A lover left me a bag
of spinach leaves
before her flight
to those who mean more
on holidays or any.
Poking through them
tonight, plucking out
what's started to rot;
salvaging what's able
to be saved and sautéed
I wonder if the gods
do this with men
and which one
I would be
in this playroom
of clumsy dreamers.
We bellyache vaguely
of the holiday blues.
I'll lay mine out
for you:
There was a brief time
in my life
when I was
almost the hero.
Estranged parents
a wayward replacement
and my brother
they didn't make
met under the same roof
to sit at a long table
with name cards
placed strategically
snowmen and elves
drawn on company time.
Twice a year
this healing was held
after decades of separation
brought together
by what we all thought
would last.
We were wrong
but we have those
memories, silent
and loud
like gunshots
unaware of whether
to be grateful or lost
in the wake
of what almost was.
I would have worn
a better shirt
had I known.
You begged me
to win your tits
in a cancer
awareness
charity auction
in which
a bust of your breasts
was entered
painted to draw
a fan of the valley.
You said how unsettled
you were the last time
when a stranger took home
that replica of your chest.
You claimed it meant nothing
when he finished inside
last week, that Plan B
would prevent
any glitch.
You dodged two words
for far too long
so now you can't live
rent-free in my head.
How'll I sleep
without your mane
in my face?
My brothers in Christ
we're on a roll tonight.
Cracking wise
at old holes
glamorized
could've given you
a kid
could've peaked
at black beans;
pet peeves
on a Tuesday.
Deep in our grief
of mourning for ourselves
like my grandmother's
sewing machine;
help me knock off
the rust tonight.
You spend
so much time
looking for what
might not exist
that you forget
your own response
for whenever
the excuses fly
from fellow hacks:
If your brother didn't
have balls
he'd be your sister.
There are few
who've ever called me
Billy, even as a kid.
It's Bill, it's Will, it's William
if I'm in trouble.
I'd always been
misinterpreted
unworthy
of that familiar -y
until almost four decades
into this mess.
Maybe now some see
what no one else did.
Maybe this mirror's
too dusty
but a pat on the arm
and a brotherly "Billy"
persuades me to spit
that bullet
back out.
Find it.
Open it.
Close it.
Bury it
again.
Pretend
you didn't see it.
There are reasons
it's in the past.
The scents of fresh fruit
and rotting leaves
are in the air, mixed with salt
from the brackish Hudson
on a Saturday morning.
It's the earliest I've been
at the river's edge
in too long.
Sensations feel joyfully familiar
and sting simultaneously
until the boat approaches
pulls up onto the beach
sand crunching audibly
beneath its bow.
The skipper I've missed grins
and a thin, yet capable hand
reaches out to pull me aboard
the lowly angled sun in my eyes
blinding me temporarily
as I accept what's meant to be.
A dozen men behind me
lift their tools and prepare
to embark upon what's ours again.
I fall in love
with all of it
as the boat engine rumbles
and we approach
whatever comes next
together.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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?
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
"But Sir, we can't get
them all out
in time."
How does one choose?
[Vague explosions.]
"Sir? Sir!"
One doesn't.
[Static.]
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.
We hate it
we do
but sometimes
we have to
acknowledge
that its shell
is cracked
its limbs are limp
and keep
driving.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"I can hear you
coughing in the shower
a place I am
no longer welcome
with you. It breaks
my heart."
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.
[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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
