The monotony of it turns my stomach anymore.
The dirty looks and snyde remarks the ogre role elicits
in the unrecognized name of responsibility.
The clean-up and the mourning after.
The hair-ties, bobby pins, backs of earrings.
Loose change from the pockets of loose women.
Paper bags from plastic dinners for rubber souls.
Expensive beer missing from the bottom bin in the fridge.
Cheap beer left half-drank on every flat surface.
Bottle caps, beer tabs, crushed potato chips.
Beer pong balls under tables sticky with spilled drinks.
The empty bottles I bought a few days ago
that I barely got to have any of before the bastards
cleaned me out, house and home, limb from limb.
And if they ever come back looking for their dignity
I'll tell them to check between the cushions of the couch.
The aftermath of a good time had too fast for the wrong reasons.
Phone calls asking him to come clean up the vomit
he left for me in the morning.
At least he's one of the few who will.
Still, it's sad to watch, has been for years.
Binge/purge.
I know why he does it.
We have similar reasons, only mine are mentioned
and almost go away from time to time for as long as
they choose to stay.
"Never let me drink that much and that fast again."
"Yeah. So we'll do it again this Saturday?"
"Yeah, give me a call."
It used to be all part of the game, but I've hung up my gloves.
Yeah, I know. I keep saying that.
And I bet you're looking
for a reference to yourself right about here.
Don't hold your breath.
No.
Do.
Maybe all of this stems from
the cigarette I'm craving.
I smoked the last one in my last pack
today and want to see if I can go without that vice.
Bumming a few while drinking won't count
or after a hearty meal or mind-shattering sex--
it's the ones you suck on your down-time
at work every day that kill you slowly.
Somewhere along the way talent was replaced with style.
Shortly afterwards, the man with the biggest gun shouted
"Every man for himself!" and we've all paid the price ever since.
Or at least most of us.
I'm not asking for the strength to deal anymore.
I'm asking for a mortgage and locks that only I have the key to.
Well, only me and mine.
Bobby pins.
Jesus saves.
Gretzky scores.
Or did I mix those up again?
It's all the same.
And it will continue to be
until they're gone.
Until they're all
fucking
gone.
Today I quit smoking
like tomorrow I'll quit you.
But I have to go now, it's almost time.
Something tells me we won't get to the movie
and I don't mind that one bit.
In fact, it's the only thing.
Currently reading:
"The Selected Stories of O. Henry."
6.02.2008
5.31.2008
Los Dolores,
My mother and stepfather went to Florida yesterday.
Before leaving she asked me to go check on the Old Lady
once or twice while they're away, enticing me with leftovers
in the fridge. Since I had to pass by their development
on my way home from work today I figured I'd swing by.
No one answered the phone when I called ahead to see
if my grandmother's caretaker needed milk for the two of them.
I contemplated buying a half-gallon anyway, but didn't.
When I got there I saw why no one had answered the phone.
The woman who tends to the Old Lady was out back on
the patio talking to her friend. She introduced us and
I was surprised to hear him say "How are you?" as we shook hands--
me avoiding eye contact, him avoiding a firm grip.
In my broken Spanish and her broken English we established
that they did not need milk or bread or any other staples
and that Grandma was upstairs in her room. About-faced
and trudged through the living room with my workboots on
not caring about the carpet since my mother was all the way down
the Eastern Seaboard, far out of harm's way.
I knocked on her open door and greeted her with the formal salutation
small Hispanic children are trained to say to their elders upon greeting
and parting, a word I believe roughly translated means "God bless you."
She turned from the window where she had been looking down
at my previous engagement, shining her big dentures at me
and spreading her arms so wide in preparation for a grateful hug
her pastel striped blouse spread wide like a sail and the sun shone through it.
I hugged her gingerly but with feeling, a feat necessary
with those eighty and older
easily accomplished by the patting of the back to show emphasis
without enough strength to hurt frail bones.
I tried to keep our chests from touching since I was still covered
in white concrete dust from work.
"Hello, how are you?" was the anticipated first question
that bought me some time while I quickly ran a scan of
my hazy memory for a proper response in Spanish.
"I'm good, I've been working today." It felt more like the beginning
of an eighth-grade oral test than a conversation with a woman
responsible for my existence. Not being fluent enough to do more than understand
some of the language is one of the few things I'll never forgive my mother for;
she should've continued to teach me as I grew older. As a baby I spoke both
but the inconvenience drove her to give up on the process
and I'm now no better off at expressing myself than your typical
junior high student, especially with past-tense verbs.
I knew it'd only be more awkward from there on in. "Yeah? On a Saturday?
You're a good boy." My limited vocabulary made me curl my toes in my boots
as I spat out the next words for the sake of saying something coherent:
"Yeah, I've been trabajando como un hombre fuerte," laughing in my head
at how tacky that sounded as I flexed a bicep and hoped she didn't laugh
at her grandson for saying he'd been "working like a strong man"
with a straight face.
She didn't. Her face lit up and I interjected with what I knew she wanted to hear next
since this script never changes much. "Mom said there's food for me to take home."
The sense of urgency that took over her wrinkled face proved that she was definitely
a mother of three obsessed with feeding her offspring. "Yes, take it and eat it
and be healthy and strong!" Good advice, and more simple words I could handle.
I went on to tell her to have her caretaker dial the phone for her
if she needed anything, milk or eggs or fresh fruit, and she smiled again
saying that she had asked my mother to leave my number with them
in case of just such an emergency. I already knew that fact because
upon walking through the kitchen earlier I saw my number on a Post-it Note
next to the Spanish phonetic spelling of my name that my grandma used to
write on birthday card envelopes and the like: Maico.
Her appreciation for my sense of duty was evident when she went off on
a rant too fast with emotion for me to decipher, but I got the basic idea.
The part at the end of her speech said that she calls me her son
because she always thought of me as her "real" son since she spent
so much time with me as I grew up. Out of about ten grand- and great-grandkids
I was the one she spent the most time with, something I value.
Grinning a stubbled countenance of contentment I said goodbye
with that same silly word I've been brainwashed into saying
and edged my way towards the stairs. She spread her arms wide again
and embraced me with full force. "No, be careful, I'm dirty from work!"
I warned her, but she only held me tighter. "You're my son, and even
when you think you're dirty, I still think you're clean and pure."
Clean and pure. The words rang out. Sometimes I forget that
in some eyes I still am and always will be.
That's worth all the potential bread and milk and egg deliveries in the world.
Clean and pure.
I squeezed tighter, too.
To hell with that fake back-pat hug.
Love like that is worth brushing some concrete dust off a pastel-striped blouse.
Currently reading:
"Open All Night" by Charles Bukowski.
Before leaving she asked me to go check on the Old Lady
once or twice while they're away, enticing me with leftovers
in the fridge. Since I had to pass by their development
on my way home from work today I figured I'd swing by.
No one answered the phone when I called ahead to see
if my grandmother's caretaker needed milk for the two of them.
I contemplated buying a half-gallon anyway, but didn't.
When I got there I saw why no one had answered the phone.
The woman who tends to the Old Lady was out back on
the patio talking to her friend. She introduced us and
I was surprised to hear him say "How are you?" as we shook hands--
me avoiding eye contact, him avoiding a firm grip.
In my broken Spanish and her broken English we established
that they did not need milk or bread or any other staples
and that Grandma was upstairs in her room. About-faced
and trudged through the living room with my workboots on
not caring about the carpet since my mother was all the way down
the Eastern Seaboard, far out of harm's way.
I knocked on her open door and greeted her with the formal salutation
small Hispanic children are trained to say to their elders upon greeting
and parting, a word I believe roughly translated means "God bless you."
She turned from the window where she had been looking down
at my previous engagement, shining her big dentures at me
and spreading her arms so wide in preparation for a grateful hug
her pastel striped blouse spread wide like a sail and the sun shone through it.
I hugged her gingerly but with feeling, a feat necessary
with those eighty and older
easily accomplished by the patting of the back to show emphasis
without enough strength to hurt frail bones.
I tried to keep our chests from touching since I was still covered
in white concrete dust from work.
"Hello, how are you?" was the anticipated first question
that bought me some time while I quickly ran a scan of
my hazy memory for a proper response in Spanish.
"I'm good, I've been working today." It felt more like the beginning
of an eighth-grade oral test than a conversation with a woman
responsible for my existence. Not being fluent enough to do more than understand
some of the language is one of the few things I'll never forgive my mother for;
she should've continued to teach me as I grew older. As a baby I spoke both
but the inconvenience drove her to give up on the process
and I'm now no better off at expressing myself than your typical
junior high student, especially with past-tense verbs.
I knew it'd only be more awkward from there on in. "Yeah? On a Saturday?
You're a good boy." My limited vocabulary made me curl my toes in my boots
as I spat out the next words for the sake of saying something coherent:
"Yeah, I've been trabajando como un hombre fuerte," laughing in my head
at how tacky that sounded as I flexed a bicep and hoped she didn't laugh
at her grandson for saying he'd been "working like a strong man"
with a straight face.
She didn't. Her face lit up and I interjected with what I knew she wanted to hear next
since this script never changes much. "Mom said there's food for me to take home."
The sense of urgency that took over her wrinkled face proved that she was definitely
a mother of three obsessed with feeding her offspring. "Yes, take it and eat it
and be healthy and strong!" Good advice, and more simple words I could handle.
I went on to tell her to have her caretaker dial the phone for her
if she needed anything, milk or eggs or fresh fruit, and she smiled again
saying that she had asked my mother to leave my number with them
in case of just such an emergency. I already knew that fact because
upon walking through the kitchen earlier I saw my number on a Post-it Note
next to the Spanish phonetic spelling of my name that my grandma used to
write on birthday card envelopes and the like: Maico.
Her appreciation for my sense of duty was evident when she went off on
a rant too fast with emotion for me to decipher, but I got the basic idea.
The part at the end of her speech said that she calls me her son
because she always thought of me as her "real" son since she spent
so much time with me as I grew up. Out of about ten grand- and great-grandkids
I was the one she spent the most time with, something I value.
Grinning a stubbled countenance of contentment I said goodbye
with that same silly word I've been brainwashed into saying
and edged my way towards the stairs. She spread her arms wide again
and embraced me with full force. "No, be careful, I'm dirty from work!"
I warned her, but she only held me tighter. "You're my son, and even
when you think you're dirty, I still think you're clean and pure."
Clean and pure. The words rang out. Sometimes I forget that
in some eyes I still am and always will be.
That's worth all the potential bread and milk and egg deliveries in the world.
Clean and pure.
I squeezed tighter, too.
To hell with that fake back-pat hug.
Love like that is worth brushing some concrete dust off a pastel-striped blouse.
Currently reading:
"Open All Night" by Charles Bukowski.
5.22.2008
As I sit here with my right testicle hanging out of my shorts...
There's a select breed of them I've known
who stand apart in a seemingly backwards
scenario: they tire of their men
who are in turn frightened away from them
for one reason or fifty.
Watercolors remind me of them
and ponchos
and poetry from the heart
and anything bright
or dull or dead.
Somehow, when talent and wit were being doled out
their pregnant mothers sold their souls
to get to the front of the line, but for naught.
Ever since being birthed back in the Eighties
it's as if they've tried sucking up the world
in an attempt to portray or perfect it, but forgot to live in it
in the process; like my mother said of my father's type:
"So Heavenly bound that they're of no Earthly good."
Eating ribs in a white T-shirt and cursing at other motorists
and spitting on bugs when the childishly cruel urge comes up--
It's all OK, kids--
at least to these whelmingly human eyes and hands and feet
this Cowboy more free than anyone else claiming to be.
But don't let their alleged innocence fool you, Pilgrim:
Not that I'd know any better
than the next poor bastard
(this old dog found new tricks
less painful to the joints)
but something tells me if one brave enough to bed
one of these beauties lifted her sleeping hand
from the sheets the next morning
he'd find paint chips, sheet rock dust, and some of his skin
under her fingernails.
It's not their faults, they mean well most times.
It's like that one about the scorpion who stings the frog
as the latter gives the former a ride across the river
and they both drown-- it's just in their nature.
Still, they're the kind of women who
if they don't slow down
will end up aging less than gracefully;
smelling of their India ink
and wet clothes locked in a trunk to grow musty;
looking like a sadist tried shucking an oyster
with a baseball bat.
If you're wondering if this was all supposed to be
a pro or con statement, you are not alone.
I'm not even sure what I meant by any of it, I just know
that it's in the limbo where some memories live.
I can't argue with the fact that they've served a function
that I thought was impossible:
they've made me feel sane, by comparison.
After some of the charades, firsthand and otherwise
it's hard not to feel baffled
like a helicopter pilot after an F-16 flashes by
asking himself, "Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!"
And maybe all this is just a projection of my bitter envy
over the fact that any given one of them
could write circles around me without trying, instantly
reducing me to a wanna-be version of my obvious literary anti-hero
a lacking facsimile of one who lived it more
and bitched about it less.
Eh, whatever. It killed twenty-seven minutes
while waiting for home to get here.
who stand apart in a seemingly backwards
scenario: they tire of their men
who are in turn frightened away from them
for one reason or fifty.
Watercolors remind me of them
and ponchos
and poetry from the heart
and anything bright
or dull or dead.
Somehow, when talent and wit were being doled out
their pregnant mothers sold their souls
to get to the front of the line, but for naught.
Ever since being birthed back in the Eighties
it's as if they've tried sucking up the world
in an attempt to portray or perfect it, but forgot to live in it
in the process; like my mother said of my father's type:
"So Heavenly bound that they're of no Earthly good."
Eating ribs in a white T-shirt and cursing at other motorists
and spitting on bugs when the childishly cruel urge comes up--
It's all OK, kids--
at least to these whelmingly human eyes and hands and feet
this Cowboy more free than anyone else claiming to be.
But don't let their alleged innocence fool you, Pilgrim:
Not that I'd know any better
than the next poor bastard
(this old dog found new tricks
less painful to the joints)
but something tells me if one brave enough to bed
one of these beauties lifted her sleeping hand
from the sheets the next morning
he'd find paint chips, sheet rock dust, and some of his skin
under her fingernails.
It's not their faults, they mean well most times.
It's like that one about the scorpion who stings the frog
as the latter gives the former a ride across the river
and they both drown-- it's just in their nature.
Still, they're the kind of women who
if they don't slow down
will end up aging less than gracefully;
smelling of their India ink
and wet clothes locked in a trunk to grow musty;
looking like a sadist tried shucking an oyster
with a baseball bat.
If you're wondering if this was all supposed to be
a pro or con statement, you are not alone.
I'm not even sure what I meant by any of it, I just know
that it's in the limbo where some memories live.
I can't argue with the fact that they've served a function
that I thought was impossible:
they've made me feel sane, by comparison.
After some of the charades, firsthand and otherwise
it's hard not to feel baffled
like a helicopter pilot after an F-16 flashes by
asking himself, "Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!"
And maybe all this is just a projection of my bitter envy
over the fact that any given one of them
could write circles around me without trying, instantly
reducing me to a wanna-be version of my obvious literary anti-hero
a lacking facsimile of one who lived it more
and bitched about it less.
Eh, whatever. It killed twenty-seven minutes
while waiting for home to get here.
5.21.2008
One for the road.
Friday I'm leaving work early
to go visit my grandmother's brother
who went to the doctor for a routine check-up
and wound up in the hospital on his deathbed
at the ripe age of ninety-six.
The problem I have is not knowing whether
or not to wear that long-sleeved button-down.
Would that imply that I know that he knows that I know
that this will probably be our awkward goodbye
in my family's foreign tongue that I can't speak fluently?
Something tells me that when his pale blue eyes
see the meek look in mine
such trivialities as my shirt won't matter, but
it's just another of those things I won't know for sure
until I'm on the other side of the barrel.
God deals too many of those cards.
to go visit my grandmother's brother
who went to the doctor for a routine check-up
and wound up in the hospital on his deathbed
at the ripe age of ninety-six.
The problem I have is not knowing whether
or not to wear that long-sleeved button-down.
Would that imply that I know that he knows that I know
that this will probably be our awkward goodbye
in my family's foreign tongue that I can't speak fluently?
Something tells me that when his pale blue eyes
see the meek look in mine
such trivialities as my shirt won't matter, but
it's just another of those things I won't know for sure
until I'm on the other side of the barrel.
God deals too many of those cards.
5.19.2008
Gobble Gobble, Motherfucker.
Once, you banished him
from your miserable mansion property
suggesting that I rent elsewhere;
but Oh Captain, My Captain (Behoover)
came back with (a pipe wrench and a shotgun
and a speech impediment and) a vengeance
better than Bruce Willis
to put a cap in your turkey's corn-fed ass.
I had to pick the bullets out
and shave some feathers before
cooking his succulent breast, but
it was delicious-- breaded and seasoned and fried
like chicken cutlet a la Vahsen.
There was much hateful rejoicing
in celebration of the Spite Turkey, don't doubt that.
Guard your pets from now on, bitch;
we like Chinese food, too.
-- Robert "The Beast" Mahoney, 2008
from your miserable mansion property
suggesting that I rent elsewhere;
but Oh Captain, My Captain (Behoover)
came back with (a pipe wrench and a shotgun
and a speech impediment and) a vengeance
better than Bruce Willis
to put a cap in your turkey's corn-fed ass.
I had to pick the bullets out
and shave some feathers before
cooking his succulent breast, but
it was delicious-- breaded and seasoned and fried
like chicken cutlet a la Vahsen.
There was much hateful rejoicing
in celebration of the Spite Turkey, don't doubt that.
Guard your pets from now on, bitch;
we like Chinese food, too.
-- Robert "The Beast" Mahoney, 2008
5.18.2008
Turquoise or Amethyst?
It was one of those stupid tiffs couples have--
a slight inconvenience complicated by timing
and further confused by alcohol. It would've blown
over by morning had no one addressed it, but
she didn't let it come to that. I got out of bed
to take a leak. When I came back I noticed
that my pillow was missing and hers was now
in the center of the bed. I figured that meant
I'd be sleeping on the floor and didn't have
the energy to argue over it, but I was wrong.
"I hid your pillow. We can share mine if you want."
Any of you who've had a relationship of this caliber
know how amazing make-up sex is, so I'll spare you
the details.
"Did you like my trick?" she asked afterwards.
"Yeah, thanks for coming through."
It wasn't so much a trick as a tool to reconcile.
It felt good knowing I wouldn't be the only one to
make amends before bedtime from now on.
We passed out in each others arms
bare as the days we were born
with the lights still on
and our legs entangled in a marbled mess.
She must've gotten up to hit the lights
at some point during the night, and
she didn't even turn off
the air conditioning I'd begged to turn on
even though she was probably cold.
I'm sure the sight of me drooling on the sheets
with my hairy beergut let loose to gravity
in my post-coitus slumber didn't repulse
her one bit, even though it'd be enough
to frighten most. I'm insecure
about certain things and probably always will be
but she somehow manages to make me feel beautiful
on a daily basis; not in the way Grace Kelly was on the screen
nor an Olympic figure skater in the rink-- no, nothing inherent
or blatant or boastful. It's all filtered through the prism of her love
like the way an old, haggard blues guitarist
with liver spots and bloody gums is transformed
as soon as he makes those notes bend
you to tears, or a welder who knows his trade
better than he knows his children
binds those metals together expertly and with pride
until the last joint is sealed.
It's a loveliness often missed out on since it requires
more attention than most take the time to give
and it's more than I think I deserve being given, though
she begs to differ, thankfully.
After the Incident
my mother told me a day of reckoning would come
and until then I'd rack up experience points
for the long haul.
I know she'll sleep better
knowing the hands
my heart's finally in
after she meets the pillow thief.
Currently reading:
"Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson.
a slight inconvenience complicated by timing
and further confused by alcohol. It would've blown
over by morning had no one addressed it, but
she didn't let it come to that. I got out of bed
to take a leak. When I came back I noticed
that my pillow was missing and hers was now
in the center of the bed. I figured that meant
I'd be sleeping on the floor and didn't have
the energy to argue over it, but I was wrong.
"I hid your pillow. We can share mine if you want."
Any of you who've had a relationship of this caliber
know how amazing make-up sex is, so I'll spare you
the details.
"Did you like my trick?" she asked afterwards.
"Yeah, thanks for coming through."
It wasn't so much a trick as a tool to reconcile.
It felt good knowing I wouldn't be the only one to
make amends before bedtime from now on.
We passed out in each others arms
bare as the days we were born
with the lights still on
and our legs entangled in a marbled mess.
She must've gotten up to hit the lights
at some point during the night, and
she didn't even turn off
the air conditioning I'd begged to turn on
even though she was probably cold.
I'm sure the sight of me drooling on the sheets
with my hairy beergut let loose to gravity
in my post-coitus slumber didn't repulse
her one bit, even though it'd be enough
to frighten most. I'm insecure
about certain things and probably always will be
but she somehow manages to make me feel beautiful
on a daily basis; not in the way Grace Kelly was on the screen
nor an Olympic figure skater in the rink-- no, nothing inherent
or blatant or boastful. It's all filtered through the prism of her love
like the way an old, haggard blues guitarist
with liver spots and bloody gums is transformed
as soon as he makes those notes bend
you to tears, or a welder who knows his trade
better than he knows his children
binds those metals together expertly and with pride
until the last joint is sealed.
It's a loveliness often missed out on since it requires
more attention than most take the time to give
and it's more than I think I deserve being given, though
she begs to differ, thankfully.
After the Incident
my mother told me a day of reckoning would come
and until then I'd rack up experience points
for the long haul.
I know she'll sleep better
knowing the hands
my heart's finally in
after she meets the pillow thief.
Currently reading:
"Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson.
5.12.2008
On selling your soul for a buck.
My bucket of tools banged against
the side of my leg as I moped
to the house I had to work on.
The site was like a ghost town
due to the weather, figured I'd fake
a kind word to one of the few souls
actually there. Switching hands
with my load, I forced a hungover smile
and told that sole carpenter the fascia
he was nailing to the roof of the porch looked good.
The rough wood was no longer visible
replaced instead by decorative white aluminum.
He stepped down from the ladder, pretending to
need nails, and showed that he was lonely
by saying more than "Thanks." My foreman
wasn't around but I still wouldn't drop my bucket
to chat; whatever he said had to be quick, but it wasn't.
"It looks good, but I feel like an asshole. These two birds
keep flying around me trying to get into the gaps
in the wood I just sealed off with aluminum. They must
have a nest in there somewhere, probably babies."
He shook his head and gave me the look of disgust
that comes with the burden of doing whatcha gotta.
I saw in his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses
that he was one of us, the cursed and conscienced
minority on the job.
I picked up the pace to avoid further awkward
seemingly meaningless conversation
and pitied the poor bastard for trying to walk my line
having a heart on a construction site.
Don't worry, man. This isn't Nuremberg, you were
"just following orders" will fly. By the time I finished hooking
up the furnace behind the house he was gone.
The birds were still there chirping their little hearts out.
It dawned on me that it's not always for the reason
we'd like to think.
the side of my leg as I moped
to the house I had to work on.
The site was like a ghost town
due to the weather, figured I'd fake
a kind word to one of the few souls
actually there. Switching hands
with my load, I forced a hungover smile
and told that sole carpenter the fascia
he was nailing to the roof of the porch looked good.
The rough wood was no longer visible
replaced instead by decorative white aluminum.
He stepped down from the ladder, pretending to
need nails, and showed that he was lonely
by saying more than "Thanks." My foreman
wasn't around but I still wouldn't drop my bucket
to chat; whatever he said had to be quick, but it wasn't.
"It looks good, but I feel like an asshole. These two birds
keep flying around me trying to get into the gaps
in the wood I just sealed off with aluminum. They must
have a nest in there somewhere, probably babies."
He shook his head and gave me the look of disgust
that comes with the burden of doing whatcha gotta.
I saw in his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses
that he was one of us, the cursed and conscienced
minority on the job.
I picked up the pace to avoid further awkward
seemingly meaningless conversation
and pitied the poor bastard for trying to walk my line
having a heart on a construction site.
Don't worry, man. This isn't Nuremberg, you were
"just following orders" will fly. By the time I finished hooking
up the furnace behind the house he was gone.
The birds were still there chirping their little hearts out.
It dawned on me that it's not always for the reason
we'd like to think.
5.11.2008
homemade tattoos.
It's a very definite look, tangible almost:
when briefly locked eyes leak
that he knows
that you know
that both of you know
what it's like to be
There.
Then comes the question of
who got where first and to what extent--
brain, heart, and loins being bartering chips.
Really none of it matters.
You're both on her list
and wound up in the same places in the end--
the liquor store and the drawing board--
and all you can do is be thankful that
some souls still know what it's like to forgive
and leave Judgment Day to our Maker's discretion
...though I have a hell of an advantage
having found one who sucks the poison
from snakebites on this leper's limbs.
How's that for a douche-bag?
when briefly locked eyes leak
that he knows
that you know
that both of you know
what it's like to be
There.
Then comes the question of
who got where first and to what extent--
brain, heart, and loins being bartering chips.
Really none of it matters.
You're both on her list
and wound up in the same places in the end--
the liquor store and the drawing board--
and all you can do is be thankful that
some souls still know what it's like to forgive
and leave Judgment Day to our Maker's discretion
...though I have a hell of an advantage
having found one who sucks the poison
from snakebites on this leper's limbs.
How's that for a douche-bag?
5.07.2008
Sometimes friends fight.
Despite the whiskey on a Wednesday, I know
you'd be proud: I finally deleted
all of the Numbers' numbers.
It was a form of groveling that even I
was ashamed of. Remember those days, pal?
Yeah, me neither, but we're still paying
in spades and honest alibis.
Not that it matters now anyway. Bloodshed
can't be undone and that war was too blatant
to deny its existence.
(Women: 0, Junior: N/A)
Despite the five o'clock shadow
and taste for vengeance I am not and never was close
to being any sort of Clint Eastwood; always
The Bad or The Ugly, usually both.
(Here's the one you think you deserve;
Shitty consolation, I know.)
What plagues me now
is the opposite of the Monet Effect: though people judge me
from afar, the flaws disappear as one gets closer; though
sometimes new ones appear when the boundaries between
me and them disappear and they see it from my insides out.
Life isn't as grand through these eyes, Kid.
They aren't even mine, they're my father's
and look where they got him, wherever he may be.
At least the scars are my own, take
them or leave them.
Neither will surprise me.
Nothing much does at the age of twenty-four
going on fifty.
It felt old to drive a friend home from
a party, surprisingly mostly sober, when the drugs
hit him too hard. But the real kicker
is seeing bad luck multiply at the cellular level
in someone who clearly doesn't deserve it, someone
who will make a difference here someday
when this latest test is passed.
I swear this isn't pity, but strength
or an Oscar-worthy fraudulent version
is enough to make a fan crumble
after the ovation.
I'm not a religious man, or even spiritual, just
know that whatever manner of prayer
a sinner like me could make is with you.
But, like the rest of the aforementioned, she'll
stretch a mile before she tears an inch.
The good ones always do.
Currently reading:
"1984" by George Orwell.
you'd be proud: I finally deleted
all of the Numbers' numbers.
It was a form of groveling that even I
was ashamed of. Remember those days, pal?
Yeah, me neither, but we're still paying
in spades and honest alibis.
Not that it matters now anyway. Bloodshed
can't be undone and that war was too blatant
to deny its existence.
(Women: 0, Junior: N/A)
Despite the five o'clock shadow
and taste for vengeance I am not and never was close
to being any sort of Clint Eastwood; always
The Bad or The Ugly, usually both.
(Here's the one you think you deserve;
Shitty consolation, I know.)
What plagues me now
is the opposite of the Monet Effect: though people judge me
from afar, the flaws disappear as one gets closer; though
sometimes new ones appear when the boundaries between
me and them disappear and they see it from my insides out.
Life isn't as grand through these eyes, Kid.
They aren't even mine, they're my father's
and look where they got him, wherever he may be.
At least the scars are my own, take
them or leave them.
Neither will surprise me.
Nothing much does at the age of twenty-four
going on fifty.
It felt old to drive a friend home from
a party, surprisingly mostly sober, when the drugs
hit him too hard. But the real kicker
is seeing bad luck multiply at the cellular level
in someone who clearly doesn't deserve it, someone
who will make a difference here someday
when this latest test is passed.
I swear this isn't pity, but strength
or an Oscar-worthy fraudulent version
is enough to make a fan crumble
after the ovation.
I'm not a religious man, or even spiritual, just
know that whatever manner of prayer
a sinner like me could make is with you.
But, like the rest of the aforementioned, she'll
stretch a mile before she tears an inch.
The good ones always do.
Currently reading:
"1984" by George Orwell.
5.05.2008
Smiling through the afterbith.
How novel it was:
neither one cold while sharing the shower
washing off sex in our suits of lather
praying that we could wear them forever
changing the sheets every day for good measure
with noses buried in books side-by-side
until the diner calls or we die.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson"
neither one cold while sharing the shower
washing off sex in our suits of lather
praying that we could wear them forever
changing the sheets every day for good measure
with noses buried in books side-by-side
until the diner calls or we die.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson"
4.30.2008
...while you were sleeping.
"Shuttlecock"; "Raincheck":
These are words I don't understand.
Like when you ask someone
middle-aged or older
their telephone number and they look
you square in the eye, foolishly unashamed
and say "I don't know
it, I never call myself."
Well, maybe no one else should be calling
you, either, pal.
Nero played that fiddle beautifully as Rome burned
but I doubt a person such as yourself could
make ignorance nearly as tasteful.
And girth, can we talk about girth for a moment?
The blessing, the curse, the verdict is in
and the Feel Good Revolution
just got a little hindered by diameter.
Their mothers must tell them to say that
to all the boys, though it's a kind strategy.
Butt it sure is pleasant to think up names
when my mind wanders at work.
The irony of the lousy job I'm on right now
is that it's one giant mud pit.
Sometimes I sink halfway up to my shins
as I trudge along from building to building
trying my best to roll with those right hooks.
I related this woe to a friend the other day
and she said she didn't pity me, she'd love
to play in the mud. That's fine and good, but
I'm sure there are also a lot of perverts who'd swear
they'd love to be gynecologists until the day
they'd actually have to stare up those for eight hours.
When the analogy went unanswered I considered
the Realist the victor and flicked the butt
out the window of my car at a garden
triumphantly.
Though I'm not always such a crabapple.
Yesterday driving home I saw a turtle in its shell
in the middle of my lane. My first reaction was
to stop, but the rush hour traffic suggested otherwise.
When I stopped with a passenger last summer
she jumped out and saved it in time. A few months later
when I saw another one and didn't stop since
I was with a coworker and too embarrassed
I saw its smashed shell upon returning.
The law of averages told me what would happen to
yesterday's jay-walker if I didn't stop again, but I couldn't
bring myself to turn around and do it with all those
damn cars. Me of all people should've been able to relate
being the recluse that I've become hiding in this
shell made of bottles and bookshelves, but pride wound up
costing that turtle his life, too.
Or maybe that one made it.
It's not enough to lose sleep over
but it still irks me to know
that I'll never know.
At least there's one thing I'm sure of now:
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008.
These are words I don't understand.
Like when you ask someone
middle-aged or older
their telephone number and they look
you square in the eye, foolishly unashamed
and say "I don't know
it, I never call myself."
Well, maybe no one else should be calling
you, either, pal.
Nero played that fiddle beautifully as Rome burned
but I doubt a person such as yourself could
make ignorance nearly as tasteful.
And girth, can we talk about girth for a moment?
The blessing, the curse, the verdict is in
and the Feel Good Revolution
just got a little hindered by diameter.
Their mothers must tell them to say that
to all the boys, though it's a kind strategy.
Butt it sure is pleasant to think up names
when my mind wanders at work.
The irony of the lousy job I'm on right now
is that it's one giant mud pit.
Sometimes I sink halfway up to my shins
as I trudge along from building to building
trying my best to roll with those right hooks.
I related this woe to a friend the other day
and she said she didn't pity me, she'd love
to play in the mud. That's fine and good, but
I'm sure there are also a lot of perverts who'd swear
they'd love to be gynecologists until the day
they'd actually have to stare up those for eight hours.
When the analogy went unanswered I considered
the Realist the victor and flicked the butt
out the window of my car at a garden
triumphantly.
Though I'm not always such a crabapple.
Yesterday driving home I saw a turtle in its shell
in the middle of my lane. My first reaction was
to stop, but the rush hour traffic suggested otherwise.
When I stopped with a passenger last summer
she jumped out and saved it in time. A few months later
when I saw another one and didn't stop since
I was with a coworker and too embarrassed
I saw its smashed shell upon returning.
The law of averages told me what would happen to
yesterday's jay-walker if I didn't stop again, but I couldn't
bring myself to turn around and do it with all those
damn cars. Me of all people should've been able to relate
being the recluse that I've become hiding in this
shell made of bottles and bookshelves, but pride wound up
costing that turtle his life, too.
Or maybe that one made it.
It's not enough to lose sleep over
but it still irks me to know
that I'll never know.
At least there's one thing I'm sure of now:
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008.
4.27.2008
postal
Dear Jim,
I am writing again to remind you there are worse things than Death.
Sleeping has been fun again as of late. The sore throat and fever are finally gone so a full eight-plus night is once again possible. It's the subject matter of the dreams that have really made it a hoot, though. Two out of the last three nights I've had dreams similar to "Die Hard" movies, only I always have a partner and I'm not balding. Guns, terrorists, public places in need of rescue: these are the things that swirl in my head at night as I try to save the day, in my fantasies at least. Last night's sidekick was a guy from work we call Rambo since he has a veritable arsenal at home. We had the stealth mode hand signals down and everything, duct-taped the clips of our automatic weapons back-to-back like in the movies to make for faster reloading. But somehow I was always running out of bullets and scrounging for more magazines on the ground that usually turned out to be empty anyway. I'm not sure if this is supposed to symbolize some sort of self-perceived sexual inadequacy or if I'm really just paranoid about shootin' blanks in a fire-fight. Either way I was always alright in my dream, Rambo had my back and that's always a good thing.
Which really isn't too far from the truth. Eddie's been good to me, one of the many father-figures I've met in this silly union business who has replaced the absent sperm donor. Edward "Rambo" Staff III, doesn't get much manlier than that. He's given me everything from recipes for vennison, to tools he has extra of and knows I need, to tips on wooing women and sexual positions that only older men have had the time to discover. Not having raised his own child for whatever reason (I never really asked), it seems as though he's another who passes the torch to his apprentices to fill a void similar to mine. I'm one of the few "Kids" he'll agree to work with, him being such a meticulous craftsman of the pipe trade and all, so it's an honor to be deemed a valuable commodity to the company in his eyes.
Which is why I know he'll be disappointed to hear that they're shipping me out to another job this week supposedly. It's a long story that you've probably heard in bits and pieces over cocktails and soapboxes, Jim, so I won't reiterate all the details. Apparently, though, my employer became angry when he found out that I took five days off last week due to my illness. I had a serious throat infection that only allowed me to sleep two hours a night and prohibitted me from speaking. Do you think I wanted to lose a week's pay? Sure, I could've done what most guys do and went to work sick. I wouldn't have been worth a shit and would've gotten my coworkers sick, though, so I opted to take one for the team by staying home, rolling around in bed with sweaty fevers flipping pages of books between the sheets. It was no vacation, trust me. Well, my boss didn't see it the same way and decided a few days ago that he wanted to punish me by sending me to the housing job across town where the benefit package is a fraction of what it usually is for a commercial job. I worked the last phase of that project for the majority of last year and took the hit already; the vacation check I'll be getting May First which is usually a few grand is only going to be a lousy forty-eight dollars for Christ's sake, all because of the lesser rate being paid into my benefits fund. That's a hit I'm not willing to take again. Besides, I've already mastered the mindless art of plastic piping a la crawlspace. I'm learning new aspects of the piping industry on the courthouse renovation job I'm on now, which is the point of the apprenticeship program after all. I don't want to be one of these useless slugs who comes out of his time without really being able to call himself a mechanic. Those are the guys who sit on the bench waiting for that job that never comes. No, that won't be me, dammit. If this arrogant prick wants to play God now that he can afford to write a good paycheck on time again for the first time in a year then I will be forced to stick to my guns by taking a lay-off. There are other contractors out there, I work out of a hiring hall whose job it is to find work for me. In the meantime I'd collect unemployment and work on the side and wind up making double my normal income anyway without even working a full week. So, Jim, if you know anyone who may need some plumbing and/or heat work done in the coming weeks...
But enough about me for a minute, how the hell are ya? Oh, really? Well that sure is unfortunate if I do say so myself. I tried to tell ya, but you didn't wanna listen. Yeah, that's what she said. Good talk.
What is it with these band names, Jim? All of these ominous phrases stating some kind of urgency, some sort of debauchery, maybe a bit of John Wayne Syndrome in there. It's getting to be ridiculous. I think a band should name itself with one to three words. This music of today isn't changing the world, it's just dropping teenage panties. And any "musician" who says he picked up an instrument for any reason other than pussy is a fucking liar, right? We seasoned veterans do it for the love of the game at this point, of course, but those initial teenage years of fumbling through clumsy chords and feeling our fingers hurt from the strings were only inspired by the desire for otherwise unobtainable ass. It scares me to think we'll be too old for this someday, the second we resort to playing covers to get gigs we'll know and have to get out.
People like them deserve each other. That's all I have to say about that, please take the hint by not asking such a personal question again so shortly after the quake. You know I'm not one for being candid, but even this greenhouse pulls the shades once in awhile when absolutely necessary.
I hit the books pretty hard this morning, it felt good to do it by choice instead of necessity now that I'm no longer deathly ill. I let the rabbit out of her cage to romp around my room for awhile. I felt bad because I failed to set her free yesterday since I wasn't home for long. I don't get us, Jim. We can feel guilty for not giving a pet it's exercise/play time while reciting our sins of the last six years without as much as flinching. Somehow what we've done to people in the past isn't as big an issue, at least not in the forefront, as littering or not doing the dishes promptly or being late with a credit card bill. People are only people and deserve what they get since people are the ones who made us the way we are, right? Hurt people hurting people, justifying it all with the weird way God wired us. It's really gotta end, man. Maybe it finally has this time.
I'd love to stay and bore you some more, but I want to go clothes shopping. Sometimes the second-hand T-shirts just don't cut the mustard. And I need to get out into that fresh air so I can smoke a cigarette. Feast or famine, brother. You decide.
Your equally disgusted compatriot,
Dave
Currently reading:
"Alcoholics Anonymous" by, uhhhh, some dude who used to be a drunk I'm guessing (I found it at the Goodwill and couldn't resist).
I am writing again to remind you there are worse things than Death.
Sleeping has been fun again as of late. The sore throat and fever are finally gone so a full eight-plus night is once again possible. It's the subject matter of the dreams that have really made it a hoot, though. Two out of the last three nights I've had dreams similar to "Die Hard" movies, only I always have a partner and I'm not balding. Guns, terrorists, public places in need of rescue: these are the things that swirl in my head at night as I try to save the day, in my fantasies at least. Last night's sidekick was a guy from work we call Rambo since he has a veritable arsenal at home. We had the stealth mode hand signals down and everything, duct-taped the clips of our automatic weapons back-to-back like in the movies to make for faster reloading. But somehow I was always running out of bullets and scrounging for more magazines on the ground that usually turned out to be empty anyway. I'm not sure if this is supposed to symbolize some sort of self-perceived sexual inadequacy or if I'm really just paranoid about shootin' blanks in a fire-fight. Either way I was always alright in my dream, Rambo had my back and that's always a good thing.
Which really isn't too far from the truth. Eddie's been good to me, one of the many father-figures I've met in this silly union business who has replaced the absent sperm donor. Edward "Rambo" Staff III, doesn't get much manlier than that. He's given me everything from recipes for vennison, to tools he has extra of and knows I need, to tips on wooing women and sexual positions that only older men have had the time to discover. Not having raised his own child for whatever reason (I never really asked), it seems as though he's another who passes the torch to his apprentices to fill a void similar to mine. I'm one of the few "Kids" he'll agree to work with, him being such a meticulous craftsman of the pipe trade and all, so it's an honor to be deemed a valuable commodity to the company in his eyes.
Which is why I know he'll be disappointed to hear that they're shipping me out to another job this week supposedly. It's a long story that you've probably heard in bits and pieces over cocktails and soapboxes, Jim, so I won't reiterate all the details. Apparently, though, my employer became angry when he found out that I took five days off last week due to my illness. I had a serious throat infection that only allowed me to sleep two hours a night and prohibitted me from speaking. Do you think I wanted to lose a week's pay? Sure, I could've done what most guys do and went to work sick. I wouldn't have been worth a shit and would've gotten my coworkers sick, though, so I opted to take one for the team by staying home, rolling around in bed with sweaty fevers flipping pages of books between the sheets. It was no vacation, trust me. Well, my boss didn't see it the same way and decided a few days ago that he wanted to punish me by sending me to the housing job across town where the benefit package is a fraction of what it usually is for a commercial job. I worked the last phase of that project for the majority of last year and took the hit already; the vacation check I'll be getting May First which is usually a few grand is only going to be a lousy forty-eight dollars for Christ's sake, all because of the lesser rate being paid into my benefits fund. That's a hit I'm not willing to take again. Besides, I've already mastered the mindless art of plastic piping a la crawlspace. I'm learning new aspects of the piping industry on the courthouse renovation job I'm on now, which is the point of the apprenticeship program after all. I don't want to be one of these useless slugs who comes out of his time without really being able to call himself a mechanic. Those are the guys who sit on the bench waiting for that job that never comes. No, that won't be me, dammit. If this arrogant prick wants to play God now that he can afford to write a good paycheck on time again for the first time in a year then I will be forced to stick to my guns by taking a lay-off. There are other contractors out there, I work out of a hiring hall whose job it is to find work for me. In the meantime I'd collect unemployment and work on the side and wind up making double my normal income anyway without even working a full week. So, Jim, if you know anyone who may need some plumbing and/or heat work done in the coming weeks...
But enough about me for a minute, how the hell are ya? Oh, really? Well that sure is unfortunate if I do say so myself. I tried to tell ya, but you didn't wanna listen. Yeah, that's what she said. Good talk.
What is it with these band names, Jim? All of these ominous phrases stating some kind of urgency, some sort of debauchery, maybe a bit of John Wayne Syndrome in there. It's getting to be ridiculous. I think a band should name itself with one to three words. This music of today isn't changing the world, it's just dropping teenage panties. And any "musician" who says he picked up an instrument for any reason other than pussy is a fucking liar, right? We seasoned veterans do it for the love of the game at this point, of course, but those initial teenage years of fumbling through clumsy chords and feeling our fingers hurt from the strings were only inspired by the desire for otherwise unobtainable ass. It scares me to think we'll be too old for this someday, the second we resort to playing covers to get gigs we'll know and have to get out.
People like them deserve each other. That's all I have to say about that, please take the hint by not asking such a personal question again so shortly after the quake. You know I'm not one for being candid, but even this greenhouse pulls the shades once in awhile when absolutely necessary.
I hit the books pretty hard this morning, it felt good to do it by choice instead of necessity now that I'm no longer deathly ill. I let the rabbit out of her cage to romp around my room for awhile. I felt bad because I failed to set her free yesterday since I wasn't home for long. I don't get us, Jim. We can feel guilty for not giving a pet it's exercise/play time while reciting our sins of the last six years without as much as flinching. Somehow what we've done to people in the past isn't as big an issue, at least not in the forefront, as littering or not doing the dishes promptly or being late with a credit card bill. People are only people and deserve what they get since people are the ones who made us the way we are, right? Hurt people hurting people, justifying it all with the weird way God wired us. It's really gotta end, man. Maybe it finally has this time.
I'd love to stay and bore you some more, but I want to go clothes shopping. Sometimes the second-hand T-shirts just don't cut the mustard. And I need to get out into that fresh air so I can smoke a cigarette. Feast or famine, brother. You decide.
Your equally disgusted compatriot,
Dave
Currently reading:
"Alcoholics Anonymous" by, uhhhh, some dude who used to be a drunk I'm guessing (I found it at the Goodwill and couldn't resist).
4.24.2008
Padre Santo, Padre Bueno.
My mom just stopped by with some soup
some meds, cough drops, and Jello
(like I don't have enough of the latter)
to combat this latest illness. As she picked up my rabbit
and held it close she told me my grandmother
fell in the bathroom again today, threw her nightgown
at her last night saying she wants to die.
Her eighty-eighth was four days ago, she told me
she was turning fourteen when I asked
and she may have believed herself.
I guess I can't blame her for her wishes, though.
Her husband died before my mother was even born:
fifty-four years of solitude, far more real than Gab's 100.
Maybe He'll be gracious and grant her wish already.
Call me morbid if you like, it's just how it is.
Or maybe not and the more she asks for final rest
the longer she'll stay on Earth. He's a funny one like that
and I wouldn't put it past Him. Just look at what he did
to our alleged Superman and "Magic" Johnson.
I don't believe in God
but I fear Him.
some meds, cough drops, and Jello
(like I don't have enough of the latter)
to combat this latest illness. As she picked up my rabbit
and held it close she told me my grandmother
fell in the bathroom again today, threw her nightgown
at her last night saying she wants to die.
Her eighty-eighth was four days ago, she told me
she was turning fourteen when I asked
and she may have believed herself.
I guess I can't blame her for her wishes, though.
Her husband died before my mother was even born:
fifty-four years of solitude, far more real than Gab's 100.
Maybe He'll be gracious and grant her wish already.
Call me morbid if you like, it's just how it is.
Or maybe not and the more she asks for final rest
the longer she'll stay on Earth. He's a funny one like that
and I wouldn't put it past Him. Just look at what he did
to our alleged Superman and "Magic" Johnson.
I don't believe in God
but I fear Him.
Fall back, Spring ahead.
Laying here with this one
oooooooh!
something fever
watching the ceiling fan spin
its futile heart out
as the neighborhood weed-whackers
don't seem to stop
except to refuel, reload
and
it all culminates
into so jagged an edge:
A million coal shovels
when all ya need is a spade
but the antibiotics haven't kicked in yet.
What I really mean to say--
ask, rather--
is
Would you lose a finger for me?
And if so, which one?
I don't think I could
get her off--
beat her off me, rather--
if I tried with all my two-twenty
not that I'd ever want to.
If this isn't It
then it's something similar
maybe better.
Now I know what my mother meant
when she said she wished she could
suffer that pain on my behalf.
Maybe it's just the weather.
I'd like to think it's not.
oooooooh!
something fever
watching the ceiling fan spin
its futile heart out
as the neighborhood weed-whackers
don't seem to stop
except to refuel, reload
and
it all culminates
into so jagged an edge:
A million coal shovels
when all ya need is a spade
but the antibiotics haven't kicked in yet.
What I really mean to say--
ask, rather--
is
Would you lose a finger for me?
And if so, which one?
I don't think I could
get her off--
beat her off me, rather--
if I tried with all my two-twenty
not that I'd ever want to.
If this isn't It
then it's something similar
maybe better.
Now I know what my mother meant
when she said she wished she could
suffer that pain on my behalf.
Maybe it's just the weather.
I'd like to think it's not.
But what will the neighbors say?
Do you think empires were built
pondering the answer to that question?
Did Alexander, Attila, and Napoleon
take that into consideration
before building what they did?
This has the potential to be
of the same caliber, don't sell it short.
And while I'm at it let's discuss
what one of those red-petaled
thorned stems that tend to smell
how mothers are remembered
would truly be if referred to as
by any other name.
Spades are spades; anyone who can't
accept that rule might as well cash in
their chips and get out of the game
because from here on out I play for keeps.
I've been bluffing these Aces and Eights
for four years now, Fate owes me some
pocket Queens or better.
You're the only one who's heard my voice
for more than three sentences in days
strep throat be damned
and it was worth every second of pain
to know that you slept better as a result
as I sit here sleepless downing pills
trying to practice my persuasion.
If the ring fits
wear it, dammit.
pondering the answer to that question?
Did Alexander, Attila, and Napoleon
take that into consideration
before building what they did?
This has the potential to be
of the same caliber, don't sell it short.
And while I'm at it let's discuss
what one of those red-petaled
thorned stems that tend to smell
how mothers are remembered
would truly be if referred to as
by any other name.
Spades are spades; anyone who can't
accept that rule might as well cash in
their chips and get out of the game
because from here on out I play for keeps.
I've been bluffing these Aces and Eights
for four years now, Fate owes me some
pocket Queens or better.
You're the only one who's heard my voice
for more than three sentences in days
strep throat be damned
and it was worth every second of pain
to know that you slept better as a result
as I sit here sleepless downing pills
trying to practice my persuasion.
If the ring fits
wear it, dammit.
4.22.2008
Number 85 slides into Third.
Hem's first kill, Hank's first beer
Dostoyevsky's first betrayal
Gabriel's first piece;
they'd all be lying
if they claimed to remember them
perfectly, or even as anything more
than a haze that started them all
on their respective journeys.
So, it's with humble reluctance
that I mention mine now
for fear of feeling fake.
Suffice it to say that I was fifteen
in the foothills of some New Hampshire range
visiting family when my cousin's friend, Meg
took a liking to me, or at least tolerated
my innocent exploration of the female form
for the first time. The frustrations of finding
the finger's true function only served to reinforce
prior failures as I never found many specifics
that fine morning in May after my family
had fallen asleep. I don't even remember if
we kissed or not, just that the movies we'd rented
were over and there seemed only one thing left to do
and not very well, at that. My hand so timid that her
skin warmed mine before I'd crossed that boundary.
My heart churning it's irregular beat at the pace of
ten thousand coca leaves. My mind wondering
if this was really it, the final frontier so many friends
had raved over, a scattering of coarse hair over an
indefinite wetness in the Holiest of Crevices.
I think what bothered me most about the ordeal
was how silently submissive and lovelessly limp
she was, merely accepting it as something
that was supposed to happen next in the script--
probably not the first time for her,
unfortunately not the last
for me.
Like a man knocked unconscious
I'm not sure how long I was under
just that I was.
Retracting my hand as the sun came up
in case someone stirred awake
and found us on the couch under the covers
I knew life would never be the same
even though I'd merely touched upon
its new meaning, literally.
And nine years later I hold strong
that I was right, though I doubt she remembers me
any more than I do her last name
but that's only appropriate
for the crystallization of the fairytale
in my mind's eye
that may or may not have happened
as I like to
or need to
remember it.
(D. I swear it was something British-sounding
starting with the letter D.)
Dostoyevsky's first betrayal
Gabriel's first piece;
they'd all be lying
if they claimed to remember them
perfectly, or even as anything more
than a haze that started them all
on their respective journeys.
So, it's with humble reluctance
that I mention mine now
for fear of feeling fake.
Suffice it to say that I was fifteen
in the foothills of some New Hampshire range
visiting family when my cousin's friend, Meg
took a liking to me, or at least tolerated
my innocent exploration of the female form
for the first time. The frustrations of finding
the finger's true function only served to reinforce
prior failures as I never found many specifics
that fine morning in May after my family
had fallen asleep. I don't even remember if
we kissed or not, just that the movies we'd rented
were over and there seemed only one thing left to do
and not very well, at that. My hand so timid that her
skin warmed mine before I'd crossed that boundary.
My heart churning it's irregular beat at the pace of
ten thousand coca leaves. My mind wondering
if this was really it, the final frontier so many friends
had raved over, a scattering of coarse hair over an
indefinite wetness in the Holiest of Crevices.
I think what bothered me most about the ordeal
was how silently submissive and lovelessly limp
she was, merely accepting it as something
that was supposed to happen next in the script--
probably not the first time for her,
unfortunately not the last
for me.
Like a man knocked unconscious
I'm not sure how long I was under
just that I was.
Retracting my hand as the sun came up
in case someone stirred awake
and found us on the couch under the covers
I knew life would never be the same
even though I'd merely touched upon
its new meaning, literally.
And nine years later I hold strong
that I was right, though I doubt she remembers me
any more than I do her last name
but that's only appropriate
for the crystallization of the fairytale
in my mind's eye
that may or may not have happened
as I like to
or need to
remember it.
(D. I swear it was something British-sounding
starting with the letter D.)
4.20.2008
On writ-
Yeah, but we need more whiskey.
What do you mean there's no C.C.?
Seagram's will do.
This is stronger than five dollars-worth.
They must know.
Be right back, I have to go say Hello.
If I'm not back in ten
write it for me.
Ten went by, and four did, too.
Masters? Me too, in Life.
I bought four so we can double-fist
for the main event. They're opening strong
so I'll piss during the follow-up that no one knows.
This doesn't matter, your bobbing and weaving
in the crowd with my rum-and-coke.
He rubs my shoulders during the chorus
and thanks me for the refill.
She doesn't matter because She does.
It's all come full circle as I light up
the rebel cigarette and think back
to how it was
how it could've been.
The kids don't know
they aren't alright
But I will be now.
He punches me in the ribs
as I take my hat off and rub
the sweat from my brow.
A leg hits me in the head
and I almost spill my cocktail, she saves
hers as she falls to the floor
and I help her up.
I go for a strategic piss during another one
no one cares about.
When I return it's the last, he grabs my arm
and we sing again. They walk off the stage
and we chant for an encore.
The next four mean more.
I go to the center and hurt
the kids trying to crowd surf.
Not totally intentionally, mind you.
I find a wallet on the floor that I'll return
to the proper authorities later.
This means more right now.
I'm OK and I'm sweating and my neck hurts
because I'm too old for this shit
but he has the same amp as me
and he's playing all the right songs
and she's disappeared from my sight
as much as she has from my heart.
I know it this time.
I've found it again
among the roots somewhere
in western New York.
They finish and I stomp out my second
secret cigarette and find my ride.
We bitch about our battlescars
and sing the band's praises.
We're young again, celebrating
second chances.
I say goodbye at some point
but think more of how much
I can't wait to say Hello
again to the one who's
managed to rupture the balloon
and save its captive.
The ride home is mostly silent
as I smoke cigarettes and think
of how lucky I may be
if all goes as planned.
(It wasn't what you think
but it doesn't matter now.
Let's finish growing up.)
-ing Chapter Five.
Currently reading:
"Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970" by Charles Bukowski.
What do you mean there's no C.C.?
Seagram's will do.
This is stronger than five dollars-worth.
They must know.
Be right back, I have to go say Hello.
If I'm not back in ten
write it for me.
Ten went by, and four did, too.
Masters? Me too, in Life.
I bought four so we can double-fist
for the main event. They're opening strong
so I'll piss during the follow-up that no one knows.
This doesn't matter, your bobbing and weaving
in the crowd with my rum-and-coke.
He rubs my shoulders during the chorus
and thanks me for the refill.
She doesn't matter because She does.
It's all come full circle as I light up
the rebel cigarette and think back
to how it was
how it could've been.
The kids don't know
they aren't alright
But I will be now.
He punches me in the ribs
as I take my hat off and rub
the sweat from my brow.
A leg hits me in the head
and I almost spill my cocktail, she saves
hers as she falls to the floor
and I help her up.
I go for a strategic piss during another one
no one cares about.
When I return it's the last, he grabs my arm
and we sing again. They walk off the stage
and we chant for an encore.
The next four mean more.
I go to the center and hurt
the kids trying to crowd surf.
Not totally intentionally, mind you.
I find a wallet on the floor that I'll return
to the proper authorities later.
This means more right now.
I'm OK and I'm sweating and my neck hurts
because I'm too old for this shit
but he has the same amp as me
and he's playing all the right songs
and she's disappeared from my sight
as much as she has from my heart.
I know it this time.
I've found it again
among the roots somewhere
in western New York.
They finish and I stomp out my second
secret cigarette and find my ride.
We bitch about our battlescars
and sing the band's praises.
We're young again, celebrating
second chances.
I say goodbye at some point
but think more of how much
I can't wait to say Hello
again to the one who's
managed to rupture the balloon
and save its captive.
The ride home is mostly silent
as I smoke cigarettes and think
of how lucky I may be
if all goes as planned.
(It wasn't what you think
but it doesn't matter now.
Let's finish growing up.)
-ing Chapter Five.
Currently reading:
"Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970" by Charles Bukowski.
4.14.2008
Shave the beard, lose the Christ Complex.
Then there was that one part
of the Sacred Myth Worth Killing For
where He washed the sinner's
feet with His hair to prove His love
for her (She was a hooker
if that helps the anal-
ogy any.) though scholars swear
it was for all humanity
which sucks out the Passion
for me, at least.
Well, the way I see it is this:
if she really
appreciated the gesture
like I do
and the effect it had on her life
like Yours has on mine
then she should have rode up on Calvary
with a band of fellow strumpets
hacking through Romans
in order to take Him down from that cross.
But hey, that's one story I didn't write.
Don't worry, Honey.
No good deed goes unnoticed
around here, just like others can't seem
to forget the shamefully
less-than-sober ones
that this old whore's still payin' for.
I'd sooner sell my soul (again)
than watch You take that spit and whip
that spear and nails
'cause hey, it's obvious that the hardest part
to believe for most (the ones we kill for disagreeing)
isn't all those Revelations at the end
but where that tired Martyr rose from the dead
like it'd matter two-thousand years later.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing
I'd let my Savior go out like that.
I'm hangin' up the gloves;
This lover's done fighting
unless it's
for You.
Currently reading:
"Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
of the Sacred Myth Worth Killing For
where He washed the sinner's
feet with His hair to prove His love
for her (She was a hooker
if that helps the anal-
ogy any.) though scholars swear
it was for all humanity
which sucks out the Passion
for me, at least.
Well, the way I see it is this:
if she really
appreciated the gesture
like I do
and the effect it had on her life
like Yours has on mine
then she should have rode up on Calvary
with a band of fellow strumpets
hacking through Romans
in order to take Him down from that cross.
But hey, that's one story I didn't write.
Don't worry, Honey.
No good deed goes unnoticed
around here, just like others can't seem
to forget the shamefully
less-than-sober ones
that this old whore's still payin' for.
I'd sooner sell my soul (again)
than watch You take that spit and whip
that spear and nails
'cause hey, it's obvious that the hardest part
to believe for most (the ones we kill for disagreeing)
isn't all those Revelations at the end
but where that tired Martyr rose from the dead
like it'd matter two-thousand years later.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing
I'd let my Savior go out like that.
I'm hangin' up the gloves;
This lover's done fighting
unless it's
for You.
Currently reading:
"Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
4.09.2008
Compliments from a bullfrog.
To talk about time so flippantly
like it's something to possess;
I was born there, too, you know.
The one thing we have in common
is who we'd die for--
you: rightfully
and me: still, and
proving it every day.
(Proving it's harder, brother.)
But most things don't turn
out as planned.
Most of us start out wanting to be more
than we ever will be, -ologists especially:
zoologists, marine biologists, paleontologists.
Me, my first unrealistic career choice was
to become an archaeologist, maybe because
I'd seen the Indiana Jones movies too many times.
In a way I've fulfilled that elementary school dream
if you look at it in the broader sense
of making a go at digging up the past.
Next came the FBI Agent phase. Imagine me
in a suit and tie with badge and gun
and hangover-- not quite what J. Edgar had in mind.
But again, maybe I still wound up trying to
bring about some sort of justice, warped as
it may be at times.
So then there was the teacher thing, to-date
the ultimate failure of dropping out
though I still find myself teaching
myself, mostly
about myself.
And now, in the grand scheme, the pipe-fitter
making substances move from Point A to Point B
more efficiently than the me of yore
with the aid of convenient tubes and pumps
and, yes, gravity riding it all
in the end
having the last word
which is something a writer would kill for.
And even then, I'm still no bonafide plumber.
At the union hall tonight someone asked
if I was a boxer. I didn't understand at first
until he mentioned the tattoo on my left arm.
I said it was on "some guy's" tombstone, failing
to mention that it was on the grave of my favorite author.
A true fitter would've laughed it off and thrown a jab
to the arm while changing the subject, though at least
I knew better than to deny ever stepping in
for a round or two. Not all prize fighters wear gloves.
Not all rings have ropes around them, though
the spectators are always there. (Stalk much?)
The black half of my rabbit's face has black whiskers
and the tan half shoots out tan ones, thus proving
to my chagrin, that there is in fact a God
and His hand is infallible. There, I think that's
how he would've ended it.
T.K.O.
Alas, I've had far too much gin
(if there is such a thing) tonight
for this to make sense
the way it did in my head.
I know this because I've played
the same song over and over
for the last twenty minutes.
That's
how Hank would've ended it.
Honestly.
Humbly.
(Do you still remember the song, Friend?)
Make that a K.O.
like it's something to possess;
I was born there, too, you know.
The one thing we have in common
is who we'd die for--
you: rightfully
and me: still, and
proving it every day.
(Proving it's harder, brother.)
But most things don't turn
out as planned.
Most of us start out wanting to be more
than we ever will be, -ologists especially:
zoologists, marine biologists, paleontologists.
Me, my first unrealistic career choice was
to become an archaeologist, maybe because
I'd seen the Indiana Jones movies too many times.
In a way I've fulfilled that elementary school dream
if you look at it in the broader sense
of making a go at digging up the past.
Next came the FBI Agent phase. Imagine me
in a suit and tie with badge and gun
and hangover-- not quite what J. Edgar had in mind.
But again, maybe I still wound up trying to
bring about some sort of justice, warped as
it may be at times.
So then there was the teacher thing, to-date
the ultimate failure of dropping out
though I still find myself teaching
myself, mostly
about myself.
And now, in the grand scheme, the pipe-fitter
making substances move from Point A to Point B
more efficiently than the me of yore
with the aid of convenient tubes and pumps
and, yes, gravity riding it all
in the end
having the last word
which is something a writer would kill for.
And even then, I'm still no bonafide plumber.
At the union hall tonight someone asked
if I was a boxer. I didn't understand at first
until he mentioned the tattoo on my left arm.
I said it was on "some guy's" tombstone, failing
to mention that it was on the grave of my favorite author.
A true fitter would've laughed it off and thrown a jab
to the arm while changing the subject, though at least
I knew better than to deny ever stepping in
for a round or two. Not all prize fighters wear gloves.
Not all rings have ropes around them, though
the spectators are always there. (Stalk much?)
The black half of my rabbit's face has black whiskers
and the tan half shoots out tan ones, thus proving
to my chagrin, that there is in fact a God
and His hand is infallible. There, I think that's
how he would've ended it.
T.K.O.
Alas, I've had far too much gin
(if there is such a thing) tonight
for this to make sense
the way it did in my head.
I know this because I've played
the same song over and over
for the last twenty minutes.
That's
how Hank would've ended it.
Honestly.
Humbly.
(Do you still remember the song, Friend?)
Make that a K.O.
4.08.2008
It's all over but the screamin'.
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.
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.
4.07.2008
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.
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