Confucius say: He who walks through airport door sideways is going to Bangkok.

It was a strange turn of events, one that seemed so fitting for this life that feels like a bad screenplay at times. Two days prior I had told the pipe insulator on the job that he looked like that soft-spoken, wispy-haired actor from "Kung Fu" and "Kill Bill". He informed me that I was not the first person to say that so I didn't feel too off-base. One fortunate enough to not be in the building trades cannot fully appreciate how tiresome it is to constantly be referred to as "buddy", "guy", "pal", "brother", or "kid" while working with those who don't know, or care to know, your name. That's probably why this David Carradine look-alike didn't mind me calling him "Grasshopper" when I wanted to get his attention; anything was better than one of those other cliches, even the name of a character played in a lame 70s TV show.

After two short days of using that light-hearted nickname I almost spat out my chocolate milk while reading the newspaper at the deli as my coworkers' breakfast sandwiches finished cooking. A picture of David Carradine appeared next to a headline announcing his death. The circumstances were just as odd as the roles the man played: he was found hanging bound and naked in the closet of a Bangkok hotel. Foul play was not mentioned and no one seemed to want to suggest whether it was intentional suicide, though the man's previous autoerotic asphyxiation hobby had some shameful light shed upon it. I took a picture of the article with my camera-phone to show the insulator.

He already knew what I was about to tell him when I approached his ladder. "Let me guess: it's about my death." The words sounded strange coming from his lips, must've felt even more bizarre to be the one saying them. "I saw it on the news last night and thought of you." That statement left an equally unsettling feeling in my stomach. After all, only I am allowed to bring the characters at work home with me...

"So I guess this means I can't call you Grasshopper anymore," I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket since the proof would not be needed.

"The name's Craig," he said with the same grateful smile that Lazarus must've had two thousand years ago.

"That's easy enough. Same as my stepdad. Hey, Craig, if ya' need to talk at any point, feel free..."

"Don't worry, Mike. I won't go hanging my naked ass in any closets."

The joke went over well and I shot him a half-grin to show it, but on the inside I felt guilty. He'd taken the time to learn my name long before I'd bothered to ask his. There are worse things in life than shampoo in your eyes or buttoning your shirt wrong.

If I had another nose I'd turn it.

While driving up Broadway last week to cash my check
I saw the guy who broke my nose
with a beer bottle four years ago.
He was going to the bank as well, or at least
he was parked in front of one.
My window was already down and I was only
doing twenty-five, but I decided to keep
my mouth shut and let him enjoy
his shiny new Mercedes. The last time I saw him
at the liquor store awhile back
he was pushing a rusty old tank of a Benz--
the boxy Eighties type that wanna-be Yuppies buy used
in order to tell attractive young ladies that they own
German luxury sedans. "Good for you, Anthony,"
I thought to myself as the six-disc stereo in my truck
cycled to the next musical selection.
We're both moving up in the world.

There was something in the water of Ketchum, Idaho.

I've been sending some of the cleaner ramblings to my mother. She usually responds within a day or two with some feedback, tells me she prints them out and keeps them in a folder. It's the least I can do to let her know her son's not totally given up on himself.

Something tells me that it's inspired her to read. Last week she e-mailed me with "an interesting tidbit on Papa [Hemingway]" that she'd recently read, as if she's always had her nose in a book like her progeny. The article said that he was once challenged to tell a story in only six words. He came back swingin' with "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Quite the statement indeed, Ernie, like a more concise version of those damn "Hills Like White Elephants" that another important woman in my life once made me read.

"How good was that?" my mother asked at the end of her informative e-mail.

So good that we both cringed a little on either side of our monitors, though for different reasons.

For a man crazy enough to write standing up at eight in the morning with a cocktail next to his typewriter, he sure knew how to lay down a line. Do they bottle that stuff?

...and the mayor will ride shotgun as we descend.

The eight of us had only been in that quiet mountain village for an hour and a half, but on that glorious Friday night no one would've denied the fact that we owned it. That's not to say that we raped and pillaged, painted it red, disrespected the locals, or failed to tip properly; our solidarity and comradery spoke louder than our obvious out-of-towner status. Who was really going to stop a bunch of happy-go-lucky drunks in baseball caps, bandanas, and sleeveless shirts who had clearly spent a lot of time drinking next to a campfire due to the thick smell of smoke emanating from their bodies from having a good time? Apparently no one, not even the bartender who was chastised by a bitter female coworker of his who felt that we should be cut off. "They're fine, just having a good time! I'll drive them home if I have to!" he shouted as she stormed out of the bar. It's safe to say we had the chips in our favor, if only for that night.

Time wore on exponentially fast as it tends to do as the alcohol filters through the brain. One friend danced for us in a charades-style game at our table imitating whatever ridiculous act we requested, another danced with a forty-five-year-old townie in search of some fresh young meat to make her feel wanted again, and I continued to dance with my demons behind a rum-inspired pirate's smile. Things were going better than I'd thought they would. Everyone was getting along, no one was a maudlin drunk, and the pay phone in the corner of the joint still worked which could come in handy in a pinch since cell service was thankfully non-existent. Buy-backs came every third drink and the bartender was doing shots with us. No one in our group could force a frown if they wanted to. The same went for a quiet, well-dressed old gentleman who had been staring at us from his seat at the bar, a wide mysterious smile glued to his deeply-creased cheeks. I'd notice his blatant observation of our little center-stage party early on, but had thought nothing of it. If anything I figured he was enjoying himself by watching us make drunken fools of ourselves with our raucous merriment. True to character I was wrong.

I found out the real source of his smile shortly before leaving. A few of us were smoking on the patio when he came out and approached me. Apparently I was the leader of the haggard bunch.

"I overheard you say you fellas were from Newburgh."

"That's right. You familiar with the place?"

"I did some business down that way a long time ago. You're not driving all the way back there tonight, right?"

"No, we're staying at my parents' house down the road. Thanks for the concern, though."

I inhaled deeply on my mentholated cigarette as his gin blossom nose glowed almost as brightly as the tip of my smoke.

"Good, good," he said with a sincerity that can only be found in a small town like the one we were in. "I used to be the mayor here," he added, though I'm still not sure why. He handed me a business card with his wife's name on it.

"It seems we have friends in high places," I replied. His gray eyes stayed fixed on me as if I hadn't said anything at all. His mind was somewhere else, there was something he'd been waiting to say. The eight of us would not be able to stop him from saying what we has thinking, even if we wanted to. I know that look.

"You boys are having fun. You remind me of friends I had in high school. I can name every one of you," he said as he pointed to each of us standing in the June air. "Thank you."

I don't recall if we shook hands or if he just turned and left. The conversation hadn't fizzled out like so many taproom discussions-- it had come to a head that meant we'd done something right, made an old-timer feel young again while writing some stories for our unborn grandkids. I reached into my pocket for that business card the old man had handed me, turned it over, and started jotting down what had happened and what he'd said. Normally my friends would've made fun of me, but they got it this time. Some things are undeniable, even for the most allegedly detached.

"That was pretty neat," said my biggest critic as another guy offered me some more paper to write on if need be.

A disinterested "Yeah" came from my mouth as my pen scratched words onto the back of the card. My mind was traveling forty years into the future with the hopes of being as blessed. I walked back inside to pay my tab and say goodnight to the bartender.

"That was the mayor, you know. He took a liking to you guys," said the man in the black button-down. He slid the bill across the oak quite deliberately while maintaining eye contact. I tallied the drinks and noticed several missing.

"Thank him for me the next time you see him," I said, though I knew it wasn't necessary. We'd both earned it that night.

12-bar Blues

If you're ever afflicted with a Southern sojourn
and need your daily dose of heartache
in a falsely friendly Dixie Hell
walk into any given pawn shop.
Take a look around at the failed passion
lining the walls like cheap wallpaper.
There's something very symbolic
about a man selling his guitars;
it's more than just needing money--
it's sacrificing your soul
to a world full of people who can't kiss
let alone dance.

You won't see any typers on the shelves.
This breed knows that
it doesn't get better before it gets worse

and someone's got to remember
what the rest want to forget.

Rum, nicotine, and other perks of working the night shift.

Foreman: Everything locked up?

Apprentice: Of course. See ya' in the AM.

Foreman: Enjoy your reading.

Apprentice: It'll be limited tonight.

Foreman: To what?

Apprentice: The label on my bottle of Sailor Jerry.

Foreman: You won't be worth a shit tomorrow.

Apprentice: Relax, I do my best work drunk.

Foreman: Don't you mean you do your best work in the dark?

Apprentice: No, drunk.

Foreman: Goddamn kids...

Apprentice: It's all fiction from here on out.

Foreman: So?

Apprentice: I'll give you the luxury of having the last word.

Foreman: Don't do me any favors.

Apprentice: Only for the ones I love.

Foreman: Now you've abused your license.

Apprentice: Confiscate my union card.

Foreman: I'll do ya' one better.

Apprentice: Couldn't be any worse.

Foreman: I thought you said you'd let me have the...

Apprentice: Then take it.

Foreman: Goddamn kids...

St. Elmo's Fire

Last night
Well, no
Early this morning
I dreamt
Or dreampt, phonetically
But probably just dreamed
That I was dragged
To a religious seminar
Hosted by those silly Scientologists.

It was impossible for me
To hold back the laughter
As one Mr. John Travolta himself
Gave an almost moving speech
On his cult
Complete with life-sized puppets
To demonstrate whatever the Hell
It is that those clowns
Believe in.

Tim was there, maybe my Dad
And an Eric or two.

For the little life of me I couldn't
Stop laughing at the coining and repetition
Of the term "alien Jesus" throughout the sermon
And commentary of my friends.

At some point I escaped to the basement
Of the compound to reload
Multiple magazines of the .22 caliber variety
Though I never got to empty them
On any deserving parties.

And just when I thought it was safe
Tim hit me with it again:
"Alien Jesus! Alien Jesus!"
It was hilarious to the point of tears;
I almost woke in those.
I woke in those.

I'M TYPING IN CAPS BECAUSE I'M YELLING NOW.
I WOKE IN THOSE.

I've had a few
And I apologize--

Like I told her last night:
If you're lonely
Talk to Jesus.
They say He's still listening

Rubbed raw and useless
And ready for another round...

On sleeping in the wet spot.

When I came down from the mountains
more like Cain than like Moses
the rabbit's water bottle rattled empty
though I'd filled it two days prior.

I knew then.
I just knew

like when the scrape on my wrist
was still only a scrape
from a fall on a hike
that we all couldn't take.

Funny-- I didn't tremble
talking about the two of them
to the Devil's advocate on the way home.
The cigarettes were purely recreational
that time.

We laid in bed like the LI Double-R
with half as much baggage.
Bit my lip to taste copper
since I hadn't worked in a few days
and that Indian I'd hunted for
continued to laugh from his
spot on the shelf
red and white and making me blue.

I'm begging him to give my god back now.

Note found in a hallway of North Junior High (verbatim, folded sixteen times).

To: Karisma
From: Jessica

I'm so sorry 4 calling u an emo bitch. I'm really sorry. Your [sic] one of my best friends, and I hat[e] 2 c u mad at me. It's your choise [sic] to stop being mad at me. I'll stop calling u an emo bitch. But if you were mad you should of [should've] told me that calling you a[n] emo bitch bothers you and I would have stopped. So it[']s all up to you if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But I am really, really, really sorry. I hope you forgive me.

SORRY!! [two tears streaming down from eyes formed by the dots of the exclamation points to a large frown underneath said punctuation]


[Ed. Note: I too weep, though more for the Future than for Jessica and Karisma.]

Tool sheds of various sorts.

There's a fine line between "burning" and "arson". I forget how it came up in conversation, but one doesn't pay much attention to that sort of thing at work. People think that rambling makes the day go by faster so they flood the air with words. Sometimes its entertaining, other times its obnoxious. Sneaky Pete the electrician was usually on point with his yarns. His barn-burner tale was no different.

But let me back up a bit and tell you about Sneaky Pete: he looks like Charlie Sheen gave up. I'd say "a shorter Charlie Sheen", but all actors are shorter in "real life" than they appear to be in films anyway; Pete was probably the right height. The lazily trimmed beard and slightly sagging jowls betray the sunglasses he wears. Besides, Charlie would rather be caught coked up with a hooker than caught dead in those ridiculous blue reflective wrap-around shades. It doesn't make him a bad guy, though. He's one of the breed that's always smiling, telling a joke, laughing at ones that are neither new nor funny. Sneaky Pete's been even happier ever since handing his wife those divorce papers he'd been talking about at work.

That grin can be deceiving sometimes, like when the topic of arson came up and he said it wasn't a laughing matter while smiling from ear to ear. "I did four months for that six years ago," Pete remarked casually in an ambiguous tone. It was hard to tell if he was kidding or not, but my loud-mouth partner chimed in before I could seek clarification.

"I did six months for the same," said my illustrious partner.

Pete and I looked at each other as if to show our lack of surprise, then he reclaimed his rightful place in the story-teller's position with a mildly excited "I burnt my own shed to the ground." It seemed unfair for a man to do time in county lock-up for burning something on his property down. Pete took the time to inform us where the Law stands on the issue: 1. One must remove any shingles from the roof of the structure. 2. One must dig a trench at least four inches wide around the structure. 3. One must notify and gain permission from the local fire department before incinerating the structure. We weren't about to question the man, it sounded like he had a long time to get it straightened out in his head for future reference.

My mind wandered to the typically nightmarish Hollywood prison scenes, and I hoped that Pete had his own cell and shower stall since he was so small. "Why'd you do it, aside from the alcohol?" I asked. He hadn't fessed up to being drunk at the time yet, but even plumbers aren't that stupid.

"I came home from the bar and my father-in-law was at my house. He stormed inside from my shed all full of piss and vinegar. Said something about me needing to clean up in there so he could work. I walked out back to see what he was complaining about and found all of my tools on the ground. It looked like he'd cleared them right off of the workbench with one swift swipe of his arm. I went to the garage, got a can of gasoline, doused the shed, and torched it. My wife videotaped me pouring the gas all over and lighting the match. Used it against me in court. Had to plead guilty to Arson in the Fourth Degree to avoid a possible conviction in the Third."

Suddenly I knew why he was so thrilled about those divorce papers finally being delivered. His kids were off to college, there was no sense in staying tethered to such an unfair family. I had been sad for the man's divorce and suspected a hidden pain before hearing the story, but not any more. He was free, or would be as soon as the lawyers hashed it out and took their cut. Something tells me that Pete would've paid any price.

"I robbed a house and burned it down when I was sixteen," my illustrious partner said with what sounded like pride. Sneaky Pete gave me a look resembling pity. You can choose your friends, you can choose your wife, but you can't choose your family or partner at work. People like Pete and I just make the best of it.

...as long as the weight that we gain is together.

There's a silverfish next to my keyboard
whose presence is turning my stomach
almost as much as those god-forsaken pre-fab
meatballs I washed down with too much milk tonight
and this other latest dilemma.
The nail of my right middle finger collides with the bug
making it airborne for all of two feet until
its exoskeleton meets with the thick layer of eggshell off-white
to make a metallic sound reminiscent of
my non-existent pill-popping days.

Then the rabbit's snout pokes out from underneath
the wooden baseboard cover, her whiskers covered in dust.
She twitches her nose in general disapproval
and all is well in the world again
for now
or as long as I can continue this tired two-step
convincingly enough...

Sometimes I am grateful for the several states between us.


Currently reading:
The life/limb/eyesight insurance policy that came with my NRA membership.

On AC with the windows open and other shameful wastes.

My stomach was digesting itself again
until beer put that one fire out.
My ego caught a mean pistol-whipping
that wasn't half of what it deserved.
My heart and my mind stopped talking
a long time ago, and both have paid the price.

I told myself that Second Best ain't so bad
with a beer in hand as the sun sets, at least not for a guy
who can admit that he wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.

Though this isn't my only recent drunken fumbling.
Last week a jukebox and I managed to rip
a dollar bill in half at that bar where I stole
a bottle of vodka on a birthday dare.
George still winked at me despite my
defiling of his face. I taped him back together
and pawned him off like one of those
good habits I used to have.

So you, you:
you refuse to bleed out in the sand
so we join the Canadian Club instead
swearing to a life of high-proof spiced piracy.
They're right in what they say
about all being fair in both;
you're better at one, I at the other.

This is just another of the many times
when nothing gold could stay, babe.
It's Sunny, and we can't Share.

But what to do with the kids?
You take poetry, I'll stick to prose
and we'll both stay away from dialogue
since it only shows the weakness we have
aside from each other.

Writhing alongside you.

With baited breath
we've all confessed
to reddening our wings.
What desperate men
we've all become
while waiting for the bus.
The bears won't let you blame it
on supply-side economics.
"It's not my thing," she swore...
Play the role that's been assigned you.

Why have them, if not loaded--
and if you mean it, chambered?
"Oh, Lord..." I said and he sang out
the rest with that sad twang.
My horoscope was lying
about that four-star day.

Pubis Vulgaris

The stubble wasn't the worst part.
That I could deal with, especially since she probably wasn't
expecting anyone at the party to find it that night--
hadn't given old Deadeye here enough credit.
Hell, finding stubble down there's a bit of a compliment
to a man's prowess if you stop and think about it.

No, what killed me was the way she kept panting my name
at every other awkward bump of our newly acquainted hips.
At least twice during the shameful act I stopped to
ask her if everything was OK, if she had a question.
She covered my mouth with her hand and coaxed me
into picking up where I'd left off. It was bizarre.
I'd had my share of dead fish floating lazily in the sheets
before, but never an accusatory broken record.
The first option seemed like the better deal.
Hell, no one even called me by name anymore.
I'd been reduced to initials against my will.
What made her any different?

And if anyone else had been on top of her that night
she would've been saying his name instead.
Neither of us were special.
The sad part is we knew it and didn't care.

We were just a convenient combination
of alcohol and a vacant couch.
I hadn't seen the sex for the pointless search yet.
You can't fill your own void by filling someone else's...
or can you?

That's a rhetorical question.

Peace be with you. And also with you.

"I was wearing that shirt yesterday," said the guy
in line ahead of me as he double-fisted his groceries
onto the conveyor belt. He was about thirty-two, your
average Joe with a baseball cap and five o'clock shadow.

I looked down to remember which shirt it was.
A black tee with "I'm blogging this." written
across the chest in non-descript white lettering.

"Yeah. My roommate got it for me as a joke,"
I replied, reaching for the plastic divider to
put between our respective items in order to
eliminate any confusion for the cashier.
"It's not the kind of thing you buy for yourself."

"Tell me about it," he said emphatically.
"My wife gave me mine. She makes fun of me
for constantly blogging from my desk at work."

We felt each other's pain in quiet understanding
and went about our business
feeling slightly less alone in a world
who misunderstands us and our stupid hobby.
We made each other's days
in well under one hundred fifty words.

I bet he told his wife all about it when he got home
right after he told his computer.

A proper diagnosis, considering the family's medical history.

1 Admit to caring who they're fucking and you lose.
2 You still fucking her?
I No.
II Then you lose anyway.
A It wasn't about that.

B Ditch the halo before I puke.

< If you puke, I puke.

> You're starting to get the hang of this.

^ All too late.

+ There's plenty of time for the post-game report.

- They can never hurt you as well as you can hurt yourself.

= And so the student becomes the teacher.

Though really they were one from the start.

(Exit coconuts, stage left.)



Currently reading:
"A Story Teller's Story" by Sherwood Anderson.

Blood on the Tracks.

I worked on my feet all day, mostly outside.
She sat in an office from nine to five, barely awake.
Needless to say we sought to spend our precious
weekends doing the opposite of what
our respective jobs entailed: I wanted to lay around
all day reading dead men in the tranquil comfort of
my temperature-controlled domicile; she wanted
to wake up at the crack of dawn to drive an hour north
haul ass up a mountain, eat a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich at the top, and run back down.
It was one of the many reasons
why it was doomed from the start.
Still, it had its valuable lessons
if not its perks.

"Put those in here," she said
handing me the Zip-Loc bag that
she'd pulled from her pack
like some sort of second-rate
tree-hugging magician.

"Are you serious?" I asked
with the raise of just one eyebrow.
Smoking while hiking was enough
of a paradox; fussing over biodegradable
bits of paper and cotton was
the icing on the cake that I'd rather be eating
with a nice glass of milk and some Dostoevsky.

The familiar half-squint she shot my way
as she pursed her lips professed the severity
of her demand and convinced me to comply.
I didn't want to risk being cut off from
the Catskill Mountain mid-hike sex.
That was the only reason I'd joined her
on the few Sunday excursions that I did.
It made all of those calorie-burning sweatfests worth it
for fifteen minutes or so.

I'll never forget the time that black bear
stalked up along the creekside ridge
just twenty feet from where we were doing the nasty.
He must've smelled it in the air and wanted a piece.
Maybe I should've let him maul me to death then and there
thus saving myself from the beatings that she'd come
to give me later on, and our eventual demise after
almost two years of trying not to lose what wasn't really there.

But hindsight's 20-20 and she always made a good sandwich.
I can live with that.

White gloves, and roadblocks, and tube socks-- oh my!

White folks revel in their shiny excuse to sit in lawn chairs
on sidewalks and in shoulders of suburban byways
as hordes of local girl scouts, boy scouts, veterans
and volunteer everythings march by;
the bolder of the genus call this
painfully rhythmic catastrophe a parade
but I have other, more descriptive names for it
that will be left to the imagination for decency's sake.

My town feels the need to indulge in two of these
festive forays twice a year: today's occasion
being Memorial Day, the other one I'm not sure of
though summer's Labor-related bookend holiday seems
to ring a bell for more than the end of white-wearing season.
Again with those pesky whites.

All roads and thoroughfares in the vicinity of my quiet abode
are blocked off to make way for the bagpipers, buglers
and their brain-dead spectators. I'm a captive in my house
for three to four hours all in the name of a local tax expenditure.
With so many squad cars and fire trucks present it seems to be
a good time to rob a bank or burn your ex's house down
assuming you don't mind walking there.

I'm forced to catch up on my reading in this air-conditioned cell.
But who am I kidding? I'd be sitting here doing the same
even if I could escape the confines of the casa.
As long as my closed windows protect my throbbing head
from the incessant thump of the bass drum I'll be fine.

At least
they spare me the irony of doing the same on Independence Day.




Currently reading:
"The Poetry Anthology, 1912-1977"

We'll never leave the asterisk class.

When I was a kid
my mother would remind me
that 'hate' is a strong word.
Although she was right
she failed to mention
that sometimes it's
not strong enough
especially in regards
to what one feels towards
the alarm clock.

There's a nasty bruise on my knee
and I don't know how it got there.
I can tell you right now
that it wasn't from praying.
God gave up on us a long time
before we gave up on Him.
Pass the rum jug, brother.

But somewhere in the darkness of my driveway
was a breathing diamond ablaze
unencumbered by the limits of modern-day smelting.
I pictured us at thirty, forty, if we live that long, fifty.

And until the cockroaches take their rightful place
he'll never change.



Currently reading:
"From Hand To Mouth" by Fitz-James O'Brien.

I hate it when they're right.

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"That last chapter shook me up."

"It's just a book. Go to bed."

"We both know there's no such thing as 'just a book'."

"Go to sleep."

"I'll try."

"Me too."

Shriveling in the Sixth Borough.

We were on the roof of the junior high school, supposedly to bust some holes with the hammer drill. It was a good gig for a pleasant May morning. We felt momentarily free up there like in that scene from that famous prison movie. My partner had to ruin the mood by breaking the rare silence with one of his typically asinine remarks. I use the term 'partner' loosely; he's more of an opponent than anything else. I've never seen a grown man make so many stupid mistakes, forget such simple directions, talk so incessantly about absolutely nothing to the point where duct tape seems like a reasonable means to an end. I often think he does these things on purpose to test the limits of my patience. Then I stop and realize that he's not half as clever.

"What's that building over there with the dome on it?"

Being the local boy means the questions are aimed my way. Sometimes I'd give up the five-minute commute to change that.

"That's one of those places that would've given you one of those fancy pieces of paper if you hadn't dropped out."

"A high school, I get it!"

Part of me was happy-- not because he got it, but because I wouldn't have to explain it any further. That was a place I'd rather not discuss. Changing the subject before he could interject with another random outburst seemed like a good idea. Is there a lesser form of Turrets?

"It's almost easy to forget we're in the ghetto when most of our view from up here consists of trees."

I was referring to the hill behind the high school. There used to be tales of kids skipping class and hiding out up there for hours on end. A keg was rumored to be buried somewhere with only the tap exposed. All of that was before my time, though-- the time of scanning ID cards with bar codes, passing through metal detectors, armed police officers walking the halls. And I'm supposed to want to bring children into this world?

"Yeah. Your town is scary."

That sounded funny. Until then I hadn't thought of it as 'my town', though it was indeed frightening at times. Almost as frightening as the awful racket that accosted our ears out of the clear blue. It appeared to be a butchered rendition of the hook from a hip-hop song that was popular two years ago. Yes, it was just as painful as it sounds.

"Oh, great. The marching band is serenading us."

We walked towards the edge of the roof to get a better look at the source of the cacophony coming from the parking lot. Our eyes scanned the sloppy mass of teenagers in search of the easiest target. My opponent scored before me.

"Man, why do they always strap the bass drum to the smallest, goofiest kid?"

I hated to admit it, but he was right. I told him so. Both halves of the sentence. I felt part of me die.

A blindingly bald man in his early forties stood in front of that clump of misapplied hormones with a bullhorn in his hand. He pleaded with them to pay attention. It's hard to watch a losing battle, even from a safe and hidden vantage point like a roof.

"Come on, guys! March! No, don't actually move forward! Just lift your heels! No, don't waddle like penguins! And straighten up! There are supposed to be four columns! You were supposed to learn how to line up in Kindergarten..."

My opponent lit a forbidden cigarette despite the school's policy. It was due more to a lack of brains than a presence of bravado. We were our own bosses up here to an extent, but being caught smoking on school grounds would get us instantly thrown off the job.

"At least taking orders like this will be good training for when they're all in prison," I said as I stepped aside to move upwind from the smoke. My opponent laughed and choked on his nicotine fix.

What I'd just said echoed through my skull like a resonating gunshot. It was sad to admit that I believed it. Perhaps it was best that I wound up on the roof of this building instead of underneath it with an attitude like mine; or maybe my cynical stance had developed as a result of my own experiences and environment. Regardless, it made me feel like someone I hadn't been seven years ago. There's just as much comfort in defeat as there is in acceptance if you look hard enough.

One person can't change the world.
It takes a village to raise a child.
And one lousy city has managed to ruin a lot of them, present company included.

Pack it in, kids. The band's budget's been cut.

"You got an extra one?" I asked while fumbling through my pocket for the lighter that I always carry.

"For you? Anything, partner!"

Seven years ago, when I was immortal, he would've been right.

Somewhere in there.

The young black cashier asked
to see my license after she'd already
bagged the beer, probably only
because there was a woman in line behind me
who seemed like she would have no qualms
about making a phone call to the local police.

I passed her my ID with my sleeved arm
that usually serves as proof enough.
The photo hadn't been updated
since I was sixteen. I'd asked to pass
on having a new one taken when it was time to
renew my license because my nose had been
recently broken with a beer bottle at a dive bar;
I didn't think a photograph of me
with stitches across my bridge and two black eyes
would behoove me while having
my license checked during a traffic stop.

"I can only recognize you by your eyes,"
the girl said as she inspected the nine-year-old
photo on my license before passing it back.

I thought of explaining that it was an old picture
that wasn't replaced due to a broken nose
but that woman standing behind me
was already clutching her purse tighter than before.

"Thanks," I said with a sly smile as the cashier
handed me my six-packs, and I didn't just mean
for the beer.

More sacrilege.

There was a parable in the Bible
in which the chief of a village was captured
by his arch nemesis after the city walls fell.
In a barbaric display of power
they brought his offspring to the town square
and lined them up, shoulder-to-shoulder
in front of all the defeated inhabitants.
The conquering ruler ordered three of his best archers
to draw their bows and await further instruction.
As their arms quivered with the tension of the strings
and the arrowheads glistened in the deceptive sunlight
the invading general asked the captive leader
which of his three sons would be executed
as an offering to the pagan gods.
Without a moment's hesitation the answer came
and at the raise of a hand the archers let loose.
The three arrows protruding from the boy's chest
broke in half as he silently folded into the sand.
Tears hit the dust in unison as the onlookers
remembered their beloved adolescent neighbor
whose life had been sacrificed so mercilessly.
Even the cruel despot who had given the order
felt unusually stirred by the scene, specifically
the decisive strength with which his foe had replied.
Not willing to let his curiousity run rampant forever
the evil man stepped down from his horse
and approached his stoic adversary.
Once within arm's reach of the unflinching chief
he met his eyes and asked in an exalted tone,
"Why did you pick your eldest son to die?
Surely he was your favorite."
Again, without the slightest pause, the man
responded in a confident, even voice--
"Because he was the strongest one among them
and would best understand."
With frightened, shifting eyes the victorious sultan turned
to mount his horse, commanding his troops
to fall back. A great commotion erupted
among the ranks as the heavily armed men
fled for their lives.

So maybe this wasn't a Bible story
but it should've been.

Stupid kids talking politics.

Landmines and bayonets aren't meant to kill--
they're meant to maim, leave men screaming for help.
Same thing with bullets with full metal jackets;
they go right through the person, don't mushroom
on impact like your standard lead-tipped hunting round.
The reasoning behind all these lovely little inventions being
that an injured man takes three men off the battlefield--
the victim, and two of his allies to drag him to safety.
Disfiguring a man for thinking differently
and counting on the loyalty of his peers to kick in.
What a lovely way to win a war.

And after it's won, what does one do?
Well, the United States chose to rebuild Japan
after leveling two of its cities with the first and only
nuclear weapons deployed in combat
to date, that we know of.
We industrialized a country so effectively
that it out-smarted and out-sold our technological sector
for the following decades to come.
And the Germans got a similar consolation prize
though not as profound. See, us Yankees stole
the design of the classic German Mauser
to create the 1903 Springfield Bolt-Action Rifle, a military
standard issued to 'Merican snipers right on up until
the turn of the following century.
So, in true diplomatic fashion, after neutralizing the Nazi threat
we proceeded to pay royalties to Germany
for the patent law infringement associated with one of the
weapons that helped us send Hitler back to Hell.
Makes sense, right? At least it's in accordance with
similar common practices of the so-called Powers That Be.

I gave up rooting for the home team a long time ago.
It's hopeless. We're all doomed, it's a matter of when.
I joined the NRA so I can jokingly make dramatic references
to "my cold, dead hands" like the departed Mr. Heston.
They haven't sent me my sticker yet, I hope there's still time.
At this point I'm just waiting for the missiles to fly
and pray that I'll be on the verge of something worthwhile
when the mushroom cloud engulfs my computer and me.

This one wouldn't have counted.

Connecticut.

I was nineteen and knew it all
but Death wasn't real yet.
She passed while I was on my way
from Albany to say goodbye.
Uncle Marty called, said they'd wait
to move the body until I arrived.
It seemed kind of them.

When I got there the rest of the family
had already found their respective sources
of consolation, be it a story from years gone by
a comfortable corner of a couch, or a drink.
I made my way to the guest room
where she'd been fighting for her last breaths
having long been freed from her final demons.
Her jaw sagged low, her mouth wide open.
The undertaker's wire would fix that.
Aunt Ronnie was sitting next to the bed
holding her hand that had looked like wax
for the past ten years of her life.
She was ready.

I wish I could say I cried, but I didn't.
It had been a merciful release.
And to tell you the truth
she looked so much more at peace
in that reclined position
than she did at the wake
where I didn't cry, either.

Carmen's final statement was the best of her lifetime.
She arranged to be buried on a grassy knoll
near some tall pines in a secluded Connecticut cemetery
near my uncle's house instead of next to my grandfather
in the plot he'd bought in the Adirondacks.
The bottle, the beatings, and the mistresses had been
punishment enough for her. She didn't want to rot
next to that miserable man forever.
I can still hear her dry cackle when I think about it.

My father said he'd be buried next to Charles Senior instead.
Some sons don't know when to see the man for the monster.
Let them.

I wouldn't have much nice to say in the way of a eulogy.
The tears would come that time, but for different reasons.
Let them as well.

The worst deaths occur before the heart stops beating.
I'm twenty-five now and know that much
if nothing else.

po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

The pre-weekend party-planning phone call
blew up in my face quite nicely tonight.

"You coming out Saturday?"

He's a regular, it seemed like a given.

"Can't. Waking up early for my sister's graduation party."

It wasn't intended to be a dig in the ribs, but it was.

"Have fun with that."

I meant it.

"Yeah."

I think he did, too.

And hey, if you're going to shoot me
have the courtesy to use good ammunition.

I hope your compass works better than mine.

Thanks for the ad.

After-school activities were still in full swing at 4:30 in the afternoon. Us stupid fitters were gathering our tools and prepping our materials for a night's worth of pipe-laying misery. My stride was sure and true as I careened down the faux-marble hallway of North Junior High. A buxom young teacher was walking ahead of me with a seductive switch that only a male above eighteen would notice. She slowed her pace to ask a plump boy standing in the doorway of a classroom a quick question.

"How do you like the book so far?"

My ears perked up, my eyes opened wide and shot for the cover. There he was in large white block lettering over a blood-red backround-- Dostoevski.

"It's pretty good," the round little kid replied.

Pretty good? Just 'pretty good', man? Jesus, what was the world coming to? I halted that once-stable gait of mine to catch a glimpse of the title-- 'Crime and Punishment'.

My thoughts ran rampant in my head: Oh Lord, please don't let me fall to my knees right here in this hallway with my partner five steps ahead of me. Don't let Shakespeare go out like this. I promise to learn the Cyrillic alphabet someday.

Little Jimmy in the too-tight T-shirt had noticed my ogling. I had to say something to him to avoid being escorted off school property for staring inappropriately at a minor. But what to say? How would I be able to plug the waterfall of sheer joy and admiration for one of the world's best writers that'd spew forth from my mouth? My knees weakened, and that mouth of mine didn't make up for it with any form of brilliance.

"Dostoevski, huh?"

Chubby nodded his head of curly hair and squinted his beady little eyes. I could tell he's always last picked in gym class.

"He's a bastard," I emphatically declared. Chubs dropped his jaw and cocked his head in utter astonishment as I turned to catch up with my coworker again before he'd wonder what the hell I was doing talking to this kid about a book. Maybe Chubs wasn't expecting a dirty, sweaty construction worker to have such a strong opinion of a Nineteenth Century writer from Eastern Europe. If only he knew that I could spell Dostoyevky's name three different ways, or that I'd read all of the works of the good Fyodor Mikhailovich, and by my own volition.

But "He's a bastard"? Really, whom was I even referring to with that gem? Dos himself?, or that literal lady-killer character of his, Raskolnikov? I'm still not sure what I meant by my statement; it seemed like a good idea at the time, though. Most of the worst ones do. Even Dos and his Existentialist buddies could admit that.

The toils of work led me to and fro across the jobsite. I think by now I've spent more time walking in this school than I did during my entire junior high career. As I lept and bound up and down those flights of stairs I considered what I should've said to that poor kid. Things like: "Do you know Dostoevsky was sentenced to death during his young adulthood for his alleged involvement in a revolutionary group, and that they pulled the mask from his face and pardoned him at the last minute as the firing squad was loading their rifles?" Or maybe "He left his wife towards the end of his life and married a girl half his age who tended to the blinding old nut, even transcribed some of his last works for him." If I wanted to bring it home I'd say something to the effect of "Right up until his death at the age of sixty he was questioning the same things that you may be wrestling with now, like the existence and intentions of God, and the disappointing nature of Man." But I didn't say any of that. I had my chance to play English teacher and missed it. Again.

I made it a point to pass by that classroom twenty minutes later, but the lights were off and everyone had left. My potential Russian Literature Apprentice had gone home to eat Oreos and play video games until his mother made him walk the dog. I'd failed. Again. Second chances and I don't seem to get along.

But now, sitting here at this forgiving screen eight hours later, I don't feel so bad. Chubs'll figure all that stuff out on his own if he's worth a damn, or at least his weight in paperbacks. If not then he doesn't deserve to have those pieces of the puzzle figured out. For the sake of a rare happy ending I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Good luck, kid. Sorry I couldn't help you. And stay away from pipes in general.

I swear I don't spit in their coffee.

"Hey, Jose," came his gruff voice from the darkness of the job trailer. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet, everything was a blur. Slowly, that blur became a blue blob of three-hundred sixty pounds. Pat's small bald head sat atop his oversized denim work shirt like a cherry on one of the thousands of ice cream sundaes he'd devoured over the course of his thirty-five years.

"I got your fuckin' Jose swingin', pal," I said with a smile befitting a humble apprentice. It was too early in the day to throw wrenches or resort to fisticuffs.

"Todd told me you're Puerto Rican," he said in a softer tone. It was as if he'd revealed the fact that he knew I was a convicted sex offender. My jaw tightened, I felt my cheeks jut out at the sides. I wasn't scared, I'd heard stories of this lump of shit getting his ass beat by people half his size. I was just tired of the damn routine.

"Yeah. So?" Eye contact was impossible, the fake smile was just hard.

"Look, you could've told me. I know I make racist jokes, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf." The sweat trickled down over three rolls of fat on the side of his head. I wanted to puke over this grotesque man's attempt at unsolicited pity. He'd been thrown off jobs before over dropping the N-bomb, calling Mexicans 'Wetbacks', and being ignorant in general. I knew who he was before he tried to convince me otherwise. A reputation goes a long way in the trades, especially a bad one.

"That's good, Pat. Good for you." It was all I could say. I wanted to present him with a mirror to show him that he'd probably die prematurely like his brother if he didn't lose weight, or remind him that he was a notoriously worthless worker without a condom's worth of common sense, or ask him what series of poor decisions caused him to lose his house and force his wife to pile his four kids into their one family vehicle to drive him to and from work every day. But I didn't. Again, the humble apprentice. The typical Pisces. The underdog tired of trying to settle an ancient and pointless score. My lower lip's got scars in the shape of my upper teeth.

"You're a good worker," he spat out like some sort of consolation prize for being Puerto Rican. "That's all that matters to me." His dull eyes tried to smile, but all I saw was that stupid grin that I wanted to slap away from his sloppy goatee.

"Thanks, Pat. Means a lot." I left him there in the darkness of the job trailer and went about my business. Some people still earn their pay.

And later on when he asked why I didn't take off work for Cinco de Mayo I fired back with something about wanting to drape the Mexican flag across the hood of my truck. Make your punchline better than theirs. Steal their thunder. It's all you can do sometimes.

It's not the constant jokes at work that get me. I'm not thin-skinned, and I know that people take themselves way too seriously. Hell, I even call myself out sometimes-- "Not bad, for a Spic," and such being a common response to a compliment from a coworker on my job performance. I can take it just as well as I can dish it, if not better. No, it's not the jokes themselves that get under my dark skin, it's that unwritten expectation for me to just silently take it because I'm a Hispanic on a construction site. It's that requirement to grin, bear it, and eat more shit force-fed by the White Male Republicans (who secretely vote for Democrats since that party is pro-Union). High school doesn't ever end, and neither does hypocrisy.

All of the men I've worked with have vouched for me in one way or another, whether I knew it or not. I'm going to continue to make a name for myself in this business, whether I like it or not. And someday, when I'm general foreman, I'll be sure to remind those creative poets who use their Sharpies to label the inside of the shithouse as "the Mexican Spaceship" that at least those silly Wetbacks didn't pretend to land on the fucking moon forty years ago.

Bikini Scars.

Hid the pearl under his tongue
for a belated safe delivery.
What's that they say about
the truly generous deed
having to go unclaimed?

But there are bigger sins
like kissing cousins
and giving up on what could be
for what was.

I hope the accent lighting on Fifth Ave
doesn't blind you.

She gave me a painting of Jacob
wrestling the Angel as the maids watch
in horror. I forget the outcome
of that Biblical battle
but I know from my own experience
that even if
Jake won
he lost.

We're alive, well, and not yet incarcerated--
Maybe just a bit dehydrated.
I should've stayed on the 405.

Blood in the boogers.

That bimbo barmaid undercharged me as usual:
thirteen bucks, just enough to cover
the pulled-pork sandwich and the first pint.
The first of seven pints, mind you.
She never seemed to make it back
to the touch-screen register to enter the drinks
on my tab for reasons that seem more than
the normal breast-implanted blonde excuse.
Her husband, who owns the joint, is also Puerto Rican.
If she were twelve years younger and single she'd try.
I offered to pay the rightful difference but
she laughed it off and told me not to bother.
Her tip reflected her hospitality.
Sometimes I wonder if in another life
she could've been something more
than a trophy wife used to lure dirty old bikers
and construction workers to an otherwise worthless bar.
I try not to dwell on it, though.
It's too real.

The slightly ossified ride back from the bar
was livened up by a strange turn of events.
I came around a bend and had to slam on the brakes
since a line of three cars stood still in the middle
of the forty-five mile-an-hour highway.
My eyes unblurred themselves and saw
a small black dog standing in the shoulder
on the other side of the road. A red leash
was attached to its neck, but no human hand was present.
A woman in the first stopped car frantically hopped out
of the passenger seat of the late-Eighties convertible
that she was riding in and approached the little canine.
He took off running like a bat out of Hell, a broad
saw-toothed grin on his face. I watched him pass by my truck
and bang a sharp left up a driveway in my rear-view mirror.
It seemed like he knew where he was going.
Or maybe he didn't.
I hope he did; that woman got right back in that
bucket of bolts and drove away in the opposite direction.
Good Samaritans have gotten lazy, doughy in their apathy.

The mall seemed like a logical destination once I got back into town.
I probably shouldn't have been driving, but I was having a party
that night and needed a new multi-media stereo for the occasion.
My initial failure in the electronics department of the "anchor store"
I first tried on my quest led me to question what's wrong with
a world that cannot sell the display model, even for full retail price.
Words were kept civil, though I'm pretty sure the clerk could sense
the frustration burning in my eyes almost as clearly as he could
smell the beer on my breath. I headed for a specialty store.
They had what I was looking for there, it was even on sale.
I paid with exact change and heaved the awkward box onto my shoulder.
It was almost a successful voyage for me in spite of the speedbumps.

But then that damn Piano Man caught my eye.
He was back amongst the overpriced pianos on display
in an intersection at the mall, and he was even more disgusted.
The music wasn't playing automatically this time, but the rubber-faced
gray caricature of himself wasn't tickling any ivories either.
His elbows rested on his knees as he bent over on an uncomfortable
stool with his back to the hunk of wood and metal that he was
supposed to be trying to sell. I was mid-stride when our eyes met.
My boots nearly tripped over themselves when he looked me
square in the face and shook his head slowly.
He knew. Somehow, he just knew.
I hope they bury him in a more expensive tux.

I once knew men from Peru and Nantucket...

You're supposed to use hot water to make ice cubes. I could explain it scientifically, but you wouldn't care. I bet you thought this line would end with the word 'bucket'.

The women who know me also know that brownies are the best way to control my simple self. Yes, I just denied my alleged complication. Turns out chocolate and flour, when combined with an egg or two and some oil, form the demise of my own free will. Totally worth it in most cases. Pawned off the rest of my mother's on lunch break at work last night. One of the guys, his mouth full of chocolate, told me to thank her. It may have been a cheap shot, but I let it slide. Saved the other batch to munch on in my truck during those fleeting quiet moments in between the pipes that I've come to cherish so much. Even heathens keep some things sacred.

Then, as always, there were the silent deals made with God and the devil. It's important to include both in case one's having an off day, and to deny the existence of One is to deny the existence of the other. Sometimes I throw the Easter Bunny into the mix for good measure, but never Saint Jude; that poor slob's got his own list of woes.

See, there were two birds doing the nasty in the lilac bush outside my kitchen window this morning. That's what Walt and Frost forgot to tell you: We're all only human. Even the birds are human. 'Human', as I use the term, means flawed by the unruly combination of instinct and desire. I once had a car that was human, it always stopped at the beer distributor on the way home from work. Those were the days when brew still did the job. Four stiff cocktails and I'm straight now. Straight enough to see crooked and smile wide for no good reason, often times a bad one. Not tonight, though. Tonight I deserve the pain of sobriety. Penance for all this humanity inside of me. The aftertaste of milk is aiding the process.

I got rid of the monkey, but now there's this albatross on my back. And it's not necessarily a bad thing, it's just a thing. A thing I'm not sure what to do with, where to keep. I am not capable of eluding a high-speed pursuit. I'm not capable of anything faster than the ticking of my watch sitting on my dresser to the left of my head. Quite frankly, I'm too sore to do anything but sink into bed tonight. This typing business is just a promise I made to myself, one of the few and true minority.

Citronella candles don't work as well as advertised, but I'm going to buy them anyway. Sometimes I bet the slow horse since I know it will lose. That knowledge is comforting. Almost as comforting as the smell of those burning yellow tins will be, even without the sound of the ancient bug zapper going off in the back of my head. My father and my neighbor shared one. Its bright blue light symbolized all being right in the world back then. It hung right on the property line behind the last peach tree. I hated the peach trees, the fruit would fall and I'd have to clean it all up and the bees would swarm 'round my six-year-old head. That's the head I miss most. It was smarter in knowing less. You don't appreciate good head 'til it's gone. And now I hate my father instead of the peach trees. He cut them down when I got old enough to tell him what I thought of picking up the fruit.


If you have to ask if there's something wrong, there probably is.

But at least the Easter Bunny made the rain hold out 'til night time for once. He's not such a bad guy sometimes, despite moments of humanity.

Frank 6:13

Thou shalt not love anyone as much thou love thine self.

It didn't stay in Vegas.

The sky pissed down as two cops smoked in their squad car.
A Hispanic man pushed a perambulator down the wet sidewalk.

I'm left to wonder which was the greater crime.

Perhaps it was the rain soaking the living room furniture
that someone had left by the side of the road
for the next day-sleeper to sequester.

But we've all done worse for a Klondike Bar
between overhead lights and landing strips
so let's play by the house rules
and fetch our seconds for the duel.

Here I am, laughing at you
not with you
denying the fact that Sin's always ugly.
Satan slept on my sofa once, followed me ever since.

Now, for the love of God
will you all stop calling me Michael?

Coitus Interruptus

We lay in bed on a lazy Sunday morning
with shades drawn and lights out.
She closes her smoky eyes and tilts her head back
for a yawn. My right index fingers darts towards her face
as if by second nature, shoves itself into her uncovered mouth
in an attempt to tickle her tonsils, maybe make her gag.
It's a game I've played for a long time.

She bites down hard, harder than ever before
but I can't let out a sound.
When I finally get my finger back
I see the red indentations left by her flawless teeth
between my first and second knuckles
like temporary reminders of a permanent pain.
It's a game I've played for a long time, but still haven't perfected.

Underliner.

Their points can be valid
their pen-strokes perfect
their cadence and word choice
grossly familiar

but you'll still be expected
to loathe the faceless fraud
whose notes have tainted
the book's margins since
long before you ever dreamed
of getting your grubby little hands
on the fucker.

Weekly Jobsite Safety Meeting #341

"Jesus, Dave. This coffee tastes like shit."

"That's what you get for short-changing me again."

"The union's turning out some lousy apprentices."

"It's hard to find good help these days."

"You hear what happened to Raskey?"

"DWI?"

"Not that. Most of the guys in our local have at least one of those."

"So what'd he do now?"

"Got his nuts all twisted up."

"What do you mean? He's always bent outta shape."

"He did it for real this time...well, his girlfriend did."

"How the hell?..."

"She got a little over-zealous with her hands."

"He OK?"

"They had to open his ballbag up surgically and untangle them."

"The members should send him a Get Well card."

"No way, Kid. Would you want one?"

"Good point."

"Keep it to yourself. I only told you this for your own benefit."

"I'll never ask the Old Lady to cup the balls again..."

"Get married. The situation won't ever even present itself."

"You're a real ray of sunshine, Earl. Be a fountain, not a drain."

"You and your Goddamn plumbing puns, Shakespeare."

"That's what you get for ruining my coffee break."

"That's what you get for ruining my coffee."

"Raskey's got it worse."

"Agreed."

No homo.

Real love is
putting another man's socks and underwear
in the dryer for him--
not in the washer machine, though;
that's just gay.

St. Andrew

Now I know why he drives the drunk bus.
Because he loves them.
All of them.
That's what the ant I freed from the shower web told me.

The rabbit knows and hates me for it.

Our confidants can't sway us.

Pompous Sir: Come. Stance.

Received an email at my normal address today
informing me that my college account
would be automatically terminated in 60 days.
Caught me off guard since I left the fine
State University of New York at Albany
five years ago and haven't accessed
said email account since then.
And to think that all this time I could've been
impressing new-found friends
with a falsified identity that'd suggest my affiliation
with such a prestigious insitution of Higher Learning.

The only UA acronym that my name can honestly
be attributed to these humble days is
the United Association of Plumbers and Steamfitters...

That spider I saw in the bottom of the refrigerator tonight--
I should've warned it that the light would only be on
for a few brief moments while I grabbed another beer.

Babe, the first time.

My teeth chomped down
on what was left of a
refrigerated pear;
I wish I could say I had it for you now.
Fresh produce had been
a common recent theme
appropriately rejuvenating.
Turns out it's still ticking somewhere.

The excuses were droppin' like flies
like dead ants down the drain
from half-killed beer cans
poured into the sink...
Or maybe they were piling up
like empty rum bottles, dirty jeans.
Regardless, it was good to be there in that kitchen
even wearing workboots and a grin that ate unmentionables.
I hated the fact that I'd have to change my alarm clock again.
Hated it with a passion that sometimes I'm scared I've lost.

Alcoholics Anonymous defines Insanity as
"doing the same thing over and over
and expecting different results".
This is fine. Let them.

I tend to abstain from such rigid diagnoses.
We remember the watched showers in ICU
and who the crazy ones really were.

The relationship, whether or not you want it, is this:
Hope can drive a man...well, you know.
At least that's what Red said
before that broad rolled his car on him.
Almost serves him right for playing for the wrong team.
Yes, the wrong team is whichever one I'm not currently on.

Old souls we are
but it ain't so bad.
I'll keep my trick repertoire the same.
No one could handle a new schtick anyway.
Not even a second chance in the form of a perfected clone.
It's not my fault I only run in my head.
In? From? Who's keeping track anymore?

Maybe just my mother, and clandestinely.

The third best feeling in my world:

when I see those three turtles fucking
or maybe just sunning themselves
on that cardboard box floating in the middle
of the pond at the last traffic light
before I reach my road.

Their weapons and tactics ain't so special.

I'm eating an early dinner
alone at my kitchen table
back to the wall
in true Hickock fashion
naked except for my dirty boxers.
The front door's cracked;
I can hear the birds
pretending that there's much
to sing about
as the neighbors mow lawns
that haven't grown back yet
in the Sun's slow farewell.
I'm convinced that I'm the only one
not lying to myself
at the moment.
It's all so premature.

That bubble bursts
the moment I glance up
from my plate of food
for just long enough
to think I see dark shadows dashing
for cover in the nextdoor neighbor's yard.
This lethal imagination takes over
and it's instantly a SWAT team
closing into position to take me out
once and for all
and I do mean "for ALL".
My mother's leftover rice
falls from my gaping jaw
as I mumble "Oh, shit"
to myself as peacefully as
an elevator weather comment.
At least my last meal is comfort food.
One can only hope for Spanish rice
at a time like this.

A flash-bang grenade is hurled
through the window in front of the table
where I'm sitting-- no, they're not trying
to stun me this time.
It's tear gas-- no, they're not trying
to force me to come out with my hands up, either.
It's a Goddamn fragmentation grenade.
I flip the table on its side as a shield
to use against the flying shards of steel
being sure to keep my bare feet from underneath it.
It works, but my ears spurt blood when the blast's
concussion hits me.

Giving them time to breach my compound
and yes, at this point my home has reached Compound Status
would be a fatal mistake. I scramble for the stairs
on knees and palms as the smoke from the explosion clears.
Boy am I glad I have that Kalashnikov stashed.
Halfway up the staircase I see laser beams
on the soft green wall behind me.
The man who painted that gentle hue
would never have suspected that this would ever go down
in his quiet house on his quiet street.
Yes, I have time to think of all this
as the bullets fly: Time slows down at the end of ones life.

Suddenly the lasers disappear from the wall behind me.
They must've caught up with my stride.
Before I have time to verify the fact that they're
sights are locked on my torso I hear the three-round burst
that will put me down-- I hear it before I feel the rounds
pierce my bare flesh.

Then Black, just Black.
I hate to be cliche, but I'm so damn good at it.
When they find my twisted body in a heap on the floor
they'll notice the eerie smile made by my broken teeth:
you see, they didn't take me alive
and they were so scared to try
that they shot me in the back.
That's a hell of a last chapter, one I'm not worthy of.

A car honks its horn at the teenagers
walking down the middle of my street
and snaps me out of this morbid fantasy.
My heels hit the faux-wood floor hard
while the SWAT team vanishes and the
holes in various walls and windows disappear.
All is well again at 30 Innis Ave--
all except this Goddamn headache
that my chatterbox partner gave me during our
grueling eight hours of laying pipe together.

Chewing the current mouthful of my mother's meal
I feel a jagged chicken bone and pluck it from
my tongue: another dodged bullet.
And that is how it will actually be, pal: far less dramatic
than what my mind likes to embellish out of sheer boredom.
Far less dramatic, but just as deserved
as those who truly know me would agree.

I'll take 'Salty Liquids' for a thousand, Alex.

Despite the fridge being full of homemade leftovers
I'm eating Ramen noodles tonight--
call it a craving reminiscent of my Warehouse Days
when I somehow managed to live
on a thousand bucks a month.

I remember waiting for the water to boil
and for the cheap beer weekends.

My grandkids will only hear half of that story:
My Half.

A fictional call made from outside a college bar at three in the morning on a weeknight.

"Dave?"
"Yeah. Want to do something stupid again?"
"Please, I've learned my lesson. Were you sleeping?"
"Yeah, some people work in the morning."
"Aw, poor baby. I ran into Jules tonight."
"Was she dancing on tables again?"
"No, but if she was it'd be your fault."
"The Brown Man's Burden. Can we skip the speech?"
"Do you know what you did to her?"
"The same thing I did to a lot of girls between 2003 and 2007."
"You heartless bastard! You know the dates?"
"Just the years, give or take. Goodnight."
"Ugh! I swear to God you're the most..."

I hung up before she could finish her sentence
making sure to turn my phone off.
It was nice ending it on a positive note
being "the most" and all.

He cooks for an army that doesn't exist and says it's for love of the game.

When I first moved in it took some getting used to;
he put the toilet paper roll in the dispenser
backwards, at least according to how I was raised.
Sure, it wasn't a big deal, but I bent before I broke.
Don't tell me I never compromise. That's a lie.

It's amazing how unaccustomed to change the
human race is, even with such a seemingly trivial orientation.
If you don't believe me
move your refrigerator to a new location in your kitchen
assuming that's where you keep it.
You'll be amazed at how many times a day you absent-mindedly
veer off in the wrong direction in search of food or drink
then saunter back around with the hopes that no one noticed.
The neighbors must think I'm dancing in my kitchen at night;
I'm not, I'm just lost.

It's in your bones.

Even on the hot and sticky nights
we tend to need at least a sheet
covering our bodies, a thin linen layer
between the world and us at our most vulnerable.
Try and sleep naked on a bare mattress
with nothing to wrap around yourself;
it's close to impossible, sober.
There've been studies conducted that prove all this.
We're an insecure species.
Sue us.
It's not entirely our fault.

It started early with the lining of the womb.
Then as children we'd pull the blankets over our heads
when the eyes glowed in our closets
as if that precious cotton
would save us from the knives, the claws.
And now, as young adults still feigning sea legs
we have the same latent yearning

though tonight, despite all the claims I've just made
about that deep-down need for a woven barricade
I couldn't help but toss it off with this new heat and
then, you see, as always, there was this girl...
but we've had enough science for one night.

The safe word is "Forever."

Always with the flailing.

There were some ancient cultures, Chinese
Dynasties painted prettily in books and such
who executed prisoners quite gruesomely
using rats, a pot, and fire.
See, they'd lay the man down
put the rats on his bare stomach
cover said rodents with the pot
and heat said pot with a torch
until the rats would have no choice
but to chew their way through the man's flesh
to avoid being baked alive.

What people tend to disregard
about this cute little game, however
is that the rats were the ones being tortured;
the man, he was being punished.
There's a difference implied--
it's a matter of guilt or innocence.

Call me cynical
but I've always felt worse
for the rats.
Humans are capable of dirtier deeds
than what they call vermin.

Pellets

When I opened the trailer door this morning
Ed was sitting over the blueprints
with red eyes, pretending to be absorbing
the Big Picture; I knew he was secretly
wishing he had gotten some more sleep
instead of crawling to his basement at 3 a.m.
to load more ammunition. His efforts will
pay off someday if this plays out as predicted.

I sat down on the rigid metal folding chair
four feet from my future self
and waited for the punchline that wasn't coming.
Some men let those go, you know.

The packaged shoelaces sat on his desk
in front of me calling my name. I broke
the silence with a laugh.

"I knew you'd forget to pick them up again
so I got ya some last night," he gently snarled.

There are children outside my window playing.
There are children.
Playing.

I looked down at his boots and noticed
that he had bought the same set of laces for himself.
It would've been weird if he hadn't, almost unacceptable.
That'd suggest some things that neither of us
would want to admit: that we love each other deeply
and without reason; that we fill roles in each other's
broken lives; that we're both closet drunks
with a penchant for beers with orange slices in them.

The day went on as you would imagine--
I hated pipe in general and sang '80s hip-hop in my head.

A little after lunch we went into a classroom
to check the status of some ancient copper heat lines
that our contract required us to replace.
There were tanks, cages, and aquariums
along the perimeter of the room;
evidently it was a biology class.
It was Spring Break, I forgot to tell you that.
No one had been in there for a week, wouldn't
for another four days.

The ball python hid under some molded tree-bark, a lizard
was perched near the lid of its tank, two red-eared sliders
swam in a ten-gallon tank next to the goldfish they'd eat
and then there was the hamster. I say "hamster", but
it could have been a gerbil, the bottom line being
that it was a small gray rodent running in a wheel.
I approached his cage as he spun his fruitless vice
and saw that his water bottle was empty.
Did the teacher really think it'd survive
twelve days without a refill?

"I gotta give this thing water, Eddie."
"We're not supposed to interfere with the classrooms."
"This isn't about class."
"I didn't see anything, do what ya gotta do."
I did.

It turns out that wearing the same shoelaces
and shooting the same caliber rifle
don't make you the same person.
Thank the god that laughs loudest.

The rodent kept running in its wheel.
The three of us would live to see Monday.
The sun set on me and my liquor-drunk friends on my porch.

They're gone now.
I'm OK because I remember.
That's not always an affliction.
Sleep soundly next to your mortal enemy.
Glory.

I'm sure it's been done before, and better.

Came home from a night of welding
to the porch light on and waiting.
The clock next to the front door
was still an hour slow
weeks after most other Americans
had dutifully changed theirs.
Cursed my laziness
and checked my watch
which was three minutes behind
according to the nearest cell tower.

Time and I never have gotten along.
It's one thing that hasn't changed much.

I opened the door and was followed inside
by a moth the size of a small bat.
It fluttered around the kitchen
confused as anything else out of its element
finally finding the glowing bulb above the stove
and bouncing off that a few dozen times.

My boots were heavier than usual
my empty stomach churned
and I needed a shower like a man needs a maid
but I took the precious twenty seconds to catch
the poor thing in my hand and set it free outside.

I know what it is to be attracted to that bright light
that's only going to burn you in the end.
"No soldiers left behind," if I can help it.

Not bad for a Polak.

So Joe cruised up the Congo
and saw the flaws of Man
before writing 'Heart of Darkness'.
You may have seen the modern adaptation
in celluloid form: 'Apocalypse Now'.

Behold!
Another dead friend who wasn't
ashamed to make his private hell
public for the sake of...

...no, let's not
put words in his mouth;
the worms and dirt are bad enough.

Joey, your kind's alright in my book
even though I can't write.
Don't worry, I'm still laughing.



Currently reading:
"Lord Jim" by Joseph Conrad.

...keeping in mind that it's a heliocentric system.

There are Letters and Numbers
for cases like this
but don't let them distract you
from the true sense of the Word.

We're all scared of foreign languages in print.
The price of silence is never too high.
A long-winded friend fueled by stiff drinks
is always far better than the terse late-night phone call.
The Red Ring of Death affects all parties.
And when we find the missing part to bridge the song
it's already too late to make a difference
but braking in time to miss a squirrel makes up for that.

Tap your bat on the plate three times
maybe once on your left heel
and get ready for the next curve.

You know it's coming.
Don't waste the litmus paper.

At least we didn't become math teachers.

As bad for me as it was for you.

The headlights behind me closed in fast
so I already knew what was about to happen
when the rollers went on.
I pulled over right away
and thanked God I hadn't been drinking.
He (the cop, not God) hopped out of his car in an
uncharacteristically fast manner
as I rummaged for my registration
in the glove compartment.

"License," he barked.
I saw a fine myst of his saliva glisten
in the bright light surrounding his imposing silhoutte.
"And registration?"
"Just do as I say, boy."
A twang had suddenly developed in his voice.
"Sorry, sergeant."
I slipped that one in as a feeble attempt to gain
brownie points after noticing the stripes
on the sleeve of his jacket.
"I'm not a sergeant, son."
"I'm sorry, officer."
"I'm not an officer either."
"Then who are you?"
"I'm your ex-girlfriend's father
and I know what you did
in the back-seat of the Volkswagen!"
My jaw didn't even have time to drop
before he reached through the window
and tried to collapse my windpipe
with the iron grip of his two hands.

I jolted awake in a cold sweat
swatting my face in the process
as part of the nervous reaction.
The stubble raked against my palm.
Shaving would be painful, I shouldn't have put it off.

Pop Culture was giving me nightmares
and I would be giving myself razor burn.
It seemed like the usual unfair trade.

Rum for dinner

I'm sorry for the sentimentality
of the last one, as well as
that of this one
but you see I've been drinking
like I used to when I thought
that all the Greats did
when they
sat to type.

I had a friend once
who used to call it channeling.
I had a friend once.
Swear.

Monsters are prettiest when
skeletons escape the closet.

Twenty-seven per.
So I got a few back.
Big deal.
Fuck, man.
You've seen me.
Tell 'em it's real.

When I've had a few
well, this many
I can lock eyes with myself in the mirror
for a good two minutes straight.
It's a first and only that I take pride in.
Let me.

Sometimes I pull the lever back.
I'd be doing everyone a favor.

Are you embarrassed to be on my team?

What lies behind my rabbit obsession, and more reasons to hate my father.

My mother took me to pick him out
one afternoon at my Grandma's friend's house.
Their back porch had been converted into
a rabbit breeding center, cages everywhere.
Naturally I picked the one that came over
to sniff my hand. Little did we know
that it was not a dwarf rabbit like the rest of them
and would grow to be a-foot-and-a-half long.

Let me back-track, I always start these in the middle.
I was six and my dog had recently ran away
after my brilliant father had brought him to the Fourth of July
fireworks. It only took two explosions to scare
the thing enough to bolt so hard that he broke the leash.
Four hundred bucks and a trip to Ohio for the rare breed
all washed down the tubes by my father's carelessness.

Mom would ride her bike around town calling his name
for weeks, but never found Benji.
I'm sure someone picked him up.
He was a handsome dog and didn't bark
though he did chew my mother's Bible to shreds one time

In retrospect the rabbit was Mom's way of making up for the loss.
She didn't tell my father about her idea and when we brought
the rabbit home he wasn't happy about being left out of the loop.
In retrospect that well-intentioned gift was another nail
in the ever-growing marital coffin. At six I didn't see that.
To make matters worse, or better, depending
my mom coerced my father into building a large pen for Cuddles
(we weren't sure of the sex yet, hence the ambiguous name).
He got some two-by-fours and some chicken wire
and screws and hinges and divided the front porch in half.
Cuddles had a spacious eight-by-ten home
complete with a swinging door and Benji's old plastic doghouse
though he never used that, almost as if he knew it wasn't really his.

Within the year Mom started sleeping alone in the guest bedroom
upstairs, a whole floor away from my fanatically Christian father.
I didn't understand it then, and when I finally thought I did
I blamed her. Again, the six-year-old didn't know any better
and didn't fully grasp it for another fifteen years, give or take.
When the divorce finally came my father brought up
the issue of the rabbit in family court. My mom and I were moving
into an apartment across town and didn't want to disrupt
Cuddles' lifestyle by cramming him into a cage.
Two months ago my mom told me that my father requested
fifty-dollars-a-month in rent for the rabbit.
I'm not sure if it was that ridiculous stipulation
or the fact that my father didn't want to take care of the poor thing
but either way Cuddles was to be given away.
My dad had a friend from the town's fish and game club
who raised rabbits in his barn and would take Cuddles in.
The only condition we had was that he'd be used to stud
and not butchered for food like the rest of the bunnies there.
It sounded like a good arrangement, but the worse ones
usually do.

The apartment wasn't as bad as I had predicted.
Even at six the glass was half empty. I was an early bloomer
and quick fader. My mother had some musclebound locals
help us move the furniture into the new place.
I'm pretty sure most of them worked at the only gas station
in that ragged one-horse town at the time.

It took me some time to adjust, but I did.
My mom was relieved to be free from my father.
Not everyone was so well-off, however; don't mistake
this for some sort of Happy Ending.
Those aren't doled out so easily.

The two of us went to visit Cuddles to see how he was doing
a couple months after our respective moves.
My mother and I even brought him a carrot as a treat
and a small blanket to make him comfortable in his new home.
An old woman answered the door at my father's friend's house
and led us to the barn where the rabbits were kept.
"Oh, the mean black one..." she said
when we said who we were really there to see.

The barn was dimly lit, a far cry from the front porch
at what was now only my father's house.
We approached the rabbits slowly and looked for Cuddles.
His tiny cage was towards the bottom of the stack.
I called his name in the same tone that I used to use
but he didn't respond.
I stuck my little fingers through the holes in the wire
but he bit me.
My mother tried giving him the carrot
but he wouldn't nibble on it.
He no longer lived up to his name.

We looked at each other and held back tears.
I threw the blanket out the window on the ride home
and never went back there again
until now.

I hope they ate him before the meat got too tough.

The rabbit I have now runs free from the time I get home
from work until I go to bed at eleven.

Dad, you lost me sooner than either of us ever realized.

It skips a generation.

Ben Ashcroft threw the front door of his house open like his wife hadn't seen for thirteen years when the neighbor's kid backed into their garbage cans. His face looked like an advertisement for fresh plums, complete with tiny droplets of perspiration. Marge could tell he'd been sweating profusely and saw the fury in his complexion. The few wispy hairs left on his head flew like a yellow quarantine flag in contrast to his purple face. "Get me the razor!" he yelled with the same urgency as the captain of a ship stuck in a storm. Marge turned the stove down to the simmer setting and scampered to the bathroom without asking questions. She knew better. Thirty years of marriage will do that to you.

When she returned with said item in hand Ben had disappeared from the foyer. She heard him rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen and crept cautiously to his aid. "Can I help you find something, Darling?" she asked in her most accommodating voice.

"Where are the scissors?" Ben snapped, now more the iron-fisted czar than the concerned seaman.

"They're on the table. I was cutting out some coupons earlier." She added that last detail as an excuse for having the audacity to have moved the scissors from the safe darkness of the junk drawer. It was an expert move.

Ben began to form a syllable of disapproval, but swallowed it instead. Marge's prompt explanation had defused the situation. He cursed womankind for having the upper hand, or at least knowing how to respond correctly at any given time. Thirty years of marriage will do that to you. "Very well, then. Towel. I'll need a towel," and he marched back out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

There was a lull in the absurdity of the scene, just enough time for the dog, the second one purchased after the first one's untimely demise at the hand of a brazen sixteen-year-old, to yawn. Nothing surprised him anymore in that household. He looked forward to walks moreso than was probably healthy, despite the risk of death by automobile.

Marge found a towel in the linen closet and made her way out into the fresh air of the summer afternoon. On the side of the house she found Ben unkinking the garden hose while mumbling words that only belonged on the walls of port towns' men's rooms. Once a steady stream was flowing from the nozzle he proceeded to fill the bucket next to him with water.

"Chop it off!" Ben ordered his wife as he thrust the scissors in her general direction.
"What?" she asked, still confused.
"This damn comb-over I've been sporting for the past eight years. Cut it off, now!"
She took the scissors from his hand and began clipping the sad strands of fading hair that only sprouted from the left side of his head. It didn't take more than forty seconds.
"Now shave the rest, Honey." Ben's face didn't look like a plum anymore. He was beginning to regain his mild-mannered composure. The "Honey" was his attempt to signify his return to normalcy.
"But why, Darling?" she asked sincerely. "I don't understand."
"If I'm going to be bald, I'm going to be bald. No more lying to myself." He smiled with the stubborn pride of a kamikaze pilot.

Marge didn't understand his change of heart. They'd spent countless hours discussing the topic when the abomination had first plagued Ben's scalp. She dipped her hands into the bucket of water and gently wet his head, then started shaving the thin strip of hair that remained around the back and sides of her husband's crown. When the last of it had been removed she told him it was finished and that he looked better, distinguished even. Ben grabbed the bucket of water and dumped it over himself to rinse off the remaining clippings. It looked like a second baptism that most of the other Catholics on the block had never experienced. Ben silently refused the towel Marge offered him, shook off like a dog, and strode inside confidently-- a new man suddenly happier with himself and the world around him. Marge's jaw stayed low as she watched in disbelief. Who was this imposter, and what had they done with her husband?

The scissors, razor, and towel were laying in the lime green lawn before her. Marge bent over to pick them up. "Good thing I turned the gas range down," she thought to herself as she switched back into dinner preparation mode. The long-sought revelation came when she turned around to head back inside to her spousal duties. The shiny new fire engine red convertible Ben had purchased for himself as an early retirement present was sitting in the driveway, heat waves distorting the air above its still-hot hood. The top, of course, was down. No salesman in his right mind would've reminded a balding potential buyer of the dangers of owning such a vehicle.

Ben's mid-life crisis had slapped him in the face for his entire commute home from work.

Marge Ashcroft laughed to herself quietly at the new phase of her marriage, looking around to make sure no one was watching. Thirty years of marriage will do that to you.

Heirlooms

My father's father was born in 1906.
He died before I ever saw the light of day
but my mother met him a few times.
She says I didn't miss much, just a round old
womanizer with two faded Navy tattoos on his forearms
who had a weakness for Puerto Rican rum
as strong as my father's for Puerto Rican women.

When he kicked the bucket he left my father his guns:
various rifles, a few shotguns, and an unregistered
.380 semi-automatic that a detective friend
had given him to keep under the bar at his establishment.
The little pocket pistol would've been nice to have
in his absence, maybe even a fair trade
but my father, the stickler that he is, handed it over
to a cop friend of his since it didn't have any paperwork.
One good jerk deserves another.

Then there was his Navy rifle and sword.
Charles George left those to Charles Martin, too
and the latter bungled that just as efficiently.
The set was sold to some collector
to help with the down payment on the house
that my old man still lives in.
It takes a special kind of person
to sell a sentimental piece like that.
Granted, my grandfather was in the Sea Bees
or CBs, the Navy's Construction Battalion
which means he mostly played softball in Hawaii
and sometimes aided in building airstrips or barracks.
They'd go in and do their thing once the fighting had ceased
and the perimeter was secure enough to start construction.
Never saw any real combat, but that's not the point.
A man's service rifle is a man's service rifle, dammit.
You don't go pawning it off to the highest bidder.
Or maybe you do, just like a man's stories.

But the real kicker
the thing that truly gets this Prodigal Son's goat
is that my dad had the nerve
to throw out or bury
the jar of Japanese teeth
that his old man brought home
from the War.

You'd think I'd be better with pliers at work
considering the talent of my ancestry.

The air still looms, alright.

Don't wear their shirt to the concert.

I once thought I saw the face of God
in a footprint on the set-list
from my favorite band's last show
that I taped to my wall
but then again
it might've been the rum.

Somos muertos, pero no los sabemos.

Today I bought a box of 7.62 x 39 full metal jackets
for my AK-47 after work, and laughed
as I read the label in my truck heading home.

We live in a world
where ammunition packages
come with lead poisoning warnings
on them

and I'm supposed to be concerned
about the state of the economy.

When all Hell finally breaks loose
and Mel Gibson starts driving his jalopy
around the post-Apocalyptic desert
you can bet your eye teeth
I'll be plenty ready
and not so surprised.

Until then, though
my left index- and right middle-fingers
(the only ones I type with)
want you to know
that the Best Place To Eat Alone
is the Stewart Airport Diner
according to the local paper

and "Be kind. Rewind."
is only another brilliant adage from
a past that not even Max can change.

Come quickly to catch the after-church crowd.
I'll be waiting in the belltower.

The barkeep played the bongos, and well.

"A born loser," and my mentor sipped his beer.
"Nah, he just sucks at Quick Draw."
"It's more than that, man."
He put his bottle down and I rested my case.

I talked to Paulie later, his ears weren't ringing.
Bought him a beer, then asked for a smoke.
He almost blushed at both, but gave the latter
with an enthusiasm not worthy of the price.
I needed one bad, it was too nice outside
to not be drinking with the lepers in a dark bar.

"I wrote something about him," I whispered.
My bastard father took it as an insult to the man.
"He's a good guy, just a nobody."
"I didn't mean that in a bad way. He's a character."
It didn't register. The beer was too deep.
I gave up and continued listening to his dreams
instead, past and present.

Paulie realized where the second beer came from
twenty minutes later, then invited me out
for another cigarette on the porch.
The rate was unfair, but I'd set a precedent.
We stood and talked in the new March sun for a few drags.
He bragged about remembering my name.
I listened intently to the man of the week
mostly focusing on the Leo pendant around his neck--
the Lion Man: I was correct in my assertation.
The draft went down easier and I made a mental note
to keep following my gut, despite its many thirsts.

A round came out of my stack of bills
and the three of us kept drinking
until my two cohorts peeled themselves off of the oak
conspicuously or otherwise.

"Have you seen Paulie?" I asked a drunken female regular
a hard woman who scared me and
happened to be a corrections officer.
"No," she replied from her seat on the porch steps. "You OK?"
"Yeah," I said half-in-the-bag, the sun being long gone.
"You need gum?"
"No."
"You're chewing it like you need it."
"I don't."
"Paulie can take care of himself, wherever he is."
I spit out my gum and drove home.

Sometimes I go places more to observe than to participate.
The booze is just a bonus.
Call it my curse.

How any good parent rewrites the script.

"Did you eat the leftovers I gave you?"
"Yeah, Mom."
"Don't sound so thrilled."
"There's too much chicken in your penne ala vodka."
"I'm sorry."
I instantly felt bad for saying it.
Her mother's rice never had enough.

And my uncles couldn't play basketball with a corpse
though one of them was just inducted
into his high school's hall of fame
fifty years after ever running the court.

If only the Sixties and Seventies hadn't hit.
If only that car hadn't killed their father.
They say I have his nose.
I think it's his heart.

She offered me a cookie on my way out.

The people who smoke in cars
with the windows up during winter
are the same ones who still believe
that squinting helps one think harder
or remember the name of that actress.
They lick their wounds on beer-stained couches
illuminated by the blue glow of the TV screen
but can we blame them since we made them?

There was a man I knew who worked in the City.
He'd get to the skyscraper where his office was
forty-five minutes early each morning
because he chose to take the stairs.
The elevator riders didn't even know his name
even though he'd worked there for five years.
You see, he was claustrophobic...

If you really want an aging live-in relative to die
all you need to do is have a shower rail installed
or maybe one of those electric stair-rider jobs.
That's how God's odds work, they wait for construction
and good intentions to laugh in the faces of us ants.

I heard it said once at a seminar
that "The solution to pollution is dilution,"
and haven't been the same dry self since.
They're getting fatter in the dreams.
I guess that's a good thing.

In two hours I'll be directing a crane
at a local middle school
and then setting curbs on the roof
of Marlboro High in some sort of sick
pre-emptive measure some years too late.
It's all just more meaningless shop talk.
It's all not so funny anymore
but all I can do is laugh into the pillow
until my stomach hurts.

Last night we watched a movie in the basement
of the union hall at plumbing class.
The final frame was a Shakespeare quote
and the kid sitting next to me kicked my chair.
We smiled simultaneously, but for different reasons.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't see it coming.
Preacher, you raised a prophet.



Currently reading:
"The Complete Stories of Dorothy Parker"