents could be nothing
like the maps would have us think.

I've never been to space
to look down at the shorelines.
Orbit's not for laymen.
Even Jersey scares me.

If a liar held the lens
then we'd never know the difference;
billions of people
duped by floating monkeys.

The moonwalk was a hoax.
Hollywood was hired
for the biggest Cold War fraud
and a false idea of home.

Junkies and the Settin' Sun

I'd like to talk to you about addiction.

Scratch that.

I'd like to talk to you about "Greg".
We'll call him "Greg" since that's his name.
Greg is a twenty-five-year-old boilermaker.

Scratch that as well.

Greg is a sad demographic.
Greg is a statistic.
Greg is a heroin addict.
Notice there's no "recovering".
Not even a hopeful heroine could change that.

My mother falls into that category sometimes;
the Good Samaritan, I mean.
She's a social worker at a Rehab Center in Newburgh.
Greg was a patient there.
He had soupy brown eyes and rough hands.
(They still are.)
His mouth sometimes outwitted his heart.
(It still does.)
He meant well, but got in his own way.
(The story doesn't change, regardless of the name.)
Greg reminded my mother of me.
(I'm not sure how to feel about that.)

The union might have sent him on vacation.
Maybe he went by his own volition.
It doesn't matter.
Greg is a heroin addict.
That's all you need to know.

My mother saw that he wanted help.
He played by the rules.
Went to the meetings.
Slept under the required roof.
Completed some trivial Steps.
Greg even managed to graduate.
I think that's what they call it.
But Recovery is a continuing Step.
Greg didn't stick with that one.

They shipped him to a half-way house in the ghetto.
My mother bought him a bike, fixed it up.
Greg couldn't drive anymore.
The needle sews things closed.

She asked me to make some phone calls.
I did.
She's my mother.
I'd do far more than that if she asked.
Greg sounded nice enough.
Said he could weld.
Wanted to work.
Didn't have tools, but was eager.
Ready, willing, and able.
I made some more phone calls.
Greg said he'd go on the interview.
I told him to drop my name.
I didn't care.
It was for my mother.
Greg could do as he pleased with my reputation.
Lord knows I have.
It was his life.
Well, it used to be.
Greg is a heroin addict.
That contractor never heard from him.

The summer bled out on the sizzling asphalt.
Another graduate ran into Greg on a side street.
He looked like a broomstick wearing clothes.
His eyes had receded into his skull.
The soup was gone.
The hands were still rough, but shaking.
His legs were weary from walking around town.
Greg had sold the bike within a week.
Greg is a...
You get the idea.

My mother's voice was strained when she told me.
She's sick of seeing the Cycle repeat.
It was hard to hear what she had to say.
Greg had been picked up by the cops again.
He was with some unsavory characters, selling.
There was a hefty load of dope.
The bail had been set at twenty-five grand.
That's no petty possession.
Greg won't be making boilers for awhile.

But the other side of the story is what hits me:
If my mother had the money, Greg would still be hunting.
And I haven't deleted his number.

The Single Life, Deglorified

It's not that he's bothered
by her body broken by childbirth
but that he didn't get
to stretch that skin.

In all relations
where "I'll give you X
if you give me Y,"
X and/or Y are always
currency, love
or their conglomerate:
lust.

On any given Thursday
you could dig through his wallet
and find the contents
of at least three fortune cookies.
He's collected them, unofficially
since the age of eighteen.
Our fates are scribbled in pidgin English
and rest on a shelf
collecting dust and threats of dead men.

In direct defiance of the Surgeon General's warning
he's renouncing the curse of the Human Condition.
"In what war has that officer earned his stars?" he asks.

The standing answer follows.
A cricket tunes its legs.

Fluid Ounces

I've worn the same cologne since the irreparable brilliance of age fourteen. My mother bought it for me at the mall in preparation for my junior high debut; Polo Sport, the crisp fragrance of budding manhood throughout the privileged world. It came with a gym bag which I used to carry my cleats to football practice. That's still in my mother's shed somewhere. The scent lasted. The jock dreams didn't. There's not a single cell inside me that's not at peace with that.

Then, the better part of a decade later, she chimed in with a second olfactory gift. This one didn't stick. It came at the time of my first apartment, a foray into debauchery that led to years of karmic justice. The smell of Curve changed overnight, somehow smoothed into a buttery musk that quickly gained a shameful association with hangovers and awkward Good Mornings. It didn't last long in the repertoire. The man who still has notes from high school in a closeted shoebox didn't keep that overpriced bottle of regret. I hope it's bringing someone else better luck.

That was a far cry from the innocence of young boyhood when my anxious father walked into the bathroom with a gift for his six-year-old son. The packaged set of Jovan products slipped from his hands and the bottle broke against the tile floor. I was left with a stick of deodorant which I didn't need yet. That episode managed to sum up much of my old man's aspirations: a heart in the right place, hampered by his own overzealous fumbling. One should be grateful to have experienced half of that equation. I don't deny that. He's a better man than me in most ways.

Last winter I briefly dated one of a slew of Italian single mothers who wound up being slightly more predictable than the rest. When Christmas came I already knew that I'd be receiving a bottle of men's aftershave. It felt more apropos than clairvoyant. I wasn't her ex-husband, nor had I spent seventeen years clinging to the shirttails of her life, but I knew she'd want to somehow change me when the opportunity arose through the ritualistic giving of gifts. Refusal meant upheaval. It came as a clandestine blessing and I haven't heard from her since. I wonder if she hocked that necklace. New rule: No more jewelry prior to six months.

But the last one is what matters. It seemed a normal compliment when Jackie said that she liked the way I smelled. Ralph Lauren has narrated the tale of many a half-hearted endeavor. I probably reciprocated similarly. Pheromones contribute to cases of mistaken identity before reason has its say. She fed me and skipped through the channels as we played the parts on her couch. When my bladder prodded to be drained I excused myself to the bathroom. Her medicine cabinet contained no prescription pill bottles--always a positive sign. I could say that I was searching for some Advil or a Q-Tip, but I was not. Hemingway warned, "You never understand anybody that loves you," while a dying protagonist, thinly veiled as someone other than himself, bled out on his ship. Even less can be said of those whom are only liked. You drink the cork with the wine. You endure some mild violation with the expectation that you too are being entered into search engines on the internet. Consider yourself flattered. There are people in the world whom no one cares to know, but they're not in this formula.

There was, however, a familiar blue bottle of Polo Sport on the middle shelf of the hidden realm behind Jackie's bathroom mirror. Why did a woman have men's cologne among her toiletries? I picked it up and rolled it in my hand. On the side opposite the printed logo was a primitive, hand-etched stencil of a name: Andrew. I didn't, and still don't, know her handwriting well enough to determine if it was her scrawl, but I assumed it to be so. An image of the pencil drawing of a young man's face on her night stand, rosary beads draped over its frame, rose to the forefront of my mind:  Andrew, her high school boyfriend who'd been killed by a drunk driver. The essence in common with this deceased kid was a token of the loss of innocence for our shared paramour. I placed the bottle where I'd found it, closed the cabinet, and saw a scoundrel staring back at me. There would be no prayers or grieving when I left. I was unworthy of art. I never even offered to do the dishes after dinner or help change the sheets.

"You smell nice," meant more than I'd earned. I haven't returned her calls. Somewhere, soaking raindrops, there's a spirit more deserving.

Faulkner Drawing Knives

Best friend's box truck climbs his gravel driveway.
Offers me a road soda hopping down to Friday.
"There's rum already in it."
Decline and shake his hand.

Yard sale guitar on the porch needs tuning.
Strum a G Major until it sounds right.
"Have any gum?" his eldest kid asks.
He knows the answer coming from a rusty cowboy.

"Stay for Chinese," declining again.
"Good luck on your date," the chewing boy says.
"Learn to play that and you won't need it."
Headlights scan the highway.


Currently reading:
"Book of Sketches" by Jack Kerouac.

Stairwell Scrimmage

There's something disconcerting
about seeing someone in a football uniform
and shoulder pads grumble, but I too
was once a nine-year-old.
The neighbor kid's groaning
over being sent back downstairs
by his overweight mother
for the rest of the laundry
waiting in the back of their sedan
parked at the curb.

My smoke's half alive
but I toss it anyway.
"Need a hand with that?"
I ask, reaching out before
he has time to answer.
I know how this goes.
"Sure," he replies
handing me the balled-up blanket
that seemed to be defeating him previously.

Two friendly barflies
guarding the sidewalk real estate
in front of Joe's Irish
cheer from their battle stations.
I suppose it looks ridiculous
especially since I'm still
shoulders-to-shins in denim
slathered with grease from
a day of work next to a man
I wouldn't want in my foxhole.
But it pays, and this kid's laundry
is the lightest thing I've lifted all week.

#42's kneepads are spotless, along with
the rest of him. He's either very good
or very bad. I stubbornly give him
the benefit of the doubt.

"What position do you play?"
I ask as we trudge up the stairs
both tired for different reasons.
"The Line," he confesses.
"I played the Line," I tell him.
"It's boring. All you do
is hit the guy across from you
over and over again."

He takes his bundle back
when we reach the door to his apartment.
I can't remember if he thanked me
not that it matters.
My mind was back on my own Line
wishing I could have a second chance
to unleash my angst
on a faceless, mouth-breathing stranger
for an hour at a clip.

I think I'd be efficient now.
The reasons have amalgamated.


Currently reading:
"The Hidden War" by Artyom Borovik.

Since You MotherFUCKers Think You Know Mike

I am not a good man, but sometimes I try to be--
or maybe I feign trying.
It's just as rewarding without all the sacrifice.
There's been a battle since I was seventeen
and discovered that in
[edited since she may read this
though I doubt it].
Still, always there is hope.
We'll get to that later.

I appear selfish to those safely removed;
selfless to those comfortable enough to pretend;
and once again selfish to the stubborn who dig diligently.
All of this is trivial.
The few who are any better
would never see this accusation.
Consider yourself judged.
When's the last time you asked yourself,
"Who would bail me out at 3 a.m.?"
I didn't think so.

Some more on negativity:
You wouldn't know it if it fucked you in the ass--
hard, and without lubrication.
So often I'm mistaken
for this woe-is-me hermit
who loves to stroke his misery
instead of making change.
That is not the case.
I'm working, if only in theory.
But part of that
meant cutting out the cancer
which is why most of you
wouldn't notice any progress.
You're too busy chasing handjobs--
social, emotional, financial, literal.
Your lack of depth is alarming.
Your existence is proof
that they should tax air.
The better part of your genetics
must've slid down the crack
of your mother's ass.
Justice will not be served
unless somehow one day
you accidentally consume
toast buttered with horse smegma.
Am I done yet?
Do I need to go on?
Are you offended to the point
of ending this charade of friendship?

I don't know if I'm a realist or a romantic
but if there's a common thread
it's hope.
And to hope implies that things aren't right.
(If you disagree there
then I want what you're taking.)
To acknowledge the presence of clouds
is to amplify the rays of the sun
when they're there.
If everyone tooled around
as delusively happy as you do
then the pharmaceutical industry
would cease to exist
and America would implode.
Is that what you want?
Where's your sense of patriotism?
Can we sit and rotate
on the marble cocks of our Founding Fathers?
"Yes we can."

Try making sense again
when you're not the latchkey kid
of that Dream with altered locks.
There's an extra layer of vanity involved
when you take her in your T-shirt
the next morning, though you'd never admit that.
There's no revenge for tasting sloppy seconds.
You do it to the next.

Forgive this menage-a-moi.
I needed it.
It meant nothing, I swear.
A friend went for the jugular.
Maybe she was right.
There's a first time for everything.

You never hear the bullet that kills you.


Currently reading:
"To Love and Be Loved" by Sam Keen.