I stayed home sick from work today.
An old spark on amiable terms heard this
and took the time to assure me that it was
in fact caused by germs
not karma, despite my personal conviction.
Laughing at the need for such consolation
I scrubbed the toilets in preparation for visitors
and wondered who will win this week's round.
Went to my mother's for some comfort food--
turkey legs and mashed potatoes--
one of my favorites since I was a kid
that she still makes for me from time to time
even though my stepfather hates it.
My mom explained to my grandmother
that I didn't want to kiss her hello
for fear of spreading germs. She responded
by shoving a piece of turkey down my throat
in typical grandma "food heals all" fashion.
The meal went well, I told my mom some
funny stories in between covered coughs
to pass the time as she cleaned up.
As she did the dishes in her big
yellow rubber gloves
she appeared to be Wonder Woman
or some other Superhero, which she still
is and always will be. After all, who else
would a little kid trust to remove splinters?
Who else would this punch-drunk
recalculator still confide in?
She packed some leftovers for me
asking if I was seeing anyone new
as I put my shoes on to leave.
When I shook my head tentatively
she responded to the transparent half-lie
with a jagged statement laden with latent advice:
"Good, you don't have time for women."
She wasn't done exhaling before I countered with
"Yeah, they cut into my drinking time
and get pissed when I ignore them in bed
for books." Pretending to be astounded
as I walked out the door she unsuccessfully hid
a proud laugh; she knew she didn't raise no fool.
Driving home in the still-present evening sun
I decided to call someone I may have
been able to comfort, but failed miserably.
I said something about hoping she was
enjoying the weather, she said it was a bit hard
considering she was at the wake.
And there you had it, the soft damp hum
of final radio silence.
Epic fail, in short.
Later on I was accused of being evasive
and informed that defense mechanisms
cause people to die younger.
"Good," I said, half joking.
"Why would you say that?"
"Because most of my other habits are self-
destructive. Why not be consistent?"
I smiled whatever a shit-eating grin must be
and wondered why people bother talking
to me anymore. After a day of dialogue
like today I might as well donate my
tongue to science, pre-mortem.
But maybe tomorrow when I go to work again
that old mason will be cutting his bricks at
the wet-saw again, whistling that sweet
40s Standard that only a man over sixty
can lull even the most angst-ridden beast
of a plumber with. And the only sound more
comforting than that will be her
quiet
snoring
Friday.
Currently reading:
"The Waste Land and Other Poems" by T.S. Eliot.
4.08.2008
4.07.2008
Some clarification on my alleged Misery, partially for myself.
Shitstorms come in threes, when it pains it whores or something like that, yadda yadda yadda. I can't seem to shake the shadow of death lately, though it ain't me in the valley. Once again the nefarious Mr. Vahsen manages to skate along the rim of the volcano, but this time he can't help but take some time to put it in perspective for himself and those who may judge him for his deceivingly pessimistic outlook. I've been thinking about the strange and unfortunate coincidences lately, but the flip-side of the coin was revealed to me in a way unusual to those other than my over-analytical self. See, I was driving to stupid plumbing class, windows down and a cigarette dangling from my lips, when I thought I noticed a friend coming towards me in the opposite lane on his motorcycle. Whenever I see a big, doofy bastard in a bright green jacket on a crotch-rocket of the same color I automatically assume it's him, only this time I was right. He put his hand out to say hello as he passed and I felt embarrassingly special as I braked for the traffic light and joined my fellow rush hour motorists. I took a drag and felt foolishly proud. Yeah, that's right, I know people. Good people. People who wave. And somehow, silly as it sounds, it got me thinking that it's time to acknowledge that the glass is in fact half full, though some of you may have just fallen out of your seats at such an astonishing revelation from your favorite incorrectly labeled misanthrope to stalk.
Without getting too into detail I'll briefly describe the first two-thirds of the recent eye-opener. An important character from the last innocent chapter of my life (yes, I had some of those) was recently diagnosed with a serious illness. A kindred soul with a spirit too different to accommodate just lost a close relative to cancer. (Maybe I should stop smoking.) And the kicker came today at work when word got out that an apprentice from a class two years ahead of me was killed by a drunk driver last night. I heard his last name and wondered if there was any relation to a kid I went to elementary school with since the wake is being held in the town we grew up in. I asked around at the union hall during plumbing class this evening and my assumption was correct, it was my old friend's older brother. Thinking back to the only memory I could really muster up from such an early age I was instantly brought back to the green vinyl seat of a schoolbus sixteen years ago. My friend had a backpack full of X-Men "action figures" (they're not dolls, dammit) that he was pawning off on me for some questionable reason. He briefly explained each superhero's mutant power and shoved them into my bookbag. When I asked him why he was getting rid of them so hastily (OK, so I didn't use that word back then) his succinct reply was that they were his older brother's. I got the vibe that they had gotten into a fight, and though it was wrong of me to accept his vengeful gift, it is highly difficult for an eight-year-old to turn down an entire assortment of new toys. Flash-forward a decade-and-a-half, a few dozen other dolls of sorts, and here I am: a grown-ass man with a dead kid's old toys in his mother's shed somewhere. It's enough to make a guy think twice about his whole immortality complex.
That sort of thing makes me feel bad for spending so much time and energy bitching about the trivialities. Granted, I use this medium to vent on a rather frequent basis, but please don't think by any means that that makes me a miserable human being. A lot of people joke about my so-called Misery, myself included, but it's all in good fun. Most people who take the time to get to know me would probably admit that I am actually a pretty positive person and can even be fun sober, though sometimes at the expense of others. It's more or less an identity thing really; Mike, the Miserable One who gets hammered alone on weeknights and whines about how much certain aspects of his life blow in pretty little stanzas. Don't be fooled, folks. I'm a'ight. In fact, I have a lot to be thankful for: a loving mother who's made more sacrifices than any martyr I know of, a great job with benefits that will allow me to support a family someday, coworkers who have taken me under their wings and filled the void of my estranged sperm-donor of a father, friends whose company is chosen by the beating of their hearts, a rabbit who licks my face and chews my beard when I get home, and maybe a few women who have tried to teach this stubborn prick what love really is. So there you have it, an apology for my favorite passtime. Don't get used to it. I eat haters like you for breakfast.
Currently reading:
"Come On In!" by Charles Bukowski.
Without getting too into detail I'll briefly describe the first two-thirds of the recent eye-opener. An important character from the last innocent chapter of my life (yes, I had some of those) was recently diagnosed with a serious illness. A kindred soul with a spirit too different to accommodate just lost a close relative to cancer. (Maybe I should stop smoking.) And the kicker came today at work when word got out that an apprentice from a class two years ahead of me was killed by a drunk driver last night. I heard his last name and wondered if there was any relation to a kid I went to elementary school with since the wake is being held in the town we grew up in. I asked around at the union hall during plumbing class this evening and my assumption was correct, it was my old friend's older brother. Thinking back to the only memory I could really muster up from such an early age I was instantly brought back to the green vinyl seat of a schoolbus sixteen years ago. My friend had a backpack full of X-Men "action figures" (they're not dolls, dammit) that he was pawning off on me for some questionable reason. He briefly explained each superhero's mutant power and shoved them into my bookbag. When I asked him why he was getting rid of them so hastily (OK, so I didn't use that word back then) his succinct reply was that they were his older brother's. I got the vibe that they had gotten into a fight, and though it was wrong of me to accept his vengeful gift, it is highly difficult for an eight-year-old to turn down an entire assortment of new toys. Flash-forward a decade-and-a-half, a few dozen other dolls of sorts, and here I am: a grown-ass man with a dead kid's old toys in his mother's shed somewhere. It's enough to make a guy think twice about his whole immortality complex.
That sort of thing makes me feel bad for spending so much time and energy bitching about the trivialities. Granted, I use this medium to vent on a rather frequent basis, but please don't think by any means that that makes me a miserable human being. A lot of people joke about my so-called Misery, myself included, but it's all in good fun. Most people who take the time to get to know me would probably admit that I am actually a pretty positive person and can even be fun sober, though sometimes at the expense of others. It's more or less an identity thing really; Mike, the Miserable One who gets hammered alone on weeknights and whines about how much certain aspects of his life blow in pretty little stanzas. Don't be fooled, folks. I'm a'ight. In fact, I have a lot to be thankful for: a loving mother who's made more sacrifices than any martyr I know of, a great job with benefits that will allow me to support a family someday, coworkers who have taken me under their wings and filled the void of my estranged sperm-donor of a father, friends whose company is chosen by the beating of their hearts, a rabbit who licks my face and chews my beard when I get home, and maybe a few women who have tried to teach this stubborn prick what love really is. So there you have it, an apology for my favorite passtime. Don't get used to it. I eat haters like you for breakfast.
Currently reading:
"Come On In!" by Charles Bukowski.
4.04.2008
For S.M., No. 327
Somehow the music faded away
as our hands met by accident
one night on a checkered floor
and we went with it anyway, made
that reach work for awhile.
Yours had stretched.
Mine had stretched.
Without knowing the extent
we went ahead like the fools
that we still were. After a month
mine had stretched yours.
Versions of what came next vary
as the middle of a long joke always does
so I'll keep this part vague
for faux friendship's sake.
Let's agree that we grew up together
too fast, perhaps, and our hearts
couldn't take the pace.
Sometimes I wish I could explain
but the statute of limitations is up
and it's more important that
you're content now
than whether or not I sleep soundly
due to deathbed confessions.
I started writing
on myself (both fig. and lit.)
or having others do it for me.
There's one looking up at me now, my third
ever, capable of being drawn with
four strokes of the pen, and it's
lines are thin and faded in places.
My muscles have grown in my line of work.
Mine have stretched.
I didn't plan on getting the second-to-last
but who ever does, really?
It was an excuse to reconcile again
and be for you what I couldn't the first time around.
I didn't blame you for leaving early
when my turn came; it's something
I prefer to do alone anyway
and it made the beer taste better.
Someone gave me that book recently
without knowing that I'd already read it
let alone why. It was no secret that
it'd still always remind me of that
time I saw you for three hours
and three hundred dollars, no secret
that she'd never change that, so I tried
that truth thing again.
She took it well.
I did, too, after a few drunk weak-
nights in my room.
All this thought over a gift that
I helped put on your body once.
Someday you'll find a fit father for them
(send one my way) and
yours will stretch, too.
Our lives out before us--
sometimes red carpets
sometimes gauntlets--
but always ours to make
better or worse
always expanding
until that big Last Call.
Yours will stretch.
Mine will stretch.
Years have stretched.
Months have stretched.
Years will stretch
Months will stretch.
That's just how life goes I guess.
That's just how we'll grow (confess):
Apart, together.
Currently reading:
"D.B. Cooper: What Really Happened" by Max Gunther.
as our hands met by accident
one night on a checkered floor
and we went with it anyway, made
that reach work for awhile.
Yours had stretched.
Mine had stretched.
Without knowing the extent
we went ahead like the fools
that we still were. After a month
mine had stretched yours.
Versions of what came next vary
as the middle of a long joke always does
so I'll keep this part vague
for faux friendship's sake.
Let's agree that we grew up together
too fast, perhaps, and our hearts
couldn't take the pace.
Sometimes I wish I could explain
but the statute of limitations is up
and it's more important that
you're content now
than whether or not I sleep soundly
due to deathbed confessions.
I started writing
on myself (both fig. and lit.)
or having others do it for me.
There's one looking up at me now, my third
ever, capable of being drawn with
four strokes of the pen, and it's
lines are thin and faded in places.
My muscles have grown in my line of work.
Mine have stretched.
I didn't plan on getting the second-to-last
but who ever does, really?
It was an excuse to reconcile again
and be for you what I couldn't the first time around.
I didn't blame you for leaving early
when my turn came; it's something
I prefer to do alone anyway
and it made the beer taste better.
Someone gave me that book recently
without knowing that I'd already read it
let alone why. It was no secret that
it'd still always remind me of that
time I saw you for three hours
and three hundred dollars, no secret
that she'd never change that, so I tried
that truth thing again.
She took it well.
I did, too, after a few drunk weak-
nights in my room.
All this thought over a gift that
I helped put on your body once.
Someday you'll find a fit father for them
(send one my way) and
yours will stretch, too.
Our lives out before us--
sometimes red carpets
sometimes gauntlets--
but always ours to make
better or worse
always expanding
until that big Last Call.
Yours will stretch.
Mine will stretch.
Years have stretched.
Months have stretched.
Years will stretch
Months will stretch.
That's just how life goes I guess.
That's just how we'll grow (confess):
Apart, together.
Currently reading:
"D.B. Cooper: What Really Happened" by Max Gunther.
4.02.2008
I don't call her Phoebe no more.
A month-and-a-half ago I bought a rabbit.
I'd had a few growing up, missed that simple
companionship, wanted to have something
to love and come home to that can't fuck
it up by talking. I knew I wanted a female
since they tend to make friendlier pets
(once anything with testicles reaches
puberty it becomes frustrated and ornery)
and thought I wanted a black one
since all of the others I had were
(creature of habit that I am).
I was proven wrong about the color preference
the minute I saw the store's one dwarf rabbit's
black and tan face, split down the middle;
I figured we already had one thing in common.
And I wasn't too far off
because for as sweet as she can be, she's
awfully mischievous at times.
Like when she developed the habit of hiding
under my bed. It was amusing at first
but the novelty faded once she started
refusing to come out, especially when I
was running late for something.
Then she kicked it up a notch
by chewing a hole in the felt lining underneath
my boxspring and would hop up inside of it.
All I'd see was the weight of her body
forcing her nails down through the thin, black
cloth. I'd try to coax her back down through
the hole, but it proved difficult so I tore some
more holes in the fabric. About three weeks went by
with this daily routine. Finally I got fed up
and ripped out the entire lining off the bottom of
the boxspring in a fit of desperate rage.
Later that night I felt terrible for taking her
hiding place away from her. How would I feel
if someone burned my bookshelf or broke
my keyboard?
I felt bad for awhile and took it out on her
by not letting her out the next night.
(It's funny how guilt works that way.)
I heard her rattling the door of her cage
with her teeth as I rattled my saber
in front of this screen and turned the music up
louder to drown out the noise.
Sorry, Rabbit, I guess
we
weren't each other's saviors
either.
The day after I let her out
in the hopes that she had
the fifteen-second memory
of a goldfish, such a promising
quality to possess. She pulled the
tattered cloth from under the bed
and played with it for old time's sake.
It was a truce for the time being.
A week later I noticed that my mattress
was no longer level, being a pipefitter and all.
Upon further inspection
I found that the two legs under the foot
of the bed had somehow been bent, either
from diving into bed after a hard day's work
or excessively aggressive extra-curriculars.
For fear of crushing the rabbit by accident
while reading (or something more and less exciting)
in bed one night I removed the frame
and settled for having the mattress on the boxspring
on the floor. So now she just jumps right on top of it
chewing the sheets, scratching at the comforter
shitting wherever she pleases when my back is turned
as I sit here typing this stupid anecdote.
The moral, if there must be, is of course
that women always win.
Well, at least until they meet
Yours Truly.
It all means nothing to you, far less
than the typical passive-aggressive, ambiguous
banter that I ramble on with here.
But maybe twenty years from now
it's something I'll want to remember, and thank
the gods that I'm no goldfish
for once.
I'd had a few growing up, missed that simple
companionship, wanted to have something
to love and come home to that can't fuck
it up by talking. I knew I wanted a female
since they tend to make friendlier pets
(once anything with testicles reaches
puberty it becomes frustrated and ornery)
and thought I wanted a black one
since all of the others I had were
(creature of habit that I am).
I was proven wrong about the color preference
the minute I saw the store's one dwarf rabbit's
black and tan face, split down the middle;
I figured we already had one thing in common.
And I wasn't too far off
because for as sweet as she can be, she's
awfully mischievous at times.
Like when she developed the habit of hiding
under my bed. It was amusing at first
but the novelty faded once she started
refusing to come out, especially when I
was running late for something.
Then she kicked it up a notch
by chewing a hole in the felt lining underneath
my boxspring and would hop up inside of it.
All I'd see was the weight of her body
forcing her nails down through the thin, black
cloth. I'd try to coax her back down through
the hole, but it proved difficult so I tore some
more holes in the fabric. About three weeks went by
with this daily routine. Finally I got fed up
and ripped out the entire lining off the bottom of
the boxspring in a fit of desperate rage.
Later that night I felt terrible for taking her
hiding place away from her. How would I feel
if someone burned my bookshelf or broke
my keyboard?
I felt bad for awhile and took it out on her
by not letting her out the next night.
(It's funny how guilt works that way.)
I heard her rattling the door of her cage
with her teeth as I rattled my saber
in front of this screen and turned the music up
louder to drown out the noise.
Sorry, Rabbit, I guess
we
weren't each other's saviors
either.
The day after I let her out
in the hopes that she had
the fifteen-second memory
of a goldfish, such a promising
quality to possess. She pulled the
tattered cloth from under the bed
and played with it for old time's sake.
It was a truce for the time being.
A week later I noticed that my mattress
was no longer level, being a pipefitter and all.
Upon further inspection
I found that the two legs under the foot
of the bed had somehow been bent, either
from diving into bed after a hard day's work
or excessively aggressive extra-curriculars.
For fear of crushing the rabbit by accident
while reading (or something more and less exciting)
in bed one night I removed the frame
and settled for having the mattress on the boxspring
on the floor. So now she just jumps right on top of it
chewing the sheets, scratching at the comforter
shitting wherever she pleases when my back is turned
as I sit here typing this stupid anecdote.
The moral, if there must be, is of course
that women always win.
Well, at least until they meet
Yours Truly.
It all means nothing to you, far less
than the typical passive-aggressive, ambiguous
banter that I ramble on with here.
But maybe twenty years from now
it's something I'll want to remember, and thank
the gods that I'm no goldfish
for once.
4.01.2008
So much for the double-header, again the booze got the better.
Today I picked up a check
from my union hall to reimburse
a dental bill I had. I don't have an
account with their bank
so a fingerprint and photo ID were required
to cash it. I knew the drill, fascist as it is
but didn't anticipate the remark from the bank teller
since I always expect it but never receive it
when handing over my license to buy booze
or smokes.
"This was a long time ago," he said
in reference to the young appearance
of my typically terrible license picture.
"Yeah," I replied as I forced air through
my nostrils in a barely audible laugh.
"My nose was broken and I had two black eyes
when I got it renewed a few years ago
so I passed on the new photo."
He shook his head and tapped his keyboard
some more while I waited for that laugh
that never comes. (I guess that incident is
only funny to me; it really was hard to hear him
that night at the bar, though.)
It was as though he didn't believe it was me
at first, beard and facial scars and all
but finally saw the resemblance in the eyes, still
just as stern
yet piercingly hopeful.
(Maybe I was handsome then, just didn't notice.
Now it's a far cry, especially on the inside, despite
a not-so-general consensus of the less fortunate.)
He counted my bills aloud, I shoved them into
my pocket and got the hell out of there
before he thought better and tried to
accuse me of impersonation.
And rightfully, perhaps.
While I'm at it, why is it that
people watch football in groups
but baseball alone?
Probably because
as much as I hate it, it's
a sport similar
to this.
from my union hall to reimburse
a dental bill I had. I don't have an
account with their bank
so a fingerprint and photo ID were required
to cash it. I knew the drill, fascist as it is
but didn't anticipate the remark from the bank teller
since I always expect it but never receive it
when handing over my license to buy booze
or smokes.
"This was a long time ago," he said
in reference to the young appearance
of my typically terrible license picture.
"Yeah," I replied as I forced air through
my nostrils in a barely audible laugh.
"My nose was broken and I had two black eyes
when I got it renewed a few years ago
so I passed on the new photo."
He shook his head and tapped his keyboard
some more while I waited for that laugh
that never comes. (I guess that incident is
only funny to me; it really was hard to hear him
that night at the bar, though.)
It was as though he didn't believe it was me
at first, beard and facial scars and all
but finally saw the resemblance in the eyes, still
just as stern
yet piercingly hopeful.
(Maybe I was handsome then, just didn't notice.
Now it's a far cry, especially on the inside, despite
a not-so-general consensus of the less fortunate.)
He counted my bills aloud, I shoved them into
my pocket and got the hell out of there
before he thought better and tried to
accuse me of impersonation.
And rightfully, perhaps.
While I'm at it, why is it that
people watch football in groups
but baseball alone?
Probably because
as much as I hate it, it's
a sport similar
to this.
3.30.2008
God doesn't read poetry on the shitter.
You'd think I would've learned not
to try to play God by now.
This last time I gave a Hundred up
to prove my drunken point and prevent
someone from making a bad
decision, travelwise.
I bought the ticket, but I don't think
she bought the speech that went along with it.
And who was I really trying to help, anyway?
Her? My friend? Or some latent inner child of my own
that wishes it could've had someone
to try to talk some sense into him
when it still would've counted?
Please, who'm I kidding?
I don't remember the last time I did something
purely philanthropic
other than make a cocktail for a friend.
Besides, they say that a truly noble act
is one that goes unclaimed.
I guess that answers our question.
Currently reading:
"How To Make Yourself Miserable" by Dan Greenburg.
to try to play God by now.
This last time I gave a Hundred up
to prove my drunken point and prevent
someone from making a bad
decision, travelwise.
I bought the ticket, but I don't think
she bought the speech that went along with it.
And who was I really trying to help, anyway?
Her? My friend? Or some latent inner child of my own
that wishes it could've had someone
to try to talk some sense into him
when it still would've counted?
Please, who'm I kidding?
I don't remember the last time I did something
purely philanthropic
other than make a cocktail for a friend.
Besides, they say that a truly noble act
is one that goes unclaimed.
I guess that answers our question.
Currently reading:
"How To Make Yourself Miserable" by Dan Greenburg.
3.27.2008
"Titled"
Act II, Scene 3:
"I realized yesterday what you smell like most times I see you."
"Polo Sport?"
"Alcohol."
(Defendant hides face in covers, Guilt enters stage left.
Awkward silence broken moments later:)
"How are you?"
"I am."
"You are? That's good..."
"I guess. Sometimes I don't want to be."
(Curtains close, Narrator returns to comfortable format.)
----------------------------------------------------------------
He started calling me the Spider, and
this tangled web looks like LSD was involved.
The goodbye hug would've been fitting, but that
wasn't her first or worst mistake;
I'm no poet, Phoebe, just a man
barely--
a hack
with a lot of pretty
alibis
who only wins on paper, if then.
My father's God gave me two gifts:
the charm of a teddy bear
politician
to draw them in
and a tongue like a whip
in the hands of a sadist
to take care of what tends to come
next, unfortunate as it is.
(Take them all, die trying.
Take no prisoners, least of all yourself.
Take whatever they're foolish enough to give
and act surprised when the void only grows.)
Some of them have it coming, at least I
admit that I am one of them.
When you boil all the bullshit down
it all makes sense:
I trust two people in this world, and one
of them's my mother.
"I realized yesterday what you smell like most times I see you."
"Polo Sport?"
"Alcohol."
(Defendant hides face in covers, Guilt enters stage left.
Awkward silence broken moments later:)
"How are you?"
"I am."
"You are? That's good..."
"I guess. Sometimes I don't want to be."
(Curtains close, Narrator returns to comfortable format.)
----------------------------------------------------------------
He started calling me the Spider, and
this tangled web looks like LSD was involved.
The goodbye hug would've been fitting, but that
wasn't her first or worst mistake;
I'm no poet, Phoebe, just a man
barely--
a hack
with a lot of pretty
alibis
who only wins on paper, if then.
My father's God gave me two gifts:
the charm of a teddy bear
politician
to draw them in
and a tongue like a whip
in the hands of a sadist
to take care of what tends to come
next, unfortunate as it is.
(Take them all, die trying.
Take no prisoners, least of all yourself.
Take whatever they're foolish enough to give
and act surprised when the void only grows.)
Some of them have it coming, at least I
admit that I am one of them.
When you boil all the bullshit down
it all makes sense:
I trust two people in this world, and one
of them's my mother.
3.25.2008
What if my favorite poets were bad kissers?
Q: How do you make that moment last forever?
Staring at the ceiling after
"goodbye" I blind myself
and only realize it when I look at the clock
to see how tired I'll be tomorrow morning.
Fixing my eyes back on the ceiling
I watch the fan blades spin
and grow disgusted at how the light bulbs
somehow manage to stay still
during the dance.
It seems an unholy act of some sort
that the two components of the fixture
don't move in unison
as they should
and I
am definitely not the lion
this time.
A: You don't. You just keep kissing until she pulls away.
Staring at the ceiling after
"goodbye" I blind myself
and only realize it when I look at the clock
to see how tired I'll be tomorrow morning.
Fixing my eyes back on the ceiling
I watch the fan blades spin
and grow disgusted at how the light bulbs
somehow manage to stay still
during the dance.
It seems an unholy act of some sort
that the two components of the fixture
don't move in unison
as they should
and I
am definitely not the lion
this time.
A: You don't. You just keep kissing until she pulls away.
3.24.2008
Any way to justify it.
I'm not sure who was the circus lion
jaws gaping in center ring
and who was the man with his head in its mouth
foolishly trusting in fate
but suddenly I remembered
what it was to lose so sweetly.
Currently reading: "The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze and Other Stories" by William Saroyan.
jaws gaping in center ring
and who was the man with his head in its mouth
foolishly trusting in fate
but suddenly I remembered
what it was to lose so sweetly.
Currently reading: "The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze and Other Stories" by William Saroyan.
3.18.2008
stop trying to play this game. (you suck at it.)
my rabbit chewed through the wire of my phone charger while i
was in the shower.
i was supposed to be recording with my band, but needed to be able
to be in contact
with the world the next day for recreational purposes.
i almost got clipped passing a tractor-trailer making a wide left turn
and didn't care; i
was on a mission.
when i went to the mall to replace it they didn't have any. i was
pissed.
the easter bunny was there, same color as my rabbit and all.
i wanted to punch it in the face for fucking up my afternoon
but refrained since children were around.
i walked in circles for awhile and saw a few people i didn't want
to, typical mall scenario.
(it's not finding yourself in someone
else, it's finding someone else in you.)
i called my friend who worked at a cell phone kiosk on the other
side of the county
and he told me to sit tight until he can pilfer one from work
on thursday.
i was relieved. and needed one of the twelve beers sitting in my car.
recording went well: finished tracking the song we were working
on; finished most of the beers.
my mom called me telling me to come get leftovers. i did, since
i couldn't tell her i shouldn't even be driving.
when i got there she had the bag of food ready. she gave me a
hug and smelled the chain-smoking on me
and didn't bother to say anything. i loved her even more for that.
fingering my keys as i opened the front door i mentioned that
i haven't seen him for a year and a half.
"i know," she said. she's been counting, too.
i walked out to my car and she said something about me
having another
new pair of shoes. "yeah," and i walked away.
on the ride home i tried my hardest and stayed in the lines. i
saw lights flashing
in the reflection of the back of a metallic road sign, but it
was some type of mirage.
i was secretly hoping my time was up. it wasn't.
(these nights happen. take my word for it
avoid me like the plague.)
i think we should see other people...well, i think
you should, too.
double-spacing isn't just for college students
who can't fill the void anymore, folks.
(yes, this is me mocking your poor attempt
at having venom stronger than mine.)
was in the shower.
i was supposed to be recording with my band, but needed to be able
to be in contact
with the world the next day for recreational purposes.
i almost got clipped passing a tractor-trailer making a wide left turn
and didn't care; i
was on a mission.
when i went to the mall to replace it they didn't have any. i was
pissed.
the easter bunny was there, same color as my rabbit and all.
i wanted to punch it in the face for fucking up my afternoon
but refrained since children were around.
i walked in circles for awhile and saw a few people i didn't want
to, typical mall scenario.
(it's not finding yourself in someone
else, it's finding someone else in you.)
i called my friend who worked at a cell phone kiosk on the other
side of the county
and he told me to sit tight until he can pilfer one from work
on thursday.
i was relieved. and needed one of the twelve beers sitting in my car.
recording went well: finished tracking the song we were working
on; finished most of the beers.
my mom called me telling me to come get leftovers. i did, since
i couldn't tell her i shouldn't even be driving.
when i got there she had the bag of food ready. she gave me a
hug and smelled the chain-smoking on me
and didn't bother to say anything. i loved her even more for that.
fingering my keys as i opened the front door i mentioned that
i haven't seen him for a year and a half.
"i know," she said. she's been counting, too.
i walked out to my car and she said something about me
having another
new pair of shoes. "yeah," and i walked away.
on the ride home i tried my hardest and stayed in the lines. i
saw lights flashing
in the reflection of the back of a metallic road sign, but it
was some type of mirage.
i was secretly hoping my time was up. it wasn't.
(these nights happen. take my word for it
avoid me like the plague.)
i think we should see other people...well, i think
you should, too.
double-spacing isn't just for college students
who can't fill the void anymore, folks.
(yes, this is me mocking your poor attempt
at having venom stronger than mine.)
3.16.2008
...and after his death his works were translated into Esperanto.
I'm half-done with Kurt Vonnegut's "Player Piano"
and it's taking its toll on me. His bleak glimpse
into a machine-controlled future still cursed by human nature
is disheartening enough in an eerie Big Brother sort of way
but that's not even what's been making it so hard to read.
The copy itself is over thirty years old and is falling apart.
An entire section thirty-pages long fell out after one session
and the pages are loosening themselves from the binding
more and more the further I go on. It's like in the Roadrunner
cartoons when the Coyote went out on the ledge and it collapsed
behind his every step. I'm being as gentle as I can with it, not taking
it to work to read on lunch break in my car or anything like that, but
it's really no use; this will be the last time anyone reads this
particular copy of the book. I won't be able to thumb through it again
like an old friend, a conquered love, finding highlighted passages
and trying to remember what the hell I was going through in my life
at the time to make me identify with those words. I will never be
the confused Paul Proteus again. It'll just sit on the shelf
like an empty shell of a person staring blankly back at me, mocking
me with its uselessness.
And then there's the third dilemma bringing me down: which book
to read next? I have twelve new ones piled up on top of my bookshelf
waiting their turns to be introduced to the crowd of familiar titles
below, but I'm not sure which venture to pursue first.
There are some shiny new ones that seem like promising chances
at redemption for this latest failure.
And there are some more old ones that I fear may fall apart as well.
I don't know if I can handle that scenario again, but they're mine
for at least this last time
and then they'll be shelved forever, a hazy memory from a too-good
party where you passed out next to a stranger and woke more alone
than Vonnegut in his grave.
It's all on account that I need to own my books, never borrow them.
What if I want them around sometime to keep me company
but can't have them? How very unfortunate
that would be, friend.
And that's just what you are, though I don't deserve it.
It seems I couldn't handle
finally being
understood.
and it's taking its toll on me. His bleak glimpse
into a machine-controlled future still cursed by human nature
is disheartening enough in an eerie Big Brother sort of way
but that's not even what's been making it so hard to read.
The copy itself is over thirty years old and is falling apart.
An entire section thirty-pages long fell out after one session
and the pages are loosening themselves from the binding
more and more the further I go on. It's like in the Roadrunner
cartoons when the Coyote went out on the ledge and it collapsed
behind his every step. I'm being as gentle as I can with it, not taking
it to work to read on lunch break in my car or anything like that, but
it's really no use; this will be the last time anyone reads this
particular copy of the book. I won't be able to thumb through it again
like an old friend, a conquered love, finding highlighted passages
and trying to remember what the hell I was going through in my life
at the time to make me identify with those words. I will never be
the confused Paul Proteus again. It'll just sit on the shelf
like an empty shell of a person staring blankly back at me, mocking
me with its uselessness.
And then there's the third dilemma bringing me down: which book
to read next? I have twelve new ones piled up on top of my bookshelf
waiting their turns to be introduced to the crowd of familiar titles
below, but I'm not sure which venture to pursue first.
There are some shiny new ones that seem like promising chances
at redemption for this latest failure.
And there are some more old ones that I fear may fall apart as well.
I don't know if I can handle that scenario again, but they're mine
for at least this last time
and then they'll be shelved forever, a hazy memory from a too-good
party where you passed out next to a stranger and woke more alone
than Vonnegut in his grave.
It's all on account that I need to own my books, never borrow them.
What if I want them around sometime to keep me company
but can't have them? How very unfortunate
that would be, friend.
And that's just what you are, though I don't deserve it.
It seems I couldn't handle
finally being
understood.
3.13.2008
rice and beans and guilt.
at weekly family dinner tonight
i felt an arm pull up the sleeve of my t-shirt slightly
as my mother, stepfather and i
carried on our shallow conversation. my grandmother
speculated silently on the tattoos she always forgets.
i've gotten them over the last six years, but
they're new to her every week, alzheimer's and all.
maybe it was wrong of me to keep my head turned
and ignore her, but i'm tired of trying to explain.
she raked her fork across her plate violently
and muttered something spanish and incoherent
under her breath as the meal and the banter went on.
after my stepfather's cocktails, the barely pink
vodkas and cranberry he calls cape codders
and glass of red with dinner
kicked in, my mom roped me into the kitchen
for our brief weekly talk.
at one point during our stereotypically ethnic
animated discussion i was waving my arms
in typical fashion and she noticed
my latest addition. grabbing my arm
and tightening her lips she asked
if i'd gotten another one, like she didn't know already.
i shrugged it off. she protested my hobby yet again
claiming she missed the bare arms i was born with.
this one meant something, but i wasn't ready to elaborate.
i countered with nothing and tried my hardest
to change the subject. she turned her back
and continued doing the dishes. in a comedic attempt
i grabbed a plastic shopping bag and pulled it over her head.
she went along with the joke by sucking air, pulling
the thin yellow plastic into her mouth.
we both laughed and realized how
odd our relationship is at times, two old souls
who know how to laugh
at the undying futility of it all. she forgot the reason she was mad
and i was relieved not to have to stumble any further
not that she didn't know already. she birthed a malcontent
and knows it, a plumber with a hard-on
for dead guys with a few last breaths worth remembering
but she knows she raised me right, proud of this mess somehow
and knows it'll be back next thursday.
(survivors breed survivors, but that's her story to tell
sometime.)
she handed me a bag of leftovers and hugged me goodbye.
i'll be back, tattoos and all.
i have to;
puerto rican women pray, you know.
i felt an arm pull up the sleeve of my t-shirt slightly
as my mother, stepfather and i
carried on our shallow conversation. my grandmother
speculated silently on the tattoos she always forgets.
i've gotten them over the last six years, but
they're new to her every week, alzheimer's and all.
maybe it was wrong of me to keep my head turned
and ignore her, but i'm tired of trying to explain.
she raked her fork across her plate violently
and muttered something spanish and incoherent
under her breath as the meal and the banter went on.
after my stepfather's cocktails, the barely pink
vodkas and cranberry he calls cape codders
and glass of red with dinner
kicked in, my mom roped me into the kitchen
for our brief weekly talk.
at one point during our stereotypically ethnic
animated discussion i was waving my arms
in typical fashion and she noticed
my latest addition. grabbing my arm
and tightening her lips she asked
if i'd gotten another one, like she didn't know already.
i shrugged it off. she protested my hobby yet again
claiming she missed the bare arms i was born with.
this one meant something, but i wasn't ready to elaborate.
i countered with nothing and tried my hardest
to change the subject. she turned her back
and continued doing the dishes. in a comedic attempt
i grabbed a plastic shopping bag and pulled it over her head.
she went along with the joke by sucking air, pulling
the thin yellow plastic into her mouth.
we both laughed and realized how
odd our relationship is at times, two old souls
who know how to laugh
at the undying futility of it all. she forgot the reason she was mad
and i was relieved not to have to stumble any further
not that she didn't know already. she birthed a malcontent
and knows it, a plumber with a hard-on
for dead guys with a few last breaths worth remembering
but she knows she raised me right, proud of this mess somehow
and knows it'll be back next thursday.
(survivors breed survivors, but that's her story to tell
sometime.)
she handed me a bag of leftovers and hugged me goodbye.
i'll be back, tattoos and all.
i have to;
puerto rican women pray, you know.
3.11.2008
a fellow stray
There was a dog roaming the neighborhood--
some mutt, mostly yellow lab--
who ravaged garbage cans left and right.
I'd cleaned up the aftermath of its wrath
in my yard on more than one occasion
swearing I'd devise a plan to end the nuisance.
One afternoon when I'd seen the bastard on the prowl
I opened the garage door and put some enticing food
towards the back. When the pooch wandered in I snuck
up and closed the garage door. That's when the brilliant
part of my scheme kicked in. Grabbing a safety pin
and the Ziploc bag with the note I'd written in it
I approached the dog slowly and fastened the bag to its collar.
The note inside would reach its owner safely, get the point across:
DEAR OWNER--
PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOG IN YOUR YARD
SINCE YOUR NEIGHBORS ARE TIRED OF CLEANING UP
THE MESS YOUR PET MAKES OF THEIR GARBAGE CANS.
WE JUST MAY ACCIDENTALLY SLIP SOME GROUND-UP GLASS
INTO THE LEFTOVER MEATBALLS SOMETIME SOON.
SINCERELY,
YOUR APPRECIATIVE NEIGHBOR(S)
A shallow threat, of course, though I figured it'd get
the point across. I'd sooner slit my own wrists
again than harm some other animal
just following its gut instinct, but something
had to be done. Figured I was doing the right thing
as per usual, when it hurts them anyway.
I was riding home two weeks later
when I saw a blonde, crumpled mess
on the side of the road
not unlike the ones tangled in my sheets
only this one was on the side of the road.
As I rode by I noticed what it was, saw
the Ziploc bag still intact and pinned to its collar.
I guess it didn't belong to anyone.
It was just a stray looking for a bite to eat
just another one of us scavengers.
I felt bad for two seconds, then relief
came when a song I liked popped on the radio:
"I love another
stranger, just thought
this was the best way
to tell you."
Then I exhaled
threw the butt out the window
and rolled it up
before pulling into my driveway.
Currently reading:
"Player Piano" by Kurt Vonnegut.
some mutt, mostly yellow lab--
who ravaged garbage cans left and right.
I'd cleaned up the aftermath of its wrath
in my yard on more than one occasion
swearing I'd devise a plan to end the nuisance.
One afternoon when I'd seen the bastard on the prowl
I opened the garage door and put some enticing food
towards the back. When the pooch wandered in I snuck
up and closed the garage door. That's when the brilliant
part of my scheme kicked in. Grabbing a safety pin
and the Ziploc bag with the note I'd written in it
I approached the dog slowly and fastened the bag to its collar.
The note inside would reach its owner safely, get the point across:
DEAR OWNER--
PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOG IN YOUR YARD
SINCE YOUR NEIGHBORS ARE TIRED OF CLEANING UP
THE MESS YOUR PET MAKES OF THEIR GARBAGE CANS.
WE JUST MAY ACCIDENTALLY SLIP SOME GROUND-UP GLASS
INTO THE LEFTOVER MEATBALLS SOMETIME SOON.
SINCERELY,
YOUR APPRECIATIVE NEIGHBOR(S)
A shallow threat, of course, though I figured it'd get
the point across. I'd sooner slit my own wrists
again than harm some other animal
just following its gut instinct, but something
had to be done. Figured I was doing the right thing
as per usual, when it hurts them anyway.
I was riding home two weeks later
when I saw a blonde, crumpled mess
on the side of the road
not unlike the ones tangled in my sheets
only this one was on the side of the road.
As I rode by I noticed what it was, saw
the Ziploc bag still intact and pinned to its collar.
I guess it didn't belong to anyone.
It was just a stray looking for a bite to eat
just another one of us scavengers.
I felt bad for two seconds, then relief
came when a song I liked popped on the radio:
"I love another
stranger, just thought
this was the best way
to tell you."
Then I exhaled
threw the butt out the window
and rolled it up
before pulling into my driveway.
Currently reading:
"Player Piano" by Kurt Vonnegut.
3.09.2008
Ain't no Aesop.
We'd left off without finishing the last branch
of sewer line the day before, the fittings
and cut-to-length pipe were waiting
for us in the trench the next morning.
I picked up the quarter-bend 90
to shove its corresponding pipe into
the socket of the fitting. I finished waking up
when, upon flipping it around, I doused my work
jeans in stale piss. Someone had decided to mess
with the plumbers in typical fashion the night before
by relieving himself in our trap assembly.
Not a nice way to start the day.
My partner and I were close to certain we knew
who it was, the same little weasel who constantly
gave us shit for no good reason, the pencil-pushing
toolshed mandatory to every job, the only one here
late enough to pull this stunt off.
I cursed, my foreman laughed until he realized I wasn't kidding.
The day went on.
Coffee time came and all of the tradesmen
gathered around the truck to buy their egg sandwiches.
I saw the laborer that lives near another foreman in our company
the one who tried marrying me off to his daughter, then settled
for having me as his bastard son
when he accepted my lack of desire to mix work and play.
I asked this laborer if he had any funny stories about the old man
like everyone else seems to, maybe one about him hunting
out of his truck or shooting deer through his bathroom window.
He went on to tell me a story that caused some neighborly tension.
A couple years ago my buddy was hunting in the woods adjacent
to both of their homes with his nephew. Shots rang out
through the dimming forest, but when the two men
came stomping out of the treeline they were empty-handed.
The laborer told me that my foreman said he tracked the deer
for a hundred yards, but lost the blood trail and had to give up
since he had a dinner to attend. This didn't go over so well, leaving
a wounded animal to die unclaimed in the woods
especially since it was going to rain soon so the trail would be lost.
The laborer called a friend and the two of them hunted it down.
They could hear the high-pitched cries of the dying deer, it didn't
take long to find. When they did, they were appalled.
There on the ground lay a fawn dragging itself slowly
across the leaves, six feet of its intestines trailing behind it.
It had been shot in the guts by accident, a slow and painful death.
After putting the baby deer, not even legal to shoot, out of its misery
the two men carried its body to a nearby stream
and disposed of the body.
Young meat is tender, as we know,
but not worth getting caught with, as we also know.
(Unless, of course, it's really worth it.)
When the laborer confronted my buddy the next day about the
incident it wasn't pretty. He claimed he had shot
a six-point buck, not a fawn
and said that he'd find the deer and bring its antlers back as proof.
Sure enough, the next morning a six-point rack hacked off with a saw
was sitting in the laborers driveway. It probably came from the
collection mounted to his garage wall
but the matter was settled for the time being.
I paid for the laborers coffee order like some kind
of penance on behalf of my adopted father
and rejoined the rest of my pipe-fitting brethren.
"Jesus, Kid. That guy was talkin' your ear off."
"Yeah, he was telling me something."
"What could a stupid laborer possibly tell a college boy like you?"
"The same thing that I learned this morning with the piss incident."
"Oh Christ, another riddle. Whatever, go grab me some napkins
before the coffee truck takes off."
The rest of the day went faster since there were no more reminders that people
are only human, at best
that being enough
to justify my cigarette falling into a pile of paperwork that my elbow
brushed off a desk and into a trashcan in the office
of that pencil-pusher with a weak bladder.
Us "college boys" are just as petty as we are profound.
Currently reading:
"Steppenwolf" by Hermann Hesse.
of sewer line the day before, the fittings
and cut-to-length pipe were waiting
for us in the trench the next morning.
I picked up the quarter-bend 90
to shove its corresponding pipe into
the socket of the fitting. I finished waking up
when, upon flipping it around, I doused my work
jeans in stale piss. Someone had decided to mess
with the plumbers in typical fashion the night before
by relieving himself in our trap assembly.
Not a nice way to start the day.
My partner and I were close to certain we knew
who it was, the same little weasel who constantly
gave us shit for no good reason, the pencil-pushing
toolshed mandatory to every job, the only one here
late enough to pull this stunt off.
I cursed, my foreman laughed until he realized I wasn't kidding.
The day went on.
Coffee time came and all of the tradesmen
gathered around the truck to buy their egg sandwiches.
I saw the laborer that lives near another foreman in our company
the one who tried marrying me off to his daughter, then settled
for having me as his bastard son
when he accepted my lack of desire to mix work and play.
I asked this laborer if he had any funny stories about the old man
like everyone else seems to, maybe one about him hunting
out of his truck or shooting deer through his bathroom window.
He went on to tell me a story that caused some neighborly tension.
A couple years ago my buddy was hunting in the woods adjacent
to both of their homes with his nephew. Shots rang out
through the dimming forest, but when the two men
came stomping out of the treeline they were empty-handed.
The laborer told me that my foreman said he tracked the deer
for a hundred yards, but lost the blood trail and had to give up
since he had a dinner to attend. This didn't go over so well, leaving
a wounded animal to die unclaimed in the woods
especially since it was going to rain soon so the trail would be lost.
The laborer called a friend and the two of them hunted it down.
They could hear the high-pitched cries of the dying deer, it didn't
take long to find. When they did, they were appalled.
There on the ground lay a fawn dragging itself slowly
across the leaves, six feet of its intestines trailing behind it.
It had been shot in the guts by accident, a slow and painful death.
After putting the baby deer, not even legal to shoot, out of its misery
the two men carried its body to a nearby stream
and disposed of the body.
Young meat is tender, as we know,
but not worth getting caught with, as we also know.
(Unless, of course, it's really worth it.)
When the laborer confronted my buddy the next day about the
incident it wasn't pretty. He claimed he had shot
a six-point buck, not a fawn
and said that he'd find the deer and bring its antlers back as proof.
Sure enough, the next morning a six-point rack hacked off with a saw
was sitting in the laborers driveway. It probably came from the
collection mounted to his garage wall
but the matter was settled for the time being.
I paid for the laborers coffee order like some kind
of penance on behalf of my adopted father
and rejoined the rest of my pipe-fitting brethren.
"Jesus, Kid. That guy was talkin' your ear off."
"Yeah, he was telling me something."
"What could a stupid laborer possibly tell a college boy like you?"
"The same thing that I learned this morning with the piss incident."
"Oh Christ, another riddle. Whatever, go grab me some napkins
before the coffee truck takes off."
The rest of the day went faster since there were no more reminders that people
are only human, at best
that being enough
to justify my cigarette falling into a pile of paperwork that my elbow
brushed off a desk and into a trashcan in the office
of that pencil-pusher with a weak bladder.
Us "college boys" are just as petty as we are profound.
Currently reading:
"Steppenwolf" by Hermann Hesse.
3.05.2008
Who hits on a Jack and a 10?
Hadn't thought of her for days, new blood in my veins
until I had the misfortune of running into a cow-
orker I hadn't seen in weeks.
Witnessing my thick beard for the first time
he asks, "What happened?"
I tell him I've been trying to attract older women
for a change. He shrugs it off and tells me he worked
for Helmet & Scronin last week and their foreman
Quiet Kev the Carpenter asked for me.
My toes curl in my workboots as I wonder
if that guy ever realized that stain on the wall of his living room
came from a beer bottle intended for his
daughter's pretty face, and/or tight torso
the night I found out she didn't come over
because she had invited her ex over to play Blackjack
and God only knows what else, and lied about it.
Johnny asks why I'm zoning out
so I make something up
about a hangover that's had me out of it all day.
A fellow drunk should understand, but he knows better
since we've hit them pretty hard together after work before
and both been fine the next morning, exchanging sly looks
of "Yeah, I know you tied one on" in passing all day.
He shakes his head in quiet disbelief, follows up
with "Shave that thing, will you?"
Disregarding his words
I think of that night, how my friends had to follow the cab
I called, against their advice
and pull me out of the house, two long-necks of Killian's
in my coat pockets and whiskey in my gut.
I guess it's time to call it even:
I made a whore of her, she made a monster of me.
I tell Johnny the truth, in a way, since we both know
no man likes older women, experience or not:
"I'm better off in hiding for now," then mutter
something about mirrors under my breath
which only confuses him further.
The small talk runs dry. As we shake
hands the grease and copper filings
that come with being a plumber
laugh at me from under my nails.
I know the scrubbing in the shower later will be useless;
some dirt only comes off with time.
until I had the misfortune of running into a cow-
orker I hadn't seen in weeks.
Witnessing my thick beard for the first time
he asks, "What happened?"
I tell him I've been trying to attract older women
for a change. He shrugs it off and tells me he worked
for Helmet & Scronin last week and their foreman
Quiet Kev the Carpenter asked for me.
My toes curl in my workboots as I wonder
if that guy ever realized that stain on the wall of his living room
came from a beer bottle intended for his
daughter's pretty face, and/or tight torso
the night I found out she didn't come over
because she had invited her ex over to play Blackjack
and God only knows what else, and lied about it.
Johnny asks why I'm zoning out
so I make something up
about a hangover that's had me out of it all day.
A fellow drunk should understand, but he knows better
since we've hit them pretty hard together after work before
and both been fine the next morning, exchanging sly looks
of "Yeah, I know you tied one on" in passing all day.
He shakes his head in quiet disbelief, follows up
with "Shave that thing, will you?"
Disregarding his words
I think of that night, how my friends had to follow the cab
I called, against their advice
and pull me out of the house, two long-necks of Killian's
in my coat pockets and whiskey in my gut.
I guess it's time to call it even:
I made a whore of her, she made a monster of me.
I tell Johnny the truth, in a way, since we both know
no man likes older women, experience or not:
"I'm better off in hiding for now," then mutter
something about mirrors under my breath
which only confuses him further.
The small talk runs dry. As we shake
hands the grease and copper filings
that come with being a plumber
laugh at me from under my nails.
I know the scrubbing in the shower later will be useless;
some dirt only comes off with time.
dead men tell tales, alright.
i'm almost done with "twenty thousand leagues under the sea" by ya' boy jules verne and i've come to a disheartening discovery: captain nemo and company don't actually chill hard as hell twenty g's under the surface of the ocean, they just happen to travel that distance while under the fucking water most of the time. not even all the time, most! what a let-down. you'd think the dude that wrote "journey to the center of the earth" would have the balls to pretend that part of the sea is in fact twenty thousand leagues deep, which is a pretty long fuckin' way, even though i can't honestly tell you how far a league actually is (but a fathom is six feet!). i really don't think i'm expecting too much here. i asked jello what he thought the title meant while grillin' face at the chinese buffet tonight and he made the same assumption that i did, so i'm obviously right in my analysis of the situation. jules verne, you are a deceptive little frenchman and i'm glad you made a hypocrite of yourself and tarnished the glory of your early career by renouncing scientific advancement and technology in your latter years. fuck this science fiction nonsense, i'm sticking to what i know and love: oprah's book club novels!
3.04.2008
my nightly nervous breakdown and a grain of salt.
i'd just gotten done doing the dishes. this silly musical candle my mom put on the birthday cake she made for me last week was sitting next to the sink. i was pretty sure i didn't touch it in the process of rinsing the plates, which is why it creeped me out to hear "happy birthday" playing downstairs after i had finished. the simple melody crept up the stairs and made the darkened rooms down there feel haunted with that same eerie feeling that clowns and other seemingly innocent pastimes give me.
i scrambled down the staircase and tried jiggling the mechanism at the bottom of the candle but the tune wouldn't stop. i pictured my mom calling me into the kitchen that night, the lights dimmed, and how proud of herself she was over the little gimmick that secretly made me miserable for the same reason as the snow globe she got me for christmas when i was a kid after the divorce that played "have yourself a merry little christmas"; we couldn't anymore, just like the cute family birthday party days are long gone, and the family practically is, too. now it's reduced to my favorite home-cooked meal accompanied by a card with a gift certificate to a bookstore since reading is my only real hobby anymore. thank the gods for those convenient little worlds to escape to in the short bit of spare time i have before bed each night, assuming i'm sober enough to make sense of the words. welcome to the terrible twenties, where thirty and the end of your life as you know it feels just around the corner, because it is. a friend asked me last night if i fear getting old. to answer truthfully, i'm afraid that i already am. a real job, real bills, and a laundry list of guilt for what i've done and regret for what i haven't (which they say is worse).
when the faucet couldn't silence the damn thing i dunked it in the dish basin in the hopes that being submersed would douse the flame. no such luck. the song was slower, the tiny gears hindered, but the band played on. i tried it again for ten seconds instead of five, again to no avail; the volume diminished for a couple seconds after the baptism but turned right back up once the water dripped out. i snapped the bottom piece where the music came from off of the wax part of the candle, threw them both into the sink, and started to walk away. halfway up the stairs i turned around and headed back to the kitchen. i wouldn't be able to sleep thinking it was still playing underwater like some sort of wounded soldier, even though i hated it for somehow bringing out such drastic emotions unnecessarily. i mean really, who gets so upset over a trite children's song with its rights currently owned by michael jackson? that was a rhetorical question.
sure enough the little bastard was still playing. i could just barely make out the melody coming from underwater, or maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me again. i retrieved it and heard the volume and speed increase once more. something had to be done about this crippled memory or i'd have one more reason to toss and turn all night. the garbage can didn't seem permanent enough. i walked over to the woodstove, opened the door, and tossed it in. it landed on a bed of bright orange coals so hot that they were almost transparent. the plastic melted and the song slowed down for the final time in a fashion that assured me of its permanence, a thing hard to come by and harder to keep. when the dirge died down i closed the door of the stove and headed back to the stairs. a faint popping sound came from inside the stove. it was finally over. i'd say i sighed, but that'd be lying. i just knew i'd sleep better.
this is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. it's no wonder i am the way i am and the cycle keeps repeating.
but hey, the rabbit found a new hiding place inside the bottom of my box-spring. bending down in search of her under my bed, lifting the dust ruffler, and seeing her nails poke down through the fabric from her weight just may be reason to justify it for long enough to get through another day of this self-flagellation (look it up). it's a good thing, too; sometimes people just aren't enough. and do i owe michael jackson some sort of royalty payment for this one?
i scrambled down the staircase and tried jiggling the mechanism at the bottom of the candle but the tune wouldn't stop. i pictured my mom calling me into the kitchen that night, the lights dimmed, and how proud of herself she was over the little gimmick that secretly made me miserable for the same reason as the snow globe she got me for christmas when i was a kid after the divorce that played "have yourself a merry little christmas"; we couldn't anymore, just like the cute family birthday party days are long gone, and the family practically is, too. now it's reduced to my favorite home-cooked meal accompanied by a card with a gift certificate to a bookstore since reading is my only real hobby anymore. thank the gods for those convenient little worlds to escape to in the short bit of spare time i have before bed each night, assuming i'm sober enough to make sense of the words. welcome to the terrible twenties, where thirty and the end of your life as you know it feels just around the corner, because it is. a friend asked me last night if i fear getting old. to answer truthfully, i'm afraid that i already am. a real job, real bills, and a laundry list of guilt for what i've done and regret for what i haven't (which they say is worse).
when the faucet couldn't silence the damn thing i dunked it in the dish basin in the hopes that being submersed would douse the flame. no such luck. the song was slower, the tiny gears hindered, but the band played on. i tried it again for ten seconds instead of five, again to no avail; the volume diminished for a couple seconds after the baptism but turned right back up once the water dripped out. i snapped the bottom piece where the music came from off of the wax part of the candle, threw them both into the sink, and started to walk away. halfway up the stairs i turned around and headed back to the kitchen. i wouldn't be able to sleep thinking it was still playing underwater like some sort of wounded soldier, even though i hated it for somehow bringing out such drastic emotions unnecessarily. i mean really, who gets so upset over a trite children's song with its rights currently owned by michael jackson? that was a rhetorical question.
sure enough the little bastard was still playing. i could just barely make out the melody coming from underwater, or maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me again. i retrieved it and heard the volume and speed increase once more. something had to be done about this crippled memory or i'd have one more reason to toss and turn all night. the garbage can didn't seem permanent enough. i walked over to the woodstove, opened the door, and tossed it in. it landed on a bed of bright orange coals so hot that they were almost transparent. the plastic melted and the song slowed down for the final time in a fashion that assured me of its permanence, a thing hard to come by and harder to keep. when the dirge died down i closed the door of the stove and headed back to the stairs. a faint popping sound came from inside the stove. it was finally over. i'd say i sighed, but that'd be lying. i just knew i'd sleep better.
this is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. it's no wonder i am the way i am and the cycle keeps repeating.
but hey, the rabbit found a new hiding place inside the bottom of my box-spring. bending down in search of her under my bed, lifting the dust ruffler, and seeing her nails poke down through the fabric from her weight just may be reason to justify it for long enough to get through another day of this self-flagellation (look it up). it's a good thing, too; sometimes people just aren't enough. and do i owe michael jackson some sort of royalty payment for this one?
3.03.2008
some quick advice, unless you'd prefer to join me
the next time you go
to give
it
[and That , if you're
"lucky"]
out so freely
(yours being one of the three #s
you always remember [,] Drunk) ,
be sure to ask her if she Spells
it with one ( Insert Letter Here )
or Two. (sp?)
or don't;
I'll be sure to save a seat
at the next meeting.
(Don't forget your due$, we pay them for life.)
to give
it
[and That , if you're
"lucky"]
out so freely
(yours being one of the three #s
you always remember [,] Drunk) ,
be sure to ask her if she Spells
it with one ( Insert Letter Here )
or Two. (sp?)
or don't;
I'll be sure to save a seat
at the next meeting.
(Don't forget your due$, we pay them for life.)
2.27.2008
Balls.
maybe five years ago I would've bitten, but
for now just be thankful I left it where I did.
throw yourself into Life, Kid, not me
not Death.
(a hundred would trade, easily; you got off
easy,
they wish we never did.)
consider this a blessing in disguise.
you get a new life, I get to repeat mine;
Groundhog Day, sans Bill Murray.
(the Holy Ghost was the poor man's Christ,
who in turn paled next to the Creator--
if allowed to trickle down I'll stretch it
by throwing in one about televangelists for emphasis.)
still spitting blood, just not as much/
my teeth still wiggle, they're not as tight
though somehow the broads still are.
(now I know why Bogey told him to play it again.)
that being said,
"It sure is nice not having to finish my sen...
labels are funny, alright. :
I just want to get dirty
feet
from chasing her around
half naked on my hard wood
floors.
when she goes
she'll go big, maybe I'll go
with her.
for now I'd almost be happy just being able
to leave her
in my bed when I go to work in the morning.
(did I mention that despite my
penchant for whiskey and womanizing
[in that order]
I have a pension plan?)
I always suspected that there were
cameras in the confessional.
for now just be thankful I left it where I did.
throw yourself into Life, Kid, not me
not Death.
(a hundred would trade, easily; you got off
easy,
they wish we never did.)
consider this a blessing in disguise.
you get a new life, I get to repeat mine;
Groundhog Day, sans Bill Murray.
(the Holy Ghost was the poor man's Christ,
who in turn paled next to the Creator--
if allowed to trickle down I'll stretch it
by throwing in one about televangelists for emphasis.)
still spitting blood, just not as much/
my teeth still wiggle, they're not as tight
though somehow the broads still are.
(now I know why Bogey told him to play it again.)
that being said,
"It sure is nice not having to finish my sen...
labels are funny, alright. :
I just want to get dirty
feet
from chasing her around
half naked on my hard wood
floors.
when she goes
she'll go big, maybe I'll go
with her.
for now I'd almost be happy just being able
to leave her
in my bed when I go to work in the morning.
(did I mention that despite my
penchant for whiskey and womanizing
[in that order]
I have a pension plan?)
I always suspected that there were
cameras in the confessional.
2.20.2008
ancient history
but we went to work for the cocksucker anyway, and
lo and behold another poor bastard of a
soon-to-be-duped sub-contractor, this one
saw-cutting the concrete in the basement so we can
lay our pipe, hops out of his van.
i note the door's distant address, the hometown of the half of the family
that doesn't send cards anymore, making a point
to ask him later.
later comes, again. (later always does.)
being the resident native they ask me where we're eating.
a greasy spoon my friends swear by comes to mind, the
special sauce and hot dogs and paper plates.
the meal is relatively silent, the other three cursing me mentally
for bringing them to this hole in the wall.
i break it by asking that new guy chopping the slab
if he remembers Vahsen's Tavern down by the train station
in port chester.
his eyes light up, "60s and 70s, right?
that was a happenin' place."
"yeah, but my dad didn't want to take it over when it came time
after seeing what it did to his family..."
i try to put a brighter spin-- "his friends
on the football team in high school were the bouncers, and
i'm pretty sure he got a lot of ass out of the gig, too."
my two coworkers look at me somehow differently
like someone with roots, not the better-than-average spic
they tend to see me as; the diamond in the rican rough
is just as german and italian as you bitter old fucks.
it feels good to rub it in without saying a word, and
my win is two-fold:
the special sauce doesn't sit well with my middle-aged
union brothers. they piss and moan about my dud
of a suggestion, and the man
from my old man's old stomping grounds
picks up the bill as a sign of good faith
or maybe to try to pay some sort of past debt
like he forgot to tip the grandfather i never met
one drunken night in his glory days, long past.
we walk back to the site after lunch is over. (lunch always ends.)
things start up smoothly, balls of fire in that trench
popping those lengths of four-inch cast-iron together
like it's nobody's business. the wind pierces the denim, my legs
will be dry tonight, but for now the heat's in the tools
and it feels good to be on such a roll
proving myself at something i don't even entirely know how to do yet
let alone love.
part of that motivation comes from our lunch break conversation
part of it from the desire to keep moving to stay warm
and maybe a larger fraction than i'd like to admit
from the will to impress my partners, despite
their constant ball-busting. (he's gone, the only bar
is in your living room, those cards
still don't come anymore; find it where you can, kid.)
all of that progress comes to an end when a laborer passing by
a pile of dirt excavated from our trench by a machine operator
spots a bone. it's a human jaw. the proper authorities are notified.
a cease-work order is given by the superintendant, we're grounded.
the police captain shows up, a few suits, some officers with latex gloves
and some mysterious characters with no obvious titles; the jobsite's been
transformed into a crime scene, and it's not even pay-day at three-thirty.
thumbs back up our asses, so much for all that progress, all thanks
to some dead hooker in a shallow grave from god-knows how many years ago.
it reminds me of the time the ex-union dock-builder i knew
told me how they'd sink floaters, so to speak, in order to keep the job moving
as long as no one was looking. he said the stench
of the gases in the bloated bodies was almost enough to justify it
even without the wage-loss factor.
cleaning the tools, gathering the fittings, locking the gang box
walking to my car, i hope that this one was the result of a mob hit
and not some poor bastard like the one who's not going to get paid by
my scumbag employer, the one who used to shoot the shit
three sheets to the wind, chasing tail in Vahsen's Tavern
thirty-some-odd years ago.
the checks probably won't even be good friday. (they seldom are.)
Currently reading:
"Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" by Jules Verne.
lo and behold another poor bastard of a
soon-to-be-duped sub-contractor, this one
saw-cutting the concrete in the basement so we can
lay our pipe, hops out of his van.
i note the door's distant address, the hometown of the half of the family
that doesn't send cards anymore, making a point
to ask him later.
later comes, again. (later always does.)
being the resident native they ask me where we're eating.
a greasy spoon my friends swear by comes to mind, the
special sauce and hot dogs and paper plates.
the meal is relatively silent, the other three cursing me mentally
for bringing them to this hole in the wall.
i break it by asking that new guy chopping the slab
if he remembers Vahsen's Tavern down by the train station
in port chester.
his eyes light up, "60s and 70s, right?
that was a happenin' place."
"yeah, but my dad didn't want to take it over when it came time
after seeing what it did to his family..."
i try to put a brighter spin-- "his friends
on the football team in high school were the bouncers, and
i'm pretty sure he got a lot of ass out of the gig, too."
my two coworkers look at me somehow differently
like someone with roots, not the better-than-average spic
they tend to see me as; the diamond in the rican rough
is just as german and italian as you bitter old fucks.
it feels good to rub it in without saying a word, and
my win is two-fold:
the special sauce doesn't sit well with my middle-aged
union brothers. they piss and moan about my dud
of a suggestion, and the man
from my old man's old stomping grounds
picks up the bill as a sign of good faith
or maybe to try to pay some sort of past debt
like he forgot to tip the grandfather i never met
one drunken night in his glory days, long past.
we walk back to the site after lunch is over. (lunch always ends.)
things start up smoothly, balls of fire in that trench
popping those lengths of four-inch cast-iron together
like it's nobody's business. the wind pierces the denim, my legs
will be dry tonight, but for now the heat's in the tools
and it feels good to be on such a roll
proving myself at something i don't even entirely know how to do yet
let alone love.
part of that motivation comes from our lunch break conversation
part of it from the desire to keep moving to stay warm
and maybe a larger fraction than i'd like to admit
from the will to impress my partners, despite
their constant ball-busting. (he's gone, the only bar
is in your living room, those cards
still don't come anymore; find it where you can, kid.)
all of that progress comes to an end when a laborer passing by
a pile of dirt excavated from our trench by a machine operator
spots a bone. it's a human jaw. the proper authorities are notified.
a cease-work order is given by the superintendant, we're grounded.
the police captain shows up, a few suits, some officers with latex gloves
and some mysterious characters with no obvious titles; the jobsite's been
transformed into a crime scene, and it's not even pay-day at three-thirty.
thumbs back up our asses, so much for all that progress, all thanks
to some dead hooker in a shallow grave from god-knows how many years ago.
it reminds me of the time the ex-union dock-builder i knew
told me how they'd sink floaters, so to speak, in order to keep the job moving
as long as no one was looking. he said the stench
of the gases in the bloated bodies was almost enough to justify it
even without the wage-loss factor.
cleaning the tools, gathering the fittings, locking the gang box
walking to my car, i hope that this one was the result of a mob hit
and not some poor bastard like the one who's not going to get paid by
my scumbag employer, the one who used to shoot the shit
three sheets to the wind, chasing tail in Vahsen's Tavern
thirty-some-odd years ago.
the checks probably won't even be good friday. (they seldom are.)
Currently reading:
"Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" by Jules Verne.
2.18.2008
trophy
One of them asked, "Where'd that
one come from?" shortly after
I explained a few others.
An eight-inch-wide pink arch
only visible to the few and the fucked.
"I don't know," I lied.
I could've told her it came
when his genes kicked in and the
shoulders spread, but fight scars
are far more mysterious and character-forming
than stretch marks.
But those are away now, the team's playing at
home. Can't you see we're wearing dark?
She doesn't waste her breath asking
if I want another, just fills the glass
again and adds it to my tab
quickly growing.
The man to the left of me, between a phony
and a neon beer ad
just handed me a wad of twenties
thick enough to crush a lesser man.
He owed me fourteen hours, gave me
two full days. A real friend, though
I know I'm underpaid.
Drinking a Coke and mostly rum
I contemplate the odds
of owning his business
eventually, like he drunkenly suggests
from time to time.
I don't want it, just hand me a wrench
and a
good check
every Friday.
I down this one, too
barely tasting the best part
just feeling its effects and
glancing sideways at her ass.
It's too perfect to believe, just as fake
as the rest of her:
the dyed blonde hair, the glued nails
the eighth-inch layer of make-up
the stick-on eyelashes
the colored contacts, too blue
the cooked-in tan screaming for attention and tips
though she doesn't need
any, being the bar owner's wife
and, of course, the grapefruit chest
calling the name of others slightly more pathetic
than us two construction drunks sitting at the corner.
Sammy comes out, perfect name and all
trying to suggestive sell the hell out of a new cocktail
but my boss and I know better, being veterans and all.
He cruises past us and slaps
the tightest part of her suffocating black pants
as the guy forty years better than me downs the rest of his draft.
"Let's get out of here," I attempt.
"Yeah, nothing new," he salvages.
We both tip well and think of her smile
probably fake, too
and wonder if the ring is cubic zirconium.
Backing out feels better knowing ours are real
thankfully, not seamless.
No bullshit now
I tilt my head down and see
the crease between thigh and calf
and think
It's in the closet, Ain't that a bitch?
No, you wouldn't do that to him.
I'd kill for that trophy wife, but I don't want that either.
It doesn't taste as good anymore.
It's been a minute, how the fuck are ya?
one come from?" shortly after
I explained a few others.
An eight-inch-wide pink arch
only visible to the few and the fucked.
"I don't know," I lied.
I could've told her it came
when his genes kicked in and the
shoulders spread, but fight scars
are far more mysterious and character-forming
than stretch marks.
But those are away now, the team's playing at
home. Can't you see we're wearing dark?
She doesn't waste her breath asking
if I want another, just fills the glass
again and adds it to my tab
quickly growing.
The man to the left of me, between a phony
and a neon beer ad
just handed me a wad of twenties
thick enough to crush a lesser man.
He owed me fourteen hours, gave me
two full days. A real friend, though
I know I'm underpaid.
Drinking a Coke and mostly rum
I contemplate the odds
of owning his business
eventually, like he drunkenly suggests
from time to time.
I don't want it, just hand me a wrench
and a
good check
every Friday.
I down this one, too
barely tasting the best part
just feeling its effects and
glancing sideways at her ass.
It's too perfect to believe, just as fake
as the rest of her:
the dyed blonde hair, the glued nails
the eighth-inch layer of make-up
the stick-on eyelashes
the colored contacts, too blue
the cooked-in tan screaming for attention and tips
though she doesn't need
any, being the bar owner's wife
and, of course, the grapefruit chest
calling the name of others slightly more pathetic
than us two construction drunks sitting at the corner.
Sammy comes out, perfect name and all
trying to suggestive sell the hell out of a new cocktail
but my boss and I know better, being veterans and all.
He cruises past us and slaps
the tightest part of her suffocating black pants
as the guy forty years better than me downs the rest of his draft.
"Let's get out of here," I attempt.
"Yeah, nothing new," he salvages.
We both tip well and think of her smile
probably fake, too
and wonder if the ring is cubic zirconium.
Backing out feels better knowing ours are real
thankfully, not seamless.
No bullshit now
I tilt my head down and see
the crease between thigh and calf
and think
It's in the closet, Ain't that a bitch?
No, you wouldn't do that to him.
I'd kill for that trophy wife, but I don't want that either.
It doesn't taste as good anymore.
It's been a minute, how the fuck are ya?
2.16.2008
Willow
It was one of those changes you don't see
as it happens, just notice
one day while shaving or having your oil changed.
I knew it'd come eventually, shrugged when it did.
When you can't tell them
about the good things because
they'll play bobble-head
in the hopes of getting to speak sooner, or
the bad ones because theirs are always worse
you might as well accept it for what it is:
a thing of convenience amplified by time already spent
which is not necessarily a bad thing
as long as you can call a spade a spade
a deuce a deuce
since life is full of replacements.
(Reduce, reuse, re-
cite the reasons why it's no sweat off my sack.)
Think of it as reaching the back row and getting kinged
or, more appropriately, sacrificing a pawn
for a knight
or one of those fancy ashtrays, depending (,though
never a queen
"Bros before hoes" and all).
The trick is knowing ahead of time; growing up
my mom always liked my friends, me
managing to judge character effectively at an early age.
(An only child, post-divorce and with too vivid
an imagination, learns to over-
analyze;
though that myth about blaming oneself
for the split is horse shit.)
He got what he wanted, I never
asked why
since I already know.
I had it once, too.
Maybe we should all be grateful
that he was right:
people change.
More out of habit than thirst
I kill the can and toss it in
with the rest of the recyclables.
as it happens, just notice
one day while shaving or having your oil changed.
I knew it'd come eventually, shrugged when it did.
When you can't tell them
about the good things because
they'll play bobble-head
in the hopes of getting to speak sooner, or
the bad ones because theirs are always worse
you might as well accept it for what it is:
a thing of convenience amplified by time already spent
which is not necessarily a bad thing
as long as you can call a spade a spade
a deuce a deuce
since life is full of replacements.
(Reduce, reuse, re-
cite the reasons why it's no sweat off my sack.)
Think of it as reaching the back row and getting kinged
or, more appropriately, sacrificing a pawn
for a knight
or one of those fancy ashtrays, depending (,though
never a queen
"Bros before hoes" and all).
The trick is knowing ahead of time; growing up
my mom always liked my friends, me
managing to judge character effectively at an early age.
(An only child, post-divorce and with too vivid
an imagination, learns to over-
analyze;
though that myth about blaming oneself
for the split is horse shit.)
He got what he wanted, I never
asked why
since I already know.
I had it once, too.
Maybe we should all be grateful
that he was right:
people change.
More out of habit than thirst
I kill the can and toss it in
with the rest of the recyclables.
2.10.2008
the words come better when the women don't.
it's been a long time in the making, this beautiful
chance at second chances
after years of training.
Nietzsche said something about hope
being a sign of defeat, but he died
with his tail between his legs a long time ago
and I'm still alive
still beatin'
the odds and laughing
hard, toasting stubbornly in Holy rebellion.
don't worry, no pressure, at least
not the kind you're expecting
knowing me so well, somehow
even better than myself.
she asked why I never describe the good things about them.
I'm not sure if I answered, but I knew what it was:
those lovely green eyes
were cold and heartless;
that luscious, flowing hair
was chopped off out of spite;
those skillful lips kissed
other men, less thankful;
the heartfelt gifts and snapshots
were tossed or burned or sold
not locked away in a shoebox in the back of a closet.
would you bother describing every decent page of a book
if, overall, the sum of its chapters
left a bad taste in your mouth?, or would
you just spew the Cliff's Notes?
I know, I know: you'd get the fuck over
it
and yourself
for long enough to tell everyone to read the damn book for himself.
maybe that's it, though;
most of us are attracted to bigger and better
since feeling lucky beats settling.
respect for being, for what is meant to be, with no judgment
for what was
or was and is no longer.
they've been listening to me rant and ramble
these past couple days, the good sports.
"already, man?"
"yeah, I think so. I've been working on it for awhile
in the background."
tripped over a brain, found a hell of a heart and body to boot, with
an outlook on death almost more beautiful and healthy than
that on life.
hey, you don't let just anyone help pick out new sheets
since you burned your old ones in the wood stove, literally.
it's a satisfying scenario when one knows enough
about the other's overanalysis of pseudo-symbolism
to laugh and appreciate it for what it is:
a boy trying to give meaning where there isn't any
attempting to put into words what he can't
because he's sober and happy
and that's just no state for him to try to vent in.
he gives up for tonight
with hopes of not coming down too soon
or alone
again.
maybe.
and hey, if not
at least he'll always know
where to find out
what to read next, and maybe
when it's that bad
what to write.
(see, I told you there's always a positive spin.)
chance at second chances
after years of training.
Nietzsche said something about hope
being a sign of defeat, but he died
with his tail between his legs a long time ago
and I'm still alive
still beatin'
the odds and laughing
hard, toasting stubbornly in Holy rebellion.
don't worry, no pressure, at least
not the kind you're expecting
knowing me so well, somehow
even better than myself.
she asked why I never describe the good things about them.
I'm not sure if I answered, but I knew what it was:
those lovely green eyes
were cold and heartless;
that luscious, flowing hair
was chopped off out of spite;
those skillful lips kissed
other men, less thankful;
the heartfelt gifts and snapshots
were tossed or burned or sold
not locked away in a shoebox in the back of a closet.
would you bother describing every decent page of a book
if, overall, the sum of its chapters
left a bad taste in your mouth?, or would
you just spew the Cliff's Notes?
I know, I know: you'd get the fuck over
it
and yourself
for long enough to tell everyone to read the damn book for himself.
maybe that's it, though;
most of us are attracted to bigger and better
since feeling lucky beats settling.
respect for being, for what is meant to be, with no judgment
for what was
or was and is no longer.
they've been listening to me rant and ramble
these past couple days, the good sports.
"already, man?"
"yeah, I think so. I've been working on it for awhile
in the background."
tripped over a brain, found a hell of a heart and body to boot, with
an outlook on death almost more beautiful and healthy than
that on life.
hey, you don't let just anyone help pick out new sheets
since you burned your old ones in the wood stove, literally.
it's a satisfying scenario when one knows enough
about the other's overanalysis of pseudo-symbolism
to laugh and appreciate it for what it is:
a boy trying to give meaning where there isn't any
attempting to put into words what he can't
because he's sober and happy
and that's just no state for him to try to vent in.
he gives up for tonight
with hopes of not coming down too soon
or alone
again.
maybe.
and hey, if not
at least he'll always know
where to find out
what to read next, and maybe
when it's that bad
what to write.
(see, I told you there's always a positive spin.)
2.06.2008
for Sam.
I flicked my right directional on.
the car perpendicular to the road I was on waited
until I commited to the turn.
I respected the caution
the restraint
the learning from prior experiences.
if only the rest could all be so wise.
you know, the demographic blessed/
cursed with parts other than mine.
earlier in the day the results were the same:
pink toothpaste in the sink in the morning
not being quite sure where the blood came from.
after the fourth day you think I'd have it pinned
but no dice.
at first I thought it was residual
from the fight a week or two ago.
wishful thinking, perhaps
especially since that nancy only hit me once
for my four, before
the voices of reason resolved the issue for me.
no such luck, though;
the battlescars I've had in the past have healed faster
so this must be something else.
the menthol cigarettes? the cloves I've been smoking?
have I been coughing up lung?
the blood's always dark and thick
not light and bubbly
like the oxygenated blood that passes through the lungs.
at least that's what I tell myself.
no, somehow I think it's more.
they say we only use thirty percent of our brain cells.
they say if a circle of people focus on something
the sorry bastard in the middle can sense what it is;
telepathy, whatever you want to call it.
so what if they all got together and wished that early death on me?
what if this blood is the direct result of spiteful so-and-so's
wishing I finally get what I deserve?
no, not that either:
something more appropriate would've fallen off.
back to square one.
I'm just bleeding from an unknown internal injury of some sort. great.
but hey, better than some silly ass voodoo nonsense.
back to the topic at hand:
one kisses with too much tongue drunk, not enough sober.
the other must've told a lie in some Arab country
because it's never there.
I don't know which I prefer, being mauled or
going through the motions.
equal evils, that must be why I can't commit.
I'm sure there's a reason for all of this
just don't ask me what it is.
(I know, it's the sock you find a few loads later.)
you'd think by now they'd realize
that half the time I give out my number
just so I'll have something else to write about later
after I ruin everything again.
self-fulfilling prophecy is the name of the game
and I make the best of the worst that I make
time and time again.
I subject myself to their kind for the sake of my science.
last night I woke at an unusually ungodly hour
to a mosquito biting my shoulder
in February.
for the last time, I tell myself:
they're people, not shoes
I can try on and send back
when I find they don't fit.
it's like Pontius Pilate going to Christ's funeral.
I spit my gum out after all this
in order to taste the last sip of this Comfort from the South
and sure enough, that deep red's still there
bold and triumphant against the white of the crumpled paper.
somehow, somewhere
someone else's ears are ringing.
Currently reading:
"The Wine of Youth" by John Fante.
the car perpendicular to the road I was on waited
until I commited to the turn.
I respected the caution
the restraint
the learning from prior experiences.
if only the rest could all be so wise.
you know, the demographic blessed/
cursed with parts other than mine.
earlier in the day the results were the same:
pink toothpaste in the sink in the morning
not being quite sure where the blood came from.
after the fourth day you think I'd have it pinned
but no dice.
at first I thought it was residual
from the fight a week or two ago.
wishful thinking, perhaps
especially since that nancy only hit me once
for my four, before
the voices of reason resolved the issue for me.
no such luck, though;
the battlescars I've had in the past have healed faster
so this must be something else.
the menthol cigarettes? the cloves I've been smoking?
have I been coughing up lung?
the blood's always dark and thick
not light and bubbly
like the oxygenated blood that passes through the lungs.
at least that's what I tell myself.
no, somehow I think it's more.
they say we only use thirty percent of our brain cells.
they say if a circle of people focus on something
the sorry bastard in the middle can sense what it is;
telepathy, whatever you want to call it.
so what if they all got together and wished that early death on me?
what if this blood is the direct result of spiteful so-and-so's
wishing I finally get what I deserve?
no, not that either:
something more appropriate would've fallen off.
back to square one.
I'm just bleeding from an unknown internal injury of some sort. great.
but hey, better than some silly ass voodoo nonsense.
back to the topic at hand:
one kisses with too much tongue drunk, not enough sober.
the other must've told a lie in some Arab country
because it's never there.
I don't know which I prefer, being mauled or
going through the motions.
equal evils, that must be why I can't commit.
I'm sure there's a reason for all of this
just don't ask me what it is.
(I know, it's the sock you find a few loads later.)
you'd think by now they'd realize
that half the time I give out my number
just so I'll have something else to write about later
after I ruin everything again.
self-fulfilling prophecy is the name of the game
and I make the best of the worst that I make
time and time again.
I subject myself to their kind for the sake of my science.
last night I woke at an unusually ungodly hour
to a mosquito biting my shoulder
in February.
for the last time, I tell myself:
they're people, not shoes
I can try on and send back
when I find they don't fit.
it's like Pontius Pilate going to Christ's funeral.
I spit my gum out after all this
in order to taste the last sip of this Comfort from the South
and sure enough, that deep red's still there
bold and triumphant against the white of the crumpled paper.
somehow, somewhere
someone else's ears are ringing.
Currently reading:
"The Wine of Youth" by John Fante.
1.31.2008
Commiserating
Practice went well, the new song was coming.
We packed our gear and got ready to say our goodbyes
though I didn't want to be alone quite yet.
A drummer with a liver as hard as his cymbals
always makes for a good post-op drinking partner
so I invited him back to my place for a few cocktails
assuring him I'd drive him home afterwards.
It's taken some practice
but I can manage to only have that one drink now.
Calling it a night cap makes it easier somehow.
We chewed the fat
shot the shit
whatever you want to call it
as he flipped through the channels
savoring his concoction with the pride of a craftsman.
I sip mine slowly since it'll be the only one I have.
I suggest taking him home an hour and a half later
when his eyelids get heavy and he nods off sitting up.
We get in my car and I apologize for the lack of selection.
My music collection is locked in my trunk because the location
of my new job site is in the heart of the ghetto.
The disc in the stereo comes on and I mention the radio option
but he doesn't take the bait
so I'm forced to listen to the damn mix CD
that I mistakenly popped in a few days ago.
I know, I do it to myself sometimes.
OK, most times, but thank you for not counting.
The first track comes on and he looks across at me, puzzled
as I hand him a clove cigarette and my lighter while backing out
of my driveway:
"Leaving On a Jet Plane," and our failed practice-run honeymoon to Florida.
I try to explain that the CD's source and seemingly random songs
but in his current state he can't comprehend that I want to hear them
even less than he does right now.
Again, "We can turn the radio on..."
but the hint still doesn't sink and he skips to the next track
as I coax the wheel into a smooth left turn.
Something about a break-up comes on, he complains about the misery.
I agree under my breath as he sings along in jest
and the irony escapes us both.
A few more songs, all duds, and we're halfway there.
We're both cringing, but for different reasons.
He turns and reaches into the backseat in search of other options.
I start trying to tell him again that it's no use
since it's all locked in my trunk
but trail off mid-sentence
since I know I won't get through to him tonight, in that state
just like she never could
those nights that seem so painfully distant and close
simultaneously.
The one about not looking "a thing like Jesus" rears its ugly head.
I pull harder on my clove.
The beard's back, but I'm still no one's savior
still trying desperately to talk "like a gentleman"
though that gets me equally nowhere.
Fast-forward to the tragedy of a white man rapping.
I consider trying to argue that it's a good song regardless
and settle for the fact that I didn't want to hear it anyway.
At this point, I'd even wear that Bridle if it'd make a difference.
We come to the melodramatic conclusion of the unfortunate trip
down memory lane
plenty sober to get out of a ticket
but not drunk enough to deal
and three miserable little numbers by one miserable little band come on.
He instantly skips them and returns to the beginning.
I commandeer DJ status and put on a song I know he would've liked
if he would've let it play past the introduction and recognized it.
We laugh about a few junior high innuendos in the lyrics and then I explain
that she put that one on there because I tend to let things linger.
He acknowledges that it's a genetic trait out of my control
which sends the image of the other side of my family tree to my mind's eye.
I haven't seen him in almost a year and a half now.
I can't help but wonder how many more mistakes of mine
have been in his footsteps.
If only he'd told me.
If only she'd left for good.
If only I'd thrown this goddamn thing out the window of my car a long time ago.
I drop my friend off at home, back out of his driveway, and head home.
Still coughing from the clove I just finished
I light up a Marlboro and sing along to the rest
of whatever that fucker named Fate throws my way.
I have to piss and debate pulling over, but I can hold it.
You'd be surprised what I can take;
singing and smoking
bobbing and weaving
just trying to live
and secretly thankful.
Currently reading:
"Bone Palace Ballet" by Charles Bukowski.
We packed our gear and got ready to say our goodbyes
though I didn't want to be alone quite yet.
A drummer with a liver as hard as his cymbals
always makes for a good post-op drinking partner
so I invited him back to my place for a few cocktails
assuring him I'd drive him home afterwards.
It's taken some practice
but I can manage to only have that one drink now.
Calling it a night cap makes it easier somehow.
We chewed the fat
shot the shit
whatever you want to call it
as he flipped through the channels
savoring his concoction with the pride of a craftsman.
I sip mine slowly since it'll be the only one I have.
I suggest taking him home an hour and a half later
when his eyelids get heavy and he nods off sitting up.
We get in my car and I apologize for the lack of selection.
My music collection is locked in my trunk because the location
of my new job site is in the heart of the ghetto.
The disc in the stereo comes on and I mention the radio option
but he doesn't take the bait
so I'm forced to listen to the damn mix CD
that I mistakenly popped in a few days ago.
I know, I do it to myself sometimes.
OK, most times, but thank you for not counting.
The first track comes on and he looks across at me, puzzled
as I hand him a clove cigarette and my lighter while backing out
of my driveway:
"Leaving On a Jet Plane," and our failed practice-run honeymoon to Florida.
I try to explain that the CD's source and seemingly random songs
but in his current state he can't comprehend that I want to hear them
even less than he does right now.
Again, "We can turn the radio on..."
but the hint still doesn't sink and he skips to the next track
as I coax the wheel into a smooth left turn.
Something about a break-up comes on, he complains about the misery.
I agree under my breath as he sings along in jest
and the irony escapes us both.
A few more songs, all duds, and we're halfway there.
We're both cringing, but for different reasons.
He turns and reaches into the backseat in search of other options.
I start trying to tell him again that it's no use
since it's all locked in my trunk
but trail off mid-sentence
since I know I won't get through to him tonight, in that state
just like she never could
those nights that seem so painfully distant and close
simultaneously.
The one about not looking "a thing like Jesus" rears its ugly head.
I pull harder on my clove.
The beard's back, but I'm still no one's savior
still trying desperately to talk "like a gentleman"
though that gets me equally nowhere.
Fast-forward to the tragedy of a white man rapping.
I consider trying to argue that it's a good song regardless
and settle for the fact that I didn't want to hear it anyway.
At this point, I'd even wear that Bridle if it'd make a difference.
We come to the melodramatic conclusion of the unfortunate trip
down memory lane
plenty sober to get out of a ticket
but not drunk enough to deal
and three miserable little numbers by one miserable little band come on.
He instantly skips them and returns to the beginning.
I commandeer DJ status and put on a song I know he would've liked
if he would've let it play past the introduction and recognized it.
We laugh about a few junior high innuendos in the lyrics and then I explain
that she put that one on there because I tend to let things linger.
He acknowledges that it's a genetic trait out of my control
which sends the image of the other side of my family tree to my mind's eye.
I haven't seen him in almost a year and a half now.
I can't help but wonder how many more mistakes of mine
have been in his footsteps.
If only he'd told me.
If only she'd left for good.
If only I'd thrown this goddamn thing out the window of my car a long time ago.
I drop my friend off at home, back out of his driveway, and head home.
Still coughing from the clove I just finished
I light up a Marlboro and sing along to the rest
of whatever that fucker named Fate throws my way.
I have to piss and debate pulling over, but I can hold it.
You'd be surprised what I can take;
singing and smoking
bobbing and weaving
just trying to live
and secretly thankful.
Currently reading:
"Bone Palace Ballet" by Charles Bukowski.
1.30.2008
Aaron Burr and other, More familiar Villains
Get out of bed to write her:
"You're a better sleep partner
than I gave you credit for this morning, this one
takes over the whole damn mattress."
Crinkle up the paper 'cause I know
she won't take it the way that I mean it.
Girls never do, and women only rarely.
I amend my words
sometimes:
"Hope you got there safely. Call if you need anything."
But to think she foolishly called me a genius
and her mom said to print me...
It's a shame that she was one that never really happened.
Not one that got away, exactly. We just never tried.
Then again, it's good to have a few of those
to keep in sterile corners of the mind
and remember when times are trying
and you're ready to swear off the whole lot of them
without making any exceptions.
No, not all deathbed What-If's will be demoralizing;
some will be bittersweet at worst, and we should
all be able to settle for that.
I crawl back into bed, cursing this one in my head
for stealing all the blanket in my absence.
Shivering from the ceiling fan whose white noise
I can't sleep without, even during this frigid winter
I close my eyes and try to doze off to cushioned thoughts
of what it could be like if I only had the heart
to let another good one
sink saving this ship.
"Captains worth their brass make sure they go do down alone,"
I tell that silly dream
and the gods let me sleep in peace for it.
Currently reading:
"Wait Until Spring, Bandini" by John Fante.
"You're a better sleep partner
than I gave you credit for this morning, this one
takes over the whole damn mattress."
Crinkle up the paper 'cause I know
she won't take it the way that I mean it.
Girls never do, and women only rarely.
I amend my words
sometimes:
"Hope you got there safely. Call if you need anything."
But to think she foolishly called me a genius
and her mom said to print me...
It's a shame that she was one that never really happened.
Not one that got away, exactly. We just never tried.
Then again, it's good to have a few of those
to keep in sterile corners of the mind
and remember when times are trying
and you're ready to swear off the whole lot of them
without making any exceptions.
No, not all deathbed What-If's will be demoralizing;
some will be bittersweet at worst, and we should
all be able to settle for that.
I crawl back into bed, cursing this one in my head
for stealing all the blanket in my absence.
Shivering from the ceiling fan whose white noise
I can't sleep without, even during this frigid winter
I close my eyes and try to doze off to cushioned thoughts
of what it could be like if I only had the heart
to let another good one
sink saving this ship.
"Captains worth their brass make sure they go do down alone,"
I tell that silly dream
and the gods let me sleep in peace for it.
Currently reading:
"Wait Until Spring, Bandini" by John Fante.
1.14.2008
Bailey's on the rocks
As I sit here and suck
the last of this slightly alcoholic dessert
from the melting cubes in my tumbler
I'm rewound a year
to the two (or four, in retrospect) of us
on the couch in my old place
watching movies and drinking the same.
But now, a year later
the couch is the only thing that hasn't changed:
you're old enough to buy your own booze
and the rare times that I watch movies
never involve blankets or casual sex
or you
and that's OK, too.
(This is the part where I'm supposed to say I've changed;
maybe I have, but that's not for me to decide
and arbitrary anyway...
though I haven't thrown any beer bottles across any rooms
or screamed into any phones in a long time.)
The girls are gone, I'm holding out for women;
a spine, a plan, another mind to learn from, maybe a degree.
It's funny, though. The more I chrystalize my criteria
the more I realize I've already had most of that
and blew it.
The best way to come to grips
is to squeeze my eyes closed as tight as possible
until that flashing checkerboard pattern appears
and laugh that sick laugh
reserved for madmen in movies
and those with an appreciation for irony
even in the face of death.
The best jokes in life have no punchlines.
Suffice it to say I've learned that coming home to that empty house
isn't as bad if you've remembered to leave the porch light on for yourself.
Just in case the title worked
and by chance
you read this:
it wasn't some sad attempt
at spite
or guilt
or even reconciliation, necessarily.
I guess I just wanted to say
that I don't regret that tattoo
and I hope that you don't wish you could
scratch yours off either.
the last of this slightly alcoholic dessert
from the melting cubes in my tumbler
I'm rewound a year
to the two (or four, in retrospect) of us
on the couch in my old place
watching movies and drinking the same.
But now, a year later
the couch is the only thing that hasn't changed:
you're old enough to buy your own booze
and the rare times that I watch movies
never involve blankets or casual sex
or you
and that's OK, too.
(This is the part where I'm supposed to say I've changed;
maybe I have, but that's not for me to decide
and arbitrary anyway...
though I haven't thrown any beer bottles across any rooms
or screamed into any phones in a long time.)
The girls are gone, I'm holding out for women;
a spine, a plan, another mind to learn from, maybe a degree.
It's funny, though. The more I chrystalize my criteria
the more I realize I've already had most of that
and blew it.
The best way to come to grips
is to squeeze my eyes closed as tight as possible
until that flashing checkerboard pattern appears
and laugh that sick laugh
reserved for madmen in movies
and those with an appreciation for irony
even in the face of death.
The best jokes in life have no punchlines.
Suffice it to say I've learned that coming home to that empty house
isn't as bad if you've remembered to leave the porch light on for yourself.
Just in case the title worked
and by chance
you read this:
it wasn't some sad attempt
at spite
or guilt
or even reconciliation, necessarily.
I guess I just wanted to say
that I don't regret that tattoo
and I hope that you don't wish you could
scratch yours off either.
1.07.2008
after moonlighting
it's taken some practice, but I've stepped up my game
since I see this F-train coming:
even if there are no street lamps to show the rollers
I know by the headlights behind me if it's a cop
though not if it's her
or Her
and thank God the third one doesn't drive anymore.
beware the trivialities that wear us down:
the doors that lock left
the screws that sink counter-clockwise
the rest of the counter-intuitive speed bumps
that spatter your days with expletives under your breath.
came home to a garden gnome on my dresser
and a life-sized cardboard cut-out of ken schroeder
staring at me through the window in the garage door.
(I can't even make these things up, my life truly is
stranger than what I conjure most times.)
it served to remind me that
though too solitary for my own good
I'm not as alone as I'd like to be
so believe you me, brother
I was relieved to reload it after weeks of neglect
now that I hear things in this finally empty house.
praying for peace or paying for a piece;
I know how it'll happen now
since the car really slowed down in the shower.
yes, the self-fulfilling ones prevail.
if that's the case can I place my order?
fuck it.
as long as she doesn't smoke.
but if she does
let her curse like a plumber
and drink like this fish, too.
Currently reading:
"The Complete Poems of Hart Crane."
since I see this F-train coming:
even if there are no street lamps to show the rollers
I know by the headlights behind me if it's a cop
though not if it's her
or Her
and thank God the third one doesn't drive anymore.
beware the trivialities that wear us down:
the doors that lock left
the screws that sink counter-clockwise
the rest of the counter-intuitive speed bumps
that spatter your days with expletives under your breath.
came home to a garden gnome on my dresser
and a life-sized cardboard cut-out of ken schroeder
staring at me through the window in the garage door.
(I can't even make these things up, my life truly is
stranger than what I conjure most times.)
it served to remind me that
though too solitary for my own good
I'm not as alone as I'd like to be
so believe you me, brother
I was relieved to reload it after weeks of neglect
now that I hear things in this finally empty house.
praying for peace or paying for a piece;
I know how it'll happen now
since the car really slowed down in the shower.
yes, the self-fulfilling ones prevail.
if that's the case can I place my order?
fuck it.
as long as she doesn't smoke.
but if she does
let her curse like a plumber
and drink like this fish, too.
Currently reading:
"The Complete Poems of Hart Crane."
1.06.2008
gravy
I found some old pictures
of a barely recognizable me
and some
other people
I thought I'd fooled;
that tattered, taped-together shrine
from my dorm room wall
no longer as relevant as then
but still somehow saying
"I told you so"
or its Spanish equivalent.
Another one jumped out in particular:
a whiskey-drunk charicature of myself
with a smile reeking of Jack Daniel's
(before its smell could turn my stomach)
and general over-compensation for an
underrated chance at It All,
my roommate egging me on at my side
not knowing that the bourbon had already won.
My demeanor in that one reminds me of how
the girls across the hall who'd befriended us
in previous semesters
said I was different
upon returning that Fall
cockier
a little too sure of myself
or pretending to be.
I didn't see it then, but now I do.
Regardless, I can't smack some sense into that kid
since the Time Machine hasn't been invented yet.
Hell, we still don't have our long-awaited Hover-Cars.
You can't change the sequence of events
that change you
and settling for a quiet New Year's Eve party
sometimes has to do.
The cork bounces off the wall, then the floor
and finally back towards me
as my partner in crime notes the irony in its trajectory.
Acknowledging his metaphor
I laugh
on the outside
and pour the ten-dollar sparkling wine into the red plastic cup.
My resolution will be
accepting that there is none
yet.
It's a tough swallow.
(Yes, that's what SHE said.)
Bottom's up.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Stories of Carson McCullers."
of a barely recognizable me
and some
other people
I thought I'd fooled;
that tattered, taped-together shrine
from my dorm room wall
no longer as relevant as then
but still somehow saying
"I told you so"
or its Spanish equivalent.
Another one jumped out in particular:
a whiskey-drunk charicature of myself
with a smile reeking of Jack Daniel's
(before its smell could turn my stomach)
and general over-compensation for an
underrated chance at It All,
my roommate egging me on at my side
not knowing that the bourbon had already won.
My demeanor in that one reminds me of how
the girls across the hall who'd befriended us
in previous semesters
said I was different
upon returning that Fall
cockier
a little too sure of myself
or pretending to be.
I didn't see it then, but now I do.
Regardless, I can't smack some sense into that kid
since the Time Machine hasn't been invented yet.
Hell, we still don't have our long-awaited Hover-Cars.
You can't change the sequence of events
that change you
and settling for a quiet New Year's Eve party
sometimes has to do.
The cork bounces off the wall, then the floor
and finally back towards me
as my partner in crime notes the irony in its trajectory.
Acknowledging his metaphor
I laugh
on the outside
and pour the ten-dollar sparkling wine into the red plastic cup.
My resolution will be
accepting that there is none
yet.
It's a tough swallow.
(Yes, that's what SHE said.)
Bottom's up.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Stories of Carson McCullers."
1.01.2008
A real team player.
Sometimes it's those
who seem heartless
who love you the most.
Just ask your angry
designated driver
at four in the morning
next time.
who seem heartless
who love you the most.
Just ask your angry
designated driver
at four in the morning
next time.
12.30.2007
On Coping.
"I just don't get it. They act like
it will somehow change their whole lives
if they chop all their hair off
or go clothes shopping
when the fat lady's done singing..."
I slide the tip closer to his edge of the oak
as he dries a glass with a dirty rag
and waits for me to finish my rant.
"...Or they call to let you know
how much mind-blowing sex they're having
with the vultures
and how much better it is, or will be
once a time and a place are set.
Then the line goes silent for a few seconds
while they wait for some kind of response
and you try not to laugh into the receiver.
Why do women think that whoring it up
will somehow ruin your life?, which is going nowhere
anyway according to their spiteful phone calls
at two in the morning."
I stir the ice cubes around
with the two little, red
double-barreled
cocktail straws
and drain the remains as he takes his cue
and switches hats.
"Because they're all fucking crazy, man,
and don't know how to handle losing guys like us..."
This is the kind of service people who attend
an empty Monday Happy Hour come for.
He further guarantees himself a good tip:
"...They spread their legs because they can't
bounce back from it like we can.
They're in denial that the loss is their own.
This next one's on me, you ready?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I say with a sly smile
as I make a mental note to thank her
for suggesting I go back to living how I did before
she tried to save me
from myself.
I'll get around to that when I'm damn well ready.
Currently reading:
"Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.
it will somehow change their whole lives
if they chop all their hair off
or go clothes shopping
when the fat lady's done singing..."
I slide the tip closer to his edge of the oak
as he dries a glass with a dirty rag
and waits for me to finish my rant.
"...Or they call to let you know
how much mind-blowing sex they're having
with the vultures
and how much better it is, or will be
once a time and a place are set.
Then the line goes silent for a few seconds
while they wait for some kind of response
and you try not to laugh into the receiver.
Why do women think that whoring it up
will somehow ruin your life?, which is going nowhere
anyway according to their spiteful phone calls
at two in the morning."
I stir the ice cubes around
with the two little, red
double-barreled
cocktail straws
and drain the remains as he takes his cue
and switches hats.
"Because they're all fucking crazy, man,
and don't know how to handle losing guys like us..."
This is the kind of service people who attend
an empty Monday Happy Hour come for.
He further guarantees himself a good tip:
"...They spread their legs because they can't
bounce back from it like we can.
They're in denial that the loss is their own.
This next one's on me, you ready?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I say with a sly smile
as I make a mental note to thank her
for suggesting I go back to living how I did before
she tried to save me
from myself.
I'll get around to that when I'm damn well ready.
Currently reading:
"Ariel" by Sylvia Plath.
12.27.2007
peep.
I discovered something disturbing
upon bathing at my new residence for the first time
and couldn't wait to ask:
"Isn't it weird taking a shower
with a window facing the road right next to the tub?"
My new roommate's lived here all his life
so his reply was No.
The strategy to avoid some of the awkwardness
is simple:
let the hot water run for a minute in order to fog up the window
prior to stepping in.
Still, it feels a bit unnatural to lather up with people walking by
and when cars pass by
my mind plays tricks on me
by assuming that they're slowing down to watch.
Granted, they can't see much other than my lathered head
and tattooed arms
but that doesn't make me feel any less vulnerable.
I can't imagine how a female ever managed
to use this shower, unless she was very short.
And besides, the neighbors across the street
have an elevated view from their second-floor windows
thus allowing them to see lower.
My mind wanders and imagines how many amusing nights
could be spent by a couple of young perverts
living across from this house if a few attractive females lived here.
It sounds like something out of an 80s comedy
with all of those aspiring young actors who grew
to have nasty coke habits in decades to come.
Most of our neighbors are elderly, however
so this whole shower window scenario is somewhat of a waste
like clean clothes on a dirty body
like soggy cole slaw at a cheap diner that never gets eaten
like the time I spend thinking of foolish notions such as this.
While taking my nightly shower the other evening
I heard a muffled crash come from the street.
A car was backing out of a driveway
on the opposite side of the road
and had hit a snowbank in the process.
I finished showering, put clothes on, and got in my car.
As I passed the spot where the sound came from
I noticed a large dent in the side of a pick-up truck
parked on the side of the road opposite of that driveway
from which the car had backed out.
That was no snowbank he hit!
I drove on by, lighting a clove cigarette
and laughing to myself.
It's a good thing no women live here,
those potential creeps wouldn't deserve a free show
if they can't even drive.
Currently reading:
"The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" by Carson McCullers.
upon bathing at my new residence for the first time
and couldn't wait to ask:
"Isn't it weird taking a shower
with a window facing the road right next to the tub?"
My new roommate's lived here all his life
so his reply was No.
The strategy to avoid some of the awkwardness
is simple:
let the hot water run for a minute in order to fog up the window
prior to stepping in.
Still, it feels a bit unnatural to lather up with people walking by
and when cars pass by
my mind plays tricks on me
by assuming that they're slowing down to watch.
Granted, they can't see much other than my lathered head
and tattooed arms
but that doesn't make me feel any less vulnerable.
I can't imagine how a female ever managed
to use this shower, unless she was very short.
And besides, the neighbors across the street
have an elevated view from their second-floor windows
thus allowing them to see lower.
My mind wanders and imagines how many amusing nights
could be spent by a couple of young perverts
living across from this house if a few attractive females lived here.
It sounds like something out of an 80s comedy
with all of those aspiring young actors who grew
to have nasty coke habits in decades to come.
Most of our neighbors are elderly, however
so this whole shower window scenario is somewhat of a waste
like clean clothes on a dirty body
like soggy cole slaw at a cheap diner that never gets eaten
like the time I spend thinking of foolish notions such as this.
While taking my nightly shower the other evening
I heard a muffled crash come from the street.
A car was backing out of a driveway
on the opposite side of the road
and had hit a snowbank in the process.
I finished showering, put clothes on, and got in my car.
As I passed the spot where the sound came from
I noticed a large dent in the side of a pick-up truck
parked on the side of the road opposite of that driveway
from which the car had backed out.
That was no snowbank he hit!
I drove on by, lighting a clove cigarette
and laughing to myself.
It's a good thing no women live here,
those potential creeps wouldn't deserve a free show
if they can't even drive.
Currently reading:
"The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter" by Carson McCullers.
12.26.2007
12:01 a.m., time's up.
My parents had been feeding some wild cats in their backyard for a year, three generations of felines stalking the neighborhood. A bond formed between them, names were given, the quality and frequency of the food put out for them increased, and a desire to adopt them as house cats came about. Unfortunately, it was too late to fully tame the animals. Once a cat reaches a certain age without human contact they are doomed to remain feral forever, the window of opportunity being closed. The confused creatures went so far as to come in through the sliding glass door when invited in order to get out of the cold, however. One of them, a pitch black panther-looking specimen whom my mother dubbed Midnight, even slept over in the house a few times. Being the youngest and friendliest of the bunch, Midnight was the one with the most potential to be converted into a bonafide pet. He learned to use a litter box and perked his ears up responsively when his name was called. No matter the amount of food given and toys supplied, though, he would not allow himself to be touched and was constantly scanning the perimeter for possible threats like a paranoid junkie making a deal in a back alley somewhere. It broke their hearts to admit it, but my parents finally came to grips with the fact that wild animals have to remain that way.
That didn't mean that they didn't still want a new addition to the family. Several animal adoption agencies were contacted over the course of a few weeks. Upon visiting my family tonight I got to meet the kitten they chose. Fluffy, uncoordinated, and still nameless, she hid in the corners of couches and under pillows. I held her in my lap as I read a few chapters and stroking her pristine fur brought a noticeable sense of comfort to both of us, at least for awhile. That all changed when I looked through the sliding glass door and saw Midnight patiently waiting for his nightly dinner and romp in the living room. My parents told me they'd cut off the wild cats, "the Knuckleheads," as they now called them, a few days ago. Midnight was the only one who still kept his nose glued to the screen door every night since then in the hopes of coming inside again. He wanted to be tamed, but Nature said it was too late, and Nature always wins. Out of pity for his old friends, my stepfather brought some sliced chicken breast left over from dinner out on the patio for the cats. Midnight glanced over his shoulder at his siblings devouring their alms, his portion included, but quickly fixed his gaze back into the warm, well-lit living room. His silent vigil became too much to bear, guilt being a leading cause of human action, so a few minutes later my mother went and closed the blinds. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to watch the painful process of detachment anymore firsthand. Being weened off of something is no easy task, especially a relationship of sorts. The kitten in my lap tired of my company, plopped herself down onto the floor, and scampered into her box in the next room. I finished the chapter I was working on and got up to gather my things for my departure.
After saying my goodbyes I went back to the living room, turned on the patio light, and cracked the blinds. There he was, still pasted to the same spot waiting to come inside and say hello as best he could, though not as affectionately as a domestic cat. Not able to leave him there like that I did something out of character and banged on the glass door with my fist to run him off. He bounded into the night, hopefully to find a warm shed to sleep in and a female companion to pass the time. My mother asked what I was doing as she cradled the kitten in her arms and brought her over towards me. I faked one last stroke on the head of the kitten and realized that it'd take awhile to accept her now. Walking out the door I turned and looked one last time at my mom holding the new cat, the two of them symbols of what the problem I have with most of the world: It's hard to find loyalty anymore, at least in humans. Us Midnights don't stand a chance.
Currently reading:
"The Pleasures of the Damned" by Charles Bukowski.
That didn't mean that they didn't still want a new addition to the family. Several animal adoption agencies were contacted over the course of a few weeks. Upon visiting my family tonight I got to meet the kitten they chose. Fluffy, uncoordinated, and still nameless, she hid in the corners of couches and under pillows. I held her in my lap as I read a few chapters and stroking her pristine fur brought a noticeable sense of comfort to both of us, at least for awhile. That all changed when I looked through the sliding glass door and saw Midnight patiently waiting for his nightly dinner and romp in the living room. My parents told me they'd cut off the wild cats, "the Knuckleheads," as they now called them, a few days ago. Midnight was the only one who still kept his nose glued to the screen door every night since then in the hopes of coming inside again. He wanted to be tamed, but Nature said it was too late, and Nature always wins. Out of pity for his old friends, my stepfather brought some sliced chicken breast left over from dinner out on the patio for the cats. Midnight glanced over his shoulder at his siblings devouring their alms, his portion included, but quickly fixed his gaze back into the warm, well-lit living room. His silent vigil became too much to bear, guilt being a leading cause of human action, so a few minutes later my mother went and closed the blinds. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to watch the painful process of detachment anymore firsthand. Being weened off of something is no easy task, especially a relationship of sorts. The kitten in my lap tired of my company, plopped herself down onto the floor, and scampered into her box in the next room. I finished the chapter I was working on and got up to gather my things for my departure.
After saying my goodbyes I went back to the living room, turned on the patio light, and cracked the blinds. There he was, still pasted to the same spot waiting to come inside and say hello as best he could, though not as affectionately as a domestic cat. Not able to leave him there like that I did something out of character and banged on the glass door with my fist to run him off. He bounded into the night, hopefully to find a warm shed to sleep in and a female companion to pass the time. My mother asked what I was doing as she cradled the kitten in her arms and brought her over towards me. I faked one last stroke on the head of the kitten and realized that it'd take awhile to accept her now. Walking out the door I turned and looked one last time at my mom holding the new cat, the two of them symbols of what the problem I have with most of the world: It's hard to find loyalty anymore, at least in humans. Us Midnights don't stand a chance.
Currently reading:
"The Pleasures of the Damned" by Charles Bukowski.
12.25.2007
Late-night conversation with an equal adversary.
Thanks for calling, but I'm not saving your number. I have a bad habit of embarrassing myself via telephone when I'm lonely and the books aren't enough.
How about we call it a friendship and I forgive you for anything you might say? Stop being ridiculous.
Wish I could, but I know myself too well. Appreciate the attempt at self control if nothing else. Remember why I had to leave the last one. You're the opposite. Do the math.
Oh, David.
Please don't call me that, I only let one person call me by my full name.
Take care, I'll see you around.
No you won't. Running into you at the store the other day was a fluke.
A fluke is a fluke only if you let it be, and otherwise it's a whale. So stick that in your smoke and pipe it.
I've learned that not letting things be only leads to over-analyzation and/or forcing what should come freely. Have you ever been told you're too smart for your own good?
No, but I've told myself that being smart hardly matters and that the good and kindness do.
Tell that to the good and the kind, ask them where it's gotten them. They may persuade you otherwise.
I don't think they would, if they're smart.
You've got me there, though not really. Don't worry, I only go for cynics.
I'm not worried, I knew that already. I would only frustrate you in being peaceful and laughing at some things that you might think are very serious.
You assume too much then. I also see your silver lining. I just don't laugh at the size of the cloud.
I'm only teasing, David.
I asked you not to call me that.
Fine, I'm going to call you Esther.
A name like Job would be more fitting. God revoked his family, his health, and his love just for the hell of it and called it a test.
I don't know...
Or Jacob. He too once fought an Angel, though I forget who won in his case.
That's not very nice of him.
She started it. She usually does...
. . . . .
I woke up three hours later with the phone still in my hand. I'd never fallen asleep mid-sentence before. It was as peaceful as they'd claimed, like the sound of snow hitting branches on a quiet December morning. You never forget your first.
Or your last.
Or any of the ones in between.
Currently reading:
"Winesburg, Ohio" by Sherwood Anderson.
How about we call it a friendship and I forgive you for anything you might say? Stop being ridiculous.
Wish I could, but I know myself too well. Appreciate the attempt at self control if nothing else. Remember why I had to leave the last one. You're the opposite. Do the math.
Oh, David.
Please don't call me that, I only let one person call me by my full name.
Take care, I'll see you around.
No you won't. Running into you at the store the other day was a fluke.
A fluke is a fluke only if you let it be, and otherwise it's a whale. So stick that in your smoke and pipe it.
I've learned that not letting things be only leads to over-analyzation and/or forcing what should come freely. Have you ever been told you're too smart for your own good?
No, but I've told myself that being smart hardly matters and that the good and kindness do.
Tell that to the good and the kind, ask them where it's gotten them. They may persuade you otherwise.
I don't think they would, if they're smart.
You've got me there, though not really. Don't worry, I only go for cynics.
I'm not worried, I knew that already. I would only frustrate you in being peaceful and laughing at some things that you might think are very serious.
You assume too much then. I also see your silver lining. I just don't laugh at the size of the cloud.
I'm only teasing, David.
I asked you not to call me that.
Fine, I'm going to call you Esther.
A name like Job would be more fitting. God revoked his family, his health, and his love just for the hell of it and called it a test.
I don't know...
Or Jacob. He too once fought an Angel, though I forget who won in his case.
That's not very nice of him.
She started it. She usually does...
. . . . .
I woke up three hours later with the phone still in my hand. I'd never fallen asleep mid-sentence before. It was as peaceful as they'd claimed, like the sound of snow hitting branches on a quiet December morning. You never forget your first.
Or your last.
Or any of the ones in between.
Currently reading:
"Winesburg, Ohio" by Sherwood Anderson.
12.21.2007
I read this to his answering machine:
save this message
because it just may be the last time you hear my voice again.
how dare you call me after all this time
like nothing ever happened
like you didn't leave your flesh and blood
in the wind
for wanting to improve himself.
I'm thankful I got into the union
and not necessarily because of the money
but because of the half-dozen men who have taken your place.
when I needed you
you were too involved with what you can't see
and now that I see you're only about yourself
I want no part in it.
and when they ask where I am this holiday season
say you don't know, and feel honest
because you probably never will again.
I still have nightmares about the father I once had
but I won't let myself live them anymore.
save this message
because it's the last you'll hear of me, pal.
because it just may be the last time you hear my voice again.
how dare you call me after all this time
like nothing ever happened
like you didn't leave your flesh and blood
in the wind
for wanting to improve himself.
I'm thankful I got into the union
and not necessarily because of the money
but because of the half-dozen men who have taken your place.
when I needed you
you were too involved with what you can't see
and now that I see you're only about yourself
I want no part in it.
and when they ask where I am this holiday season
say you don't know, and feel honest
because you probably never will again.
I still have nightmares about the father I once had
but I won't let myself live them anymore.
save this message
because it's the last you'll hear of me, pal.
12.18.2007
it only smells like me in here now
returned her Christmas present
threw the spare hair-tie she kept on my gear-shift out the window
got rid of the book of crosswords she couldn't handle alone
crumpled the junior high-esque note she left on my desk
re-alphabetized the movies I'd planned to watch with her on my shelf
bought a pack of smokes for the first time in a month
swore I'd never go for a broad who could barely walk and chew gum again
but I really didn't get rid of her until I washed my sheets today.
Currently reading:
"The Childhood of a Leader" by Jean-Paul Sartre.
threw the spare hair-tie she kept on my gear-shift out the window
got rid of the book of crosswords she couldn't handle alone
crumpled the junior high-esque note she left on my desk
re-alphabetized the movies I'd planned to watch with her on my shelf
bought a pack of smokes for the first time in a month
swore I'd never go for a broad who could barely walk and chew gum again
but I really didn't get rid of her until I washed my sheets today.
Currently reading:
"The Childhood of a Leader" by Jean-Paul Sartre.
12.17.2007
This veteran fought under Gen. Electric.
Laying in bed at 3 a.m.
tossing and turning and dreading
going to work in three hours
I roll over on my back
stare at the ceiling
eyes drawn towards the light fixture
in the center
like the end of some tunnel
with walls that get darker and greener
as sight wanders further from the center.
It's an image I've noticed since I was seven.
My parents had just gotten divorced and
on weekends I'd go across town to
stay with my old man.
("Visitation," they called it
institutional as a prison.
What an ugly legal term.
Redundant, I know.)
My room then had a ceiling light
like the one in my room tonight
and the ones in rooms I've occupied
between then and now.
I'd stare up at it for a few minutes before bed
or during the day if no one was around to play
which was quite often.
It seems that was good practice
for years to come.
Sometime after that I grew up.
Called my mother today
to feed her what she wanted to hear
regarding the state of things.
She told me she was showing my senior picture off
at work and a colleague of hers two years my senior
had her jaw hit the floor and wants to meet me
says she likes guitar players.
I reminded my mom that I don't look the same
as seven years ago
more haggard
the years have taken their toll
the scars are permanent.
In true maternal fashion she laughed off my self-doubt
before telling me about this girl
and I quote:
"Has her Master's, seems genuinely nice, long brown hair
cute, but not drop-dead gorgeous like Gwendolyn was."
I jiggled my phone to see if I was hearing correctly
if she'd really gone
there.
She did.
Then I heard my stepfather in the background
spewing out a sequence of drunken slurred words
asking why the hell she would say something like that
after four years of getting over the one that got away
and thankfully
finally being there
mostly.
She parried through the phone in typical maternal fashion:
"I tell it how it is, Dave. You know that."
I do
since that brutal honesty
is one of the many good traits she's given me
and also one that gets me in trouble.
In my head I visualized a girl better than the last
but not as good as the first
another numbing mediocre
and realized then and there that
the fate of any potential anything was sealed.
I appreciated her honesty
but also my stepfather's going to bat for me
even though I've been moved to clean-up since those days
after a few clinch comebacks in the bottom of the ninth.
He's become a better teammate than my real old man
since he cut me off a year ago
despite the letter's I've sent
trying to reconcile.
I wonder what he tells his family
when I don't show up for the Holidays.
I was never really one of them anyway
the darker son of the black sheep of the weird family.
I'm sure I'm out of the will
a sinner not to be spoken to
regardless of blood
or paternal instinct or responsibility.
My father doesn't even know where I currently reside
probably never will.
It won't be the same
ever again.
I wonder if he's ever stared up at the light in my old room
and seen that same tunnel.
I'll never hear either of them laugh anymore.
They've found what makes them happy
and it isn't me.
And even though it hurts less
with every paid bill
with every song sang alone in the car
after every night spent in the company of loyal friends
and every other reminder that I'm alive
the reality of loss still rears it's head once in awhile.
So hey,
It's no wonder I can't sleep tonight.
But it sure is nice having something familiar
like this ceiling light
at the end of the tunnel
to make things bearable
for now.
And I'm sure that new girl
will warm my bed just as well
as long as she doesn't get to know me too soon.
Currently reading:
"The Wall" by Jean-Paul Sartre.
tossing and turning and dreading
going to work in three hours
I roll over on my back
stare at the ceiling
eyes drawn towards the light fixture
in the center
like the end of some tunnel
with walls that get darker and greener
as sight wanders further from the center.
It's an image I've noticed since I was seven.
My parents had just gotten divorced and
on weekends I'd go across town to
stay with my old man.
("Visitation," they called it
institutional as a prison.
What an ugly legal term.
Redundant, I know.)
My room then had a ceiling light
like the one in my room tonight
and the ones in rooms I've occupied
between then and now.
I'd stare up at it for a few minutes before bed
or during the day if no one was around to play
which was quite often.
It seems that was good practice
for years to come.
Sometime after that I grew up.
Called my mother today
to feed her what she wanted to hear
regarding the state of things.
She told me she was showing my senior picture off
at work and a colleague of hers two years my senior
had her jaw hit the floor and wants to meet me
says she likes guitar players.
I reminded my mom that I don't look the same
as seven years ago
more haggard
the years have taken their toll
the scars are permanent.
In true maternal fashion she laughed off my self-doubt
before telling me about this girl
and I quote:
"Has her Master's, seems genuinely nice, long brown hair
cute, but not drop-dead gorgeous like Gwendolyn was."
I jiggled my phone to see if I was hearing correctly
if she'd really gone
there.
She did.
Then I heard my stepfather in the background
spewing out a sequence of drunken slurred words
asking why the hell she would say something like that
after four years of getting over the one that got away
and thankfully
finally being there
mostly.
She parried through the phone in typical maternal fashion:
"I tell it how it is, Dave. You know that."
I do
since that brutal honesty
is one of the many good traits she's given me
and also one that gets me in trouble.
In my head I visualized a girl better than the last
but not as good as the first
another numbing mediocre
and realized then and there that
the fate of any potential anything was sealed.
I appreciated her honesty
but also my stepfather's going to bat for me
even though I've been moved to clean-up since those days
after a few clinch comebacks in the bottom of the ninth.
He's become a better teammate than my real old man
since he cut me off a year ago
despite the letter's I've sent
trying to reconcile.
I wonder what he tells his family
when I don't show up for the Holidays.
I was never really one of them anyway
the darker son of the black sheep of the weird family.
I'm sure I'm out of the will
a sinner not to be spoken to
regardless of blood
or paternal instinct or responsibility.
My father doesn't even know where I currently reside
probably never will.
It won't be the same
ever again.
I wonder if he's ever stared up at the light in my old room
and seen that same tunnel.
I'll never hear either of them laugh anymore.
They've found what makes them happy
and it isn't me.
And even though it hurts less
with every paid bill
with every song sang alone in the car
after every night spent in the company of loyal friends
and every other reminder that I'm alive
the reality of loss still rears it's head once in awhile.
So hey,
It's no wonder I can't sleep tonight.
But it sure is nice having something familiar
like this ceiling light
at the end of the tunnel
to make things bearable
for now.
And I'm sure that new girl
will warm my bed just as well
as long as she doesn't get to know me too soon.
Currently reading:
"The Wall" by Jean-Paul Sartre.
12.15.2007
Some advice on un-packratting.
It's a tedious thing.
It's a tiresome
tedious task throwing
out all the relics of the past
both pointless and poignant
that don't quite make the cut
when you're packing to move
into a new place to call your own
until it's someone else's.
And if and when you find those notes
from the hands of familiar strangers
long tucked away in remote corners of desk drawers
and other dark places:
DON'T READ THEM.
Let the Whores you fell for
and the Saints who fell for you
(or vice versa, whichever version
of the Truth is correct)
die with the deposit you know you won't get back
from the landlord too cheap to be honest.
Respect their choice to go with better bets
or your refusal to let yourself be lost
in someone else, depending on the case
(and, again, whichever version
of the Truth is correct).
Calling all cars.
Calling all friends to help pack the boxes
and end tables and plush chairs
into that truck on that sweaty day you move.
Calling, once the word is out, will mostly
get you forwarded to voicemail.
When very few
and by that I mean one or two
show up, don't be surprised.
But next time you fire up someone's water heater
or fill their belly with fine food or drink
on a week when their pay checks were light
don't forget to put it on their tab.
This is not a world run by any Golden Rule anymore, folks.
It's littered with IOU's
so next time you need a favor
you just may have to pull one out
of your wallet, so thick with business cards
of endeavours long gone under
that you take it out of your back packet
for long road trips.
Or better yet:
if you're like me
just throw them
(the friends, that is
or at least their contact information)
into that same dump-bound heap
of old phone bills and broken clocks
and business cards
and most importantly
dime-a-dozen lie-laden love letters
that will never see the colors of the walls
in your new place
your new start
at least not while you're home.
Currently reading:
"One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
It's a tiresome
tedious task throwing
out all the relics of the past
both pointless and poignant
that don't quite make the cut
when you're packing to move
into a new place to call your own
until it's someone else's.
And if and when you find those notes
from the hands of familiar strangers
long tucked away in remote corners of desk drawers
and other dark places:
DON'T READ THEM.
Let the Whores you fell for
and the Saints who fell for you
(or vice versa, whichever version
of the Truth is correct)
die with the deposit you know you won't get back
from the landlord too cheap to be honest.
Respect their choice to go with better bets
or your refusal to let yourself be lost
in someone else, depending on the case
(and, again, whichever version
of the Truth is correct).
Calling all cars.
Calling all friends to help pack the boxes
and end tables and plush chairs
into that truck on that sweaty day you move.
Calling, once the word is out, will mostly
get you forwarded to voicemail.
When very few
and by that I mean one or two
show up, don't be surprised.
But next time you fire up someone's water heater
or fill their belly with fine food or drink
on a week when their pay checks were light
don't forget to put it on their tab.
This is not a world run by any Golden Rule anymore, folks.
It's littered with IOU's
so next time you need a favor
you just may have to pull one out
of your wallet, so thick with business cards
of endeavours long gone under
that you take it out of your back packet
for long road trips.
Or better yet:
if you're like me
just throw them
(the friends, that is
or at least their contact information)
into that same dump-bound heap
of old phone bills and broken clocks
and business cards
and most importantly
dime-a-dozen lie-laden love letters
that will never see the colors of the walls
in your new place
your new start
at least not while you're home.
Currently reading:
"One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
12.09.2007
"Matthew 7:3"
It never ceases to amaze me how fast
those around me are to point out the voids.
I remember drawing a picture when I was six
and in typical six-year-old fashion
the sky
my
sky
was represented by a two-inch-thick
band of blue streaming across the top of the page.
A good four inches of solid white paper
lay between it and the top of the tallest tree
(aside from the obligatory m-shaped bird
drifting aimlessly and unsymmetrically
somewhere in that expanse of white).
I handed my daily masterpiece to my mom
and she suggested that I give it to her friend as a gift.
Upon receiving my innocent pastoral and taking
a minute to analyze
his first words were these:
"Why don't you extend the sky all the way down?
The blue sky should touch the green grass."
Instantly and without remorse
I ripped the paper from his hand
stubbornly declaring that it was
my
drawing
and I could make
my
sky
any which way I damn well pleased.
My mother was standing nearby and overheard
my lack of receptiveness
to this uncalled for constructive criticism.
She made me apologize to her friend
for being so defensive of my art
and suggested that I go sit down
and drag my sky to where it belonged
supposedly.
I apologized to her friend
with fingers crossed behind my back, of course
but refused to edit my picture.
I ripped it up over the trash can
as her face flushed crimson with shame
and I quickly explained that I intended to start over.
I didn't.
That would've been selling out.
I'd rather throw my work away
than have to change it for some fraud
who believed that the blue sky ever touches the green grass.
The very thought of having to succumb to that
put me in such a dither.
I didn't mind the fake apology as much as I resented
being asked to change my creation for someone else's sake
by my own flesh and blood.
That episode is my first memory of
hating a loved-one
for a few precious
well-deserved
moments.
Last week I was reminded of that ancient incident
as I discussed tattoos with an acquaintance.
Most of my left arm is already covered in ink
and all but the back of my right forearm is done.
This genius had the nerve to tell me
to fill that space with something else soon
to complete the effect
even though his body is void of tattooing
or any other permanent commitments
for that matter.
I didn't tell him about the Biblical parable
of the man with the speck of sawdust in his eye
being called out by the man with the plank in his.
I didn't tell him that I'm waiting for something
meaningful to happen again that warrants
a new permanent image adorning my skin.
I didn't tell him that I'm laid-off right now
and tattoos aren't exactly free.
And I sure didn't have my fingers crossed
behind my back this time
when I told him how and where to get off.
Believe me when I tell you that
vengeance tastes better
aged seventeen years.
Currently reading:
"Sifting Through The Madness For The Word, The Line, The Way" by Charles Bukowski.
those around me are to point out the voids.
I remember drawing a picture when I was six
and in typical six-year-old fashion
the sky
my
sky
was represented by a two-inch-thick
band of blue streaming across the top of the page.
A good four inches of solid white paper
lay between it and the top of the tallest tree
(aside from the obligatory m-shaped bird
drifting aimlessly and unsymmetrically
somewhere in that expanse of white).
I handed my daily masterpiece to my mom
and she suggested that I give it to her friend as a gift.
Upon receiving my innocent pastoral and taking
a minute to analyze
his first words were these:
"Why don't you extend the sky all the way down?
The blue sky should touch the green grass."
Instantly and without remorse
I ripped the paper from his hand
stubbornly declaring that it was
my
drawing
and I could make
my
sky
any which way I damn well pleased.
My mother was standing nearby and overheard
my lack of receptiveness
to this uncalled for constructive criticism.
She made me apologize to her friend
for being so defensive of my art
and suggested that I go sit down
and drag my sky to where it belonged
supposedly.
I apologized to her friend
with fingers crossed behind my back, of course
but refused to edit my picture.
I ripped it up over the trash can
as her face flushed crimson with shame
and I quickly explained that I intended to start over.
I didn't.
That would've been selling out.
I'd rather throw my work away
than have to change it for some fraud
who believed that the blue sky ever touches the green grass.
The very thought of having to succumb to that
put me in such a dither.
I didn't mind the fake apology as much as I resented
being asked to change my creation for someone else's sake
by my own flesh and blood.
That episode is my first memory of
hating a loved-one
for a few precious
well-deserved
moments.
Last week I was reminded of that ancient incident
as I discussed tattoos with an acquaintance.
Most of my left arm is already covered in ink
and all but the back of my right forearm is done.
This genius had the nerve to tell me
to fill that space with something else soon
to complete the effect
even though his body is void of tattooing
or any other permanent commitments
for that matter.
I didn't tell him about the Biblical parable
of the man with the speck of sawdust in his eye
being called out by the man with the plank in his.
I didn't tell him that I'm waiting for something
meaningful to happen again that warrants
a new permanent image adorning my skin.
I didn't tell him that I'm laid-off right now
and tattoos aren't exactly free.
And I sure didn't have my fingers crossed
behind my back this time
when I told him how and where to get off.
Believe me when I tell you that
vengeance tastes better
aged seventeen years.
Currently reading:
"Sifting Through The Madness For The Word, The Line, The Way" by Charles Bukowski.
11.27.2007
When all else fails, doctor the truth up for entertainment value.
"I was out last night and had some stuffed flounder
that reminded me of your mom's. That was always my favorite
recipe of hers. I still remember the time the two of you made it
on my birthday years ago."
I like to catch 'em off-guard
with a random opener like that sometimes,
its the equivalent of having pole position in a race.
"Wow," she says, "long time no talk. How've ya been?"
I stubbornly ignore her question
like I foolishly ignored her love
at the end of our time together and get right
to the meat:
"He doesn't need to know the whole story, Beth."
She flounders for a few awkward syllables.
"Whattaya mean by that?"
"Oh, you know...the minor details."
Again, more floundering. I stoop down to the level
I'm pretending
not to be at for the time being
and get good and specific.
"Look, he was my friend long before he was your lover."
A series of rhetorical questions that might've worked
seven years ago when we were an item
and not the present strangely familiar strangers
like the thumb tack on the floor and the somnambulist,
followed by a request to explain further.
(Apparently 'specific' varies according to gender.)
"We always hate the ones who've done our women
wrong in the past, and we all know my modus operandi.
Keep it vague for my sake, OK?
I'm tired of losing friends over women."
Suddenly it clicks in her head and she swears to leave me out of it,
whatever picture she intends to paint when the time comes.
I have enough shame to live with as a result of the last few years
and thankfully she respects that
which is far more than I deserve.
I counter with a truthful blessing:
"I'm happy for the both of you. The more I think
about your personalities
the more sense it makes. You guys deserve each other,
in a good way."
I practically watch her blush though we can't see each other.
Yeah, that's the reaction I wanted; let her know he wasn't lying
about how surprisingly supportive I was when he broke
the news to me
at the bar that night:
my high school sweetheart fell for him
and vice versa.
It must've come as a shock to them, but nothing
shocks
me
these days.
Like I told her, I've lost enough friends over women.
We make small-talk for awhile.
Then she decides to try to return the favor
by hitting me with a back-handed compliment of sorts:
"Dave, you were right about Liz."
I keep talking like I didn't hear her, to no avail.
"She's a bitter back-stabber."
More rambling on my part.
Anything but the "You told me so about so-and-so" speech, not now.
"I see her for what she is finally. You're a good judge of character."
Oh Lord, haven't they learned that giving someone like me credit
for mere observation (which is all any of this is)
is just more pissing in the wind?
"Well, let's just hope that's true and I really did place my bet on the right new couple."
There, I disarmed it with a positive spin
for the time being,
just like I always do
for the amount of time it takes to end the conversation and get away.
"Goodnight, Beth."
"Ditto, Dave."
Click.
But for Christ's sake,
Why can't they just let me be wrong when I want them to?
I'd like to believe that the cynic in me is as terribly mistaken
as the realist.
Currently reading:
"The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps" by Charles Bukowski.
that reminded me of your mom's. That was always my favorite
recipe of hers. I still remember the time the two of you made it
on my birthday years ago."
I like to catch 'em off-guard
with a random opener like that sometimes,
its the equivalent of having pole position in a race.
"Wow," she says, "long time no talk. How've ya been?"
I stubbornly ignore her question
like I foolishly ignored her love
at the end of our time together and get right
to the meat:
"He doesn't need to know the whole story, Beth."
She flounders for a few awkward syllables.
"Whattaya mean by that?"
"Oh, you know...the minor details."
Again, more floundering. I stoop down to the level
I'm pretending
not to be at for the time being
and get good and specific.
"Look, he was my friend long before he was your lover."
A series of rhetorical questions that might've worked
seven years ago when we were an item
and not the present strangely familiar strangers
like the thumb tack on the floor and the somnambulist,
followed by a request to explain further.
(Apparently 'specific' varies according to gender.)
"We always hate the ones who've done our women
wrong in the past, and we all know my modus operandi.
Keep it vague for my sake, OK?
I'm tired of losing friends over women."
Suddenly it clicks in her head and she swears to leave me out of it,
whatever picture she intends to paint when the time comes.
I have enough shame to live with as a result of the last few years
and thankfully she respects that
which is far more than I deserve.
I counter with a truthful blessing:
"I'm happy for the both of you. The more I think
about your personalities
the more sense it makes. You guys deserve each other,
in a good way."
I practically watch her blush though we can't see each other.
Yeah, that's the reaction I wanted; let her know he wasn't lying
about how surprisingly supportive I was when he broke
the news to me
at the bar that night:
my high school sweetheart fell for him
and vice versa.
It must've come as a shock to them, but nothing
shocks
me
these days.
Like I told her, I've lost enough friends over women.
We make small-talk for awhile.
Then she decides to try to return the favor
by hitting me with a back-handed compliment of sorts:
"Dave, you were right about Liz."
I keep talking like I didn't hear her, to no avail.
"She's a bitter back-stabber."
More rambling on my part.
Anything but the "You told me so about so-and-so" speech, not now.
"I see her for what she is finally. You're a good judge of character."
Oh Lord, haven't they learned that giving someone like me credit
for mere observation (which is all any of this is)
is just more pissing in the wind?
"Well, let's just hope that's true and I really did place my bet on the right new couple."
There, I disarmed it with a positive spin
for the time being,
just like I always do
for the amount of time it takes to end the conversation and get away.
"Goodnight, Beth."
"Ditto, Dave."
Click.
But for Christ's sake,
Why can't they just let me be wrong when I want them to?
I'd like to believe that the cynic in me is as terribly mistaken
as the realist.
Currently reading:
"The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps" by Charles Bukowski.
11.08.2007
A Mission Statement, An Explanation, A Reason To Wake Up.
It came up in the shower today, my stance on death and dying. Perhaps the chain of thought was brought about by the combination of the act of scrubbing the dead skin off my body and the fact that today at a gas station I ran into someone my former self once almost knew before another 'death' of sorts occurred. Parts of us, physical and otherwise, die every day: the body gives way to wear and tear, the soul takes beatings from which it can never quite recover, the spirit recesses back into the smallest speck of light behind the eyes. My entire identity died and shed like the exoskeleton of a cicada when I came home from college prematurely, despite my full scholarship. For the record I didn't fail out, or even technically drop out, I was asked to leave to gather what was left of myself. In a way I'm grateful, a new man. This second post-college phase of my life has proven to take me in an entirely different direction than I'd ever expected. Each morning, other than Sunday, I don workboots and make my wage through physical labor as a proud union tradesman. I never thought I'd be the type to have to shower after work instead of before, but some things don't pan out quite as we plan them. Ones dreams are usually the first part to die, at least until new ones are born.
As I lathered the shampoo I chuckled sinisterly to myself while thinking back to my first reflections on the topic. Notions of an unexpected passing of a sacrificial nature snuck into my head even at a young age. I specifically remember this warped fantasy I had about wanting to save the lost ring of the cute little twelve-year-old I had a crush on from the raging inferno of our school. The recurring daydream ended with my charred remains, ring in clenched fist, being discovered by construction workers hired to clean up the debris. Pretty morbid stuff for an elementary school kid, probably inspired by watching "My Girl" one too many times. In my disturbed little mind I tried to save the girl and died in the process and in a lot of ways the scenario hasn't changed. It wasn't until this evening that I realized the connection, though. And as I get older and love and lose more and more the parts of me I swore I'd save for someone go with them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still as immortal as I felt at seventeen, and who would care to what extent if I were wrong. Would they play a song at my funeral if I asked them?
It's only now that I can talk freely about these candid issues because, quite frankly, I'm already seen as a lunatic by enough people to justify total transparency. My parents had me in therapy on and off while growing up because of the divorce, but it was always "I don't like when Mommy..." or "I feel bad for Daddy when..." kinds of discussions. Unfortunately, and to my detriment, I never really said all that I felt and thought about. There has never been a venue to bring out such dismal things like my eagerness to go quickly and unexpectedly as opposed to slowly and painfully in a hospital bed somewhere with tubes and needles penetrating my wrinkled skin and a few cards from multiple generations of aloof offspring propped open on a nightstand. Is it so wrong to want to somehow go down swinging? I had no choice in the decision to be born, I've made a couple foolish decisions to die in multiple forms in the past, and now I'm choosing to live again on my own terms. That's why I hope that someday I get to die on my own terms, too, and that I still have enough left of the Me that I feel I really am inside somewhere to justify this name being inscribed on the headstone that will mark the final resting place of the shell of the man that never gave in until the twelfth round.
What matters now is how I get there, like a writer who knows the beginning and end of a book but leaves the middle to be figured out over the course of those long nights behind a blank page with a bottle close at hand to keep warm. I may be my own worst enemy, but I'm also my biggest critic in many respects. That being said, I can honestly say I'm still no Failure. I know who I am and what I'm meant to do with my time on Earth. I may have strayed from the original path, but that doesn't mean I'm down and out just yet. Maybe it'll come time to check out the next time I pick up a hitch-hiker without thinking twice, or I'll be forced to swerve into a tree to avoid a kid on a bike, or get shot by a stray bullet fired during a scuffle while trying to stop a hold-up at a convenience store. No, it's time to put away childish things; there never was any ring to rescue to begin with, there aren't any heroic ways out now. It's the middle of my book in which I'll prove my worth, the part where I finally get all that I want: a secure job, a nice house with a nicer mortgage, and a loving wife and two-point-five kids to make it worth waking up every day. You have to eat a fair share of what Life deals you in order to appreciate the longing for the American Dream. And as for the grand finale, the most I can ask for is to go in my sleep, the kind of deep sleep that happens after you've already woken up once during the night and rolled over gracefully after checking the alarm clock and seeing that there are still several hours left to rest. Yeah, that's the way.
Currently reading:
"Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch" by Henry Miller.
As I lathered the shampoo I chuckled sinisterly to myself while thinking back to my first reflections on the topic. Notions of an unexpected passing of a sacrificial nature snuck into my head even at a young age. I specifically remember this warped fantasy I had about wanting to save the lost ring of the cute little twelve-year-old I had a crush on from the raging inferno of our school. The recurring daydream ended with my charred remains, ring in clenched fist, being discovered by construction workers hired to clean up the debris. Pretty morbid stuff for an elementary school kid, probably inspired by watching "My Girl" one too many times. In my disturbed little mind I tried to save the girl and died in the process and in a lot of ways the scenario hasn't changed. It wasn't until this evening that I realized the connection, though. And as I get older and love and lose more and more the parts of me I swore I'd save for someone go with them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still as immortal as I felt at seventeen, and who would care to what extent if I were wrong. Would they play a song at my funeral if I asked them?
It's only now that I can talk freely about these candid issues because, quite frankly, I'm already seen as a lunatic by enough people to justify total transparency. My parents had me in therapy on and off while growing up because of the divorce, but it was always "I don't like when Mommy..." or "I feel bad for Daddy when..." kinds of discussions. Unfortunately, and to my detriment, I never really said all that I felt and thought about. There has never been a venue to bring out such dismal things like my eagerness to go quickly and unexpectedly as opposed to slowly and painfully in a hospital bed somewhere with tubes and needles penetrating my wrinkled skin and a few cards from multiple generations of aloof offspring propped open on a nightstand. Is it so wrong to want to somehow go down swinging? I had no choice in the decision to be born, I've made a couple foolish decisions to die in multiple forms in the past, and now I'm choosing to live again on my own terms. That's why I hope that someday I get to die on my own terms, too, and that I still have enough left of the Me that I feel I really am inside somewhere to justify this name being inscribed on the headstone that will mark the final resting place of the shell of the man that never gave in until the twelfth round.
What matters now is how I get there, like a writer who knows the beginning and end of a book but leaves the middle to be figured out over the course of those long nights behind a blank page with a bottle close at hand to keep warm. I may be my own worst enemy, but I'm also my biggest critic in many respects. That being said, I can honestly say I'm still no Failure. I know who I am and what I'm meant to do with my time on Earth. I may have strayed from the original path, but that doesn't mean I'm down and out just yet. Maybe it'll come time to check out the next time I pick up a hitch-hiker without thinking twice, or I'll be forced to swerve into a tree to avoid a kid on a bike, or get shot by a stray bullet fired during a scuffle while trying to stop a hold-up at a convenience store. No, it's time to put away childish things; there never was any ring to rescue to begin with, there aren't any heroic ways out now. It's the middle of my book in which I'll prove my worth, the part where I finally get all that I want: a secure job, a nice house with a nicer mortgage, and a loving wife and two-point-five kids to make it worth waking up every day. You have to eat a fair share of what Life deals you in order to appreciate the longing for the American Dream. And as for the grand finale, the most I can ask for is to go in my sleep, the kind of deep sleep that happens after you've already woken up once during the night and rolled over gracefully after checking the alarm clock and seeing that there are still several hours left to rest. Yeah, that's the way.
Currently reading:
"Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch" by Henry Miller.
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