Balls.

maybe five years ago I would've bitten, but
for now just be thankful I left it where I did.
throw yourself into Life, Kid, not me
not Death.
(a hundred would trade, easily; you got off
easy,
they wish we never did.)

consider this a blessing in disguise.
you get a new life, I get to repeat mine;
Groundhog Day, sans Bill Murray.
(the Holy Ghost was the poor man's Christ,
who in turn paled next to the Creator--
if allowed to trickle down I'll stretch it
by throwing in one about televangelists for emphasis.)

still spitting blood, just not as much/
my teeth still wiggle, they're not as tight
though somehow the broads still are.
(now I know why Bogey told him to play it again.)

that being said,
"It sure is nice not having to finish my sen...


labels are funny, alright. :
I just want to get dirty

feet
from chasing her around
half naked on my hard wood

floors.
when she goes
she'll go big, maybe I'll go

with her.
for now I'd almost be happy just being able
to leave her

in my bed when I go to work in the morning.
(did I mention that despite my
penchant for whiskey and womanizing
[in that order]
I have a pension plan?)



I always suspected that there were
cameras in the confessional.

ancient history

but we went to work for the cocksucker anyway, and
lo and behold another poor bastard of a
soon-to-be-duped sub-contractor, this one
saw-cutting the concrete in the basement so we can
lay our pipe, hops out of his van.
i note the door's distant address, the hometown of the half of the family
that doesn't send cards anymore, making a point
to ask him later.

later comes, again. (later always does.)

being the resident native they ask me where we're eating.
a greasy spoon my friends swear by comes to mind, the
special sauce and hot dogs and paper plates.
the meal is relatively silent, the other three cursing me mentally
for bringing them to this hole in the wall.
i break it by asking that new guy chopping the slab
if he remembers Vahsen's Tavern down by the train station
in port chester.
his eyes light up, "60s and 70s, right?
that was a happenin' place."
"yeah, but my dad didn't want to take it over when it came time
after seeing what it did to his family..."
i try to put a brighter spin-- "his friends
on the football team in high school were the bouncers, and
i'm pretty sure he got a lot of ass out of the gig, too."
my two coworkers look at me somehow differently
like someone with roots, not the better-than-average spic
they tend to see me as; the diamond in the rican rough
is just as german and italian as you bitter old fucks.
it feels good to rub it in without saying a word, and
my win is two-fold:
the special sauce doesn't sit well with my middle-aged
union brothers. they piss and moan about my dud
of a suggestion, and the man
from my old man's old stomping grounds
picks up the bill as a sign of good faith
or maybe to try to pay some sort of past debt
like he forgot to tip the grandfather i never met
one drunken night in his glory days, long past.

we walk back to the site after lunch is over. (lunch always ends.)

things start up smoothly, balls of fire in that trench
popping those lengths of four-inch cast-iron together
like it's nobody's business. the wind pierces the denim, my legs
will be dry tonight, but for now the heat's in the tools
and it feels good to be on such a roll
proving myself at something i don't even entirely know how to do yet
let alone love.
part of that motivation comes from our lunch break conversation
part of it from the desire to keep moving to stay warm
and maybe a larger fraction than i'd like to admit
from the will to impress my partners, despite
their constant ball-busting. (he's gone, the only bar
is in your living room, those cards
still don't come anymore; find it where you can, kid.)

all of that progress comes to an end when a laborer passing by
a pile of dirt excavated from our trench by a machine operator
spots a bone. it's a human jaw. the proper authorities are notified.
a cease-work order is given by the superintendant, we're grounded.
the police captain shows up, a few suits, some officers with latex gloves
and some mysterious characters with no obvious titles; the jobsite's been
transformed into a crime scene, and it's not even pay-day at three-thirty.
thumbs back up our asses, so much for all that progress, all thanks
to some dead hooker in a shallow grave from god-knows how many years ago.
it reminds me of the time the ex-union dock-builder i knew
told me how they'd sink floaters, so to speak, in order to keep the job moving
as long as no one was looking. he said the stench
of the gases in the bloated bodies was almost enough to justify it
even without the wage-loss factor.
cleaning the tools, gathering the fittings, locking the gang box
walking to my car, i hope that this one was the result of a mob hit
and not some poor bastard like the one who's not going to get paid by
my scumbag employer, the one who used to shoot the shit
three sheets to the wind, chasing tail in Vahsen's Tavern
thirty-some-odd years ago.

the checks probably won't even be good friday. (they seldom are.)




Currently reading:
"Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" by Jules Verne.

trophy

One of them asked, "Where'd that
one come from?" shortly after
I explained a few others.
An eight-inch-wide pink arch
only visible to the few and the fucked.
"I don't know," I lied.
I could've told her it came
when his genes kicked in and the
shoulders spread, but fight scars
are far more mysterious and character-forming
than stretch marks.

But those are away now, the team's playing at
home. Can't you see we're wearing dark?

She doesn't waste her breath asking
if I want another, just fills the glass
again and adds it to my tab
quickly growing.

The man to the left of me, between a phony
and a neon beer ad
just handed me a wad of twenties
thick enough to crush a lesser man.
He owed me fourteen hours, gave me
two full days. A real friend, though
I know I'm underpaid.

Drinking a Coke and mostly rum
I contemplate the odds
of owning his business
eventually, like he drunkenly suggests
from time to time.
I don't want it, just hand me a wrench
and a
good check
every Friday.

I down this one, too
barely tasting the best part
just feeling its effects and
glancing sideways at her ass.
It's too perfect to believe, just as fake
as the rest of her:
the dyed blonde hair, the glued nails
the eighth-inch layer of make-up
the stick-on eyelashes
the colored contacts, too blue
the cooked-in tan screaming for attention and tips
though she doesn't need
any, being the bar owner's wife
and, of course, the grapefruit chest
calling the name of others slightly more pathetic
than us two construction drunks sitting at the corner.

Sammy comes out, perfect name and all
trying to suggestive sell the hell out of a new cocktail
but my boss and I know better, being veterans and all.
He cruises past us and slaps
the tightest part of her suffocating black pants
as the guy forty years better than me downs the rest of his draft.

"Let's get out of here," I attempt.
"Yeah, nothing new," he salvages.
We both tip well and think of her smile
probably fake, too
and wonder if the ring is cubic zirconium.

Backing out feels better knowing ours are real

thankfully, not seamless.

No bullshit now
I tilt my head down and see
the crease between thigh and calf
and think
It's in the closet, Ain't that a bitch?
No, you wouldn't do that to him.

I'd kill for that trophy wife, but I don't want that either.

It doesn't taste as good anymore.
It's been a minute, how the fuck are ya?

Willow

It was one of those changes you don't see
as it happens, just notice
one day while shaving or having your oil changed.
I knew it'd come eventually, shrugged when it did.


When you can't tell them
about the good things because
they'll play bobble-head
in the hopes of getting to speak sooner, or
the bad ones because theirs are always worse
you might as well accept it for what it is:
a thing of convenience amplified by time already spent

which is not necessarily a bad thing

as long as you can call a spade a spade
a deuce a deuce
since life is full of replacements.
(Reduce, reuse, re-
cite the reasons why it's no sweat off my sack.)
Think of it as reaching the back row and getting kinged
or, more appropriately, sacrificing a pawn
for a knight
or one of those fancy ashtrays, depending (,though
never a queen
"Bros before hoes" and all).

The trick is knowing ahead of time; growing up
my mom always liked my friends, me
managing to judge character effectively at an early age.
(An only child, post-divorce and with too vivid
an imagination, learns to over-
analyze;
though that myth about blaming oneself
for the split is horse shit.)


He got what he wanted, I never
asked why
since I already know.
I had it once, too.


Maybe we should all be grateful
that he was right:
people change.



More out of habit than thirst
I kill the can and toss it in
with the rest of the recyclables.

the words come better when the women don't.

it's been a long time in the making, this beautiful
chance at second chances
after years of training.
Nietzsche said something about hope
being a sign of defeat, but he died
with his tail between his legs a long time ago
and I'm still alive
still beatin'
the odds and laughing
hard, toasting stubbornly in Holy rebellion.

don't worry, no pressure, at least
not the kind you're expecting
knowing me so well, somehow
even better than myself.




she asked why I never describe the good things about them.
I'm not sure if I answered, but I knew what it was:
those lovely green eyes
were cold and heartless;
that luscious, flowing hair
was chopped off out of spite;
those skillful lips kissed
other men, less thankful;
the heartfelt gifts and snapshots
were tossed or burned or sold
not locked away in a shoebox in the back of a closet.
would you bother describing every decent page of a book
if, overall, the sum of its chapters
left a bad taste in your mouth?, or would
you just spew the Cliff's Notes?
I know, I know: you'd get the fuck over
it
and yourself
for long enough to tell everyone to read the damn book for himself.

maybe that's it, though;
most of us are attracted to bigger and better
since feeling lucky beats settling.
respect for being, for what is meant to be, with no judgment
for what was
or was and is no longer.



they've been listening to me rant and ramble
these past couple days, the good sports.
"already, man?"
"yeah, I think so. I've been working on it for awhile
in the background."
tripped over a brain, found a hell of a heart and body to boot, with
an outlook on death almost more beautiful and healthy than
that on life.
hey, you don't let just anyone help pick out new sheets
since you burned your old ones in the wood stove, literally.
it's a satisfying scenario when one knows enough
about the other's overanalysis of pseudo-symbolism
to laugh and appreciate it for what it is:
a boy trying to give meaning where there isn't any
attempting to put into words what he can't
because he's sober and happy
and that's just no state for him to try to vent in.

he gives up for tonight
with hopes of not coming down too soon
or alone
again.



maybe.

and hey, if not
at least he'll always know
where to find out
what to read next, and maybe
when it's that bad
what to write.
(see, I told you there's always a positive spin.)

for Sam.

I flicked my right directional on.
the car perpendicular to the road I was on waited
until I commited to the turn.
I respected the caution
the restraint
the learning from prior experiences.
if only the rest could all be so wise.
you know, the demographic blessed/
cursed with parts other than mine.

earlier in the day the results were the same:
pink toothpaste in the sink in the morning
not being quite sure where the blood came from.
after the fourth day you think I'd have it pinned
but no dice.
at first I thought it was residual
from the fight a week or two ago.
wishful thinking, perhaps
especially since that nancy only hit me once
for my four, before
the voices of reason resolved the issue for me.
no such luck, though;
the battlescars I've had in the past have healed faster
so this must be something else.
the menthol cigarettes? the cloves I've been smoking?
have I been coughing up lung?
the blood's always dark and thick
not light and bubbly
like the oxygenated blood that passes through the lungs.
at least that's what I tell myself.

no, somehow I think it's more.
they say we only use thirty percent of our brain cells.
they say if a circle of people focus on something
the sorry bastard in the middle can sense what it is;
telepathy, whatever you want to call it.
so what if they all got together and wished that early death on me?
what if this blood is the direct result of spiteful so-and-so's
wishing I finally get what I deserve?
no, not that either:
something more appropriate would've fallen off.
back to square one.
I'm just bleeding from an unknown internal injury of some sort. great.
but hey, better than some silly ass voodoo nonsense.

back to the topic at hand:
one kisses with too much tongue drunk, not enough sober.
the other must've told a lie in some Arab country
because it's never there.
I don't know which I prefer, being mauled or
going through the motions.
equal evils, that must be why I can't commit.
I'm sure there's a reason for all of this
just don't ask me what it is.
(I know, it's the sock you find a few loads later.)

you'd think by now they'd realize
that half the time I give out my number
just so I'll have something else to write about later
after I ruin everything again.
self-fulfilling prophecy is the name of the game
and I make the best of the worst that I make
time and time again.
I subject myself to their kind for the sake of my science.

last night I woke at an unusually ungodly hour
to a mosquito biting my shoulder
in February.

for the last time, I tell myself:
they're people, not shoes
I can try on and send back
when I find they don't fit.

it's like Pontius Pilate going to Christ's funeral.

I spit my gum out after all this
in order to taste the last sip of this Comfort from the South
and sure enough, that deep red's still there
bold and triumphant against the white of the crumpled paper.
somehow, somewhere
someone else's ears are ringing.






Currently reading:
"The Wine of Youth" by John Fante.

Commiserating

Practice went well, the new song was coming.
We packed our gear and got ready to say our goodbyes
though I didn't want to be alone quite yet.
A drummer with a liver as hard as his cymbals
always makes for a good post-op drinking partner
so I invited him back to my place for a few cocktails
assuring him I'd drive him home afterwards.

It's taken some practice
but I can manage to only have that one drink now.
Calling it a night cap makes it easier somehow.

We chewed the fat
shot the shit
whatever you want to call it
as he flipped through the channels
savoring his concoction with the pride of a craftsman.
I sip mine slowly since it'll be the only one I have.
I suggest taking him home an hour and a half later
when his eyelids get heavy and he nods off sitting up.

We get in my car and I apologize for the lack of selection.
My music collection is locked in my trunk because the location
of my new job site is in the heart of the ghetto.
The disc in the stereo comes on and I mention the radio option
but he doesn't take the bait
so I'm forced to listen to the damn mix CD
that I mistakenly popped in a few days ago.

I know, I do it to myself sometimes.
OK, most times, but thank you for not counting.

The first track comes on and he looks across at me, puzzled
as I hand him a clove cigarette and my lighter while backing out
of my driveway:
"Leaving On a Jet Plane," and our failed practice-run honeymoon to Florida.
I try to explain that the CD's source and seemingly random songs
but in his current state he can't comprehend that I want to hear them
even less than he does right now.
Again, "We can turn the radio on..."
but the hint still doesn't sink and he skips to the next track
as I coax the wheel into a smooth left turn.

Something about a break-up comes on, he complains about the misery.
I agree under my breath as he sings along in jest
and the irony escapes us both.

A few more songs, all duds, and we're halfway there.
We're both cringing, but for different reasons.
He turns and reaches into the backseat in search of other options.
I start trying to tell him again that it's no use
since it's all locked in my trunk
but trail off mid-sentence
since I know I won't get through to him tonight, in that state
just like she never could
those nights that seem so painfully distant and close
simultaneously.

The one about not looking "a thing like Jesus" rears its ugly head.
I pull harder on my clove.
The beard's back, but I'm still no one's savior
still trying desperately to talk "like a gentleman"
though that gets me equally nowhere.

Fast-forward to the tragedy of a white man rapping.
I consider trying to argue that it's a good song regardless
and settle for the fact that I didn't want to hear it anyway.
At this point, I'd even wear that Bridle if it'd make a difference.

We come to the melodramatic conclusion of the unfortunate trip
down memory lane
plenty sober to get out of a ticket
but not drunk enough to deal
and three miserable little numbers by one miserable little band come on.
He instantly skips them and returns to the beginning.
I commandeer DJ status and put on a song I know he would've liked
if he would've let it play past the introduction and recognized it.
We laugh about a few junior high innuendos in the lyrics and then I explain
that she put that one on there because I tend to let things linger.
He acknowledges that it's a genetic trait out of my control
which sends the image of the other side of my family tree to my mind's eye.
I haven't seen him in almost a year and a half now.
I can't help but wonder how many more mistakes of mine
have been in his footsteps.
If only he'd told me.
If only she'd left for good.
If only I'd thrown this goddamn thing out the window of my car a long time ago.

I drop my friend off at home, back out of his driveway, and head home.
Still coughing from the clove I just finished
I light up a Marlboro and sing along to the rest
of whatever that fucker named Fate throws my way.

I have to piss and debate pulling over, but I can hold it.
You'd be surprised what I can take;
singing and smoking
bobbing and weaving
just trying to live
and secretly thankful.





Currently reading:
"Bone Palace Ballet" by Charles Bukowski.

Aaron Burr and other, More familiar Villains

Get out of bed to write her:
"You're a better sleep partner
than I gave you credit for this morning, this one
takes over the whole damn mattress."

Crinkle up the paper 'cause I know
she won't take it the way that I mean it.
Girls never do, and women only rarely.

I amend my words
sometimes:
"Hope you got there safely. Call if you need anything."
But to think she foolishly called me a genius
and her mom said to print me...

It's a shame that she was one that never really happened.
Not one that got away, exactly. We just never tried.
Then again, it's good to have a few of those
to keep in sterile corners of the mind
and remember when times are trying
and you're ready to swear off the whole lot of them
without making any exceptions.

No, not all deathbed What-If's will be demoralizing;
some will be bittersweet at worst, and we should
all be able to settle for that.

I crawl back into bed, cursing this one in my head
for stealing all the blanket in my absence.
Shivering from the ceiling fan whose white noise
I can't sleep without, even during this frigid winter
I close my eyes and try to doze off to cushioned thoughts
of what it could be like if I only had the heart
to let another good one
sink saving this ship.

"Captains worth their brass make sure they go do down alone,"
I tell that silly dream
and the gods let me sleep in peace for it.






Currently reading:
"Wait Until Spring, Bandini" by John Fante.

Bailey's on the rocks

As I sit here and suck
the last of this slightly alcoholic dessert
from the melting cubes in my tumbler
I'm rewound a year
to the two (or four, in retrospect) of us
on the couch in my old place
watching movies and drinking the same.

But now, a year later
the couch is the only thing that hasn't changed:
you're old enough to buy your own booze
and the rare times that I watch movies
never involve blankets or casual sex
or you

and that's OK, too.



(This is the part where I'm supposed to say I've changed;
maybe I have, but that's not for me to decide
and arbitrary anyway...
though I haven't thrown any beer bottles across any rooms
or screamed into any phones in a long time.)



The girls are gone, I'm holding out for women;
a spine, a plan, another mind to learn from, maybe a degree.
It's funny, though. The more I chrystalize my criteria
the more I realize I've already had most of that
and blew it.
The best way to come to grips
is to squeeze my eyes closed as tight as possible
until that flashing checkerboard pattern appears
and laugh that sick laugh
reserved for madmen in movies
and those with an appreciation for irony
even in the face of death.

The best jokes in life have no punchlines.

Suffice it to say I've learned that coming home to that empty house
isn't as bad if you've remembered to leave the porch light on for yourself.



Just in case the title worked
and by chance
you read this:
it wasn't some sad attempt
at spite
or guilt
or even reconciliation, necessarily.

I guess I just wanted to say
that I don't regret that tattoo
and I hope that you don't wish you could
scratch yours off either.

after moonlighting

it's taken some practice, but I've stepped up my game
since I see this F-train coming:
even if there are no street lamps to show the rollers
I know by the headlights behind me if it's a cop
though not if it's her
or Her
and thank God the third one doesn't drive anymore.
beware the trivialities that wear us down:
the doors that lock left
the screws that sink counter-clockwise
the rest of the counter-intuitive speed bumps
that spatter your days with expletives under your breath.

came home to a garden gnome on my dresser
and a life-sized cardboard cut-out of ken schroeder
staring at me through the window in the garage door.
(I can't even make these things up, my life truly is
stranger than what I conjure most times.)
it served to remind me that
though too solitary for my own good
I'm not as alone as I'd like to be
so believe you me, brother
I was relieved to reload it after weeks of neglect
now that I hear things in this finally empty house.

praying for peace or paying for a piece;
I know how it'll happen now
since the car really slowed down in the shower.
yes, the self-fulfilling ones prevail.

if that's the case can I place my order?

fuck it.
as long as she doesn't smoke.

but if she does
let her curse like a plumber
and drink like this fish, too.




Currently reading:
"The Complete Poems of Hart Crane."

gravy

I found some old pictures
of a barely recognizable me
and some
other people
I thought I'd fooled;
that tattered, taped-together shrine
from my dorm room wall
no longer as relevant as then
but still somehow saying
"I told you so"
or its Spanish equivalent.

Another one jumped out in particular:
a whiskey-drunk charicature of myself
with a smile reeking of Jack Daniel's
(before its smell could turn my stomach)
and general over-compensation for an
underrated chance at It All,
my roommate egging me on at my side
not knowing that the bourbon had already won.

My demeanor in that one reminds me of how
the girls across the hall who'd befriended us
in previous semesters
said I was different
upon returning that Fall
cockier
a little too sure of myself
or pretending to be.

I didn't see it then, but now I do.



Regardless, I can't smack some sense into that kid
since the Time Machine hasn't been invented yet.
Hell, we still don't have our long-awaited Hover-Cars.

You can't change the sequence of events
that change you
and settling for a quiet New Year's Eve party
sometimes has to do.
The cork bounces off the wall, then the floor
and finally back towards me
as my partner in crime notes the irony in its trajectory.

Acknowledging his metaphor
I laugh
on the outside
and pour the ten-dollar sparkling wine into the red plastic cup.

My resolution will be
accepting that there is none
yet.

It's a tough swallow.
(Yes, that's what SHE said.)

Bottom's up.





Currently reading:
"The Collected Stories of Carson McCullers."

A real team player.

Sometimes it's those
who seem heartless
who love you the most.

Just ask your angry
designated driver
at four in the morning
next time.

On Coping.

"I just don't get it. They act like
it will somehow change their whole lives
if they chop all their hair off
or go clothes shopping
when the fat lady's done singing..."

I slide the tip closer to his edge of the oak
as he dries a glass with a dirty rag
and waits for me to finish my rant.

"...Or they call to let you know
how much mind-blowing sex they're having
with the vultures
and how much better it is, or will be
once a time and a place are set.
Then the line goes silent for a few seconds
while they wait for some kind of response
and you try not to laugh into the receiver.
Why do women think that whoring it up
will somehow ruin your life?, which is going nowhere
anyway according to their spiteful phone calls
at two in the morning."

I stir the ice cubes around
with the two little, red
double-barreled
cocktail straws
and drain the remains as he takes his cue
and switches hats.

"Because they're all fucking crazy, man,
and don't know how to handle losing guys like us..."

This is the kind of service people who attend
an empty Monday Happy Hour come for.
He further guarantees himself a good tip:

"...They spread their legs because they can't
bounce back from it like we can.
They're in denial that the loss is their own.
This next one's on me, you ready?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I say with a sly smile
as I make a mental note to thank her
for suggesting I go back to living how I did before
she tried to save me
from myself.

I'll get around to that when I'm damn well ready.




Currently reading:
"Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.

peep.

I discovered something disturbing
upon bathing at my new residence for the first time
and couldn't wait to ask:

"Isn't it weird taking a shower
with a window facing the road right next to the tub?"

My new roommate's lived here all his life
so his reply was No.

The strategy to avoid some of the awkwardness
is simple:
let the hot water run for a minute in order to fog up the window
prior to stepping in.
Still, it feels a bit unnatural to lather up with people walking by
and when cars pass by
my mind plays tricks on me
by assuming that they're slowing down to watch.
Granted, they can't see much other than my lathered head
and tattooed arms
but that doesn't make me feel any less vulnerable.
I can't imagine how a female ever managed
to use this shower, unless she was very short.
And besides, the neighbors across the street
have an elevated view from their second-floor windows
thus allowing them to see lower.

My mind wanders and imagines how many amusing nights
could be spent by a couple of young perverts
living across from this house if a few attractive females lived here.
It sounds like something out of an 80s comedy
with all of those aspiring young actors who grew
to have nasty coke habits in decades to come.
Most of our neighbors are elderly, however
so this whole shower window scenario is somewhat of a waste
like clean clothes on a dirty body
like soggy cole slaw at a cheap diner that never gets eaten
like the time I spend thinking of foolish notions such as this.

While taking my nightly shower the other evening
I heard a muffled crash come from the street.
A car was backing out of a driveway
on the opposite side of the road
and had hit a snowbank in the process.
I finished showering, put clothes on, and got in my car.
As I passed the spot where the sound came from
I noticed a large dent in the side of a pick-up truck
parked on the side of the road opposite of that driveway
from which the car had backed out.
That was no snowbank he hit!

I drove on by, lighting a clove cigarette
and laughing to myself.
It's a good thing no women live here,
those potential creeps wouldn't deserve a free show
if they can't even drive.




Currently reading:
"The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" by Carson McCullers.

12:01 a.m., time's up.

My parents had been feeding some wild cats in their backyard for a year, three generations of felines stalking the neighborhood. A bond formed between them, names were given, the quality and frequency of the food put out for them increased, and a desire to adopt them as house cats came about. Unfortunately, it was too late to fully tame the animals. Once a cat reaches a certain age without human contact they are doomed to remain feral forever, the window of opportunity being closed. The confused creatures went so far as to come in through the sliding glass door when invited in order to get out of the cold, however. One of them, a pitch black panther-looking specimen whom my mother dubbed Midnight, even slept over in the house a few times. Being the youngest and friendliest of the bunch, Midnight was the one with the most potential to be converted into a bonafide pet. He learned to use a litter box and perked his ears up responsively when his name was called. No matter the amount of food given and toys supplied, though, he would not allow himself to be touched and was constantly scanning the perimeter for possible threats like a paranoid junkie making a deal in a back alley somewhere. It broke their hearts to admit it, but my parents finally came to grips with the fact that wild animals have to remain that way.

That didn't mean that they didn't still want a new addition to the family. Several animal adoption agencies were contacted over the course of a few weeks. Upon visiting my family tonight I got to meet the kitten they chose. Fluffy, uncoordinated, and still nameless, she hid in the corners of couches and under pillows. I held her in my lap as I read a few chapters and stroking her pristine fur brought a noticeable sense of comfort to both of us, at least for awhile. That all changed when I looked through the sliding glass door and saw Midnight patiently waiting for his nightly dinner and romp in the living room. My parents told me they'd cut off the wild cats, "the Knuckleheads," as they now called them, a few days ago. Midnight was the only one who still kept his nose glued to the screen door every night since then in the hopes of coming inside again. He wanted to be tamed, but Nature said it was too late, and Nature always wins. Out of pity for his old friends, my stepfather brought some sliced chicken breast left over from dinner out on the patio for the cats. Midnight glanced over his shoulder at his siblings devouring their alms, his portion included, but quickly fixed his gaze back into the warm, well-lit living room. His silent vigil became too much to bear, guilt being a leading cause of human action, so a few minutes later my mother went and closed the blinds. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to watch the painful process of detachment anymore firsthand. Being weened off of something is no easy task, especially a relationship of sorts. The kitten in my lap tired of my company, plopped herself down onto the floor, and scampered into her box in the next room. I finished the chapter I was working on and got up to gather my things for my departure.

After saying my goodbyes I went back to the living room, turned on the patio light, and cracked the blinds. There he was, still pasted to the same spot waiting to come inside and say hello as best he could, though not as affectionately as a domestic cat. Not able to leave him there like that I did something out of character and banged on the glass door with my fist to run him off. He bounded into the night, hopefully to find a warm shed to sleep in and a female companion to pass the time. My mother asked what I was doing as she cradled the kitten in her arms and brought her over towards me. I faked one last stroke on the head of the kitten and realized that it'd take awhile to accept her now. Walking out the door I turned and looked one last time at my mom holding the new cat, the two of them symbols of what the problem I have with most of the world: It's hard to find loyalty anymore, at least in humans. Us Midnights don't stand a chance.




Currently reading:
"The Pleasures of the Damned" by Charles Bukowski.

Late-night conversation with an equal adversary.

Thanks for calling, but I'm not saving your number. I have a bad habit of embarrassing myself via telephone when I'm lonely and the books aren't enough.

How about we call it a friendship and I forgive you for anything you might say? Stop being ridiculous.

Wish I could, but I know myself too well. Appreciate the attempt at self control if nothing else. Remember why I had to leave the last one. You're the opposite. Do the math.

Oh, David.

Please don't call me that, I only let one person call me by my full name.

Take care, I'll see you around.

No you won't. Running into you at the store the other day was a fluke.

A fluke is a fluke only if you let it be, and otherwise it's a whale. So stick that in your smoke and pipe it.

I've learned that not letting things be only leads to over-analyzation and/or forcing what should come freely. Have you ever been told you're too smart for your own good?

No, but I've told myself that being smart hardly matters and that the good and kindness do.

Tell that to the good and the kind, ask them where it's gotten them. They may persuade you otherwise.

I don't think they would, if they're smart.

You've got me there, though not really. Don't worry, I only go for cynics.

I'm not worried, I knew that already. I would only frustrate you in being peaceful and laughing at some things that you might think are very serious.

You assume too much then. I also see your silver lining. I just don't laugh at the size of the cloud.

I'm only teasing, David.

I asked you not to call me that.

Fine, I'm going to call you Esther.

A name like Job would be more fitting. God revoked his family, his health, and his love just for the hell of it and called it a test.

I don't know...

Or Jacob. He too once fought an Angel, though I forget who won in his case.

That's not very nice of him.

She started it. She usually does...


. . . . .


I woke up three hours later with the phone still in my hand. I'd never fallen asleep mid-sentence before. It was as peaceful as they'd claimed, like the sound of snow hitting branches on a quiet December morning. You never forget your first.

Or your last.

Or any of the ones in between.







Currently reading:
"Winesburg, Ohio" by Sherwood Anderson.

I read this to his answering machine:

save this message
because it just may be the last time you hear my voice again.
how dare you call me after all this time
like nothing ever happened
like you didn't leave your flesh and blood
in the wind
for wanting to improve himself.
I'm thankful I got into the union
and not necessarily because of the money
but because of the half-dozen men who have taken your place.
when I needed you
you were too involved with what you can't see
and now that I see you're only about yourself
I want no part in it.
and when they ask where I am this holiday season
say you don't know, and feel honest
because you probably never will again.
I still have nightmares about the father I once had
but I won't let myself live them anymore.
save this message
because it's the last you'll hear of me, pal.

it only smells like me in here now

returned her Christmas present
threw the spare hair-tie she kept on my gear-shift out the window
got rid of the book of crosswords she couldn't handle alone
crumpled the junior high-esque note she left on my desk
re-alphabetized the movies I'd planned to watch with her on my shelf
bought a pack of smokes for the first time in a month
swore I'd never go for a broad who could barely walk and chew gum again

but I really didn't get rid of her until I washed my sheets today.



Currently reading:
"The Childhood of a Leader" by Jean-Paul Sartre.

This veteran fought under Gen. Electric.

Laying in bed at 3 a.m.
tossing and turning and dreading
going to work in three hours
I roll over on my back
stare at the ceiling
eyes drawn towards the light fixture
in the center
like the end of some tunnel
with walls that get darker and greener
as sight wanders further from the center.

It's an image I've noticed since I was seven.
My parents had just gotten divorced and
on weekends I'd go across town to
stay with my old man.

("Visitation," they called it
institutional as a prison.
What an ugly legal term.
Redundant, I know.)

My room then had a ceiling light
like the one in my room tonight
and the ones in rooms I've occupied
between then and now.
I'd stare up at it for a few minutes before bed
or during the day if no one was around to play
which was quite often.

It seems that was good practice
for years to come.

Sometime after that I grew up.

Called my mother today
to feed her what she wanted to hear
regarding the state of things.
She told me she was showing my senior picture off
at work and a colleague of hers two years my senior
had her jaw hit the floor and wants to meet me
says she likes guitar players.
I reminded my mom that I don't look the same
as seven years ago
more haggard
the years have taken their toll
the scars are permanent.
In true maternal fashion she laughed off my self-doubt
before telling me about this girl
and I quote:
"Has her Master's, seems genuinely nice, long brown hair
cute, but not drop-dead gorgeous like Gwendolyn was."
I jiggled my phone to see if I was hearing correctly
if she'd really gone

there.

She did.

Then I heard my stepfather in the background
spewing out a sequence of drunken slurred words
asking why the hell she would say something like that
after four years of getting over the one that got away
and thankfully
finally being there
mostly.

She parried through the phone in typical maternal fashion:
"I tell it how it is, Dave. You know that."
I do
since that brutal honesty
is one of the many good traits she's given me
and also one that gets me in trouble.

In my head I visualized a girl better than the last
but not as good as the first
another numbing mediocre
and realized then and there that
the fate of any potential anything was sealed.

I appreciated her honesty
but also my stepfather's going to bat for me
even though I've been moved to clean-up since those days
after a few clinch comebacks in the bottom of the ninth.
He's become a better teammate than my real old man
since he cut me off a year ago
despite the letter's I've sent
trying to reconcile.
I wonder what he tells his family
when I don't show up for the Holidays.
I was never really one of them anyway
the darker son of the black sheep of the weird family.

I'm sure I'm out of the will
a sinner not to be spoken to
regardless of blood
or paternal instinct or responsibility.
My father doesn't even know where I currently reside
probably never will.
It won't be the same
ever again.

I wonder if he's ever stared up at the light in my old room
and seen that same tunnel.

I'll never hear either of them laugh anymore.
They've found what makes them happy
and it isn't me.

And even though it hurts less
with every paid bill
with every song sang alone in the car
after every night spent in the company of loyal friends
and every other reminder that I'm alive
the reality of loss still rears it's head once in awhile.

So hey,
It's no wonder I can't sleep tonight.

But it sure is nice having something familiar
like this ceiling light
at the end of the tunnel
to make things bearable
for now.

And I'm sure that new girl
will warm my bed just as well
as long as she doesn't get to know me too soon.







Currently reading:
"The Wall" by Jean-Paul Sartre.

Some advice on un-packratting.

It's a tedious thing.
It's a tiresome
tedious task throwing
out all the relics of the past
both pointless and poignant
that don't quite make the cut
when you're packing to move
into a new place to call your own
until it's someone else's.

And if and when you find those notes
from the hands of familiar strangers
long tucked away in remote corners of desk drawers
and other dark places:
DON'T READ THEM.
Let the Whores you fell for
and the Saints who fell for you
(or vice versa, whichever version
of the Truth is correct)
die with the deposit you know you won't get back
from the landlord too cheap to be honest.
Respect their choice to go with better bets
or your refusal to let yourself be lost
in someone else, depending on the case
(and, again, whichever version
of the Truth is correct).

Calling all cars.
Calling all friends to help pack the boxes
and end tables and plush chairs
into that truck on that sweaty day you move.
Calling, once the word is out, will mostly
get you forwarded to voicemail.
When very few
and by that I mean one or two
show up, don't be surprised.
But next time you fire up someone's water heater
or fill their belly with fine food or drink
on a week when their pay checks were light
don't forget to put it on their tab.
This is not a world run by any Golden Rule anymore, folks.
It's littered with IOU's
so next time you need a favor
you just may have to pull one out
of your wallet, so thick with business cards
of endeavours long gone under
that you take it out of your back packet
for long road trips.

Or better yet:
if you're like me
just throw them
(the friends, that is
or at least their contact information)
into that same dump-bound heap
of old phone bills and broken clocks
and business cards
and most importantly
dime-a-dozen lie-laden love letters
that will never see the colors of the walls
in your new place
your new start
at least not while you're home.






Currently reading:
"One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

"Matthew 7:3"

It never ceases to amaze me how fast
those around me are to point out the voids.



I remember drawing a picture when I was six
and in typical six-year-old fashion
the sky
my
sky
was represented by a two-inch-thick
band of blue streaming across the top of the page.
A good four inches of solid white paper
lay between it and the top of the tallest tree
(aside from the obligatory m-shaped bird
drifting aimlessly and unsymmetrically
somewhere in that expanse of white).

I handed my daily masterpiece to my mom
and she suggested that I give it to her friend as a gift.
Upon receiving my innocent pastoral and taking
a minute to analyze
his first words were these:
"Why don't you extend the sky all the way down?
The blue sky should touch the green grass."
Instantly and without remorse
I ripped the paper from his hand
stubbornly declaring that it was
my
drawing
and I could make
my
sky
any which way I damn well pleased.
My mother was standing nearby and overheard
my lack of receptiveness
to this uncalled for constructive criticism.
She made me apologize to her friend
for being so defensive of my art
and suggested that I go sit down
and drag my sky to where it belonged
supposedly.

I apologized to her friend
with fingers crossed behind my back, of course
but refused to edit my picture.
I ripped it up over the trash can
as her face flushed crimson with shame
and I quickly explained that I intended to start over.
I didn't.
That would've been selling out.
I'd rather throw my work away
than have to change it for some fraud
who believed that the blue sky ever touches the green grass.
The very thought of having to succumb to that
put me in such a dither.
I didn't mind the fake apology as much as I resented
being asked to change my creation for someone else's sake
by my own flesh and blood.
That episode is my first memory of
hating a loved-one
for a few precious
well-deserved
moments.



Last week I was reminded of that ancient incident
as I discussed tattoos with an acquaintance.
Most of my left arm is already covered in ink
and all but the back of my right forearm is done.
This genius had the nerve to tell me
to fill that space with something else soon
to complete the effect
even though his body is void of tattooing
or any other permanent commitments
for that matter.
I didn't tell him about the Biblical parable
of the man with the speck of sawdust in his eye
being called out by the man with the plank in his.
I didn't tell him that I'm waiting for something
meaningful to happen again that warrants
a new permanent image adorning my skin.
I didn't tell him that I'm laid-off right now
and tattoos aren't exactly free.
And I sure didn't have my fingers crossed
behind my back this time
when I told him how and where to get off.



Believe me when I tell you that
vengeance tastes better
aged seventeen years.









Currently reading:

"Sifting Through The Madness For The Word, The Line, The Way" by Charles Bukowski.

When all else fails, doctor the truth up for entertainment value.

"I was out last night and had some stuffed flounder
that reminded me of your mom's. That was always my favorite
recipe of hers. I still remember the time the two of you made it
on my birthday years ago."

I like to catch 'em off-guard
with a random opener like that sometimes,
its the equivalent of having pole position in a race.

"Wow," she says, "long time no talk. How've ya been?"

I stubbornly ignore her question
like I foolishly ignored her love
at the end of our time together and get right
to the meat:

"He doesn't need to know the whole story, Beth."

She flounders for a few awkward syllables.

"Whattaya mean by that?"

"Oh, you know...the minor details."

Again, more floundering. I stoop down to the level
I'm pretending
not to be at for the time being
and get good and specific.

"Look, he was my friend long before he was your lover."

A series of rhetorical questions that might've worked
seven years ago when we were an item
and not the present strangely familiar strangers
like the thumb tack on the floor and the somnambulist,
followed by a request to explain further.
(Apparently 'specific' varies according to gender.)

"We always hate the ones who've done our women
wrong in the past, and we all know my modus operandi.
Keep it vague for my sake, OK?
I'm tired of losing friends over women."

Suddenly it clicks in her head and she swears to leave me out of it,
whatever picture she intends to paint when the time comes.
I have enough shame to live with as a result of the last few years
and thankfully she respects that
which is far more than I deserve.
I counter with a truthful blessing:

"I'm happy for the both of you. The more I think
about your personalities
the more sense it makes. You guys deserve each other,
in a good way."

I practically watch her blush though we can't see each other.
Yeah, that's the reaction I wanted; let her know he wasn't lying
about how surprisingly supportive I was when he broke
the news to me
at the bar that night:
my high school sweetheart fell for him
and vice versa.
It must've come as a shock to them, but nothing
shocks
me
these days.
Like I told her, I've lost enough friends over women.

We make small-talk for awhile.
Then she decides to try to return the favor
by hitting me with a back-handed compliment of sorts:

"Dave, you were right about Liz."

I keep talking like I didn't hear her, to no avail.

"She's a bitter back-stabber."

More rambling on my part.
Anything but the "You told me so about so-and-so" speech, not now.

"I see her for what she is finally. You're a good judge of character."

Oh Lord, haven't they learned that giving someone like me credit
for mere observation (which is all any of this is)
is just more pissing in the wind?

"Well, let's just hope that's true and I really did place my bet on the right new couple."

There, I disarmed it with a positive spin
for the time being,
just like I always do
for the amount of time it takes to end the conversation and get away.

"Goodnight, Beth."

"Ditto, Dave."

Click.

But for Christ's sake,
Why can't they just let me be wrong when I want them to?
I'd like to believe that the cynic in me is as terribly mistaken
as the realist.





Currently reading:
"The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps" by Charles Bukowski.

A Mission Statement, An Explanation, A Reason To Wake Up.

It came up in the shower today, my stance on death and dying. Perhaps the chain of thought was brought about by the combination of the act of scrubbing the dead skin off my body and the fact that today at a gas station I ran into someone my former self once almost knew before another 'death' of sorts occurred. Parts of us, physical and otherwise, die every day: the body gives way to wear and tear, the soul takes beatings from which it can never quite recover, the spirit recesses back into the smallest speck of light behind the eyes. My entire identity died and shed like the exoskeleton of a cicada when I came home from college prematurely, despite my full scholarship. For the record I didn't fail out, or even technically drop out, I was asked to leave to gather what was left of myself. In a way I'm grateful, a new man. This second post-college phase of my life has proven to take me in an entirely different direction than I'd ever expected. Each morning, other than Sunday, I don workboots and make my wage through physical labor as a proud union tradesman. I never thought I'd be the type to have to shower after work instead of before, but some things don't pan out quite as we plan them. Ones dreams are usually the first part to die, at least until new ones are born.

As I lathered the shampoo I chuckled sinisterly to myself while thinking back to my first reflections on the topic. Notions of an unexpected passing of a sacrificial nature snuck into my head even at a young age. I specifically remember this warped fantasy I had about wanting to save the lost ring of the cute little twelve-year-old I had a crush on from the raging inferno of our school. The recurring daydream ended with my charred remains, ring in clenched fist, being discovered by construction workers hired to clean up the debris. Pretty morbid stuff for an elementary school kid, probably inspired by watching "My Girl" one too many times. In my disturbed little mind I tried to save the girl and died in the process and in a lot of ways the scenario hasn't changed. It wasn't until this evening that I realized the connection, though. And as I get older and love and lose more and more the parts of me I swore I'd save for someone go with them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still as immortal as I felt at seventeen, and who would care to what extent if I were wrong. Would they play a song at my funeral if I asked them?

It's only now that I can talk freely about these candid issues because, quite frankly, I'm already seen as a lunatic by enough people to justify total transparency. My parents had me in therapy on and off while growing up because of the divorce, but it was always "I don't like when Mommy..." or "I feel bad for Daddy when..." kinds of discussions. Unfortunately, and to my detriment, I never really said all that I felt and thought about. There has never been a venue to bring out such dismal things like my eagerness to go quickly and unexpectedly as opposed to slowly and painfully in a hospital bed somewhere with tubes and needles penetrating my wrinkled skin and a few cards from multiple generations of aloof offspring propped open on a nightstand. Is it so wrong to want to somehow go down swinging? I had no choice in the decision to be born, I've made a couple foolish decisions to die in multiple forms in the past, and now I'm choosing to live again on my own terms. That's why I hope that someday I get to die on my own terms, too, and that I still have enough left of the Me that I feel I really am inside somewhere to justify this name being inscribed on the headstone that will mark the final resting place of the shell of the man that never gave in until the twelfth round.

What matters now is how I get there, like a writer who knows the beginning and end of a book but leaves the middle to be figured out over the course of those long nights behind a blank page with a bottle close at hand to keep warm. I may be my own worst enemy, but I'm also my biggest critic in many respects. That being said, I can honestly say I'm still no Failure. I know who I am and what I'm meant to do with my time on Earth. I may have strayed from the original path, but that doesn't mean I'm down and out just yet. Maybe it'll come time to check out the next time I pick up a hitch-hiker without thinking twice, or I'll be forced to swerve into a tree to avoid a kid on a bike, or get shot by a stray bullet fired during a scuffle while trying to stop a hold-up at a convenience store. No, it's time to put away childish things; there never was any ring to rescue to begin with, there aren't any heroic ways out now. It's the middle of my book in which I'll prove my worth, the part where I finally get all that I want: a secure job, a nice house with a nicer mortgage, and a loving wife and two-point-five kids to make it worth waking up every day. You have to eat a fair share of what Life deals you in order to appreciate the longing for the American Dream. And as for the grand finale, the most I can ask for is to go in my sleep, the kind of deep sleep that happens after you've already woken up once during the night and rolled over gracefully after checking the alarm clock and seeing that there are still several hours left to rest. Yeah, that's the way.



Currently reading:
"Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch" by Henry Miller.

Fifteen Percent Is a Slap in the Face.

It was late and I was laying in bed drunk when she called
just as far gone as I was that time at her bar
when I'd left my number on a coaster next to her hefty tip
and a note I'd written in the bathroom acknowledging her advances.
The message was a blunt one offering to lay some pipe
since she'd made plumber jokes
in between the free shots she'd given me
in an attempt to loosen my tongue, so to speak.

Her speech slurred through the phone
but my equally ossified ears understood:
It was the end of her night out playing pool and
she wanted to cash in her chips and call in that favor
since her boyfriend had cheated on her the week before
and I was a good means of revenge, if nothing more.

It'd been a few weeks since I'd gotten any
a few months since I'd made the offer at the bar where she worked
a few too many strong cocktails that night to say No.

The anticipated awkwardness wasn't present when she showed.
Her tight blonde curls smelled of smoke and spiced rum.
It didn't take long for the clothes to come off
but I should've hit the lights first.
Bad tattoos and stretch marks marred her torso
her tired breasts sagging into her armpits
as she laid back on my bed, ready.

I knew it'd take awhile to finish with that kind of lousy inspiration
and it did.
I'd never had to work so hard to get off in my life
even after I'd turned out the lights.

After wiping the sweat from my face, rolling off, and cleaning up
I asked if she wanted to stay
not thinking she actually would.
(It was still that early phase of being newly single
where I didn't mind sleeping alone.)
She said she'd stay awhile but had to leave before sunrise
in order to be home when her five-year-old son woke up.
That was the first time I'd heard that excuse before
and suddenly felt bad for taking advantage of a mom
though she was probably the guiltier party in that respect
since she was the one who'd dialed.

We laid there for two more hours with the tension somehow fading
despite the terrible romp in the sack
and for the first time since the last that mattered
a female ran her fingers through my hair
and down the length of my body.
I'd almost forgotten how good that felt, even contrived intimacy
after a one-night stand. I was honestly upset to see her go
though I fell soundly asleep right after.

A friend of mine asked why that bar became taboo for us
and I finally gave in and told him about my moment of weakness.
When his laughter stopped I made him swear not to tell a soul
and swore to myself that if and when I ever go back to that joint
I'll leave an even bigger tip on the bar for her:
"Don't let your kid turn out like me."

"There's a fine line between Loser and Legendary." -- Robert Mahoney

There's a miniature oil slick floating on top
of this orange-tinged cocktail that's more vodka than not
because not everyone knows how to wash dishes correctly.
I feel my face redden
at this memorable token of my current state of affairs
but the familiar high-pitched clink
of the ice against ice against glass
manages to lull the beast back into hiding
at least for the time being.
But let it be known:
I blame God for my drinking.
He's the one who gave me opposable thumbs
I just found a good use for them.
Your only argument could be
that I do it for the effect and not the taste.

And after a bout of said debauchery
I sat on the pot at home reading how Auden did it better.
The open window pissed me off
since it's oil season
so I closed it a little too enthusiastically.
The window caught
the edge of my roommate's shell-shaped soap dish
and sent it crashing to the floor
cheap porcelain shooting everywhere.
Another drunken shattered fumbling
to hinder the opposite sex.
I tiptoed back to the toilet
and swore I felt the white glass
piercing the soles of my feet
but in reality it was the pain of a phantom limb
amputated and cauterized a long time ago.
I use that fire-healing word now
because it's safer than love:
at least you learn your lesson the first time you get burned.

Chalk it up to another botched maneuver.
Fuck, I couldn't even smoke right today;
all the ashes kept flying in my face
and I'm pretty sure I swallowed a few in my car
on the way home from work.
"Work," if you even want to call it that.
For the last half of the day
I sat at our bar of choice
buying Johnny, my broke partner, drinks
the loyal alcoholic that I am
the faithful freeloader that he is.
He's got a wife and a mortage and kids.
I've got nothing
but jealousy.
He's even got me beat when it comes to
that illegal rite of passage into the typical blue-collar world
I'm being sucked into against my weak will.
But soon I'm sure, like him, the headlights behind me
on a paranoid drunk-drive home
will turn out to christen my path
by being accompanied by rollers.
Better judgment says I should take the two dents
on my rear bumper
that I don't recall acquiring
from two different nights
that I don't recall ending
as a sign that maybe I should stop
before the self-fulfilling prophecy comes true.
Until then, however, I'll continue to binge at the bar
from time to time during (Almost Slightly) Happy Hour.

After that costly ordeal with Johnny
I drove home
hammered
and managed to remember
to throw apples out for the deer
that another one of my coworkers is going to shoot
the one who's become my surrogate father
since mine disowned me a year ago.
It's unethical and illegal to bait deer
but it's no secret
that I'll take any father
or any meat
any way I can get it at this point.

Speaking of which
my stripper friend called late last Monday
asking me to come visit her at work.
I told her I couldn't because it was the middle of the week
but reassured her that I still had her toothbrush
from the time she stayed over a few weeks ago.
Christ, now they're the ones calling me.
If my former friends and lovers
could only see me now
they'd know that the last laughs are theirs
and the scabbed knuckles and empty bottles
are still
and will always be
mine.

(And why hasn't your old man called?
Because deep down
he knows you're on your way to becoming him.
The ice cubes are passing through your lips
as you kiss the cup and suck the temporary sanity.
Oh, come on, kid
finish the last few stanzas despite the vodka;
the spins won't last too long
the truth will help you sleep.)

Somehow this all comes down to one
OK, a few, but for argument's sake
we'll call it "One"
girl.
I'd been dreaming I pulled into my driveway
walked upstairs to my room
and saw her sitting on my bed waiting to talk.
Not necessarily smiling, not coming back
just acknowledging my part in her life
good or bad.
Something, I did something, right?
Affected someone?
Inspired an action requiring more energy
than that required to flick a fucking booger?
That's what all this has come down to one way or another.
When the hubcap she bought me
came off somewhere
I took it as one of those signs
and then when I found it again
five days later in a neighbor's yard, broken
I ignored the omen entirely.

I knew I'd be OK
just like I know now.
Because when I was done on the toilet
and finished reading that Auden poem far better than mine
I pivoted the ball of my foot over on my heel
and sure enough there was no blood on the tile.







Currently reading:

"The Rosy Crucifixion: Book Two, Plexus" by Henry Miller.
"The Selected Poems of W.H. Auden."

a shot from the hip, no wonder it missed.

one of the girls you were always jealous of called last night
just to tell me this tool of an actor reminded her of me.
I said it was strange since we didn't look alike at all.
then I realized that he plays a jerk in a lot of movies.
"maybe he's been typecast, too," I said.
she thought it was just his hairy chest
but told me I could believe what I wanted
like she didn't know I would do that anyway.
you'd know better than to bother;
you should've never worried about those broads
but then again
I should've never given you reason to.

once the gin hits my lips
the shit hits the fan
and those who know what's best
hit the deck
or
like you
they hit the road.
it's not something I'm proud of.
it's just the way it is.

I never understood why Hem and Fitzy
and all those other handsome old devils of the Lost Generation
used to call it "getting tight."
all it ever seems to do is loosen my tongue
and that's what hurt you on more than one occasion
enough to eclipse the hundreds of times it brought you pleasure.
therefore, according to my enabling logic
it's only right that it should be the drunk me that apologizes
once every few months
though if it's any consolation
I'm painfully sober right now.

last week I indulged in a Tuesday night pity party
chasing bad lines with good beer.
I'd go out on the porch for a smoke every couple drinks
the increments shrinking
the smoke-induced gag-reflex growing
as the night wore on.
I saw that spider in its web on the railing again
and burned it with my lighter again
and watched it drop into the bushes again
though I knew it'd be back again
eventually
since home is home
no matter the pain.
right?

driving home from work yesterday
I rubbed my temples and felt two bulbous pimples sprouting
on either side of my forehead
growing where the brim of my hat holds the sweat.
for a second I thought my former female fan club was right
and I was finally taking on the role entirely
by budding horns.
I laughed and flicked a butt out the window
timing it poorly
as a car was passing me in my blindspot.
I'm pretty sure it flew into her window
but didn't stick around for long enough to find out.
I turned at the next intersection and cringed
as I got stuck behind a car I swore was yours.
that used to happen with the first Great One, too
but it's much worse now
since Nissans are more common than Volkswagens.
besides, you never forget your first
but it's your last that really matters.

come on, what d'ya say?
I can't do another season alone, baby.
not in this room with the chipping paint
and lousy ventilation.
give me one more shot
before I give myself one
or twenty
depending on how you choose to interpret.
I promise you'll never catch me
looking up and to the left again;
I've trained my eyes to hide the lies.

this all sounded so much better three minutes ago
before it happened:
the overanalytical pseudo-sign of the night.
I coughed and a fortune from a Chinese dinner months ago
that was laying on my desk floated down and fell on my bare toes:
"To remember is to understand,"
and the LEARN CHINESE section read:
"Xiang-nian ni = Miss You."
well, in that case
xiang-nian ni, honey
but suddenly
after re-reading all this
I remember
and I understand
that I deserve to never rent movies
or cook for two again.







Currently reading:

"The Selected Poems of Dylan Thomas, 1934-1952"
and
"The Rosy Crucifixion, Book One: Sexus" by Henry Miller.

more bad poetry!!!

We get paid the same
whether marching or fighting
and sometimes we just want to lay down our guns.
But goddamn it all if I haven't been laying pipe by day
and trying real hard to do the same by night

and for what?
you all know as well as I do
(enjoy that, it doesn't happen often
or at least I won't admit it)
that I'm just trying to find the right hole to crawl into
to hide myself forever
in the warm, gushy center of a girl I can stand
and who can stand me
or at least pretend to
in the hopes of finally being able
to hang up the holsters for good
and end the shitfaced Casanova charade.

I winced when she said she liked giving better than receiving
and I told her that she spelled her name wrong
when she entered her number in my phone;
we were obviously doomed from the start.
I made sure she knew this by spilling my cocktail
on my lap when it came time for my friends to leave
and she suggested I go with them and call her the next day.
I arrived home at five in the morning
my jeans reeking of rum
my shirt of marijuana
and I've never smoked that stuff in my life.
I deleted her number
and her existence
from my memory
since my headboard has already been whittled down to
next to nothing
and the sober me would rather wake
next to no one
than one more
to curse the day my old man didn't pull out in time.

No, it's not a fish that you can catch
and it sure as hell ain't a lilac bush blooming
or the top wrung of some morally depraved ladder:
it's a limp prick against a warm ass
as their respective owners fall out gracefully and quietly
into that good
night
knowing they'll be able to do the same every night
until the last
unless they somehow fuck it up irreparably.

Yup, that's it in a nutshell, folks.
But someone declared every-man-for-himself
and we've all paid the price ever since.

On your mark...
get set...
GO!








currently reading:
"ask the dust" by john fante
"slouching toward nirvana" by charles bukowski

"There Are No Atheists In A Foxhole"

"Boy," she said from the doorway,
"only you can have a late-night
drunken rendezvous that ends
an hour later
with the girl leaving in tears."
I wasn't sure whether to take it
as a compliment
or a cut-down.

"No, it wasn't like that.
She's a friend,"
and the words sounded strange
coming out of my mouth.
Sometimes the lines blur on me
after the double-vision sets in
as the rounds
and the funds
and the good judgment
go down.

The sick cycle of hurt people hurting people
and the Superman Complex
failing again;
"He can't even help himself,
how can he save someone else?"

Woke up alone next to Miss Mossberg, 20,
and noticed that I'd missed the bottle a little
and the point entirely:

Loneliness is the water-torture penance
that must be paid for my last five years,
and this forked tongue in sheep's clothing
can't talk its way out of it.

But we're all guilty:
we've all trampled those
tulips
long ago
with our respective
two
lips
and worse
have become the very things
that we stubbornly claim made us
the ways we are
in the process.

Lord, give us strength
to deal with those
whose fears never dealt with them.

"Boy..." she said from across the hall,
and it didn't matter
how I took it anymore.







Currently reading:
"The Red Pony" by John Steinbeck.
"My Side Of The Mountain" by Jean Craighead George.

it's a fun game, everyone always cheats.

i just got off the phone with my mother. i feel bad for lying to her, but i'm sure she saw right through it. she's always known when i'm being evasive. i suppose being a bad liar, or at least an obvious one, is a good quality. i got quiet on the phone when she asked if i've been making deposits in her bank account and quickly suggested that maybe the bank made an error as soon as i recovered from the initial surprise of the question. i've put a couple hundred dollars in over the past few months because times have been tough for her and my stepfather isn't always the most supportive husband in the world. i failed to remember, however, that she is more or less a detective and checks and double-checks every coupon and bank statement and line of shit from friends and family until she's comfortable that she has that ever-chased Truth. she must've gotten her bank statements and realized that she did not put the money in, and that my stepfather sure as hell wouldn't have. at first i was going to admit to the whole thing and say i figured it was the least i could do since i have dinner there once a week. when the moment came, though, i decided to bluff my hand at the last minute by suggesting that she shouldn't look a gift benjamin in the mouth and not to mention the bank's error to the teller next time in case they try to take it back. it'll all pan out in the end i'm sure. i told her the other day when we went for a ride to spend some rare quality time together that she only sees the tip of the iceberg in regards to my life. i promised to have some surreal stories for her when we're both old and it doesn't matter anymore, and that if she only knew how ridiculous my life is at times she'd flip her shit. when that day comes and i tell her about all of the crazy shit i've done and that's been done to me i'll be sure to soften the blow by telling her the truth about where the money came from back when i was twenty-three and making more money than i really needed. and if by some chance that plan doesn't work out, if one of us happens to pass unexpectedly, i'll tell her in another life when we're both rabbits.

there are so many things i wish i could tell her right now, though. i opened up somewhat during the long ride to the catskills we took on sunday, but not as much as i could have. i expressed my current fears and troubles without getting too morbidly specific as to what's led up to them. (wow, i'm an asshole. my ear just itched and i wanted a sip of this yuengling, but i was too wrapped up in the damn moment to think and i almost scratched my mouth and poured beer in my ear. this should be an interesting night.) i told her how i'm stuck in this godawful rut where i work six days a week just to come home and read alone in my room until i get tired enough to fall asleep; how i'm terrified of being alone, that i feel like it's impossible for me to meet anyone decent, and that it's probably for the best that i don't have my own place right now because i'm scared of what i might let happen if things ever got any worse for me and i literally saw no one after work; and that my biggest fear is of turning into my father, which she laughed at. she tried to reassure me that no matter how many times i say it scares me i will never be him. i informed her that i'm already showing some similarities in terms of mistakes made at this age, which i only know because my aunt tried to tell me about what charlie vahsen was really like before being brainwashed by the ghosts of his past and bogus religious leaders. the drinking, the womanizing, the driving loved ones away inadvertently: those are the patterns that i see forming, and i'm scared shitless of ending up middle-aged and alone because of my own downward spiral fueled by an addictive personality. i told my mom that i wish my old man could be normal enough for just long enough to share his own life lessons with me himself and come down to the level of us sinners, but that'll never happen. why is it that i have to try to overt disaster on my own instead of with the help of a parent who went through it already? i'll never let that happen to the kids i'll never have. my mother and i sat at a bar in new paltz over dinner as this conversation came to a close and we came to an understanding that most wouldn't understand, but that somehow made sense to us: she told me i should try relaxing by smoking weed like she does as i took a sip of my pint of sam adams summer ale as we locked eyes and understood and accepted each other's vices. growing up has a lot to do with learning to see your family as ordinary people with ordinary flaws, and loving them anyway.

which is precisely why the shit my stepfather pulled a month ago pissed me off beyond belief. my uncle ray on my mother's side, the one who went to jail for fifteen years for murdering his wife with his bare hands after coming home high and finding her in bed with someone else, was recently arrested again. he's sixty-three years old and has a six-year-old daughter with an illegal peruvian immigrant who left him after the kid was born. as poor as the timing was in terms of his age, that little girl basically saved his life by forcing him to come out of the depressed slump he was in for long enough increments to care about someone else other than himself. the thing about ray is that even though he has a good heart he makes such poor decisions at times that always lead to sour endings. the apartment he's been living in is in shambles beyond belief. when i went down to florida to visit him and my other uncle in march with the ex neither of us could find a place to sit amongst all the clutter that covered every surface of the place. child services got wind of this state of affairs via a nosy neighbor who hates ray and the police came on a wednesday night when he happened to have his daughter for a scheduled visitation and took him away for endangering the welfare of a minor due to the state of his living quarters. my family didn't know what had happened for a couple of days, and as soon as we were informed we were all heartbroken. to imagine this man back in a cell for the first time in fifteen-plus years over something so stupid and easily avoided was very distressing. he doesn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, and my uncle who usually bails him out (though never literally) was financially tapped at the moment, so immediately after finding out the bad news at work i drove to my mom's and laid six hundred dollars on the kitchen table and told her to send the money down there to get him the fuck out of jail. the look she gave me as i counted and spread the bills out for her was part astonishment at my having that kind of disposable income (i make more than her now), part parental concern for an overzealous son, part proud love for having raised a man who doesn't have to think twice about doing what has to be done to take care of blood regardless of the circumstances. and that's what family is to me, unconditional love. which is why it pissed me off when i found out the next day that my stepfather had been giving her shit about her brother, making false accusations and assumptions in his nightly vodka-drunk stupor. she shouldn't be criticized for caring about her family, and the fact that he ran from his at such an early age and left his wife and kids to fend for themselves only puts him further out of the realm of being able to talk. and what our family does and how we take care of each other should not concern him anyway, no one asked him for help or an armchair quarterback suggestion. she regretted telling me about his stance on the matter as soon as she told me because she heard me get pissed off over the phone upon hearing that. then she told him my sentiments about his sentiments and that only made things more awkward for their home life and the monday nights that i visited there for a couple weeks. we'd still have the bullshit construction talk about our current jobs for fifteen minutes in the living room before dinner, but we both sensed the tension. one saturday at the bar after both of us had worked for our other boss the three of us stumbled upon the topic and the beer took over my mouth for the best for once. i laid it out there to my boss, how i'm loyal to my family no matter what and that you can't turn your back on people you have no choice but to love, and he agreed. my stepfather tried to chime in but i only further solidified my point by telling the story of the six-hundred-dollars, which he hadn't been able to give so suddenly if his own biological son in his thirties had needed it. that shut him up and things have been fine ever since. like jeffers said, "dig deep your heels," because sometimes it actually works.

a couple weeks ago i was coinstarring it up at price chopper and had to go to the customer service desk to cash in my voucher. i was standing in line behind an elderly gentleman on one of those motorized courtesy carts that supermarkets have. he turned his chin up from his lowered position and told the woman behind the counter that he had a comment to make about an employee. i instantly curled my toes and clenched my teeth in anguish because i just wanted to get my damn money and this sorry bastard presumably had nothing better to do with his gimp ass than bitch about some zit-faced teenager's poor work ethic. that's why i was so surprised when i heard what he actually had to say. i knew i was wrong as soon as he started speaking: "you probably don't hear this often, but i have some positive feedback. i just wanted to let you know that daniel is a wonderful person. have a nice day." the lady jotted some note down on a sheet of paper and i checked to make sure she had written "daniel" somewhere in the sentence. she smiled, he smiled and rode his handicapped cart away, and i felt like a suddenly less cynical asshole. i stepped up to the counter and said "that was nice." she glanced up at me from her paperwork and agreed, though both of us knew that the other felt somehow bad for always assuming the worst about people. she asked how she could help me. part of me wanted me to be honest after such an awe-inspiring experience, but i settled for handing her my cash voucher instead. and when we told each other to "have a nice day" after the transaction we both really meant it for the first time in too long.

i just went out for a smoke. there are two huge cardboard boxes sitting on the side of the driveway. my landlord is finally going to re-do the shower that's been falling apart ever since i've moved in. about ten tiles are missing and water is getting into the basement. it took a phone call to him and a couple angry (though calm and sensible) conversations with my roommate (his daughter), but it's finally getting done. it'll be nice to be able to take a shower after work and not worry about the fucking wall falling apart any further or stepping on any gross bugs that come out of the gaping hole near my feet. i had to go as far as to threaten to have it fixed myself and then take the fee out of the rent, which probably sent them reeling. my rent's always on time and i fix whatever i break, but the fact that the house is one hundred-twenty-years-old and needs some basic maintenance is not my fault. if i break something i fix it, like the railing on the stairs, but i'm not going to go out of my way to pay for the upkeep of their investment. anyway, i laughed at my small victory as i pulled on my cigarette and stared at the boxes. then i looked down and saw the massive spider on the railing that i thought i killed last time i was drunk and smoking out front. it was in the center of its web so i took my lighter and started chasing it with the flame. i'm pretty sure it escaped into the nearby ivy with most of its limbs, probably to return in a couple of days once its stubborn nature gets the best of it yet again. i guess i can't blame it though; we all tend to return to what feels like home, even when it only hurts us over and over again. which is the only reason i stayed with the last one for so long. a few weeks ago i temporarily unblocked her on instant messenger to see what she was up to. she took the opportunity to try to pour salt in the wound via away message. i used to half-jokingly say that she didn't really want to be with someone like me, she wanted to be with some yuppy who drives a sports car and hikes on weekends and is probably named something snobbishly wholesomely american like "brock davenport." it was a running joke of ours, but we both new i was fairly serious about it because our interests were so different. anyway, as soon as she noticed that i had unblocked her she put up some smartass away message about how she couldn't wait to spend the next thirteen days straight on vacation with brock. which was probably just spiteful bullshit, but still. no, "dave," "but still" nothing. you know that it made you feel better, one way or the other. either she really did find someone who could finally fulfill her needs since you never could so you should be happy, or she's such a vindictive bitch for lying and trying to hurt you so far after the fact that you should still be happy because she's an evil cunt whom you never should have given the time of day, let alone two years' time. either way i win, which is nice. i blocked her again (yeah, how seventh grade, i know) and went to sleep soundly knowing that i was finally over it. from then on i've honestly only missed being with someone, cooking for someone, telling my stupid stories to someone, sleeping next to someone...not her specifically. it's a definite step in the right direction and i'm glad that she was the catalyst without even realizing it.

the time frame on that recovery was pretty impressive. it took years to get over the first one that really knocked me for a loop during my precious college era. i pined over that one for far too long, probably because i associated her with the last of the innocence in my life, if there ever was any. it came full circle about a month ago. we had been talking here and there online and she mentioned that she wanted to get her first tattoo and asked if i'd take her to my guy. i jumped at the opportunity and quickly made some final decisions about the idea i'd been tossing around in my head about my next one: the plumb, square, level, balanced tribute to my current construction job(s). i scheduled our appointments for later on that week and tried not to feel like a kid before christmas because i hadn't seen her in so long. we had dinner first and then went to the tattoo shop to take care of business. she decided to go first so she couldn't see the process being done to me and then chicken out. i tried to keep her distracted with conversation and laughter, but most of the time she winced and grimaced and i wished i could somehow take the pain for her. part of me wanted to offer a hand to squeeze, but the other part knew better than to push it. i downed the beers as i watched her make the facial expressions that i hadn't forgotten and kept telling myself i've made it this far and will be ok with having her around as "just a friend" if that's what it takes to have her around at all. her tattoo was completed and then my artist had to design mine, which took awhile. sometime during the process i told her she could leave since her friends wanted her to go out that night. she stuck around for another twenty minutes, but when i suggested that she leave again she took me up on it and headed back to where she belongs. i was there for her when she needed me and that was all that mattered, i didn't need her there to sit through a process i'm used to by now. and somehow it meant more that she left me there and i was ok. on a smaller scale it represented my life somehow. i still had my friends (i've spent over two grand on this silly hobby, this guy better damn well consider me a friend) and my beer and my sense of humor to keep me going, and i still will regardless of who decides to leave my life again at any point. if there's one thing my mom taught me it's to stick to my guns when the going gets tough; only pussies get going. and i tried that once or twice, it ain't for me.

i told you before that i'm normally pretty bad at lying to others, but that doesn't mean i'm not great at lying to myself. so in all fairness i do still think about it every day; or, more accurately, every night. and sadly, the thing that makes it go away most times is my own vanity: i always tend to come to the conclusion that i would never be able to successfully handle writing that last one, making all of those final statements, penning the uberblog. but hey, whatever works, right?

speaking of work, i kinda have to go there tomorrow in order to get paid. and shit, my foreman won't even be there to take charge so i really have to step up to the plate and teach the kid i'm working with a thing or two about being a plumbing ninja. let me go the fuck to bed already. goodnight, fools...and i say that lovingly.



currently reading:
"the pearl" by john steinbeck.

i've never reeked of apathy.

i think one of my biggest flaws is how greatly i let others affect me. it's not that i'm impressionable and succumb to peer pressure; it's more that most of my actions, especially when drunk and/or in one of my pensively decisive moods, are directly results of people who have little say in their own lives, and should therefore not even remotely impact mine. she's single and finally talking to me again like nothing happened three years ago: i'm foolishly hopeful to the point of texting her once in awhile (GASP!). the other one's on a whored-up revenge fuck binge: i'm wasting time writing bad poetry about how i don't and never cared. they laugh and memorize my embarrassing stories and memorable lines to throw them back in my face later: i drink excessively in order to inspire those cherished moments so at least maybe when they regurgitate my crippled history i'll be assured that someone out there is paying attention once in awhile. it's a hell of a way to live, basing your life on reactions you may or may not get from others, but i suppose we're all guilty of it to some extent.


my mind just drifted off in a totally different direction. i'm going to go with it, pathetic blog notes be damned!






i found some old cologne bottles i had at my mom's house a few days ago. she set them aside for me in a ziploc bag, probably to quarantine the stench of cheap fragrances that were somehow acceptable in junior high. i brought them all home and set them out on my shelf in the bathroom in case i'd ever feel inspired to deviate from my age-old standard, Polo Sport.

the first night home i smelled the phallic green bottle of Brute and instantly remembered the days when my childhood best friend of six years and i would drench ourselves in that stuff every friday before donning our camo jacket and white t-shirt uniforms at the ice rink. he fell off the deep end with drugs and stealing and getting in trouble with the cops so we parted ways. aside from the mistakes made by my close family, his downward spiral into the world of hard drugs is what most inspired my choice to never go that route. to this day i still haven't dabbled, not even with a little maryjane. it's not that i think i'm better than anyone, it's that i've seen what it's done to so many i've loved. the fragrance made me flash back to those times crucial times of character development further confused by hormones and it was bittersweet. i put that green bottle down and tried to remember the good times we had together before my old friend slid down that slippery slope. the ironic part is that he wound up becoming a plumber in local one in new york city. we both found the same fate somehow, but my tattoos are far better.

two days ago i opened one of the same two brown round bottles i rediscovered. i had just gotten out of the shower so i splashed some on my chest. the smell wafted up quite quickly and reminded me of who used to wear it, and probably still does. i'm not sure what it's called, but for all intents and purposes we'll give the formula a working title of "Dad." it's unfair that even though i haven't seen him since november i'm still walking in his shoes in my own right, making the same mistakes he did at this age. i glanced in the mirror and told myself i wouldn't let myself go too much further down that road. i wish that somehow maybe he could waltz back into my life again and be fucking normal for long enough to give me some fatherly advice in order to avoid his fate easier, but i know him better than i know myself in some ways and that'll never happen. he's too far gone to be the man that i need him to be, too preoccupied with his precious notion of an Afterlife to care much about his time alive, or as my mom always said: "so Heavenly bound that he's of no Earthly good." it's a shame that construction workers have taken on his role in my life, but i'm thankful that i have at least that much. i glanced in the mirror again and splashed some more on myself; a little of that cologne would just make me miss him, a lot of it would constantly remind me not to ever let friends and family go by the wayside for a belief like he has.

yesterday i sprayed some Fahrenheit on after cleansing the sweet stench of failure off my body via soap and water. that was another fatherly fragrance, but it somehow had a less negative association. he never actually wore that stuff so it didn't really remind me of him so much as it did how i acquired it. he bought it for me one time because the other stuff i had been wearing was so cheap (probably the aforementioned Brute) and he wanted me to have a touch of class. i laughed to myself at that one, then and now.

last night while brushing my teeth i opened the last bottle, Stetson, and sniffed it. that was another one of those lame colognes i used to rock hard back in the day, probably before i even needed deodorant. i'm pretty sure i just liked it because there was a cowboy on the label. i capped it and thought of who it reminded me of, though not as warmly as i would have like to been able to. i was never close to my grandma on my father's side for whatever reasons: the distance, the fact that it was hard to have a conversation with her because she was partially crazy (runs in the fam). when she passed a few years ago i didn't cry and i felt bad. if anything it was good for it to happen at that time because my father and i hadn't been speaking for several months over a lyric he misinterpreted in one of my band's songs. (yeah, he's that nuts.) he called me up to give me the bad news and invite me to the funeral, and after that we started talking and seeing each other again. maybe grandma knew her sacrifice would somehow benefit her offspring. maybe her last gift to her Stetson Stud, as she used to call me (once the Handsome Teddy Bear days were over), was worth more than all of the five dollar bills in christmas and birthday cards she ever gave me combined. too bad it didn't last.

just like the one bottle my mom ever bought me, Curve. that came as a gift to try to get me to wear something than Polo Sport for a change, and change i did. i started wearing it when i had first moved out of my mom's condo three years ago, thus beginning my manwhore days. the already double-digit number of notches in my headboard skyrocketed: doubled, tripled, quadrupled, quintupled (?) so quickly that i found it hard to have parties eventually because the girls would have all realized my game and joined forces to beat me into submission and castrate me. there's one memory of that horrid Curve stench that really sticks with me, though. it was the mo(u)rning after, i didn't even have my bed moved into my room from home yet. we woke on an improvised mattress of some sort and she looked at me funny, like it meant more than it should have. i dodged the glare by stuffing my face back into the pillow which must've been covered with the stuff the night before to cover up the smell of the beer spilled on it. i found out later from her angry friends why she made that pained facial expression when it happened, and why she had been looking so deeply into my eyes for comfort during the act: she was a virgin and i didn't know it. another one bites the dust, kid. great. i never wore that cologne again in that apartment after that, not until the few times i wanted to smell like the asshole i knew i'd wind up being again later on that night somehow. i like to play the part sometimes. i like to play myself. i like plays on words.

so today it was back to good ol' Polo Sport, and it'll probably stay that way for awhile. scientists claim that the sense of smell triggers the most memories, and my little sniff down memory lane only proves them right. i've had enough of that for awhile, though. i'd rather be the me that i have been by choice for eight years now than the me that other people have tried to make me via cologne. and besides, i know that sometime somewhere someway this lovely fragrance will find its way into her nostrils and make her gag as she guiltily remember me, and maybe even regret letting it end like it did. it's only fair that i get to ruin potentially pleasant things for them once in awhile, too.






currently reading:

"the selected poems of robinson jeffers"