Hartford Loop

There's a limit

to my love:

Slowly

Become What

You Most Feared

Extravaganza.

I've seen 

shooting stars.

I've watched

women shoot dope

between their toes.

Simmer down, Othello.

We're nonplussed.

The highway pavement's

bathed in deer blood.

It's mating season.

Inherited plants.

That free advice

cost someone else

in the past.

Peak Foliage

The most beautiful blonde

I've ever spooned

needed a place to stay

a year ago

so I started to cook more

and bought her a dresser.

I still have the dresser.

She couldn't make food

and I didn't want to clean:

a partnership based

on the negative.

We listened to more music

than what I felt necessary

to fill our shared air

and watched movies light enough

to keep her out 

of the psych ward again.

The sex was as monumental

as what you'd rather not imagine.

I faked it on New Year's Eve

since I was too drunk

after shameless karaoke

at her sister's house

and she had work in the morning

at the hospital.

Had I known it'd be 

the last time I'd sleep next to her

I wouldn't have gone

through the motions.

She missed her boys

and they couldn't live

here; hell, I barely can.

Ten months later

while waltzing through a hallway

a long strand of wavy corn silk

attached to a light switch plate 

brushed against my arm

and inspired a tribute

to what should not

have been:

The closest to normal

that we'll ever have.

She's since chopped her hair.

I left that one dangling.

I hope he goes light

on the peppers.

Blood Work

There are sins

unforgivable:

not for all the 

Key lime pie

on the Eastern Seaboard;

not even if you know

to take your hair down

before bed.

I was that woman once

or thrice--

the lover who's unaware

that there's another

in the woodwork.

He's threatened to jump

without you

and you should let him.

I did.

I learned to float.

There's a balance

that we're here to learn.

There's a line

that can't be crossed.

Throw the mess

of yourself

at the nearest wall

and see what sticks.

It pays

in other ways.

Slammed

You're nothing

but purse dirt.

Say it back:

Your words hurt.

Carbon copy

reruns

are too blunt

are too curt.

Time's been too kind

to a pervert.

Homecoming

The kid's bus unloaded

at the Away Team's arena

before my Union contract's

dismissal time allowed

for an expedient commute

up the Parkway.

I tried like hell

to beat the clock

as always, boxing out

those attempted right-lane passers

with a deathgrip at seven

on my steering wheel

my right hand on the horn

and this grin that only

those with nothing left to lose

would know.

I'd never been to my city's high school

but a parking lot's a parking lot.

Walking the fence 

as those boys kicked their ball

yielded nothing more or less

than my day of pulling wrenches.

Swearing I saw him

across the field, in the tented dugout

I trekked across from the bleachers

and stood feet from where

he sat with his clipboard

hoping he'd stand

and see me at the chain links.

That didn't happen.

I refrained from calling

his name through the canvas

for fear of embarrassing

a man in the making.

My drive home

shortly thereafter

left me with two questions

neither of which

I'll ask here and now:

Matinee

It took nine months

but I'm grieving

your loss

Margot Robbie;

those dirty foot

milkshakes

left at my door.

We couldn't watch

anything violent

or scary

since we were

living it;

James Earl Jones

in the emergency room.

Karaoke

on New Year's Eve;

stepping stones

to where?

You chopped off 

your hair

and I'm still

finding it.

To Remain in Your Good Graces

If you care to listen

I could tell you a lot

about a little:

A fed bear is a dead bear;

dire desperation

at the mercy

of technology;

stolen hotel towels

that never get quite clean;

an unfulfilled need

to be among those

with whom you can

be silent.

It's hell on earth.

What sorcery is this?

Where you toss

your pocket change

says much about

who you are.

A man whom I paid

five thousand dollars

told me to go smoke

in the shower

and I'll trade you more tidbits

if you can make sense of that.

Come on--

for a friend?

Bed Head

"Do I snore?"

I ask her

after hearing 

such rumblings

and wondering

if it's only gossip

as the trend goes

with me.

She giggles

pushes deeper 

into my chest

like I haven't already 

searched there 

for answers

that won't exist

until I'm stardust again.

At that moment

I learn

that for over 

half my life

I've been blessed

by people 

who've overlooked

this unknown flaw

enough to leave me

to tackle the rest

as best

as I've known how.

I see rats 

leaping from ships

while the water rises.

I see flies

fleeing shit

as the wind

picks up.

I see faces

beautiful faces

smiling up at me

on Sunday mornings

pretending to be lucky

without sharing the truth

rubbing it into

my foolishly 

grinning countenance:

I've been blessed.

Self-Immolation in the Mothership Debriefing

Varm:  "We've known they're broken, but..."

Zoin:  "How'd you try to fix it?"

Varm:  "I helped them relate."

Zoin:  "How? Most have been divided..."

Varm:  "...and?"

Zoin:  "...and some are sociopaths."

Varm:  "I tried to make them laugh at it."

Zoin:  [Reaches for zapper.]

Varm:  [Smirks, one last time.]

Zoin:  [Zaps Varm, reluctantly.]

End scene.

Why I'll Die a Bachelor

One of the first people

I met when I came here

a-decade-and-a-half ago

jumped off a bridge

a few months back.

I'd heard it on the radio

during my morning commute

but didn't know that it was him.

I can't call him a friend.

He was a neighbor.

We butted heads

once or twice.

I saw his aggression

for what it was:

overcompensation

insecurity

weakness--

and kept a safe distance.

He claimed I was crazy

but I knew what he hid.

When he and his girl moved

out from below me

I wasn't sad.

I'll be frank:

I wasn't sad

when I heard the news 

either

but when I saw the online fundraiser

posted by his wife's sister

and read about "the loss of her life partner"

and then after a brief Google search

read about her filing for divorce

a few weeks prior to his suicide

and then read how there would be

no memorial service

but a tree would be planted

in his honor at an undisclosed location

in a cemetery

and next read that the abundance

of funds would pay for a bench

so mourners could sit and reflect

under the limbs of this man's 

return to the Universe

then I was sad;

not for the coward

who leapt into the Hudson

but for the three boys

he'd left behind

to a mother who'd pretended

that a life could be chalked up

to a pathetic plea for money

and some lousy landscaping work

at a place that no one 

who tried to know him

will ever actually see.

He was named after

a soap opera character

and died just as melodramatically--

"in the belly of the beast,"

as he'd phrased it.

Bedside Manner

Today I paid

a woman and a man

to undo the will of God.

As usual, one of my

insurance companies

was also involved.

"You're here for scrape

and burn," she declared

from the professional tone

associated with her scrubs.

(Don't worry

she wasn't my type.)

"You should really call it

something else," I quipped.

"It sounds like torture that way."

She broke out the technical term

with which I won't bore you

fourth wall be damned.

The doctor entered

and took a few photos

of my face with his iPad

like a pervert

for before & after records

in a medical file

that'll outlive me

with more grace

then proceeded to numb

six places on my face

citing the slight pinch

as though his hands

weren't as soft as 

the butter on my kitchen counter

in these dog days of August.

He suggested that I close my eyes

and his assistant turned on a light

fit for interrogation, its brightness

piercing my eyelids

like the end of that alleged tunnel.

I felt slight pressure

heard a quick sizzle

and smelled cooking pork.

I'd learned that aroma

twenty-two years ago

after foolishly grabbing

a screw that'd been heated

by the drill I'd used to remove it.

Men are pigs, according to

my social media newsfeed

so the correlation checked out.

This diabolical duo

finished removing the tiny cancers

from my most visible skin 

and applied round bandages

to half of the wounds.

"You can cover them all.

I get weird looks in public regardless."

Unaffected by my sophomoric humor

they ignored my statement

and advised me to stay out of the sun

while healing, like I wouldn't 

have done so anyway.

The receptionist took my card

for payment and begrudinginly

printed a receipt 

to stay in my good graces.

I left the practice with a fresh haircut

surrounding the face of a leper

and felt fine

until I found and returned the wallet

of a kid that had scurried out

ahead of me in the parking lot

and was irritated for the first time this week

when he didn't make eye contact

let alone thank me.

"Limited sunlight 

for seven-to-ten days."

You've got it, Doc.

They lied and said a leopard

can't change its spots.

Select the Lover With the Worst Therapist

Stop me if I've told you

this one before, but when

my dad was a kid

his father took him

and his two siblings

to their lakefront property

in the Adirondacks every summer.

One year, in the late 1950s

or maybe it was in the early 1960s

when rope was more common 

than ratchet straps

a strong gust of wind rose

and blew their rowboat off the roof

of the family station wagon

while crossing a bridge

on northbound Interstate 87

en route to the mountains.

It crashed down into the valley

below and they kept driving

hoping that no one had been injured.

It could have been one of two bridges

and one of two ravines

just south of Cairo, New York.

I'm not sure which ones

since I was only a kid 

when my dad told me

as he took me to the Adirondacks

each summer that I choose to remember 

before those water rights

were sold to the highest bidder

but it's not

and never will be

my story to tell.

Enough about that, though.

Thanks for not stopping me.

How was your Monday?

It's All in the Wrists

"But Sir, we can't get

them all out

in time."

How does one choose?

[Vague explosions.]

"Sir? Sir!"

One doesn't.

[Static.]

The Rule Book's in the Mail

For several days

my morning commute

was shoving your favorite

tree down my throat

into these tarnished lungs

where it mixed with smoke

before that heavier merge.

I understand now

why you like it best.

Deciduous and round

its roots reach north and south

from that interstate median

for a way under the pavement.

It's not the most majestic

but rather, if a spaceman

one thousand years from tonight

were to summon the ancient archives

in search of the meaning of "tree"

that's the image that'd appear

on the screen affixed to his wrist

whereas mine, though unidentified

is leaning somewhere 

out over a river, its trunk protruding

from a split in stone left by glaciers

defying gravity and statistics

a tattered rope tied to a limb

that's held the weight of children

for generations

and most importantly

not yet found

by the one 

I still must protect.

Diaspora

We hate it

we do

but sometimes

we have to 

acknowledge

that its shell

is cracked

its limbs are limp

and keep

driving.

Saline Solutions

Scientists say

that tears shed

in sadness 

(bitter)

taste differently

from those spilled

in joy 

(sweet)

and sweat

due to stress

smells worse

than what's excreted

in work and in sex

though the two

are sometimes 

the same

but with you

for a change

the two 

aren't identical.

You'll always

have that letter

I sent.

Waved Under Your Nose

Most jokes

start in prison

or to get into

her pants;

not this one.

You receive

congratulations

from a number

you haven't seen

in too long. 

Drawing from

your mess of genetics

and affiliated curses

you choose not

to react (your mother)

and wait a few hours

to respond (your father

who art in heaven)

denying the state

of fatherhood

wrongfully bestowed

upon you

based on photographs.

You rise from

that shotgun blast

still easy on the eyes

of the blind

and do your best

to celebrate complexity

going all out

to clean everything

but your soul.

May used to be

your favorite month;

when you were conceived.

It's winning.

Conversation With My Guardian Angel

"You've been talking a lot of shit."

"There's a lot of shit to talk."

"Are you hurting?"

"I'm hurting."

"Are you happy?"

"Nah."

"Are you happy for them?"

"Begrudgingly."

"Carry on."

"Does it get better?"

"Only if you let it."

"You're welcome for the overtime."

"I'm salaried, but thanks."

The Deluge

Artificial sweeteners

antiperspirants' aluminum

arsenic in apple seeds

asbestos everywhere

living next to power lines

secondhand smoke

firsthand smoke

not enough sunlight

too much sunlight

the hole in the ozone layer

mixing bleach and ammonia

carbon monoxide

mercury in old thermostats

yellow 5 food dye

most things (but only in California)

will kill you eventually

though nothing will do it faster

harder, and with less remorse

than the dopamine deprivation

when there's nobody left

to love

you.

Postage Paid

Cut so deeply

by another one

you've loved

you slice open

the parcel

sent to her 

old address

slightly aroused

by the sweet revenge

of a federal offense

when it hits you:

A sheet of

bubble wrap

a flattened

cardboard box

and return labels

in duplicate

in case there is

a mistake

when you realize

you've made one.

Floaters

Whenever she comes

don't put up a fight.

Walk alongside

her not knowing

the destination:

Whether the temperature

quickly rises or you see

your grandmothers

again or the curtain

falls before the fade

and that's all

it won't matter.

You'll think

there's nothing left

and there won't be 

here

but hand-in-hand

you'll bubble

to the surface;

a wagered cold call.

Toadstool

I swore I was doing the right thing, though that's usually where we lose it. 

At dinner a few nights prior my father and my brother had mentioned their new pet frog; something to do with a Boy Scout merit badge. Imagine the irony of achievement through captivity. Their first acquired pet, a painted turtle, had been promptly released since its constant escape attempt was accompanied by the knocking of its shell against the aquarium's glass. Our old man couldn't take it and set the reptile free. If only it were that simple for the rest of us. 

Its ill-fated replacement was what they called a frog, but when I stopped by after work one day I discovered otherwise. At first I thought the ten-gallon tank on the porch was mostly empty; some gravel, a long piece of tree bark, a round takeout tin with dirty water, a rock, and seven dead earthworms fouling it. My curiosity piqued, I lifted the bark and saw a terrified toad compressing its body as tightly as possible. I had to shower, change, and attend a memorial service in time to console family, but this discovery posed a new quest that my conscience couldn't ignore. I lifted the dish of water, brought it to the front yard, dumped its putrid contents, and replaced it with tap water from the bathroom sink. The house was on a well so I wasn't concerned with the chemicals that wash our brains. After returning the improvised pond I gently placed the toad in it to allow it to drink and bathe. I did the same and went to the wake. 

A few days later my father sent a garbled message. His talk-to-text technology is lacking at best and must be decoded by the recipient, but the gist of it accused me of a minor crime. That water I'd dumped was straight from the swamp where the toad had been caught, allegedly containing eggs. While I hadn't seen any, I couldn't prove otherwise and confessed to my accidental wrongdoing. "I had the kid's heart in mind," was my defense. "I didn't want the toad to die." My plea was accepted and a well-meaning emoji was sent; that smiley face with the awkward grin, though septuagenarians don't understand its sarcastic nuance. Relieved of any sentencing, I carried about my day. 

It's been a week and the toad's still alive as far as I know, with one more to go before the project will be complete. An old friend once said that you're supposed to be the good guy in your story, but I don't know that I am this time. I'll concede to the amphibian and hope that it lives another seven days for its freedom. There weren't any eggs that died in the lawn, though. Take that off my growing list of charges.

Tumbleweeds

Most people are sick

and you know it

but don't want to

confess

let alone repent.

I'm here to acknowledge that

for your sake

and mine

and while we're at it

let's include 

the military-industrial complex.

Now's the time.

There are only two days left

until the next full moon.

Waxing Gibbous

whatever that means

to those of us

without the tattoo.

Close enough.

We're the boys

and girls

sans club

who cried "Wolf!"

then went about

our evenings.

We're liars.

"Call me any time."

Then leave our texts on "Read".

We're making the poor argument

that a slow bullet's

more kind than a fast one

when truly

ask Lenny

and his rabbits 

in hell.

I could've gone

for a friend tonight

but will settle for a bottle

that one bought me

instead.

The deep slug of bourbon.

The second cigarette.

The slow lead

is better than none

if it ends this.

Eclipsed

Forsythia for Cindy

with eyes that get slammed shut.

A sugarcoated hobby horse

rusted to irrelevance.

Slow is smooth

and smooth is fast.

A resurrected godsend

backpedaled 'til the flaw.

Conquering the natives

for glory, gold, the Lord.

A hostage on the telephone

who sounds safe with his captor.

Wear and tear

and ginger ale.

A funeral home

in blue jeans.

She and the rabbits

suffer in silence.

A Taurus is their soulmate.

Gospel From a Man, Not My Father

I wish 

I could

say something

to make you feel

better

son.

Damn the Torpedoes

It's comical

in that 2020s way

for a man

who's sought solace

in fiction and history

for the better part

of his life

to suddenly suspect

that this could be 

that necessary part of the tale

seven-eighths through

in which the snow globe's shaken

so hard that it falls

from a weary grip

but the water's retained

since it didn't shatter

this time.

A Note Found, Too Late

"I can hear you

coughing in the shower

a place I am 

no longer welcome

with you. It breaks

my heart."

CV + MA, 1983

It's funny

what you pick up

from your parents.

When I was a kid

I found a few wine corks

with initials and dates

written on them

among my mother's things.

Important consumptions.

Monumental events.

Maybe the dates

of conception and marriage.

I'll never know now

but I follow suit

with my Sharpie

and tact

sneaking the corks

into pockets

once pulled.

Maybe someday

they'll serve as a story.

Maybe one day

they'll be thrown away.

Maybe, eventually

I'll learn what I need:

what's not so funny

that you shouldn't pick up

from your parents.

Currently reading:

"My Name Is Eleanor" by Wes & Barbara Gottlock.

Premonitions

[For Jeff Newman

who saw my mother

pushing me in a stroller

around Rockland Lake

in 1986

and said I should have been

his.]

Three years ago

when I still bought

Ruffino Chianti

since we'd watched 

"The Sopranos" together

the liquor store

undercharged me

for the premium version, 2012.

We saved the bottle 

for a special occasion

collecting dust 

in the meantime

foolishly waiting.

Two nights ago 

while reviewing

my list of blocked phone numbers

I came across the one

who maliciously told me

of your Engagement

and wondered when

the next inevitable news

would come.

Tonight I received it

from an innocent source:

a Union brother

trying to do what was right.

"She's Expecting."

He proceeded to ask

if I'd heard of a band

called Vampire Weekend.

Sucked dry of blood

but not having the heart

to hurt the harmless

I fizzled out in conversation

though he sensed it

and apologized.

"Crafted from the best vineyards...

aged for 36 months...

violet, cherry, and plum aromas...

14.5% alcohol by volume..."

I couldn't get the cork out

fast enough this evening.

Here's to everything

you've always wanted

everything you deserve

and what I woud have gladly given

in time

that we don't have.

Kingdom Come

Pulling up

to my old man's place

the house

I'm still trying

to grow up in

four decades later

I notice rust-red

rotten wood

at the curb

next to the green

plastic trash can.

When I limp out

of my truck

after work

I recognize

the rubbish:

the walls of 

my Radio Flyer

repainted once

for my kid brother

now relegated

to refuse status.

A few years ago

it would have upset me

but now I see the beauty

in the death

of what's run its course.

You can't circle wagons

if there's only one.

Hydrogen & Helium, Ingratiated

Sunbeams 

chopped

by each tree 

along the highway.

Every ray 

hits eyes

like Morse code 

for "torture".

Closing them

doesn't help;

orange warmth

through eyelids.

Love was finding

a mole with your tongue

in the dark

and no one flinching.

Floundering Over Rice

Undesired

creature comforts:

her favorite meal;

not mine--

delivered to

my doorstep

while an old friend

bought me time.

The laces of these boots

have strands of gold 

entwined.

A weekly sweep

will miss some hair

like this gaze

dodges eyes.

Fair Play

Beware of the man

robbed of purpose.

He leaves his pistols

where home was

these days

since he's poised

like a spring

indecipherable

hungry headlights

stabbing into

the night.

How Violently American

Our Maker's

lath and plaster

a ribcage and skin

barely conceal

the stubborn organ

that feigns 

the most precious emotion 

that we 

as a failed experiment

were given.

This commercialized day

to signify its gains

is, for many, a spectator sport

indecipherable to those

who loathe

the smell of their own skin

but we've forgotten

to care for one another

and so we deserve it.

It's wasted surveillance

on palliative care.

You can eat thrice daily

and still starve to death.

Don't find yourself

counting on rain

that ain't coming.

Honey, you're golden

but we can't speak 

in code

for much longer.

Apples to Apples

My father's killed

two deer in his lifetime:

one intentionally

with his bow

on state park land

and one accidentally

with his sport utility vehicle

on the Palisades Interstate Parkway.

I was present for neither

but at ten years old

I followed him into woods

along an apple orchard

in the shadow 

of the Shawangunk Ridge

where he had permission

from a farmer to hunt.

It was so cold

beside that tree

where he waited

for the buck 

that wouldn't come

and I waited 

for the sun to rise

while it was darkest

before dawn.

It's the same now

three decades later:

Love is being 

someone's plan.

Celestial Association

Listen, I don't make

the rules or whatever

but my favorite book

as a toddler was

"Stevie's Tricycle".

No, I couldn't read it

but my mother did

since I was in

the womb or whatever

and so it was my favorite

after I foolishly left

that warm, safe place.

Stevie rode around

his neighborhood

back when a kid could

do that unattended.

Its golden spine 

legitimized the action.

What I remember most

were these peaches

on the trees.

They were this warm orange

color with red rubbed in

for ripe emphasis.

We could talk about this

and we could talk about that

and your therapist would

reference Freud

while mine echoed

from the bottom of this bottle

but at the end of the day

that you're willing to give

here and there

when we're running low

all that matters is that

your cheeks

when I gaze down at you

form the same warm mixtures 

of hues as those peaches

in "Stevie's Tricycle"

and if that ain't enough

then bottom's up.

Sparring Partner Parlor Tricks

My favorite place

to see you's 

on mountaintops

since I know

that's where 

you belong

though I'd suffer

a nosebleed

via horse height

as you would

if I could

thread a tether

through those 

two rings

I gaze at

more than 

you'd like

to admit.

Tag, You're It

You tally the hands

that have touched you

this week:

the deli lady

taking eight quarters

in her leathery palm

for commute coffee;

a coworker

tapping your arm

mid-story, for emphasis;

a misled combat nurse

or two, God bless 'em;

an old friend who tried

to cheat on his wife

after your handshake;

that off-duty masseuse

in fishnets and leather.

None of it adds up

to what you deserve

and

none of it adds up

to what you once did

and

none of it adds up

to what they say

a person needs

to persist

with paying the bills.

"You'll be fine," she said

on her way through the door

but she was only telling herself.

Forgiveness is a nice idea.

Left on Read

Your body's quite the temple

As far as I'm concerned.

All it guarantees, though

Is to hurt and learn.

This Club of Sleepless Nights

Soon will have inductions.

Our members mask the pain

With cheap laughs and production.

Sharing fluids and our time;

A destination we all know

Assessing one another

Like piss-holes in the snow.

The hardest thing to do:

Return the energy you're sent.

Prepare to convalesce

In this beginning of the end.

Curiosity

I found your lost

earring in a room

I never showed you

and while that might

deter most

I've played the dead

cat, as well.

Jupiter's Boulder

You can try

to talk us down

but I'll walk us down

from the gallows.

You can say

that it's been a fight

but the best fish do

until they're caught.

You can laugh

from a distance

but you can't keep it

any more than I can.

You can tell

your dad I said this.

I'll shake his hand.

You'll see.

Smash Cake

A bearded farce

the ringleader

puts his best foot forward

for the motherlode.

You don't even know

her favorite tree.

Can you feel

me nipping at your heels?

How do you change

your signature?

No dog to save

the bone for

with the elephants

in the room.

It's a low-speed chase

so lawyer up.

That hand on my back

at two in the morning's

the only thanks

I'll ever need.

Nor Be Forgotten

For lack of a better response

upon opening his final Christmas gift

he mentally calculates 

how much of a mess it'd make

if he were to spontaneously explode 

of irony

in that crowded living room:

Considering that the adult human male

is 60% water

and that his six feet weigh 240 lbs

he estimates the blast radius

and volume of red goo

dousing the walls, ceiling, furniture, floor

and mostly innocent family members.

The projected matter

lucky enough to land in the fireplace

would cook off slowly

its sizzling sound serving

as an eerie counterpart

to the silence of astonished relatives

coated in what'd remain

of a man they somewhat knew

who'd just unwrapped a framed photo

of himself, alone on a fishing boat

after nearly dying nightly

from a year of solitude.

Centering his stance on his sea legs

he thanks his well-meaning bestower

extends the frame's stand

to face his grinning countenance

for half a glass of wine

then walks the gift of a lifetime

to the trunk of his father's car

lest it be forgotten

in the revelry to follow

though knowing himself

he's not one to forget.

Currently reading:

"Raymond Carver:  Collected Stories"

The Holiest Act of the Sabbath

The second best way

to spend a wet

but unseasonably warm

Sunday afternoon

once the pile of dishes

has been washed

in water just shy of scalding

and your plans have been canceled

thus saving you from sin

is to listen to the compilation

of sentimental songs that an old flame

assembled for you

ten, fifteen, twenty 

years ago 

back when there was more

of you worth loving

if only to remind yourself

that you were once deserving

of that sacred gift

from someone you should've cuffed.

The best way, however

to spend the aforementioned 

type of afternoon

would be lazily in bed

with that ghost of a composer--

your children off being spoiled

by glowing grandparents

for a few hours as precious

as each note and line

heard now

like belated reminders

of what could exist

in a parallel universe;

not bitter, but grateful

to have have lived it.

The Meat Sweats, Decoded

It starts the same:

We see a swan killed

by an 18-wheeler

or the people

designated to protect us

prove their humanity

too soon.

We meet the smell

of blood; our own

and that of others.

Our turn comes

to return the favor

that is pain.

Then we're taught of blades

and where to stab them.

Next we learn when.

(Years later; decades

sometimes.)

None will get out

alive

and we'll all receive

spam emails

from the hacked accounts

of dead folks 

like ghost ships

in cyberspace 

eventually

but the blessed 

will come to laugh

when the priest

can't sing to save his life

at the funeral mass

of the departed

and embrace that the daggers

we're born to thrust

don't have to be

as buried

in flesh

as us.

A Silk for Your Filth

You can quote scripture.

We're playing with fire.

You can hope she

never called

another man "Sailor".

A cello

that we can't

choose to ignore

plays loudly.

There's enough

of our bloods

in the wood

of these floors

to claim it as kin.

We wanted that

too.

Closure's Overrated

A siren whom you've despised

took it upon herself

to tell me of your

engagement today

going so far as to send photos

now burned into my corneas

for the plot, the reaction

the proof that mankind

is cruel by nature

despite my hardest protest.

There in the background

across the river

that's been my only home

lay the mountain 

we tried to move

and its foothills 

in which we lived for years--

the perfect backdrop

for what you left 

twice, without warning.

I'm still there

behind a tree limb

outshined by your innocent grin

that's delighted by the thought

of children I would have given.

I can tell you this

without flinching

without wincing

without the aid of my gin:

I'm sorry I failed us

and I pray that he deserves you

every day.

Knock 'em Dead in the Photo Finish

It's been a year.

Too old for kids now

or to start over.

Apprentices'll have to do.

A Rubik's Cube;

the 9 of swords;

at 39

suddenly afraid of rainstorms

with headlights reflected.

Found snapshots depicting

the red sands of Bar Harbor

conduct recreational autopsies.

It's a town that doesn't forget.

None of us do, really.

It's been a year.

Insinuated Mutineers

For three long days

that patch of hardened mud

was cordoned off

by the Department

of Public Works:

One to fell the tree

whose roots had lifted

the sidewalk;

one to demo the concrete

that posed a tripping hazard;

one to plant a sapling

and pour a fresh slab.

In the midst

of local turmoil

for the lesser half

of a week

we all became

amateur urban planners

unable to manage

our own little lives

easily forgetting 

what the City

and the calendar

had in store:

A full moon

that had us all

off our paths.

Propagated

I pluck the forked twig

from her potted rubber plant's

soil and thrust it

into my aloe's earth

hoping it'll persuade

its growth back to center

where we all strive

to be

unsure of whether

or not

what she used

to prop the former

will help heal the latter

but it's important

to come off as being whole

when you're trying 

to help fix

what's broken.

Champagne Toast

What it sometimes

means to be

a friend

to the friendless:

weaponized sex

for strategic advantage.

The cigarette

ruined the photo.

The rest of it ruined

the rest of me.

I need you to leave

because I don't want you

to hear it.

Stalemate Understood

My head rests on his shoulder

in the Sunday stillness

of his bedroom.

I stroke his broad chest

back and forth

like the tide of the river

he's always lived along

waded into

and may or may not

have returned from

depending on who's asked.

If my hand stops moving

he'll assume I don't care

so my fingertips skate

across skin and hair.

I make the mistake

of stopping

and he shifts

half-an-inch.

"Sorry," I say.

"For what?" he asks

without opening his eyes.

"I'm not him,"

but in saying so

he's more "him"

than he would have been

in silence.

He swims in my stomach

until we both nod off

temporarily distracted.

What wounds to bear.

Outriggers

Between measurements

and cuts

at one of 

our many vices

he blurts 

what he shouldn't

with me 

as his only witness.

I remind him

of his transgression

as only 

a brother can.

"I'm an asshole,

but I'm your asshole,"

he reminds me

in the same way.

Together, as always

we throw rocks

from the shore

at an island.

Shortchanged

Few want the truth

partner

(as my newly departed 

uncle used to call me

a la spaghetti Western)

but you ain't 

the only one

who bunches up your blanket

at night

and tosses an arm over it

pretending that it's someone

who's worth a walk through coals

though a captain should know

survivor's guilt be damned

that loose lips

sink ships

with strange ejaculations.

Brother's Keeper

The garbage can stank

like meat juice on styrofoam

so I took it for a walk

to the dumpster behind my building.

After chucking the trash

I swung by my truck 

in the adjacent parking lot.

Half in the bag

I asked the guy

who's living in his car

if he's living in his car.

"Nah, man."

"Need anything?"

"Nah, man. 

I appreciate you."

I finished my smoke

and walked upstairs

to my lonesome luxuries.

We'd both reached a point

where it didn't make sense

to hide it.

New Jersey Necrophiliac

Afterwards

she rubs his bare chest

like it's a brass lamp

with a genie inside

though no wishes will be granted

to either party.

The smell of her perfume's reminiscent 

of the purple pew upholstery

in a Southern Baptist church

sending his mind 

to a highway rest stop in Maine

four years ago.

He'd scratched his face 

there in the bustling lobby

and his right hand

which had ridden a perfect thigh

in the passenger seat for hours

had the lingering scent

of elderly black women

in a state he'd never visited

and had never wanted to.

He'd finished draining himself

in front of foreign porcelain

alongside a dozen strangers

whom, Lord willing, he'd never see again

among poorly tiled walls and floors

or even the Pearly Gates

and was staring blankly

at undesirable food franchise logos

barely appetizing, in neon or not

when a familiar face appeared

within a crowd of other women

emerging from their corner

of the summer vacation ring.

There it was

her countenance

like the full moon

that keeps him awake these days

ready to get back in the car together

and share a bag of Skittles

he'd bought from a vending machine

more friendly than a teenager

in a greasy polo shirt

while waiting on

what he thought

was the rest of his existence

Bar Harbor merely one destination

of many for decades--

"'til death do you part."

"Can we go again?" 

"Maybe," he mumbles

his mind nine hours northeast.

She continues to paw

the urn that is his ribcage

not feeling the ashes within

and attempts years too late

to light another match.

Atoned

As with the most

intriguing nicknames

I never knew its explanation

but from as early as I can remember

my uncle called me Turkey Breath.

This moniker tapered off 

with the shedding of boyhood's 

naive assumptions

replaced, most times, with how

he'd address me hencforth:

Partner.

Unsure of whether 

it was a reference to Western films

upon which he'd cut his teeth

or a spillover term from his career

as a high-volume car-slinger

who understood that

taking care of business

was easier when 

the wagons were circled

or if there were other partners

in the world beyond our conversations

about which I didn't know

I see now 

albeit too late

that there was one thing

I called him in return:

Not often enough.

Olfactory

It takes this many

to wonder how many

curse the scent

of Polo Sport

in my wake.

DEFCON 1

The two main

European despots

defeated in the Second

World War

and the third supreme leader

of that continent

a tentative ally

later turned Cold War antagonist

are often villified

by the victors, the writers of history--

easier to attack in words

these days

since they look the same

as us

but let's not forget

the emperor

of the sun flag

who lived 'til '89

distant and malignant

declaring the sacrifice

of sex slaves

given to young men

who dove airplanes

into ships

as "Divine Wind"--

kamikaze

until desperation

overcame compassion

with projected corpses

outweighing 

the morality of physics equations

so men and women

on the justified side

built a bomb

to both end

and begin 

the madness

for the brief remaining history

of mankind.

A bloodless coup 

lacks passion.

Here we are

my brothers in Christ.

Boric Acid

Wiping flecks of blood

from the medicine cabinet mirror

after flossing

makes us war buddies now.

It pays the same.

"Long live the king."

Weak chin

wide eyes

and a strong lisp;

they weren't mine

to share.

Let's trade problems

not hearts.

Rhetorical Black Towel

On the warpath 

with nothing sacred left:

the high ground

the Heimlich

the wear and tear

of highway miles.

Outgunned:

to love

without having

to be in it.

It's vexing 

something fierce

rest assured

like inducing climax

despite your prescribed

medications

yet these charlatans say

there's no magic left.

Gutted

we wear

the innards of our ruins

festooned like garland

of the damned

and I can't carry

the Big Sad

any more.

You're far more tame

and trustworthy

than those who walk

undiagnosed, my dear.

I saw lightning bugs

for the first time in years

and wept.

Flatware Landing

While embraced in bed 

what they never realize 

until it's the worst thing

too late

and they're poised to spring 

like rats from a sinking ship 

is that I'm mostly rocking 

myself to sleep 

or maybe they do 

and that's why they stay

until the waves

have risen 

so high.

That Busker's Accomplice

Then an angel of

the Hebrew god

all safely clad in silver

impaled itself 

slowly

on what was never

meant to be said--

a dagger emblazoned

in gold cursive

as follows:

The Almighty coughs

after orgasm.

A Good Run

Get on that boat.

Stare into the sun.

Keep your mouth closed.

Blame it on the spray.

A friend 

who knows nothing

of your plan

is harder

to interrogate.

O Captain! 

My Captain!

We had this trip

by the bag

while it lasted.

Mainland Tribulations

Hydroplaning

down the Palisades

Interstate Parkway

while watchlisted in

the wild gin wasteland

but grateful

for

the growls

from widespread eyes

dry

South African

wine

that little fox

nestled between 

unlikely crevices

crawling out 

before sunrise

to tend to her kits

and friends 

who love enough

to refrain 

from party invitations

laced with cocaine.

The best defense

is a good offense.

The best penance

is this sentence.

It must feel so lonely

being on top.

Consigliere

Excited to decipher your surprise

after facing tribulations

back on the mainland

we practice for the apocalypse

with end cut maple.

Closeted

You don't know, and

you don't know--and

you don't know

and

you don't know:

That was the last

of the towels

that I didn't fold.

A Herd Unthinned

If only it were only

your cursive words in chalk

on fifteen magnetized spice shakers

half-full of leaves and peels

that we dehydrated

but there on that

once-shared refrigerator

are six canisters

still empty, waiting 

for what can't come

like a fool

who saves boxes

in overflowing closets

but doesn't know 

how to best use them.

& likewise

Not long enough to twirl at night

or matter to most passesrby

strange tufts of hair

stepped over

by coronated impostors

on an even stranger sidwalk

fade dully in the diorama.

We are built unlike goats

with nothing behind the eyes.

Analyses

Things I'm not:

Christlike.

Able to fix my dead 

grandmother's antique and bequeathed

dresser drawer handle.

Things I am:

Decent at calculating risk.

Proficient at finding cigarette lighters

on the pavement

and using them until they run out of fuel.

Things I don't strive to be:

Dumb enough

to open that damn drawer

ever again.

Christlike.

Rasputin's Assassins

Let's suppose

since we're being frank 

that there's no way 

to properly process

what's entailed

in quantifying

this tower-bound recovery

as a neighbor put it

for herself

but a gentleman's work

is never done

and neither is mine.

"Of course

I'm here.

First one."

Fleeting Rosacea

That sucker-punch

killed my butterflies.

Like a gutshot buck

I wander, confused

only knowing of the blood.

We've met many times before.

You just had a different face.

What a time 

to be told

you're alive.

Arm Candy

This Pisces 

ain't picking

a fight

or mentioning

your unmentionables

but I'll be goddamned

if I enter again

the War

of Northern Aggression.

The biggest mistake

that we can make

is expecting

ourselves

in return.

The Plans You Make

There are

worse fates

than being forgotten

like being remembered

by the wrong people.

And there are

worse plans

than breaking them

with folks

who are already broken.

And there are

worse words

than lies

like truths stated 

for illegitimate reasons.

And there are

better places

to wake up

but I'd rather do it

next to you

or not at all.

Carpool Commuters

The gas station coffee's too hot 

to chug at 5:58 AM en route to work

so we fill our first few highway miles

with recent recollections

of the minuscule victories

and minor defeats

that shape our daily lives

laughing ourselves to tears

at these predicaments--

acknowledging how we're turning

slowly into our fathers

just enough to be grateful

while achieving 

the one unspoken wish

that these better men 

maintained for their sons:

Not losing ourselves along the way

like the embers of our cigarettes

flittering off behind us

between white and yellow lines.

All the Wrong Places

The unrealistic

sexual expectations

prevalent in the modern male

are direct byproducts

of an Internet

with 20% of its phone searches

being related to

its 4% of pornographic websites.

You can tell

by the way 

someone's looking for love

whether or not

they've ever beheld it.

Submission's a choice

but you can't have

what isn't

for you.

Currently reading:

"On Love" by Charles Bukowski.

The Ohio Compromise

I've always lost

people

but never 

cigarette lighters.

The latter I find

on the pavement.

The former

find reasons

to hit it.

If you need me

I'll be swearing off

love 

in the closet.

If you need me

I'll be highly surprised.

Every Lethal Inch

An undeniable mess was made

but the umbrella's dry now

so I bring it inside

from the hallway

and return it

to the closet

horse-trading the days between

hijacked evenings

spent tracing a bird on a back

and wondering if 

the relevance of fingertips'

coordinates are noticed.

There's a word for it

that we can't say

due to different reasons.

We'll settle for existing

olive green with envy.

What to Assume When She Doesn't Respond

Maybe she's getting 

her back blown out

by a guy with more length

and less girth.

Maybe it's the reaction

that her skin has to mine

when heightened immunity

meets stubborn cologne.

Maybe it's how my eyes close

while hers look up from my shoulder

like lashes can lock doors

for the night.

Maybe it's the way

that I inhale so deeply

when close together

as though I'll never

experience those pheromones

again.

Maybe she's worried

that it's merely the idea of her

but she's altered the thoughts

of a mind hard to sway.

Maybe we're all warned

not to pet burning dogs

and the best of us do

regardless

since the Doomsday Glacier's fake

ain't nothing that a bottle won't drown

and how it all ends

is what matters

right?

A Unpopular Assessment of Aztecs

84,000 people

were sacrificed

over the course of four days

in the 1480s--

hearts ripped out

with obsidian blades

no neighbors or kin safe

from priests atop pyramids

appeasing a sun god, angry.

Either 

they didn't know

a thing about science

or they knew exactly

the nature of man:

There's no substitute

for flesh.

Currently rereading:

"Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame" by Charles Bukowski.

Come Correct

Somewhere 

out there

you're bleeding

and I wish

that I could help

but here we are

pretending

like we're able

to buy time.

Motorcade Hemorrhage

But oh the air

of the heir apparent

in coming home

to a glass of water

left by a guest:

You know 

that you can't

drink from it

as hard as you'd like

to bob for apples

in her wake.

Had a foreman once

turned friend

turned father

turned nemesis

turned nightmare

who said

"Don't complicate 

a glass of water."

As much as I mistrust him now

he's right.

Capisce

Jupiter and Venus

are pegged

above the moon 

tonight

naked 

to the eye

like you 

in a few more decades

all four sneering

at the marvels 

of modern science

resuscitated simply

by the basic understanding

that no rain checks exist

in this universal cul-de-sac

and sometimes 

there's blood.

Withered Spoon

You're probably pissed

that I vouched extensively 

over the phone

as to how valid a candidate he was

for 20 emphatic minutes

when you were interviewing 

potential tenants

for your shared rental apartment

since there was a ton 

of work to be done

as promised in unwritten portions

of his lease that you might as well shred

at this point in your grievance.

I'm more pissed

that my adopted brother's in rehab again

and didn't reach out to me

before he surrendered his phone

so I've got no way of knowing

what it was this time

how close he came

or how he's doing

aside from what's chirped

down the line.

Godspeed with your eviction.

Our rent's always punctual

but we are not the same.

Dishpan Hands

They ask what happened

after nearly five years

together, but not

as discovered

too late.

Shrugged shoulders

and blown lips

don't explain it

as well as this:

Today, stomping in my boxers

like on the best of Sundays

at what used to feel like home

I moved six houseplants

to different zones

of shade and sunlight

based on their color and turgor

instead of watching them

die.

That's my new response.

Final answer.

Disassembled

I'd propped the Remington against

a closet door frame

in the spare room

of what was my apartment again

since I could then

without question.

One night

bored by the film plot

with more holes in it

than my whiskey's cork

I repeatedly cycled the scattergun's action

in my lap on the recliner

ripping through the steel's shucking sound:

a song from a smoothbore

born in Ilion, New York

at the Turn of the Century.

Suddenly it jammed

leaving me with an ironbound headache

almost as jagged as newfound 

single-income living in our inflated age.

After three hours of attempted repair

sore and sooty fingers 

reached for the lamp switch

on my nightstand

wincing when a bloodied knuckle

rubbed brass unexpectedly.

Freshly defeated

by stubbornly stuck steel

for two nights 

I slept exclusively on my side of the bed

though it didn't 't matter any longer

like sliding into fresh sheets

as she'd always treated as a holiday

that these days were going to waste.

Soft-spoken, middle-aged

Midwestern men with too much spare time

lulled me to sleep through Internet anonymity

safely tucked away from their wives

with tutorial videos made in their basements

about this 12-gauge albatross of yore.

I dreamt of traveling back in time

to kick the firearm's designer

in a place he'd always remember

perhaps hard enough to dissuade him

from over-engineering the model in question.

If only our pasts could be changed.

On the third day I succumbed

and rebuilt the debacle

with intentions of confessions

to ill-advised disassembly

made during gunsmith surrender.

To my surprise the slide ran smoothly

and all moving parts behaved in the choir.

I pumped it triumphantly

for the better part of a minute

until a half-inch shard of steel 

shot from the ejection port.

The tune came to an end.

The tool no longer functioned.

I identified the broken component

and sourced a replacement online

grateful that this failure

had occurred in a safely controlled environment

as opposed to on a camping trip

in upstate bear country

that we'd never embark upon again.

Wood and steel.

Tried and true.

At least we weren't married

with kids and a mortgage.

That's what I told myself

while trying to decipher

the screws and springs

strewn about the floor

sharing the cause

of residual curse words 

stuck in my throat

beside her name

and those of New England towns

I'd never be able to revisit

in this lovely, limited lifetime.

Currently reading:  

"Rattle:  Fall 2020".

A Pervert's Prayer: Hollering From the Masturbatorium

One of these days

and days

and days

and days

the Universe will send 

a sympathetic seventh chance

who wouldn't leave anyone

on read

with eyes soft and brown

evasive like a feral cat's;

nipples perfectly asymmetrical.

Until then

my brothers in Christ

the couch ain't the only thing

that's pulling out--

driven to thirst

by ancestral expectations

and mediocre excuses

for only being taken

in small doses

like a Band-Aid

we all wear

but still insist

to hide.

Sayonara, Suckers

Not to jinx it

by being brazen

with Lady Luck

but we haven't had 

a major airline catastrophe

in what feels like longer

than I remember

growing up;

not one of those rich pricks

in a privately owned Cessna

that was probably grandiose suicide

or insurance fraud to save their heirs

sans golden parachute

but a media feeding frenzy

with images of floating fuselage

and mention of children

who could've grown

to cure cancer

had they been given

that imaginary chance--

news anchors spewing sea coordinates

and Boeing models with lots of 7s

that degenerate gamblers

like the ones I've grown to love

would later play 

in the lottery.

I'm not saying

we're overdue

but they must've fixed 

the plane problems

because we haven't fixed 

the people.

Being a Pisces

ain't all

it's cracked up to be:

a glider

adrift

with no landing strip

in sight.

Currently reading:

"Insomnia" by Stephen King.

Entry Level Survival Tools

I shaved my head

after bald spots developed

stress induced again

and my father asked 

if I wear a wool hat to work 

when he saw me

but I don't 

since I like the brisk feeling

of air on bare skin

though I wore a black

watchman's cap 

the next time

that I visited him

for his sake 

not mine.

Bonafide Aficionado

Walking by portraits

of men

in my home

and mannequins 

on the job

I can attest

to the fact

that we all wear

smiles differently.

Some of them hurt

like a trap expertly set

italicized

parts per million

but I see them 

and cherish them all:

Dead languages

other than Latin.

Currently reading:

"The Bear Speaks" by Eric Tomlins.

Gut Health

A charity organization

for cancer, but not for bald kids

line mine

finally sends 

her complimentary address labels 

though she's no longer

here to receive 

those invalid stickers

from invalids.

I save them

just in case

again.

"It's not my business,"

an old friend concedes.

"Hell, I never met her."

Maybe I didn't

either.

Succulents Sustained

Unwilling to verify whether or not

the experiment's been performed

since science has been bastardized

and the Internet's been hijacked

I'd wager what's left

of a poorly squandered soul

that if most indoor houseplants 

were only watered when it rains

the majority would survive.

The laws of mortality

transcend manmade labels

of flora and fauna:

We get what we need

on a schedule outside

our control.

Snubbing Dostoevsky

I bet Bukowski was better in bed

and Hemingway was more fun at the bar.

I'd kill to converse like Vonnegut

and speak of the dead like McCarthy

all while laughing in the face 

of Satan a la King.

Here's to having heroes

in a jaded age of frauds.

To Whom It May [Not] Concern:

I, [state your name], 

was nothing

short of mortified

by the wasteful void

at the bottom

right corner

of p. 62

in November's 

tidal issue.

I clipped the poems

apart with scissors

that cut me once

and rearranged 

them in five ways

that preserved space

for an even longer

spilling of one's guts

than the one-ninth

of a page

which your design team

deemed unfit 

for local souls

to purge.

I'm keeping this plea

short and unsweet

for the sake of brevity

in the hopes

that it takes up less space

in your Trash email folder

since it won't adorn

your publication

but please

for the sake of those

who need this catharsis

and validation

in order to survive

keep this in mind

when laying out

what's more than words.

Sincerely,

Everyone Who's Bled on Your Pages

There's a Paywall to Your Happiness

This is the first time

I'm saying this

but I know

that I'm dying.

My hair's falling out

in clumps

fistfuls in the shower;

the blame I used to shift.

My time here's fleeting

like a pre-coffee glance

at gas station boner pills

glistening in dusty plastic

on the foreign clerk's counter

between his calls to home.

Several times a day 

I reach to place items

on a table that's no longer there;

a precursor to a tasty oblivion

obnoxious in the present.

The box fan in the window's

not blowing the smoke out

fast enough

against a whipping wind

that's left from this hurricane.

Even the smell

of my father's basement:

smoke and must 

and wood from the '30s

can't comfort me any more;

a lease signed

away from me

that won't be broken.

How could you?

A sailor to some

a cowboy to few

recalcitrant misfit to most;

here is the lie

I told:

We're all dying

some slower

and more blessed 

than others.

We count our days left

on calendars

fingers and toes.

Currently reading:

"Bagombo Snuff Box" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Missing Person Report

Teach me to poach an egg.

I'll teach you to poach a heart.

We'll teach each other many things

we've failed to learn so far.

I haven't gotten cleaner

from scrubbing with your soap

but it's one less sad reminder

as I struggle here to cope.

I had to buy new sheets

to replace the ones you took.

I wish you'd taken more things.

I'd rather sleep than look.

You wrote me one that rhymes.

I need the ones that don't.

It's another reason why 

you're right. We shouldn't; won't.

Sambuca & Second Chances

It's all we have

to be all we are

for whoever's left

who will listen.

The Good Samaritan's Concubine

"I see that you didn't

shave today

to fit into

your character."

When I was a kid

my old man was asked

to play the Penitent Thief

hanging on one 

of three makeshift crosses

in the Crucifixion Christmas play

put on by our church

in downtown Newburgh.

The role of Christ

had been reserved 

predictably

for the pastor

but I sometimes ask 

its writer, Luke

what if it hadn't?

Messiahs run

in our blood.

"Lady, this beard

took a week."

Currently reading:

"Dreams of the Astronaut" by Boom Boom Shapiro.

Ethan

You really haven’t lived 

until you’ve watched a rainstorm 

from an open garage door 

on a farm in western Vermont 

with a mason jar of Argentinian wine 

in your dry hand, post-peak foliage.

Currently reading:

“Don Quixote” by Miguel de Cervantes.

$pent Correctly

Going to market

or gallows

the same:

This facelessness endures/

Dehumanization.

(They beg for more.)

Don't ask him

to break stride

while appeasing a Pisces

with a lust for the sea.

Be part of the process

but not the Machine.

The Price of Doing Business

In the bowels 

of a storage unit

I puked into during a move

eleven years back

I find a pristine tackle box

that he made for me 

decades ago:

brand new lures

a stainless steel filet knife (made in China)

pliers without rust

sinkers not attached to my ankles.

If only he'd helped 

prepare me

for more

than the fish I'd never chase.

Currently reading:

"The Dark Half" by Stephen King.

Rejection

The artist tried to warn me

on the gripe with purple ink.

I look now at my shoulder

where my skin has faded:  pink.

Currently reading:

"Rattle:  Summer 2020."

Decoy Deployed

The shot rings out

as desired.

If they can't spare one

they can't have any.

"Armorer!" his intended customer

three stories below his abode

yells from the ground after firing into the air.

Crouched in a corner of the room

he turns his head toward a mirror

that's aimed at a second one

which delivers the image

of a man standing

in the designated parking spot.

Long ago he outlined it in orange paint

for the use of his patrons.

"Two boxes of of .243 here.

Forty rounds.

I'm seeking .223

or 9," his voice carries

plaintively through the window.

"You know that ran dry months ago,"

he replies as politely as an ammo dealer can.

"How about some .22?"

He envisions this man in tattered clothing

with a rabbit skewed on a poorly whittled spit

above his campfire later on that evening

a tiny hole in the flat skull 

courtesy of his offer.

"It's a deal in your favor."

"It'll feed you for the night."

The vagabond presents no argument

approaches the building

waits for the brass man to lower his basket

by a rope that he'd never expected to use this way

and deposits his half of the trade.

The recipient counts the cartridges

checking primers and projectiles

then scoops a handful of .22 rimfire rounds

from one of a dozen buckets

wraps them in a rag that was once a shirt

and lowers them to the hungry man

awaiting the basket's return.

This is how it's been for longer

than he's marked on his improvised calendar.

Some of them bring canned food

bottled water, or chocolate that's gone pale

but the payment for these is less.

An armed survivor can use his wares

to obtain any other item if he's got a gut

strong enough to do what many

thought they never could

prior to the collapse.

It pays to get comfortable 

with violence.

No one's tried to overtake him.

The only obvious method

would destroy the stockpile they seek.

Fire and gunpowder don't play well together;

or too well, perhaps, depending on perspective.

He used to hate the added elevation

of his brick-and-mortar residence 

on laundry, shopping, and garbage days

but in these un-Presidented times 

it's served him well.

Even patriots and prostitutes

know better

than to play cards

with a man named after a city.

Fiddling through his Winchester shells

he hears another holler

but sees no figure standing

in the specified space.

"Hoarder," his guest implores.

"Where are you?"

He contemplates the question

unsure of true response.

"I've got a box of books,"

declares his unknwon company.

"Which of them do you want?"

Collections of fiction and facts

were burned in the streets

during the collapse.

Only poetry remained.

They deemed it inconsequential.

"How many? What titles?"

He can't get the words out fast enough

to convey his excitement.

"Take a look," his salesman says

from the lot below his window.

He rises from his corner

and tilts his head over the sill

to read the covers

he's been previously denied.

There's a flash in the woodline

that he'll never see.

He was partly right:

It wasn't only fire.

The shot rings out

as desired.

If they can't spare one

they can't have any.

Cyborg

Computers

too 

are hindered

by memory

consumption.

A Lesson in Kinetics

While bushwhacking this morning

my mentor took a tumble

after gaining much momentum

down grade too steep for his knees.

I watched him land his dive

tossing his cane to the side

as he plowed into the dirt.

Starting but soon stopping 

a woodland jog

I helped him 

in the kindest way

by showing the teacher

what the pupil has learned:

I let him rise

on his own

and brush the leaves

from his beard.

Trigger Discipline

Our father called
to ask the inevitable.
I knew it’d come;
didn’t hasten its arrival.

“I want you to teach him
to shoot.”

My upbringing
two decades sooner
had a healthy dose of firearms.
It yielded a lasting respect
and a reverent appreciation

but I’d never force it on the kid.

The old man told me
the boy’s been asking to shoot
a .22 or two with me.
Maybe it's time.

He's won two spelling bees
through memorization.
We can worth with that.

The four basic rules [:
1. Treat all guns
as if they're always loaded.
2. Never aim the muzzle
at anything you are not
willing to destroy.
3. Keep your finger off the trigger
until your sights are on target.
4. Be sure of your target
and what is beyond.]
will be ingrained
in his growing brain
before he touches
the steel.

We'll do it right
or not at all.

That's how brothers are.
You'll see.


Currently reading:
"South of Heaven" by Jim Thompson.

Cetacean Stranding

A night of
venting
through towers
leads to
feared cliche:

"It'll come
together as
it should,"
she states
from a state
away.

He wonders
if that's
how
the world
still works
or if
it
ever did.

He looks
into a mirror
lies
and says
he still wants
kids.

Unmasked

A friendly deli Hindu
drops the plastic fork
for my owed shot
of potato salad
on his contaminated counter
missing my paper bag--
his intended
and sanitized target.

He reaches back instantly
to replace it
with another whale-killer
like his liquor license
is on the line.

"Don't worry about it, brother,"
I exalt him through
uncaffeinated teeth.
"We've all got
to die sometime."

He laughs in a tone
that doubts me
and spills my change
into a hand.


Currently reading:
"No Country for Old Men" by Cormac McCarthy.

The Garden Gun

Henry Repeating Arms
an American standard
unrelated to plumbing fixtures
released it this year:
A lever-action carbine
chambered for .22 shells
with a smoothbore barrel
so the pellets hold tight.

It's a concept with a niche:
Pest control firepower
with less collateral damage
to keep handy on a farm
or out back in the grove
for ridding the land of vermin.

Loaded with a lethal dose
of No. 12 BBs
called snakeshot or ratshot
dependent upon what's most hated
this handy piece of hardware
will dispatch local varmints
without destroying structures.

They've stained the stock
a shade of black
to distinguish it from rifles
but the theory has a flaw:

Anything you aim to kill
will only send a friend.


Currently reading:
"The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon" by Stephen King.

All I Know of Infectious Disease I've Learned From Watching Doc Holliday Die

With more pinned on him
than Judas
aside from tuberculosis
the dentist-turned-gambler
and part-time pistolero

saved or avenged
a few of his friends
through a different sort
of social distancing
with foemen.

When asked if conscience
weighed on his head
he admitted to coughing it up
with his lungs.

No stranger to new normals
he rode again
never noosed by backwoods bedfellows

nixed instead by the consumption
contracted from his mother
in a Georgian childhood
that's mostly disremembered.

Denied a lost shot of whiskey
"This is funny,"
he told a nurse
about dying in bare feet
without holes from bullets.

Heroes don't declare themselves
like politicos in press briefings.
History, Hollywood
and subtle parentheticals
establish whom to hail

but who doesn't like
some afternoon violence?
Who needs a break
from sanitized life?


Currently reading:
"Fighting Handguns" by Jeff Cooper.

Defanged Olympians

My old man'll turn
69 tomorrow
but I can't go see him
to celebrate.
I'm sick
o'discussing the Cause.

The world hides in a chrysalis
thin and gold-rimmed
like Bible paper
hoping to emerge;
Daniel from the lions' den.

If only we were in church
32 years ago.
He'd hand me his pack
of Luden's Throat Drops
(though none of us're ill)
to pass the time

like he got me through sermons
I couldn't understand
in pews I couldn't see over

happy to have
Wild Cherry
or Honey Lemon
unwrapped from wax paper
after an off-key song

but here we are
where no one's singing.

Today I'd settle
for Honey Licorice
or even the devil's candy
Butter Rum Life Savers
from a gray-haired man
who repeats himself--
a hero undeclared

though the sermon
remains the same:

Life's too short
to waste.
Memento mori.
That conversation
like any pair of hands
gets bloody.


Currently reading:
"Desperation" by Stephen King.

The Alarmist

The best way
to kill
something
that's ever meant
anything
to you:

Repeat it
until it
means nothing.


Currently reading:
"Fence:  Spring-Summer 2018".

Cargo Woes

There's a tractor-trailer
canted at sixty degrees
over a ditch
at the otherwise quiet
highway rest stop
I'm passing.
An oversize tow truck
is rigged to the front bumper.
Its companion is smaller
with a crane hooked
to the side of the vehicle in distress.

Despite the newsworthy spectacle
only one man is watching
this maneuver at 6:33 AM
clearly not a fellow driver.

Two dozen rigs are parked in the lot
in varying states of rest
but none of their operators
are gawking at the scene.
They've seen it before
or it's happened to them
or they grant their brother
the respect of communal privacy
or they're mingling with lot lizards
or they're too damn tired
from being on the road
to care.

I reach my destination
three minutes before
the projected time
of my GPS
and finish my last swig
of coffee.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Spring 2020".

Contenders

I'm wrapped up today
like a woebegone pugilist
with a splint on my wrist
from a doc-in-the-box
to help heal a sprain
or a strain or neither
that isn't carpal tunnel.

There's a ripped envelope
to my right with its contents
spewed across the kitchen table:
A xeroxed sheet of science notes
"for the kids"
from chapters 13 and 14
with outdated info on water purification
printed in purple ink;
A wheatback penny from 1939;
A Baptist tract with scripture
intended to save my soul;
And an invoice with stamps
labeled diagrams
and capitalized ballpoint pen
that details the free labor
of cleaning and oiling
the enclosed rifle spring
from before the Civil War.
At the bottom of the page
he's squeezed a website address
and scrawled his humble boast
of providing mail order since 1965.

I sniff the dark and greasy palm
of my hardened clinic bandage
and remember it's still me.

In eight minutes I'll cover
my forearm with a garbage bag
and take an overdue shower
but if I could do anything right now
sans words or repercussions
I'd hug a stranger from Pennsylvania
who's somehow made it to eighty.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  July/August 2019".

Advice From a Time Capsule

There are
six words to say
in sincere declaration
during parking lot transactions
of used furniture
and crumpled money
between strangers
encountered on the Internet:

Thanks for not killing me
faster.


Currently reading:
"Under the Volcano" by Malcom Lowry.

Hands Down the Champion

As inquisitive as I was
while a child
of God
with many incipient
queries still forming
I never paused
to ponder
whether water
in all streams
falls at the same rate
or if factors may play
like gravity, temperature
slope, density
or the street value
of a kidney
made aware
that two of me
would kill each other
simian
disremembered
panhandlers arguing
for intersection real estate.


Currently reading:
"Rattle:  Winter 2019".

A Wildlife Vendetta

I made the mistake of telling a nine-year-old about a lost dog I'd been seeing in the shoulder of the interstate every morning before dawn for two weeks. Calls to canine catchers and the highway patrol led nowhere. The men were tired of hearing it on coffee break. I tossed a flashlight on my passenger seat and promised myself to stop the next time that I saw it. I did, and it ran; first across the darkened lanes, then into a ditch. My hazard lights blinked desperately while I hid my face from high-beams and returned to my truck.

Days went by without a sighting. It had been moving east. Maybe it was finally farther than my exit. A reprieve from the guilt of failure to save a stray would be godsent. None of this was to be, however. Shortly before six I saw remnants of an explosion of fur and flesh next to the white line where I'd last seen it alive. I lit a cigarette and drifted onto the rumble strip, drifted into work.

For days it decomposed until only dry bones, then dust, remained. Now it's bare asphalt. The boy's inquired twice since then if I've seen that dog again. I've answered in the negative. What I saw was not a dog. He's got plenty of time to fall in love with those who don't want to be rescued. There are years before he's got to weep for roadkill. I won't hasten its arrival.

I buttered a drawer that was squeaking and it worked. I sent a handwritten letter with no carbon copy or electronic trail to a cousin I've never met. I swallowed a few warm mouthfuls in the shower. A rabbit suffers in silence and when it dies they're all surprised. The Russian alphabet lacks the letter N. Every time it gets easier, but I wish he'd stop asking.



Currently reading:
"The Last Mastodon" by Christina Olson.

Stay Still

Our refrigerator's lodged
in a two-foot-wide corridor
only visible
if you're looking
for food
or headed to
the adjacent restroom.

There's a paper towel
held to the door
with a magnet
or two.
Even with all
the compromise
of moving in together
consolidating
eliminating
she's never questioned
why it's there.

Carved with black Sharpie
in angular
capital letters
it says
"LOVE
YOU MIKE
DAD"--
the
most beautiful
haiku
ever written
after eight years
of silence.

Best made
with what
he had
I yanked it
from my father's
kitchen table
a few years
back
in case
of



Currently reading:
"No Heroes" by Chris Offutt.

On Islands and Mainland

Prior to adolescence
my mother brought me to Wildwood.
Neither of us returned from Jersey
with beach burns fading to tans.
I only owned a snorkel
when visiting my old man
but I begged for a diving knife
at a gift shop on the boardwalk
so it rode home in the suitcase
that divorced kids know too well.

The stainless steel dagger
serrated on one side
an inch above the ricasso
was stamped with shame:
"Taiwan".
Four holes spanned the grip
to lighten
or for fingers
if you wanted them all broken
in a fight you'd entered to lose.

Its sheath was black and plastic
with a lever on a spring
that held the knife in place
when it wasn't stabbing sharks.
Through four slots in the sides
wove holed and buckled rubber
to strap it to a leg
though it only fit my arm;
a measuring mistake
made by young Asian makers.

It collected dust
in a surplus ammunition crate.
A few years later
when I felt the need for change
I tethered it to the bedpost
nearest the door and window
within my teenage reach.
The shiny blade protected me
from what I didn't know to fear.

It remained a silent sentry
until I moved upstate for college.
Where my mother put it
I've never called to ask.
What do you do with a diving knife
that you don't and never needed?

I hope a kid left a yard sale
newly inspired to swim.



Currently reading:
"Outer Dark" by Cormac McCarthy.

To Mitigate a Wishbone

The neighbor's new dog's
been barking all night
at the nothingness it senses--

its only competition
the gurgle through copper
of inefficient heating
in this dark and silent place.

I wonder which one of us
better handles
being alone.


Currently reading:
"Child of God" by Cormac McCarthy.

Chokepoint

That ugly fucker's head exploded
before the day's opening rays
hit the night-cooled sand.
We're trained since basic
to aim for center of mass:
torso, chest, vitals
but Terry tends to give the first one
a whirl like he's back home
twenty years ago in the hills of Tennessee
squirrel hunting, trying not
to damage much meat.
When you're that good
you've got to entertain yourself
regardless of what the manuals
or screaming drill sergeants say
half a globe away.

"Contact," I said lowly
as I confirmed the hit
through the scope above my 7.62
a half-second after he cycled the bolt
and chambered the next round
in the .300 he'd been issued this deployment.
All hell broke loose in the desert
as AKs fired blindly into the dim dawn.
"Contact, contact," I reiterated in the same tone
as Terry pushed the second and third ones
back two meters to the ground.

The party began to scatter.
We'd seen movement at their knees
prior to engaging
and assumed they were goats
but livestock don't have arms to flail
when picked up as human shields
by cowardly targets.

We'd been warned in our briefing about this group's
ruthless tactics and ordered not
to compromise the mission at all costs.
That's Uncle Sam's way of saying
"Leave your conscience at home, boys."
The kids--humans, not goats--were
too far off for us to hear their screaming.
Terry and I were grateful for that.
When his next shot kicked up dust
we were equally thankful for that.
I'd never seen Terry miss until then.
I have a few times since.

His wife had recently gone through stillbirth
as he was on a bird back to the sandbox.
I knew it was on his mind.
He dropped his mag and inserted one
full of heavier-grain ammo
as if the mild crosswind had caused
the last lighter bullet to drift.

Before he could acquire his next target
I painted the middle of the hot spot
with the laser designator
affixed to the front of my rifle
and called in an airstrike
on the radio clipped to my vest.
It was easier to push one button
than to pull a trigger a dozen times
with each shot hoping to hit a narrow margin
or miss.
We're a team, right or wrong
no matter which god's eyes are judging.

The missiles cruised down as we covered
ourselves as best we could for impact
feeling the ground shake beneath our prone bodies.
A charred crater kissed by the scornful sun
was the only evidence that our objective had been met.
The trek back to base was silent
aside from the crunching of sand
older than our continent.

He never thanked me outright
but the next time it was my turn
to empty the latrine he volunteered instead.
That's as close as it gets with guys like Terry.

He and his wife could try for another child
whenever he'd go stateside again.

We were told a few days later
by westernized adolescents
selling candy bars in the nearest town
that the sunset in their province
is beautiful as well.