The First Line Of A Story I'm Too Damn Chicken-Shit To Write

It was an autumn we were cheated, when the leaves turned brown and fell without the usual consolation prize of that fleeting orange bliss.

Meadow Soprano, Where Art Thou?

Wives and daughters of New Jersey policemen (, and I'm not limiting it to New JERSEY policemen, but know for a fact that such is the case with their little haven of perfected nepotism) are given faux-metal badges with rubber suction cups on them to stick to the insides of their windshields. These Get-Outta-Jail-Free Cards are rather large and obvious, even for the rarely bashful Smokestack State. In order to catch any potential thieves of said Holy Grails, wives and daughters of New Jersey policemen are instructed to take them down one month out of the year which, of course, is agreed upon by yes, you guessed it: the Fraternal Order of New Jersey Police (or FratOrNJeP, as I like to call it. Actually, this was my first time, but I like it and may use it in the future). Anyone seen operating a motor vehicle (MV) with the pseudo-badge proudly displayed during that designated Dark Age is instantly pulled over, interrogated, forced to describe their most traumatic childhood experience in dramatic detail through interpretive dance, and released to hopelessly wander the jug-handles, roundabouts, left-hand exits, and other absurd oddities of the New Jersey Highway System...and God forbid they're Asian; then we're all at risk.

You may be asking yourself: Self, what about the husbands and sons of New Jersey policePEOPLE? Well, quite frankly, they're left to fend for themselves. No one likes a man who can't make his own way in this world. Besides, the Situation doesn't have a Courtesy Badge in his ride. Why would any other brah possibly need one?

Justification: Too Much Hemingway Dialogue, Not Enough Sleep (For a Reason)

"...but all you do is..."

"Not all. Just mostly."

"Then why don't you...?"

"Because."

"Because you're scared of being...?"

"No."

"Then why are you still...?"

"It's the one thing that only I can do, and I like that."

"Jesus. You're just as..."

"Watch it, now. That's my..."

"...for now."

"Forever."

"Then you both deserve..."

"...the best."

"But is that really...?"

"The Good Fight's worth its weight in empties it's inspired."

"And the bad ones, Socrates?"

"Won't get honorable mentions at any funerals."

"That's a bit melodramatic. You make..."

"...good drinks. Care for another?"

"Sure."

"You're a rare, easy customer."

"You need all the help you can get."

"You're not the first to say that, though I tend to disagree."

"That's because you're stubborn."

"I prefer 'persistent'."

"Whatever it takes to help you sleep..."

"Not until Friday night."

It's Out of the Question, Genetically Speaking

"Is that your cat?" I ask the three-year-old
as I point to the black mangy tom
sprawled peacefully on the radiator
that Dave and I replaced.

No answer from the girl.

"Who's that on the TV?" I try, nodding towards
the latest, freakish neon cartoon shipped with love
from Japan to rot the minds of American children.

She smiles a bit, revealing a full set of rounded teeth.
They're so perfect and miniature that they seem fake.
I'm surprised to see them, considering she doesn't speak.

I try the cat thing again. It seems more organic.
And besides, if she decides to make conversation
I know more about cats than I do about new cartoons.
Her green eyes light up her milky face
and the near-white ringlets draped over her ears
twitch with delight. Her right hand pats her thigh
three times in an inexpressable jolt of excitement.
It's got nothing to do with what I'm saying.
She just likes to hear me speak-- a trait she'll grow
out of in another fifteen years if she's anything like
the rest of her kind.

"That cat's silly," I venture, but the patting stays the same.
I begin to wonder if she even speaks English.
Maybe they do things differently in Walden.

"Alright. Boiler's up and running!" Dave calls
from beneath the floorboards. Nothing's leaking.
It's another minor miracle of the plumbing world.
Hallelujah, praise the Lord, pass the ammunition.

"All Quiet on the Western Front!" I yell back down.

"Huh?" Dave asks.

"It's a...nevermind. We're all good, baby!"

The girl, of course, pats her leg some more.

"Leave that poor man alone," the young mother
pleads from the kitchen. I wonder how she knows, if
my reputation precedes me as far as the next town over.
"Come and get a cookie, Lily," and my audience wobbles away.

Lily, the perfect name for a gorgeous bundle of almost-albino life.
I wonder if they had another one picked out, but changed it
after her birth since it was too fitting to pass up. (Yes, these
are the things your friendly neighborhood plumber thinks about
when he's in your home. These, and how to screw you.)

Lily and mom come in from the kitchen, cookies in hands of both.
Dave climbs the basement stairs and enters the room as well.
The three of them look at me, but only the one who knows me
asks what the smile on my face is about.

I pat my thigh three times and shrug
hoping the training pays off someday.

Grumpy Young Men

Fall foliage and a valley
carved deep by the Hudson's tide
drew me to the park
for a bout with Hem and loneliness.
His latest on my list
was on the Spanish Civil War--
something else he watched
but didn't fight in, then transcribed.
It was a recurring theme with him.
I was beginning to respect his writing more
and his farce of bravado less.
No, that's not true.
He lured me in
like those leaves.

The parking lot was empty
when I faithfully arrived.
It took me by surprise that
the high-for-season temperature
didn't bring out the illegals
cooking and fishing and playing in the water.
I thought it'd be too loud to read.
Instead I had a ghost town.

There was one old timer walking near me
on the path to the beach
where I used to lay with lover.
I noted the lack of people.
He said the same of yesterday
aside from a man in a kayak
who started in the Great Lakes
and was heading to the Gulf
for a charity for wounded vets.
"The aquatic Appalachian," I quipped
at his gray beard. He knew when
to break the conversation with a humble
"Have a good one," before it got too awkward.
I was thankful and sad at the same time.
Hemingway had conjured himself
only to vanish in thin air again
this time without the use
of his trusty twelve-gauge shotgun.

And that air was more than fierce
as it blew off the water and tried
turning pages prematurely.
The wind was whipping clouds
predicted to cast showers overnight
to the point of my discomfort
and immediate agitation.
I muscled through the story
of betrayal in a wartime bar
and made my way for my vehicle
and the safety of my room--
the waiting set of another tragedy.

The ride home gave some ammo
for the cynic in the critic:
Behold the daylight drug whores
of the main drag in my city.
A traffic light presented two bumpers
with opposing views stuck on:
"Pray the Rosary" and
"Born OK the First Time"
(a shot at Holy Rollers).
I made peace with happy medium
and told them both to scratch.

But the kicker in the sticker
didn't come until I laid down in bed
to read again and heard the uncommon
combination of lawnmower and crickets
through my open bedroom window.
An overly ambitious neighbor, or perhaps
a proscratinator, was trimming his grass
in the pitch-black of six-thirty.
Coupled with the insects it sang nothing less than home.
I tossed the book, hit the lights, and complied
with what fate gave me: a symphony to sleep through
while my mind erased the day.

The Joys of Being Cold-Blooded

The orange has peaked
at this end of October.
It's the most vivid display
since I was a kid
or maybe this year
I just notice it more

like the God Rays
reaching down
like fingers through the clouds
kissing outstretched legs
of six turtles on their log.
It's late in the season
for them to be out
but no one's pulling over
to shout that towards the pond.

Statistically it's proven
that men stab up
women thrust down
and me?
I lash out wildly
in every direction
favoring the one that's easiest.
In this case it's my driveway:
a harmless, homeless number.
Be thankful for the rote.

But those stubborn, timeless turtles
in their late October sun
are God's immaculate orgasm:
a happy mess that feels good
without having to sleep
in the wet spot.

I'd gladly sleep in yours.



Currently reading:
"The Fifth Column" by Ernest Hemingway.

An Alto In the Weeds

My mother didn't tell me
'til after my fifth-grade concert was over
but she used to stand outside the bathroom door
and listen to me practice singing "Hallelujah" in the shower.
"It was beautiful," she lied, and tried to imitate my pre-pubescent
butchering of the a capella, one-lyric hymn that I sang in chorus
(back when God was still almost tolerated in the Arts programs
of public schools, as long as no Muslims were on the roster).
She must've known that if she'd told me I would've stopped.
A mother always knows when you'll stop.
A mother knows you'll stop
before you do.



Currently reading:
"The Torrents of Spring" by Ernest Hemingway.

Clearance Conscience

It was a sign that my fear of change
had to be faced:
the office furniture store down the street
was having one of its outdoor used swivel-chair sales
as I was driving by en route to my union hall.
I told myself I'd stop by on my way back
not sure if I actually would.
My desk set at home was the same one
my mother bought for me when we moved away
from my father's town thirteen years ago.
It'd served me well throughout that time.
The chair, however, had been designed for someone
with a wet weight half of my current size.
As a result the padding was not so comfortable anymore
and I could only manage to sit at the computer
for forty minutes at a time without having to stretch
my legs and relieve my sore behind.

I did the unthinkable and stopped on the way back.
The chairs were strewn about randomly with no
regard for color, quality, style or price.
A middle-aged salesman with a purple coldsore
on his upper lip came outside and greeted me.
I asked about the one that caught my eye, a hunter green
number in excellent shape that sat low to the ground.
He fumbled with the paddle underneath the seat in an
attempt to show me how to raise it before realizing
it was broken. I offered him five less than the suggested price.
He told me he'd let it go for ten instead. How could I argue with
a deal like that? I paid and placed it in the bed of my truck
checking my rear-view a few times on the ride home
as if it'd somehow fall out and spare me the chore of
replacing my old faithful wooden number.

It felt like sneaking a paramore into the house.
I lumbered up the creaking stairs with it
like a clumsier Frankenstein's monster.
The rabbit ran when she heard the racket.
Then again, she ran whenever I approached.
I wheeled the chair into place next to Old Faithful.
Same height, more or less, with a favoring on the less side.
Shamefully I rolled the old chair away and slid the new one
in front of the desk. I sat and set my hands
on the keyboard with little-to-no regard for the "home row"
they tried pounding into my muscle memory in my ninth-grade
keyboarding class. I was up to ninety-something words-per-minute
but went right back to my hybrid style of hunting and punching
as soon as the semester was over. It's not that I can't be trained;
it's more a matter of stubborn resistance.

The mouse felt a bit out of reach with the slightly lower position
but the arm rests served as a pivot point on which to rest
my elbows. The keyboard was also a fraction higher
and marginally out of reach, but part of me liked that aspect.
It felt as though I were stepping up to the plate to write.
That's how it should be; otherwise you're doing it wrong.

I looked over at Old Faithful in its temporary position in the corner.
The diving knife I strapped to its leg when I was fifteen and
my stepfather first moved in would have to be removed.
An honorable legend further stripped of glory; it felt like sin
and not that kind that we revel in at night. The kind
that we try to hide from the friends who truly matter.

So hear I sit in this second-hand chair that's new enough for me
typing away about an oddity of life that could only be
over-analyzed by with someone with too much time and heart.
If it were any other way you'd be surprised, though.
The most sacred things never change.

Sushi Worth the Mercury

First there was the second round.
I couldn't come. I faked it.
Love's so full of mercy
that I try to share
with you.

Caught a whiff of carnival:
greasy food and greasy people.
Caught a scratch
I couldn't itch
and threw it back at you.

There's not a rep in this department.
There's not a soul to sell.
The subway preacher damned us both.
Let's sin our way to hell.

And if I die before I wake
I pray my stocks my mom does take.
I'd leave them all in your name
but I know you'll join me, too.

Systematic Failure of the Pull-and-Pray Method

The drone of powertools and
hungover yell of the laborers sinking shovels
had a lull long enough for a rare
chance to correct my mentor
in a semantic slip-up:

"He's not a setback
or a situation. He's
your kid, whether or not
you still see him."

Fifteen years of a weekly
financial burden dissolved
as a sublime dry ice
punctuated by a brief moment
in which my teacher
looked at me
with the hatred of the kid
whose mother sent celery
and peanut butter as the group snack
for his kindergarten class.

"You know what I mean."

I tossed him a bone
in the form of a nod.
The difference between right
and righteous is merely a matter
of grace.

Forgive us fathers
for we know not
what we do.

Jimmy Hoffa Fought, Died, Was Shipped to China in the Trunk of a Crushed Japanese Car for This?

A dump-truck driver's life is known to have its share of waiting. That's not to say he's necessarily lazy. It's part of the teamster's routine. His bed has to be filled in order to commence carting off the load to whatever unfortunate destination it has in store. Some guys sleep. Others smoke little black cigars, though not as well as Clint in his early Westerns. Then there is the literary crowd...

I witnessed a specimen of the latter variety today. As I walked by the truck I caught a glimpse of a familiar, bold-lettered font on the cover of a magazine; perhaps a computer-enhanced hip as well. The driver was hunched over the steering wheel like a preacher over his pulpit. His eyes were fixed upon the pages. He was waiting for his load, alright. I left before it came.

And women complain about the ones that are only a bit foul-mouthed...

Hardhat Stickers and Trophy Scars

A lull in the work and a crest in the confusion lends time to relieve myself in the three-by-three portable latrine on the jobsite. It's after eight-thirty, we've been working for over thirteen hours to get the steamlines tied back in by tomorrow's deadline-- a promise made flippantly by an absent owner at a job meeting without consulting his foreman as to the true state of things. Through the thin plastic walls I overhear another pipefitter talking to his five-year-old daughter on his phone. A welding machine buzzes and hums in the background as it guzzles gasoline.

"I'm sorry I couldn't see you today, OK? I had to work late again, OK? Do some artwork for me and I'll hang it up when I get home tonight, OK?" That last part about reaching our homes this evening feels like a goal that can't be met at this rate, but it sounds like he honestly means it. Maybe he doesn't realize how far under the gun we are. I'm the realist of the crew if nothing else. Strangely, I'm also the youngest.

We crawl back down into the manhole. There's a sixty-pound bag of grout in the way of our work that a laborer must've left behind. For his diminutive hourly rate I can't blame his lack of ambition. I pick up the bag and move it to the corner of the concrete vault, taking a moment to read a warning in fine print after setting it down. I decide to inform that fitter full of apologies of all the danger we're in.

" 'This product contains crystalline silica, which in the State of California is known to cause cancer'," I recite. "We sure are lucky we're on the other coast or else we'd be at risk!" I jest.

The joke fails, barely earning a smirk. He's got other things on his mind. And the knowledge of our certain death is beginning to rival the redundancy of a snare drum. He's moved on to bigger and better. His cell phone's in his hand again, but this time it's not pressed to his ear.

"What are you doing?" I ask. "Taking pictures of what not to do for the Union magazine?"

"No. I'm sending my wife a video. She doesn't believe I've been working for thirteen hours in the rain. She thinks I'm having a rendezvous."

I ponder what his spelling of his last word would be. It's just as doomed as he is. I decide right then and there to get out of the trade before it claims another casualty. I lift the collar of my sweatshirt over the bottom half of my face, inhale a deep whiff of decay, and realize it's too late: it isn't the wet leaves I'm smelling this time.

Rule of PoeTRY #831.27, Sub-Division 6-A, Clause VII: Naming the Stillborn.

A
Line unwritten's
a shallow threat
a sterile thought knowing better
than to admit it's ex-
istence
for the sake of
the record
the potential ear.

(And to think they
tried
to write
chivalry's obituary.)

A Vintage I Can Appreciate, Even If It's Not My Taste

I'm going to tell you the worst thing that's ever happened to me
this side of the county line.
I'm going to let you feel my wrist for a pulse
only to find a jackhammering.
I'm going to show you how crazy I am
without asking for your pity in the form of a mercy-fuck.

Tonight as I read Vonnegut-- an old, yellowed copy
she bought for under a dollar (a token of her love)--
fifty-some-odd pages fell out.
It was only a matter of time.
The spine had been broken, cracked through the binding
in two places.

Every night in bed and every morning in my truck before work
I held it gingerly in a vain attempt to prevent the inevitable
(an accidental metaphor rears its pompous head)
while reading the nourishing words of a man madder than myself.
But it matters not. It's gone now. He's dead, forget about it.

It can't join the ranks of the works on my shelves, not in
that tattered form.
It's tainted. It's flawed.
And it isn't printed on acid-free paper.
It won't survive the move. It won't ride the weather.
It won't see tomorrow. It won't last forever.

My blood's still flowing hard through my
OH GOD I CRINGE TO SAY THIS
veinsandarteries
like when I get so...so...nevermind
with You-Know-Who.
It's the closest I've come to panic attack.
Will this be the second book in history
I've started and never finished?
No. No, it can't.

My jaw's pumping now; the tendon's in my neck
are bulging: I'm making the same face
that my father did when he lifted weights
when I was a kid and we still spoke
and Kurt Vonnegut was a stranger
and my father was not
and now KV's a friend instead
and oh, isn't that a funny coincidence?
No no, it's a SIGN.

But I need to go to bed now.
Care to join a liar?

What's fact, what's false, and what's slightly stretched to bridge the gap.

Firemen in Tennessee stood and watched
a house burn down
because its owner hadn't paid
his seventy-five-dollar firehouse fee this year.
Only after the flames had spread through the yard
and threatened a paying neighbor's home
was the fire extinguished, and masterfully.

Authorities in Beacon have been
hot on the trail of a moose on the loose.
Experts say it must've wandered down
from its northern realm by accident
but something tells me it was chasing
some tail and made a wrong left turn.
Been there, brother. Good luck finding home.

I recently texted a union contractor
by whom I was previously employed
at six o'clock in the morning
telling him I love him
by accident, of course.
Fortunately he's been out of business
for years and has probably had his
company cell phones turned off
or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
Perhaps I should not operate a phone
and motor vehicle simultaneously anymore.

There was a day last week
when I unintentionally ended
every sentence
with a wink.
I hated myself on that day
slightly more than on the rest.

Morning sex is nice and all
but it only makes us late.

Goodnight.



Currently reading:
"Jailbird" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Emptiness is godliness through the Law of Syllogism?

I was twelve years old and dying at the same rate that I am now--one day at a time--though the money and the maidens didn't matter then, or at least didn't play as noticeable a role. Cash received in Christmas cards and other tax-exempt sources was thoughtlessly squandered on whatever tickled my fancy right out of my nylon and velcro wallet. One such investment was "The Aeroplane Flies High, Turns Left, Looks Right" or a similarly pompous title conjured by the conveniently tortured mind of Billy Corgan: lead guitarist, lead singer, founder and CEO of 90s-rock alternagroup The Smashing Pumpkins. (To what the genre was a self-proclaimed "alternative" I'm still not sure. The stuff hit you as often as a middle-schooler's cheap cologne.) His feminine whine assaulted the airwaves for almost ten years of viable commercial success. One of the band's many logos, a small heart with the letters "SP" brilliantly incorporated into its center, soils my left bicep to this day in the form of my third tattoo. And unsurprisingly, since my first favorite band happened to fall into my lap at a time before the existence of rent or car payments, much CD-binder real estate is occupied by said group.

My first musical purchase had come in the form of the CD single of "1979", a minor lie of a radio hit released in the year 1996. That disc still sits in its case on one of my shelves to this day, the four original band members walking out of a roller-rink in some sort of drugged-up stupor, pastel make-up and silk and leather attacking the dizzy lens. I listened to the six songs on that disc until they became a part of my heartbeat. It wasn't a matter of "playing them out" as can happen when something is listened to too frequently; I simply didn't hear it anymore. Everything was alright if I heard Billy's tinny pleas. The songs became home, the status quo soundtrack to my life in homeostasis.

But home too becomes tiresome for most. After several months of repeated play I decided to move on to bigger and better through acquiring the entire album. This proved difficult, since the confused Wal Mart employee had never heard of "Melancholy and Infinity Sadness", partially because it didn't exist. My mother tried to aid in the search, but her role as liaison was limited due to the error on my part to give the correct title. Alas, the internet had yet to be invented (and not by Al Gore, despite what he'd have you believe). A few more desperate attempts at conveying the correct title to the slightly subhuman employee of Satan led to a positive response from the almighty computer: "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness", a double-disc to my delight, was out of stock but could be ordered for the mere price of $23.99, which I gladly forked over to the boy in blue. A week later and it was in my hands, in my room, in my ears and the ears of my mother and pet rabbit, neither of which had much say in the matter. More and more singles kept being released off the record, more and more music videos were made, and each time I felt like an old friend was succeeding. Billy and I would conquer the world, so long as I and millions like me kept buying posters, pins, patches, shirts, and compact discs bearing the name of his creative baby. There must be a specific date for when Rock-n-Roll was reduced to Capitalism in purest form, but musical historians will have to duke that one out on their own time and dimes.

It came as no surprise that I sought out the ultimate in geek-level fan merchandise: a six-disc box set--complete with 124-page booklet of lyrics, liner notes, and general egocentric babble--of the band's six singles off "Mellon Collie". Sure, it cost between fifty and sixty dollars and I already had one-third of the songs in my possession (the six singles from the record, plus the B-sides from the aforementioned "1979" CD), but could a pricetag truly be placed on fanhood and dedication? Yes, folks--you've come to the right assumption: music collection was one of my earliest forms of obsessive compulsive behavior, though not my first. A fixation with even numbers (Freud might say as an attempt to bring fairness to an unfair environment) and repetition to achieve them to achieve them came at an earlier date, but I won't bore bore bore bore you with that.

My mother's Sears-bought stereo could not be accessed fast enough. I sprang into the condo and loaded its six-disc changer with the entire overzealous collection, then plopped myself down on the beige rug in front of it, watching the digital seconds and tracks tick by in orange block lettering. By the end of the musical marathon I was sprawled out on my stomach and barely able to keep my eyes open. It seemed as though one song, the last one in line, had been playing forever without making much sense. I came out of my quasi-coma and glanced up at the time display indicator. The track had been playing for forty-three minutes and counting! Thumbing through the pounds of paperwork provided in the package led me to the name of the "song" in question: "The Pistachio Medley". Upon closer investigation I realized what I'd been unfairly subjected to. The entire track was simply a string of totally unrelated riffs and snippets that'd been taped in the brainstorming process for the album's composition, most of which consisted of heavily overdriven guitars poorly recorded. Not one word came from Mr. Corgan's mouth. Not even a bassline could be heard. It was simply a guitarist or two jamming with a drummer for ten seconds at a time, only to be copied and pasted between two totally different pieces of metallic trash. It was a vain man's display of true power, a sad way to take advantage of an impressionable young mind. I hit the power button and stormed up to my room. If I hadn't paid eight dollars for each of them those two posters would've been instantly ripped down. Billy Corgan had cheated me. Later lackluster releases over the course of the following eight years would prove that it wouldn't be the last time. But what's that they say? You never forget your first?

For nostalgia's sake I popped the telltale CD into my truck's stereo last week and forgot about it. When that disc finally came on last night I turned it up and rolled the window's down on Eighty-Seven since no one could hear me anyway. But that last song, that piss-poor "Pistachio Medley" hit my ears like a ton of ancient aural bricks, so I stopped playing air drums at eighty miles-an-hour to do the only appropriate thing: I pictured myself and my first taste of disillusionment there on that plush carpet and laughed.

Winter Weight Blues

"I've made plans for Sunday.
I've prioritized."
Well, me too.

The rabbit knows
when something's wrong--
she hops a little slower
and never towards my room.

Sometimes the voices
speak to my hands
but deep down I know
they'd like that too much.
You see
I make my own sun, brother.
I've given up on trying
to chase it.

We both deserve
that peace
whether there're demerits
or ribbons on our chests

though I suppose
the only thing
sadder than doing
the laundry
and finding her things
mixed in with mine

is folding my clothes
and not.

Time Is Money, and To Waste a Man's Is Wrong

They say you have to be an alcoholic or divorced to be a good welder; the best of them are both. Maybe it's because you've got to be used to all that alone time under the mask, the hood, the shield. Maybe being accustomed to those two forms of self-destructive isolation train you for the solitary darkness, the blinding flash of the arc rays, the toxic fumes that choke your lungs, the iron filings that fill your nostrils and make you blow black snot in the shower, and the heat that drenches your leather gloves and jacket. The art of welding is a sure bet for making money, but it's a hell of a way to make a living-- one that sends you to an early grave. Despite that merciful perk it was never a skill which caught my interest.

Sure, I could trudge my way through stitching a few joints in a pinch if it meant making a quick buck, but I wanted to limit my involvement to that rare scenario. In the final year of my pipefitting apprenticeship, the dreaded welding class, I merely went through the motions. I didn't even bother to show up for the test at the end that'd determine whether or not our union hall could send us out on the job as welders. Most of my classmates who did take the test failed anyway. And besides, from the young age of fifteen I knew it'd be a person that dealt my coup de grace, not a blue-collar profession. I didn't want to deny the gods their rightful say in the matter by letting a trade steal the glory.

There was one thing I learned in the booth that year, however, aside from the fact that bonding ferrous metal through the intricate process of heating and cooling is not for me.

I had just finished my first pass between the two pipes I was joining; the "root", as they call it. My instructor happened to be passing by and saw that I was ready for the next phase, or the "fill pass". He ducked his head into my booth and inspected my work briefly.

"Looks good, kid," said the pudgy, red-faced Irishman.

"Thanks," I replied half-heartedly. It was no secret that I loathed welding. I did anything I could to stall, even if it meant carrying the scrap steal barrels out to the bins behind our hall. That basement was the cleanest it'd ever been due to my desire to avoid the assigned task at hand. I'm sure they miss me now that I'm gone.

"You could've been a hell of a welder if you'd started to care earlier in the year," he said with a benevolent smirk. He knew I wouldn't take offense. Back-handed compliments are routine in the building trades. They're the only way of giving credit without coming off as anything less than a hardened, masculine construction worker full of piss and whiskey. The denial's quite amusing most times.

"Thanks," I said again, this time with more conviction. I lived for those clandestine male-bonding moments. My instructor told me to proceed and walked away.

The fill pass went well, or so I thought. Visually, it's the least critical step in the process. The root sets a foundation which can be seen from inside the pipe; the fill acts as "filler" to level out the gap between the two pipes; and the cover pass, or "cap", leaves an even, wide, aesthetically pleasing finished product for the world to see. The world in this case usually winds up being limited to the maintenance crew in whatever facility we happen to be building or renovating; regardless, their admiration for what trained union labor can accomplish is something for which to strive. If my pipefitting brethren heard me right now they'd throw up in their hardhats.

My teacher returned when he noticed the blue glow of the electric arc rays had ceased. I lifted my helmet and waited for that pat on the back again, but this time it wasn't there.

"What happened?" he asked, his aging eyes squinting at my weld.

"No good?" I asked.

"You copped out on this one," he said. Gone was the playfully sly tone. This was the man's livelihood and the future of our craft. The continuation of our local's work meant his pension would be covered. Failure on my part meant food would be taken off his table when it came time for him to retire. Cat food would be the main constituent of his diet if our local union were to dissolve. "See those rough spots with holes in the steel? That's where the molten metal wasn't hot enough because you hesitated. It's weak and brittle there."

"I can't run the cover pass over it and melt the bad spots out that way? It'll look fine when I'm done." As soon as I'd said it I knew I'd blundered.

"No!" he snapped. "You can't put good on top of bad. You can't hide lousy work with a decent facade. Grind out the fill pass and start over."

"But it took me..."

"I don't care how long it took you, kid. You're mine from five to eight, two nights a week. You finally almost got it right. Make it happen this time."

He let the curtain fall back between us and moved on to the next booth to critique someone else's work. I couldn't hear his voice, but I pitied his next student. I picked up the grinder and removed my sub-par attempt. The next step would have to wait. I had to make the immediate right first. Poor welds yield leaking pipes. Faulty foundations lead to falling houses. And relationships with issues unaddressed follow suit. It's not the way it should be, but it's the way it is.

"...maybe a woman, maybe a sonnet, maybe a lack of proper diet."

"You moved the goddamn knife," Sue said after settling into bed. "It's not on the night stand."

"Yeah. So?" Bernie asked aloofly. He'd had a rough day at work. All he wanted was some sadly mechanical missionary and a solid night's rest. Bernie often asked for too much. Consistency on Sue's part when it mattered most was at the top of that list; security in anything at all a close second.

"You're a creature of habit if I've ever encountered one," the unsettled woman responded. "I know you lay there and twirl the thing at night while you read or talk to me on the phone when I'm out of town."

"Oh yeah?" Bernie asked, suddenly intrigued in his partner's newfound detective profession. "How do you figure?"

"It's a switchblade, Bern. I hear you flicking it open over and over like a damn nutjob. I still can't believe you walked four blocks back to that souvenir shop in Key West to get it."

"It's a collector's item. They're illegal here. That thing's worth money. And I hadn't treated myself in awhile at the time so..."

Sue's cold thigh pulled away from Bernie's roasting leg. She wasn't buying any of his ruse. She didn't want any of his heat.

"That's not my point," she scolded in that motherly tone she knew damn well he couldn't stand, the condescending rasp of stubborn omniscience. "I know why you moved it to the dresser."

"Oh yeah?" Bernie asked for the second time in forty-three seconds, this time after swallowing a freshly formed lump in his throat. He wasn't the best liar in town despite Sue's accusations. Being an only child with no dog had forced him to take the rap time and time again. It had also forced him to share, ironically. He had to split his love between two very different parents in two very different homes, whether or not either of them deserved it at any given time.

"You think I'm going to stab you in your sleep," Sue said as casually as a confident prosecutor closing a foolproof argument. There was no need for flare anymore. She had him pinned like a glass-cased butterfly.

"You're out of your mind," Bernie laughed, though visibly uncomfortable. Small beads of sweat formed on his brow ignoring the fact that the cool September air was rolling through the open window. "I was playing with it the other night and left it on the dresser is all."

"Yes, the dresser. Close enough for you to stumble for in the evening while you read your damn Bukowski, but far enough that I'd have to get out of bed to grab it if I wanted to put you out of your misery in your sleep; and me out of mine in the process."

"Jesus, woman. Stick to your day job. This midnight detective shit is not so impressive." Bernie almost said it with enough gusto to convince himself of his statement. Almost.

Sue laughed in unacknowledged triumph. Bernie laughed like a pardoned death row inmate. Her thigh warmed up after sliding next to his. The thin layer of sweat on his forehead evaporated. The next morning he put the knife back on the night stand, but neither of them looked at it for two full days, and with damn good reason. They knew to choose their battles just as they chose their friends: sparingly.

You Missed an Almost Perfect Sunset

It was rare for me to forget
it, but I'd left my phone at home.
By the time I returned
from picking up my weekly unemployment
money the moment had appropriately passed.
If I'd had it on me in my truck
I would've told her to look at
the western sky
even though we'd been on better terms.
Those purple clouds piled above
every shade of orange proved
that I'm at least agnostic.
In her state she may have taken
my westward advice figuratively
as a tip to hit the road;
or worse yet, too literally--
for I know what lays under that
beautiful skyscape
just across the Hudson:
I know What, Who, but
most of all
that question that nags
we keen observers--
Why?

Like liquor stores, postage stamps
and clothing drop boxes:
They're everywhere
until you need one.

The Hardest of Swallows

What bothered me most
about my ride home
aside from the fact
that the flag girls were gone
was the bloated raccoon
guts up near the concrete
divider that throttles the traffic flow down;
specifically that
it was doomed from the start.
It wasn't too slow
or too anything else--
it only had nowhere left to run
but into the tire of some tired dolt.
"It could always be worse,"
I reminded myself
like the giraffe
who starts life with some grunts
and a six-foot drop to the ground.
The end, the beginning; man, animal:
it doesn't much matter.
We've got the same sentence.

Hosanna from the Hip

"Repent!" he said above my head
to heathens not present
only the susceptible ten-year-old son
stuck by visitation rights
deemed fair by the fine State of New York
and an unaffected courtroom.

"Glory!" he'd shout thrice
one for each of the Holy Trinity
as we crested Storm King Mountain
on our way to church
or my mother's
and it's a small wonder
that I'm only this crazy.

"Repent, for the Kingdon of God is at Hand!"
His black, front-heavy, eighty-something Monte Carlo
the one with the pins that held the hood down
the one where the heat always ran, even during summer
the one that only opened on the passenger side
the one in which he hit a car in Stony Point
and picked up his vanilla cone from the floormat
wiped off the gravel and continued to lick
that one
was pulled down to Cornwall
the lowland of our trip

but in life's many nadirs
I've discovered since then
that it's much more than that
at stake, Old Man.

You took something
that wasn't mine to give.
I wish I could tell you
awake
sometime.

White Noise in the Gray Area of Seeing Green

Dave and I were lucky to still have our manhood. We'd both almost dropped testicles in the process of moving two boilers, two oil tanks, and eight cast iron radiators in the house where we were working. Morale was high as usual, though that owed nothing to the state of things. Even on sidejobs union guys know how to make our own conditions. There's nothing like a locker room joke to improve a standard day of residential plumbing.

Nature, or the three electrolyte-laced beverages I'd used to aid my hangover, was calling. I walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. As I stood in front of the toilet I heard Dave's boots thumping louder against the hardwood floor. He must've thought I'd gone to retrieve the last remaining radiator.

"You need a hand with that big boy?" my poor partner asked before rounding the corner and realizing that I was urinating.

"Sure, come on in," I said through the bathroom door, my smile clearly audible.

"Wow. I walked right into that one," Dave said quite correctly. That type of set-'em-up, knock-'em-down routine was the norm for the many workdays we'd spent together over the years. It made me appreciate our time together for more than just the money. It filled a definite void. I'd venture to say that was true for him as well.

We finished for the day. It was more a cutting of losses than anything else. We needed more fittings to proceed with piping the boiler. Dave had somehow under-bid the job by fifteen-hundred dollars. There was a fax machine involved in the material list blunder that caused the catastrophe. A man of his word, he was not going to raise the price he'd given to the customer, even though I tried reminding him that he was in business to make money and had a family to feed. "That's not the way I am, Mike," just as I knew he'd say. It made me love the man. "We can try to use some of the material I had in my garage and send some of this new stuff back to make up part of the difference," he said. I wasn't going to kill him with my labor fees, either. After all, if he makes money I make money, the opposite also being true in the long run. When it came time to give him my hours I'd knock off a day's worth and hope he didn't notice. He'd do the same for me.

"You sure you don't want to come for dinner?" Dave asked as we loaded the last of the tools into our trucks. "Amy's going to order Chinese. I'll pick it up on the way home."

"I don't know. It's late and I might have to go make amends with..."

He cut me off before I could continue. "Come on. You have to eat anyway, whether it's with us or at home." The man had a point. I caved. "Go talk to my wife until I get back with the food," he said before hopping into his blue Dodge diesel. It sounded odd, as if I wouldn't've engaged Amy in conversation if he hadn't told me to. His phrasing was so simple most times as though he were an Indian chief. It furthered the honest impression he left upon me-- a straight shooter, though he never had time to come to the range when I invited him.

"Glad you could make it," Amy said as I sat down at the center island in their kitchen. An apple aroma filled the air. I lifted my nose to draw it in deeper. "Apple crisp. Dave's favorite. The oven's been on for awhile, though. I've got to cool it down in here before he gets home. He's hot-blooded."

"It's fine in here, Amy," I tried to assure her. "Take it from me. I sweat if I think too hard."

Ignoring my assessment of the temperature the good wife opened a window and turned on the exhaust fan. Then she poured herself a glass of wine, offering me one before opening the freezer for some ice cubes to chill her drink. "How about a beer?" she asked.

"That'll work," I replied. I didn't bother with the stuff at home anymore. It didn't do the trick like liquor and went through me so fast that it felt like I only borrowed it. A cold beer was more of a ceremony for me: an accepted token of appreciation for being invited into ones home. I twisted off the cap and took a long swig, pressing my knees together as I sat on the stool and being thankful that there was still something there to hurt after the day's back-breaking labor.

A dull ache in the tip of my left ring finger made itself known for the first time since I could finally rest for long enough to feel it. An ingrown nail-- funny, I seldom fell victim to those. I rubbed my finger for long enough for Amy to notice. "You'll have some gold there soon enough," she chided. "Did Dave ever tell you about the time he lost his wedding band at work?" I shook my head. "He was up at the prison renovating bathrooms. Everyone on that job had to be fingerprinted. The soap they used to get the ink off was very slick. He didn't notice until lunchtime that his ring was missing; figured he'd rubbed it off while washing his hands and tossed it with the paper towel. When he called and told me he was almost in tears. I told him we could buy a new one, but he said it wouldn't be the same. His foreman let him go dumpster diving for the rest of the day. I was shocked when he called me back two hours later telling me he'd found it. I'd never heard him sound so excited before. I hadn't realized what a big sentimental mush he was. I knew I married a warm-hearted man, but he sure didn't seem to care that much about the rings when we were buying them."

Amy took a small sip of wine to punctuate her narrative. Every word was perfect, every pause in place. She'd obviously told the tale before. I didn't blame her. She knew what she'd found and had every right to be proud. It was worth more than any ring.

We spoke of easy things for a few minutes: her three boys, the dog, the perfect September sleeping weather, Dave's insomnia. The discussion turned to Dave's side of the extended family, a topic he appeared to avoid. "What's his father like? That's the one on the wall with the Quaker beard, right?" I asked, rubbing my chin with thumb and forefinger to demonstrate what I meant.

"Yeah," Amy said, not hiding her disdain. "He's a mean person. Very hard on Dave especially. Criticizes everything he does."

It made sense. Dave was such a genuine, generous person who would do anything for someone he cared for; strangers too, for that matter-- case in point: the grand-and-a-half he was prepared to lose on his current heat job. "I can see that," I said. "Dave is such a good man that it seems he's trying to make up for what he never had." My friend's headlights pulled into his driveway, thus ending our conversation. It was proper timing. Enough had been said, enough had been reaffirmed.

"It's hotter than hell in here," Dave said as he came in with the grease-stained paper bag. Amy winked at me and opened another window. His three boys ran into the room and clung to his legs like piles in a pounding surf. My stomach lifted, my heart sank. He deserved this. Did I?

I was quiet through the meal, letting the high school sweethearts talk as I ate my General Tso's. I'm ashamed to admit that I was consumed by a jealous flame, even though the boys got rowdy in show-off mode and refused to go to bed after dessert. Dave's right-- What's a couple thousand dollars when you've got the world under one roof?

Amy made a small pan of apple crisp for me to take home, hinting that it'd be nice to have it returned with some sort of food in the dish. Brownies, my specialty, would do the trick. It was no fun making them for myself anyway. I said my goodbyes and headed out. The kitchen was already empty when I turned and looked back through the windows. They'd embarked on the rest of their evening unencumbered by the temporary speedbump of last-minute company. I did ten under the speed limit the whole way home. There was nothing worth the rush waiting for me there. There was no one opening windows to let the cool night air inside. Perfect September sleeping weather. Right.



Currently reading:
"Absence of the Hero" by Charles Bukowski.

A Blessed Union in Paradise

Luckily for us the convenience store sold greeting cards and was accustomed to patrons in subcasual beach attire. Fort Lauderdale was as inviting as it was going to get. Like most of our collective exes it'd offered all it had and still came up short. I'd had enough of the redundant tourist trap and wanted the next day's vows to be given so we could drive south to Key West, somewhere I hadn't been yet. I consoled my selfish desire by reminding myself of what a brat my cousin had been growing up and that little had changed since then. There's nothing like family to warm the already sweating heart.

"You can stop looking now," I said. "I've got the one."

My girlfriend looked at me with crooked eyes after glancing at the front of my selection while I rummaged through the display case for the proper envelope.

"But there's a desert scene on the front," she argued. "It's supposed to be a wedding card."

The boyish grin she fell in love with beamed at me in the reflection of her sunglasses. As usual, she knew what I was thinking before I said it. I entertained her fancy regardless.

"That's exactly why it's so fitting-- a barren life of desperate struggle, plagued by the occasional mirage of fleeting happiness. Besides, it's blank. I can write something along congratulatory lines inside."

She didn't respond verbally, though her weight shifted magnificently from one sandal-shod foot to the other. Hard.

"You're too much," she said as we approached the register.

"As long as the check I put in here's enough...that's all they'll care about anyway."

We walked out, both partially right, both partially hoping that we wouldn't succumb to the same pitfalls of life that seemed so inevitable to the hordes of fools around us.

We won't. We can't. We're too hard in the spots where they won't get us again. We're too soft in all the perfectly wrong places, like the drunk who only survived the accident because his limbs were loose. Bottom's up.

If you think about it, anatomically, we're all full of shit.

Sleep, the cousin of death
sends unfair farewells
though it's not for naught that
squirrels hide nuts
where the lost tree sprouts from later.

But if the book is left untouched
and the signs are left unread
then it won't be long before
the hooded farmer makes your bed.

So onward Christian soldiers
as you stumble towards your home
well-knowing that the best of you
was sold by Jews to Rome
long before the scribes corrupted words
with their values and their whims
and the politicians' battle cries
sought to rally against sin.

Sorry for the rhyming one
that comes off as a lie.
We all get sick of plumbing
broads and absent fathers:
topics trite.

Blessed with a wicked backhand.

The steady racket of the Friday morning commuters
shooting and spreading from the barrel
of the Lincoln Tunnel just outside her window
fills her room with familiar noise as we lay naked
after making love, or as close as we would get to it.
We've both become accustomed to sleeping through it--
the noise, I mean-- though I'm not quite as proficient
due to less practice.

"You look good," she says in a surprised tone that insinuates
that the opposite should be expected, that her statement
is a reward for good behavior or congratulations for
making it through an ordeal that would normally
cause one to look less than 'good'. To put it simply
it sounds like she's talking to one of her goddamn
cancer patients after a rigorous course of chemotherapy.
But, of course, she means my physique. I'm down
to this year's rock-bottom summer weight
and the sweating off of pounds has ended for the season.
This is it. This is as good as I'm going to get for now.
I've finally gotten closer to having the swimmer's body
that she wants, but will I ever be the man she needs?
Not the one she says she does-- the one she can't deny.

"Thanks, Babe," I say, looking through the shades
and trying to picture the agitated motorists so as
to be grateful to be in the safety of this room.
"So do you."

Not so funny anymore.

In a lull in the preparation
of an adventurous four-course
laid-off breakfast at eleven
I take a break to feed the feline.

The lid of the can of cat chow
sums it up succinctly:
"Pet Food Only" printed
in purple ink by a laser--
another machine that took a man's job away
and forced him to consider consuming
the contents of the can.
They used to joke about this very act
of desperation. They used to do a lot of things
that they don't do anymore.

"Savor these meals, Buddy,"
I tell the begging cat
weaving figure eights of anticipation
between my bare legs, a muffled meow
caught in his stinking throat.
"The beginning of the end is upon us."

These Walking Wounds

What I loved most about Tony was his refusal to acknowledge the existence of a bush, let alone beat around the motherfucker. This time, however, there was no less awkward way to say it. It came as no surprise that he didn't bother trying.

"I can't fuckin' believe it, man. She grabbed his cock." And with that he dumped his coffee out on the pavement for the third time that week.

My coworker came right out with it, alright. Suddenly it was clear what was bothering him on that bright Friday morning. Payday was usually more upbeat for the men, even towards the end of the job when all but the naive see the lay-off coming. Those were fighting words, though. My partner's head was tormented by a looped reel of celebrity fondling on his girlfriend's part. I felt for the guy, as platonically as physically possible.

"What do you mean?" I asked unnecessarily. I knew where this was going. He'd mentioned his old lady's latest star obsession a few days prior.

"Remember when I said she was going to try to find that over-tanned cast of 'Cali Coast' while she was on vacation? Well, she did. She and her friends were out at some club that I wouldn't be caught dead in and the whole Guinea gang showed up with camera crew in tow."

I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold as usual, but unlike Tony I tried to force it down. The apprentice on the job always made the coffee first at the deli instead of waiting a bit for the egg sandwiches to be closer to completion. Amateur. "And?" I prodded as sympathetically as I could convincingly muster, grateful that it was something I'd never have to worry about.

"Sure as shit my girl weaseled her way through security to get up close and personal with that spiky-haired douchebag that calls himself The Dilemma. Before that asshole even had time to call her a grenade she had his balls in her hand." Tony paused for a moment, looking for the results of a litmus test on my face to decide whether or not he should continue. I'm not sure if I passed or failed. Regardless, he continued. "I knew I should've went with them to make sure nothing crazy happened." So there it was: he sought solace for his self-criticizing hindsight.

"No way, Tone. That's her fault, not yours. Don't beat yourself up over it." There, I'd thrown him a bone. It's not like The Dilemma had thrown one in his beloved. Or had he? Maybe the groping was only the tip of the iceberg. You know, the old deceitful trick of telling a small part of a shameful event to avoid being questioned about the whole ugly truth. But that led me to my next question: How did Tony know any of this? I asked him to explain.

"She told me her friend did it," Tony said with a straight face.

That was it. The jig was up. There was no way a grown man would come to that conclusion based on the facts presented. I called him on his bullshit with a deep belly laugh. His eyes narrowed to sparkling slits and that devilish grin I'd grown to love shot across his face.

"You had me there for awhile," I said, but it was more than a practical joke. Episodes like this one were how construction workers felt each other out. Who could be trusted with another man's feelings?, the things that most of us blue-collar suckers claim not to have? I hadn't laughed. I'd given the soundest advice I could. I'd passed the test. The apprentice was a different story.

"Walshie," I hollered in the general direction of the apprentice responsible for my ice cold coffee. He'd taken to sitting by himself on break to avoid Tony's wrath, his failure to see that oft-beaten bush. "We know you spit in this shit, but at least bring it back hot." He looked at me without smiling. It was true: he had a lot to learn, and not just about our trade.

Fill 'er up.

"Do you need matches with that?" the round-bottomed young blonde asked him from the relative safety of her eight-hour stance behind the gas station cash register. Her make-up, as usual, was far too thick, especially around the eyes. A gold nameplate swung from a fourteen-karat necklace, bookended on each side by huge hoop earrings that she could probably touch with ease using her tattooed ankles. The currently incarcerated father of her second child always loved that trick.

"No thanks. I'm good," he replied, taking into careful account that what took man so long to discover and was once so precious was now given away for free. Fire, his mind clarified with the mental equivalent of a cynical chuckle. Not that other, sloppier commodity-- though both had been known to burn greater men.

"Don't forget your smokes on the counter this time," she said, letting on that she remembered his previous distracted blunder. There was a sharp glimmer in her pale blue eyes that proved she saw right through him as well as most of the others had. He cupped his hand to accept his change as easily as he'd accepted his fate.

Greater men, indeed, old chap. Greater, scorn-singed men.

We're only as good as we look under fluorescent lights.

Rabbits chase the cats
in these regulation daymares
as the lightning bug's last glow
wastes in the shadow of the stove.
It's a lousy consolation
when God writes us a rain check.

The women like the scars
until they hear who put them there.
My calf muscle dangles
from the back of my leg.
I reach down and grab
where the cramp ripped me awake.
Again. Again. It's happening again.

We don the lay-off cowboy boots
and listen to the blue-hairs sing:
"It wasn't in the cards, Kid.
They would've been like you."

Opt for the reading lamp
since the ceiling light
looks too much like
the end of a tunnel.
They've tired us enough
with that ugly lie called hope.

(The rabbits win. It makes no sense.
The cats run down the steps.)
I guess that's the Roman in me.


Currently reading:
"A Terrible Glory: Custer and the Little Bighorn, the Last Great Battle of the American West" by James Donovan.

A Traveler's Fleece, An Anchor's Eyes

After three hours straight
in the car with my father
even the scenic route
became boring.
Winding two-lane highways
through the back hills of New England
all blended into the same monotonous route.
The old man would sense my
sudden disillusionment with our trek
and try to muster up whatever
bit of excitement that he could
sometimes in the false form
of a gentlemen's competition.

"You see that car way up ahead?"
he asked a tired, ten-year-old me.
"Can you read the license plate?"

"No way, Dad," I mumbled
my head against the passenger side window.
"It's too far to see."

Taking his cue
he squinted overzealously
making sure to emphasize the fact
that he was tapping into some superhuman ability
in order to decipher the characters printed
on the back of the license plate
that was at least an eighth-of-a-mile ahead of us.

"CK...P...," and he'd pause, squeezing his eyes
even tighter to further the illusion.
For a self-proclaimed Christian he sure was
keen on getting the best of an innocent child.
"...638. That's it. Let's go take a look."

He managed to find the accelerator
for long enough to catch up to the car
and verify the plate number.
He was correct. I was impressed
and slightly in awe of my father.

It took me the rest of the trip to figure it out
but I did: he read the plate and memorized it
then dropped back a good distance and waited
for me to zone out for long enough to be duped
into believing that he could see that far.

He failed to see farther
as the fate of our future now tells
and it wasn't the worst of his fibs.
Still, there are times
when I'm grateful for the fact
that he ever lowered himself
down to the level of us sinners
for long enough to seem remotely human.

And somehow I know
that he learned that trick
from the same man he swore
he'd never become.

For Todd

I hadn't ordered yet. Sweat was already running down my face as it had been all morning. The agony involved made me instantly pity the poor slob who had to slave in front of that sweltering pizza oven all summer long. There were suddenly worse fates than construction, though it was hard to fathom.

"You next?" the dripping young Italian man asked me.

"No. He was here first," I said, nodding towards a kid who looked far too young to drive. I was on the clock and had to be back to work by half-passed, but fair is fair regardless of age. Junior stepped forward to the counter, reached up to lay a few singles in front of the register, and looked Guido in the eyes as if he were about to say something profound.

"Corner slice of Sicilian, please," the boy said sincerely, more telling than asking.

"Sorry. We're all out of corners. I have a middle piece, though."

"No thank you," replied the youngster in a tone just as humble as if he'd received a positive response. The about-face came before the dough-slinger or the plumber in front of him had time to fully comprehend what'd happened. The two of us watched as he mounted his ten-speed and pushed off with his right foot.

"Can you believe that kid?" my confused cohort asked. "Rode his bike all the way here in this heat for nothing."

"Yeah, I can," I answered after considering the question for three brief seconds. "He's not one for settling. Let me have that middle piece."

A drop of sweat fell from the tip of the pizza man's nose as he looked at me unconvinced. He'd never understand so I didn't bother trying.

The crust was burnt. I never went back.

Thigh-High Modus Operandi

"Sorry, Honey," I say under my breath
after slashing her sunburnt face.
"I swear I didn't mean it," but it doesn't matter now.
There are no witnesses this time.
It's the perfect violent crime: unreported.

When I can't bear to watch her bleed any longer
the pipes call my name for the umpteenth time.
I lift the wrench and resume tightening
with an oath to be more cautious of the jagged
steel in the joists left dangling by the demolition.

Though the tattoos don't mean as much these days
it's still my skin underneath them.

Sunday School finally pays off.

It was only nine o'clock and already up to ninety-five degrees. The six of us sat in the shade of the school's brown bricks on milk crates borrowed from the adjacent cafeteria. There was no air-conditioning in the building, though even if there was we'd vote to sit outside. The smokers would demand to be in open air so they could effectively ruin their lungs. Majority ruled and coffee break was to be shared together. It was one union tradition not fading faster than the likelihood of steady work in an unstable economy. No one dared challenge it, from general foreman all the way down to apprentice. It felt good not to be the latter anymore.

"Get a load of this," Bill said as he turned his newspaper towards us. "They caught a seven-hundred-pound grouper off the coast of Brazil."

"You sure you didn't add a zero by mistake?" I asked after freeing a chip of bacon that'd lodged itself between two teeth.

"No, man. It says it took ten men to reel that monster in."

It was high time for another chiding voice to chime in with disbelief. As the greenest mechanic on the job there was only so much chop-busting I could get away with without having rank pulled on me unofficially. That voice came shining through without hesitation, without missing a beat.

"I know you can't read a tape measure, Bill," came Matt with a vengeance, "but whole numbers can't possibly baffle you as much as fractions."

"Read the article yourself then," Bill replied in the same tone that his eight-year-old probably used on him when it was begrudgingly bedtime. Things were getting thick in the humid summer air. Scott, a gray-haired old timer, took his cue to jump to the aid of his challenged union brother.

"He's not making it up, boys. Haven't you slobs read the Bible? Remember Jonah and the whale who swallowed him? That wasn't actually a whale; there are none in that part of the Mediterranean. They say that a giant grouper like the one Bill's talking about was probably the culprit." And with that Scott leaned back against the wall, his milk crate up on edge. He was proud of himself for sounding so superior. Someone had to stand up for us lay pipelayers. Why should it not've been me?

"I beg to differ with you there, Scottie," I said with a smirk only convincing on a man who knows which cup the pea is hidden under. "I've read that parable, too, and like much of the Bible it seems to be more of a metaphor than a text to be taken literally." A few of the guys turned their heads at that point. Their styrofoam cups stopped being so interesting. So this was why they heard his nickname was Shakespeare...

"What do you mean?" Scott asked, clearly flustered. His milk crate had lowered itself to the pavement again. A death-blow would still have to be delivered, however. The first harpoon was only to draw blood.

"Well, the 'whale' was probably meant to represent any big, lousy situation that could easily 'swallow' a man..." I replied.

Scott's left eye twitched. The others were listening intently. I'd managed to bring all eyes on myself, whether or not that was a good thing. It was sink or swim for the new kid. I swung hard.

"...this stupid four-week plumbing job, for instance," I concluded with a smile, thus shattering the suspended silence. All six of us laughed heartily at the discomforting fact that summer renovation work was only a temporary fix, that we'd all be back on the bench waiting for a phone call to go to work or our weekly unemployment checks. There were worse things to fear, though. There were bigger, whiter whales.

A healthy scorn for copper, mirrors, and size-twelve font.

So we're stuck back in the plumbing trap
my union brethren and myself
for our six weeks of work a year
when the schools are closed
for the summer
and renovations are in order
though the little runts won't notice.
We walk the marble hallways
scratching sweaty heads
and kicking ourselves
for winding up back here
smoking in the boys' room
though for me it's extra poignant:
I should've stuck around
and made something of myself
made someone of myself
made it into a nice desk job
doing what I love and getting paid for it
but most importantly
the showers would come before work
instead of afterwards.
And there's a sign in the tech room
where my crew has set up shop
in an ironic twist that only I notice.
It reads "There's no such thing
as a dumb question
except the one you don't ask."
My uncle Ray who did fifteen years
used to tell me that
as a kid and now I'm left to wonder
which vital query my mind omitted
though I know that whatever it was
would've been directed at myself--
What do I want? How badly?
Whom will I not become someday?
"Get over here, Kid," a fellow journeyman
yells at the senseless apprentice.
At first my neck jerks in the direction
of the order, old habits dying hard
but that's not my role anymore.
I'm a mechanic now, a genuine union pipefitter
overpaid and underappreciated simultaneously
a resentful shell of a man who should've been more...
but I can fix your pipes, pal
just as well as I can proofread
my letter of resignation.
Signed. Sealed. No plans to deliver.

The Lining on the Miles

It's the tail end of a shower
after ten hours of rough construction
on a ninety-five-degree day.
I glance down at the dirt
under my fingernails
but refrain from reaching
for the brush I keep
for just such a purpose:
there's no one around
who matters
to see it
tonight.



Currently reading:
"The Garden of Eden" by Ernest Hemingway.

For a jaded friend, on his birthday, who'll never see these words.

Life is not a Magic Eye puzzle
waiting to be solved through savvy staring.
The Big Picture won't pop out at you
simply because it isn't there.
Find the patterns, learn to appreciate them
if they can't be loved entirely
and be sure that at midnight next year
someone will still be calling you.

I hope it isn't me next time.

It's no wonder that God lives under water.

In a fitting twist the book was soft and the sand was hard, the beach blanket fairly indifferent. We were in what she considered shade, but sweat still ran down my forehead above my mirrored sunglasses. "That seagull's got it out for us," I told her between pages. "It knows we have no food. Remember the one in Maine?" I watched the angry white bird scowl in our direction while it paced hard in the sand as if its visceral stomping would conjure a meal in its midst.

"No, not there. The one that kept raiding picnics at..." but I stopped listening when I realized I wasn't the one who'd joined her that time. The Korean War became interesting again. I lowered my eyes to the non-fiction in my lap. It beat the hell out of the current truth. More beach-goers showed up as the lazy Sunday morning progressed. The mighty Hudson rolled its discontent against the shoreline. I kept mine to myself.

A young father, tanned and toned with a tattoo high enough on his shoulder for any shirt to hide, stood above his toddler as she balanced in the tide. To splash the brackish water was divine and she was making herself a god. Great-- another female deity to rule and ruin ones life. Still, she was a cutie. Dark brown curls fell over her eyes. I caught my companion watching the same show and knew what she was thinking. "I wonder if he put sunscreen on her." Yup, I knew what she'd been thinking.

Back to the book: an M14 strapped around the neck of the only unscathed survivor of Truman's top-secret mission fighting his way to the Thirty-Eighth parallel, Gooks and Chinks yelling their dirty pig latin all around him in the night, the hovering threat of Commie pinko Russkies dropping their nukes from afar. But he made it; our hero made it, and World War III never happened, or if it did we never knew about it and we basked in our ignorant bliss. Not all sacred ceremonies happen in a temple. I stroked her hair until she couldn't take it to confirm my old assumption.

"Come on, let's go home and have lunch." There's no need to specify. Who could argue with food? We walked back to my truck, mostly hand-in-hand aside from one brief spat when I foolishly corrected her Spanish, without running into my father on the path. If you find more to be grateful for you'll lead a longer life.

Personage

Ignore the Devil's understudy
scowling from the corner.
The clouds over his head
are the same ones over yours.

But beware of the man with only one gun;
he probably knows how to use it.

What's with that yelp we hear through the walls?
It's safe to say she's not singing opera.

And what are the lines? What are the lines?
Where is the script and the poor slob who wrote it?

The nurse shook her head at the sight of my veins
as I sang to myself, "What a wonderful world..."

Reckoning With Myself Ten Years Ago

It happened without profanity or breath wasted on goodbyes; It happened shortly after lunch yesterday, and we laughed about it uncomfortably: A disgruntled plumber walked off the job. He told the foreman to get his check, that he couldn't take the lack of tools and constant criticism brought about by the impossible deadline demands anymore. True, this elementary school bathroom renovation gig will only last a month and is not a high-profile resume gem, but considering our local's had more than half its guys on the bench for over a year you'd think any man would be grateful. We all have our breaking points, though; our own tolerance levels. And it's hard not to respect a man who can turn down such an overpriced package. Money isn't everything to some people, even gray-templed functioning alcoholics with child support payments and ex-wives with frivolous spending habits. There is honor among thieves, there is dignity in tradesmen. More importantly, however, there's an unemployment check waiting in the mailbox. But it doesn't have to be that way for all my fellow man.

"I don't want this for my son," my foreman confessed as we walked down the art-lined hallway of the school in which we're working. The irony of these school jobs never escapes me. I wanted to work in one, but not in a blue-collar capacity. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose. "He's bright. I'm hoping he gets into something interesting and fun, something rewarding."

"Come on, now. You don't get satisfaction out of all this?" I quipped. "We're living the dream, brother." The laugh I held back was closer to tears as I rubbed a painful three-inch-wide burn on my shoulder that I'd gotten the previous day while humping ten-foot lengths of cast iron pipe inside after it'd been baking in the sweltering sun.

"He's sixteen and still has a chance," he said soberly, noticing my grimace as I fingered my wound.

"What's he thinking about doing?" I asked.

"All those forensic science crime shows hold his attention."

"Yeah? I took a class on that in high school. It was interesting. I have a good book by a retired Chief Medical Examiner of New York City that he'd probably enjoy. I'll bring it in tomorrow."

"Thanks," the giant Irishman walking alongside me said sincerely. "I bet he'll blow right throw that."

The rest of the day went as usual: the pipe, the plans, sore knees, and sweat-soaked misery. A coworker asked if I wanted to do a side-job with him that night. That turned to two side-jobs, fifteen miles apart. When all was said and done I didn't get home until eleven thirty. The sixteen-hour workday in ninety-degree heat beat my body to a dehydrated pulp. My feet disappeared in the murky water running down the drain when I finally got to take a shower. Disillusionment, fittingly, is a cloud-like shade of gray. I was so exhausted that climbing the staircase to my bedroom seemed too much to ask of my weary body. It's no way to make a living. It's no way to spend a life. I ain't no senator's son, but I don't want to be no plumber's father, either. Before getting into bed I pulled that forensics book from my tallest shelf and placed it next to my wallet on my dresser so I wouldn't forget to bring it in for the foreman's son. There was still hope for him.

The coffee was mostly sugar and milk by the time I pulled into the school parking lot this morning. That's not to say that it's a long drive from my house; I just drink my coffee quickly, possibly for full effect as well as my affinity for the flavor. I retired the styrofoam to the cupholder in the console of my pick-up and opened the book in my lap. I turned to the first blank page and wrote a few lines for a person I'd never meet:

"Don't do this plumbing nonsense for a living, kid. Stay in school and get a real job where you don't come home smelling like pennies every day from running copper." Signed, "Someone else who had potential," with the second-to-last word underlined.
The book found its way to the front seat of my foreman's truck in a casual, discrete fashion as only the best gifts do. I hope it changes a destiny that has yet to be decided. How else can I ensure that I keep the market cornered in the wonderful pipetrade industry? You've got to laugh, degree or none. You've got to laugh or they've taken it away.

Currently reading:
"Operation Broken Reed: Truman's Secret North Korean Spy Mission that Averted World War III" by Lt. Col. Arthur L. Bord (Ret).

Did the men I love do this in the safety of their bedrooms?

I lay way past my bedtime
in a given orange glow
reading a book of outlaw poetry in my left hand
and flicking open an illegal switchblade
purchased out-of-state
over and over with my right
until both thumbs hurt
for their respective reasons
well-knowing which of the two
is the most dangerous
and resenting the fact
that I'll only ever be part of the other
regardless of my ranting.

It's twelve-thirty.
Do you know where your children are?

Through a lens that's smeared with Thursdays.

Plumber snot is laced
with copper dust and solder paste.
Her body is so hot
that it leaves marks on my skin.

People smell burnt toast
before succumbing to a stroke.
The seagulls fled the fireworks
shot from barges on the Hudson.

My acquittal wasn't clear
so I wore her on my beard.
The red lights will confirm it:
I'm in fact at home in hell.

Raise your head and fill your chest
as you jettison the best.
I've drank with him a dozen times
but he don't know my name.

Rejected from the hive
drones search for food
until they die.
You say that I've had all of you
but now I want the rest.

A Little-Known Tale of Cosmic Intervention

For Connecticut it was unseasonably hot. The Krippels hadn't remembered it ever being so humid, not even on their ancient honeymoon to one of the many tropical paradises to which they had ventured back when they still made love every day; at least that's what they'd called it.

"Susanne, I can't take it anymore," John whimpered as he laid in the puddle of sweat forming underneath him in their sheets. "We're getting central air on Monday."

Susanne mumbled something incoherent and unsympathetic in her half-asleep stupor before rolling over to face the wall. She'd had enough wine to help her doze peacefully. She'd had enough of his whine, as well.




Outside their front door a meteorite hovered ominously. It was small, as far as meteorites go, but big enough to leave a car-sized crater upon impact for the authorities to take photos of later that Saturday night between sips of stale coffee.

"Susanne, I'm talking to you. I know you're still awake. You know how much I can't stand being ignored." For a couple with a combined age barely shy of a century they sure seemed to know a lot, according to John's brazen calculations.

Susanne turned to face him, her eyes still closed tightly, and slid her knee between his thighs. It landed within an inch of making him writhe in pain.




The meteorite stood suspended in the thick summer air like a massive orange yo-yo tethered to the finger of an angry god. The hiss of its flaming aura that licked the Krippels' windowsill flowers was somehow inaudible to the unsuspecting couple. It could've been floating there for hours or nanoseconds. The universe does not concern itself with time.

"Susanne, you almost got me good that time. And I don't care if it's not in the budget-- I can't take this heat anymore. I shouldn't have to suffer alone simply because it doesn't affect you as much. Are you listening to me?"

Susanne nestled her head in the crook of John's neck and drifted further into her lush slumber. She dreamt of her husband happily pissing on lightning bugs that were tangled in the unmowed grass of their back yard. An innocent smile formed on her face and kissed John's clavicle, releasing the tiniest trace of saliva on his skin. He forgot why he was so upset, forgot the heat and misery, and remembered why he'd married her so seemingly long ago.




God shook the yo-yo string from His omnipotent middle finger, delivering the Krippels from that unbearable Connecticut summer. Then it was the seventh day. He rested.

"Jess, did you see that shooting star over there?" Billy asked from the back seat of his father's station wagon as the two sat parked in an empty lot with bellies full of fast food and movie stubs in their pockets.

Jess reached forward to turn the air conditioning up, then moved closer to her future prom date. It was 1989 and the world was still relatively safe.

Quads and Quivers

Then it came to me
like a punchline understood
days after the joke's been told--
Gabo was right
in at least one thing
despite his damned
magical realism:
the buzz of the cicada
makes the summer heat
feel stronger
regardless of which side
of the equator you claim.

I tried explaining that to her as she slid
her fingertips across my bare chest, my arms.
Women need to be caressed.
Men need some of that too, but prefer
to cut to the chase most times.
The chase doesn't come as often as we'd like.
Marriage is a doomed institution
unless it's between two whores.
It's something we must accept
like the fact that the carpet
rarely matches the curtains
if there even are any.

"I've always loved your legs," she said, moving her hands there
as we stared through the living room window
enveloped by the down-filled cushions of my couch.
"Why are you smiling?" She sounded
genuinely concerned. The other sex is good at that.

"Nothing. It's nothing," but what it really was
was that an old friend, Hank, used to say
how proud he was of his big, strong legs
when he couldn't find any other favorable thing
to scribble about himself, to pound into the keys.
The old buzzard meant it. If nothing else
he appreciated the power left in his legs
at the end of the day, even if nobody was there to notice.
It could've come across as a cop-out
to the amateur fan who read the lines
but those of us who've read enough
to see between them and recognize
the pattern got a quiet chuckle out of it.
Maybe I'm speaking too broadly.
Maybe it's just me.
But hell, if you devour almost forty titles
by one man you'd think you'd be able
to say you know him well enough
to know when he was faking--
another field in which
the fairer sex excels.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

What I'd Give to Go Back

"Conor, say hello to Austin," said Marla, Conor's over-anxious mother and the woman for whom I'd been painting for the last nine days.

A weak "Hi, Austin," slipped quietly from the eight-year-olds pale lips.

Austin nodded his close-cropped, nine-year-old head in the general direction of his new acquaintance. Dave, his father and my boss, kept framing the wall he'd been working on all morning. Laid-off plumbers make better painters than carpenters, though some are surprisingly proficient electricians due to their practice wiring boilers.

"There, now you two go play," Marla suggested in her tentative falsetto. The two boys complied, probably more out of pity than obedience. I kept rolling on the semi-gloss white. Dave kept pulling sixteens to place his studs. The day went on as could be expected, right down to the radio station's predictable playlist.

By the time Marla was ready to leave her apartment house that Dave and I had been renovating for her a definite change had taken place. She summoned Conor from the other room and he and Austin came galloping into the kitchen. The two of them were speaking quite casually and joking in a way that made it seem they'd been backdoor neighbors for years. No one would've guessed that they'd only met an hour ago. There was not an ounce of awkwardness between the two of them. To further the illusion, Conor gave the ol' "Mom, do we have to?" when she told him it was time to leave. "Bye, Austin," Conor volunteered much more enthusiastically than he had upon their initial exchange. Again, though, Austin only nodded. That's the country boy in him. I respect that.

I slathered the thick paint into corners with my brush as the door closed silently behind mother and son. There was nothing left to do but guess the next song on the radio while contemplating the innocence of the meeting that had occurred there on the jobsite that day. Kids, when thrown together, will make fine friends of each other no matter what. Then we grow up and don't even like the people we call friends sometimes. We love them, sure, but it gets harder to like them. Day by day we lose that skill. Year by year we grow weary of that sense of Other. Cynical? Maybe, but try to deny it.

Though through it all, and regardless of age, race, color, or creed, the crane moves its neck faster than the fish moves its tail simply because it has to.


Currently reading:
"Collected Stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez".

Lost in a Familiar Place

Mark Knobler had been bested by a total stranger whom he'd never met. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. The rub was that in a roundabout way his hard-earned money had funded the source of his current vexation. Who knew that a salon employee could be so vindictive?

"Up and to the left, Honey," Vicky said in a frustrated voice as she sprawled out on the mattress. It was clear that she was tired of instructing.

"I know where it is," Mark replied, taking a brief break from the task at hand. He felt like a scolded schoolboy. Normally the act in question was his specialty. Tonight, however, it was like he'd been thrown into the wilderness without a compass.

"Do you want me to turn the light on?" asked Vicky. "Maybe that'll help."

"No, no. I can see fine."

"Then what's the problem?" she inquired. "I haven't even been close to..."

Mark was well aware of what his beloved bride was about to say, but that didn't prepare him for the blow. They'd been each other's best lovers all along, or at least claimed so, and a change in that status would damage his ego more than any boss' berating.

"The damn wax girl's throwing me off!" he finally proclaimed.

Vicky slammed her thighs against Mark's ears as she belted out a roar of laughter. Had she not known her husband better she would've asked him to repeat his statement, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was indeed placing the blame where she'd thought she'd heard him say.

"Oh, really, my love?" Vickie asked. "Please explain this one to me, and be thorough," she said, lifting her left leg above Mark's reddened face in defeat. She knew she wouldn't reach climax by that point, though that's not to say she wouldn't be amused.

"Well, it's simple," Mark started, raising his upper body on his elbows and tossing the blanket aside. "Normally I keep my nose planted at the base of your...hmmm..."

"Strip?" Vicky courteously supplied.

"Yeah. That. But it seems that the new girl who waxed you at the salon yesterday needs glasses. Things are well off center down there and it's affecting my ability to stay on target. My nose keeps trying to make its way towards its usual resting place and as a result it's affecting my performance."

There, he'd said it. It was all out in the open. Foiled by a spa employee who was probably part of some secret organization bent on ruining relationships. It may have sounded far-fetched to some, but in Mark Knobler's experience nothing was to be doubted when it came to the mysterious forces working against him and their Spartan determination.

"Don't sweat it, Mark," Vicky condoled. "Regardless, you're invaluable to me as long as you keep coming out with stories like that one."

Mark found her lips as easily as always as they embraced for much-needed sleep.

Pleading the Fifth on the Fourth

It was ten after eleven
as steam silently poured from an open manhole
in a dark stretch of the street.
We'd been looking for a liquor store
that'd still be open at that hour.
The spoils of our success hung from my
left hand in the form of a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
Proof of another victory clung loosely
in the clammy palm of my right.
Parked tightly to the curb was a dark green minivan
its gaping sliding door on the side
spilling costume parts onto the sidewalk:
a tophat, striped pants, a pair of stilts, a long-tailed blue jacket.
A boy of nine or ten stood in a tired daze
above the mess of red, white, and blue fabric
staring at us heavy-jawed as we walked by him.
Sprawled in the back seat of the vehicle
was a suspendered man, presumably his father
wearing white cotton from head to toe.
A cigarette dangled from his lips. His eyes were barely open.
A fake white beard slung down around his neck like a noose.
The puzzle put itself together in my mind
in the mere three seconds that it took to escape the scene.
We were all Americans on the eve of our independence
though some of us were trying harder than others
to prove something I'm not sure of
there on Thirty-Seventh Street.
None of us made eye contact.
That was the important part.

skipping breakfast

The people I envy most are those
with an internal alarm
that wakes them up at whatever time
they tell themselves
before going to bed.
I'm that sap who comes to
sweating in his sheets
an hour before the dreaded beep
only to dabble in sick lucid dreaming
until waking up with ancient names
plastered in his mouth
and his index fingers rigid
in the form of a last-ditch cross.

In other strange news
I discovered this week
that my left foot's
one whole size bigger.

We're coming apart at the seams, America
like bargain bin clothes in the drier.

Falling at a rate of twenty-two feet-per-second.

It'd been two weeks since I changed the sheets and today seemed as good a day as any. I ripped off the striped flannel number and threw it to the floor. As I tossed my copper-colored Egyptian cottons over the mattress with a flick of the wrists I couldn't help but notice what it looked like as it landed: an inflated parachute, held "air buoyant" by the elastic around the edges. Maybe the parachute association was a result of the fact that I'm reading a book about Delta Force, an elite airborne Special Forces unit that specializes in counter-terrorism. Whatever the case may be it instantly made me think of those rare and beloved days in elementary school gym class where the teacher (who was more of an attendance-taker with a whistle) would bring the massive red-and-white-striped parachute out from her mysterious closet where various types of balls, scooters, and other potentially dangerous sporting implements were kept. We'd form a large circle, take hold of the parachute with our two overly excited hands, and spread out until it was taut. Then the order was given to lift simultaneously and run underneath the inflated tent, quickly turning around and kneeling on the spots where our hands had once been. We were supposed to be impressed once inside this rose-tinted parallel universe. Truthfully, though I'm not sure why, we were. Was it the fact that we were hiding inside something we'd created? Perhaps, though I think it may have had more to do with that for those brief seconds we were out of sight from any authority figure, which is rare at that age for most children. But alas, the gym teacher would blow her obnoxious whistle to cease any giggling or general uproar before telling us to come back out from underneath the parachute. This always proved to be a free-for-all since once our knees stopped holding down the edge of the 'chute there was no way to keep it afloat. It collapsed on those who weren't able to make it out from under in time. Nine times out of ten it was the same kid who was still fumbling around beneath the haggard silk, and not because he was too stupid to find his way out. The class clown always went for that easy laugh since he didn't get the attention at home. The class clown was never an only child. The class clown wound up being the one who made lots of mascara run ten years later, one way or another. I, on the other hand, was the first one out of the 'chute, and also a late bloomer who blossomed at seventeen and quickly wilted. That mascara ran for me as well, though not for the same reasons. Sometimes it still runs. Some say I'm still running. True to character I digress. But what else is there? A parachute and an ironically overweight gym teacher who was obviously of a persuasion that we didn't know existed at that innocent age. The post-game assessment is simple: I should've taken my time crawling out.

Public

Some of my actions
were mistakes.
Half of my mistakes
were learned.
Most of what I've learned
was stolen.
All of what I've stolen
was worthless.

You're the only thing I'd save
if my life caught fire.

Known

"You ready for one?" he asked as a commercial broke the tension in the television set. We'd only met that weekend, but it felt as though we'd known each other forever. Maybe, through one regrettably thin degree of separation, we had.

"Sure. Let's go," and with that we made way for the sliding-glass door.

Rain dripped down between the cracks in the porch above us as we cupped our left hands over our cigarettes and flicked our Bics. My lack of shoes forced me to stand in the limited two-by-two square of dry deck underfoot. This newfound friend of mine was smarter than me in many ways. He'd brought his sneakers outside with him. The rest of the gang watched Steve McQueen out-drive, out-smart, and out-shoot all criminals in his path while the two of us sucked in our sweet carcinogens.

"Your name sounds familiar. Weren't you friends with Mary?" I asked pointlessly.

"Yeah. We went to school together," he responded. I had him cornered. There wasn't much else for him to say, or so I thought. He proved me wrong by adding a well-placed "She's a nice girl," before taking a deep drag on his cigarette. I noted his subtle smirk in the glow of the TV screen. McQueen wasn't the only one winning that night. We both knew what that last comment meant, though neither of us would acknowledge it. That'd be uncivilized.

"Didn't you use to...?"

"Yup. Long time ago," I cut him off. Any dates or places would've further complicated things. I liked my fresh acquaintance, in spite of our ironic common denominator, and wanted to keep it that way. He reminded me of myself when I was younger, but with a penchant for marijuana. Nothing was perfect, least of all the fiasco he'd tried to reference before I interjected. Against that pillar I was certain as Samson.

It was starting to come back to me slowly as if in a dream. I could hear her ignorantly "white" mispronunciation of his Latin last name. There was an initially unnoticed fondness in her voice that suddenly gave it all away. She had. They had. He had. I was standing in the rain next to someone who knew, or thought he did. If I'd been a better man I would've corrected his first wrong assumption. I decided to let it go in favor of letting him draw his own conclusion since he would anyway. We all find out eventually. The self-flagellation that follows is more debilitating than any lashing someone else could dole out. The cycle rarely breaks in Smalltown, USA. Everyone's broken. Some of us just play it better.

"You almost done with that?" he asked as he doused his butt in the quarter-of-the-way-full beer cup we'd designated earlier.

"I've been done for awhile now," I told the poor kid. He glanced at my hands to check for a Marlboro that wasn't there. Like I said, I'd been done for awhile.

We went back inside as the credits started rolling. Brock Davenport played the part of Bad Guy #2. The rest of them did what the rest of them do and no one dreamt a thing that night.

Mind if I cut in?

Back when I was wise enough
to drink my weight in bottles monthly
I'd wake up with strange bruises
along the back of my shoulders.
I know now where they came from.
It was all about repentance.

I've landed my share of beautiful women.
I've bedded some gorgeous whores.
But none of them were ever
as comforting as vacuum lines
across a bedroom carpet.
None of them but her.

The truth is that I like the smell
of skunk and can admit it--
like a summer night drive
with windows down at fifty.
I'm probably alone
in seeing every set of lights
as a silent enemy until
they turn their brights back on
to fade in my rearview mirror.
I still flick them on and off
to warn of hidden speed traps
around the bend or down the hill.
I hope I'm not the last
but the air tastes like the stench
of documentarians swarming.

Do you know what human flesh
smells like when it burns?
Pork. It smells like pork.

Oedipus catharsis and a lifetime supply of summer pants.

He'd eat half a carton of ice cream in one sitting.
A whole sleeve of cookies would disappear
in twenty minutes; thirty if he took the time
to dunk them in his tea.
He rarely had milk in the house
and when he did it was usually
from a previous visit weeks ago
when I'd asked him to buy some.
I'd wind up dumping the chunky contents
of the jug down the toilet
trying not to gag in the process.
That sad little box of baking soda
in the condiment rack of the refrigerator door
fought the good fight
but ultimately lost the battle against foul odors.
We washed down every meal with orange juice--
even steak, even hotdogs--
because he claimed it was good for the immune system.
Even at the age of eight I never failed to notice
that OJ only had that critical property
when it happened to be on sale.
The rest of the time we drank flat soda
that'd been in the fridge for as long as the milk.
His tap water, like his stance, was hard.
It's a wonder the man survived
after I grew too old and autonomous
to subject myself to his gruesome bachelor pad
every other weekend and for half the miserable summer.

But what gets my Goddamn goat to this day
is how he'd sit at the cheap diner we went to
every week for my entire fourth-grade career
and butcher his gums with one of the toothpicks
that came with the check
until they bled.
His teeth would be stained
with a light crimson
and his dead shark's eyes
would stare blankly above my head
at what I can only assume to be
a vision of his precious Heavenly Father
guiding his faithful hand
in whatever blundering move came next.
We'd sit in that awkward silence
until I'd try to use my homework as an excuse to go home--
home being the safety of my mother's condo.
She'd ran away from him already.
I hadn't had that option yet.
To this day she regrets not saving me sooner.
Maybe I shouldn't have revealed that.
Guilt is a useless emotion
like homework was a useless excuse.
He took me to the library.
I tried to find a quiet table
but all I could think of was how badly
I wanted to finish my assignments quickly
and get the hell out of there, get the hell away from him.
And that fucking toothpick
or the shards of what was left of it
would still be dangling from the corner of his mouth
several shades darker than it had been
when still in the plastic wrapper back at that greasy spoon.

--- roughly where it should've ended ---

You didn't know when to stop, did you, dad?
Another thing I've inherited
though none of that will ever be tangible
since you've spawned a second son clandestinely
in the fifty-ninth year of your wasted life.
I hope you fade away before you can do to him
what you did to me.
Joshua is a strong name, a soldier's name--
I know that's why you picked it from your Good Book.
Let's hope he plays his cards right
and has an ounce of faith in fate
by seeing through your ruse sooner than I did.
You've dodged my attempts at contact
for almost four years now, but that's nothing
new to you: you've been a coward
since your second breath.
Your father should've shot you into his mistress
and done the world a favor.

If it's you who's after me
then let me spare you this confusion.
If given the chance again
I'd slap that splinter out of your lips.
You don't scare me anymore
because I know I won't become you.

You've had ample time
to make right of your fissure.
"For God so loved the world
that He gave His only son..."
What did you give yours up for?