Arc-Welding for Dummies

When our welding instructors down at the hall told us not to hit the booths right away on that first T-shirt worthy spring evening we thought we'd been spared. Maybe by some rare ounce of God-given luck the two middle-aged pipefitters delegated to lead us simple apprental nothings into plumbing oblivion had decided that it was too nice a night to not be drinking beer on a porch somewhere. As is usually the case with over-confident apprentices almost out of their time, however, we were wrong.

"Alright, boys. Before we go down and weld tonight I want you to drag all of those fallen limbs on the lawn out to the street. The town's supposed to be coming to get them this week."

As if we hadn't had enough fun cleaning our own yards after the brutal storm; now we had to do it all over again--us, the fifth-year guys who'd be graduating shortly. It seemed a menial task for some first-year bums who could barely sweat pipe. The presence of a thirty-pack would've made it more palatable. Again, though: wishful thinking.

I already had a dozen inch-thick branches in my arms by the time the others had gone to their vehicles for work gloves. Union guys. Hate to say it, but some of them take the Working Like Gentlemen philosophy to the extreme. A little bark never killed anybody.

"Shouldn't the people who mow the damn lawn have to clean this shit up?" one of my brethren asked me.

"You must not know who's got that contract."

I waited stubbornly for it to sink in, but the response never came. Only the same blank stare.

"I'll give you a hint: it's the same guy who's having us clear the lawn for the sake of the guy who's going to mow it."

"Holy Christ, this hall's corrupt," my buddy said. "It's like we're slave labor."

"And in a few months' time we'll be promoted to overpaid hired guns."

It was pleasant to think about. A real sense of completion. Journeymen. Mechanics. Whatever you want to call them. It was the title in store for us eight men who toughed out the five-year program. It wasn't a college degree, but it was something. A trade. A livelihood. A second chance.

"Alright, fellas. That's good enough," our ringleader hollered from the entrance of the union hall. "Let's get going with the second half of the night. The sooner we get done welding, the sooner we'll get out of here." It was like a stubborn general on foreign soil trying to console his men with the news that the town was out of whores, but the prophylactic shipment hadn't been delayed by the bombardment. We could already taste the alcohol by the last load of sticks we'd piled high. That bubble had burst with a couple brief sentences. We groaned and descended to the depths of our union hall.

Our other instructor, the one who doesn't talk as much, snuck into my booth as I was finishing the final pass of my weld. My face shield and the loud sizzle of the arc rays prevented me from knowing he was observing my work. I felt a spark land on my arm but wanted to get those last two inches of steel stitched up. Something about my demeanor that night had been different; for once I cared about the trivial task at hand. There'd be no test, there'd be no failing, and in June I'd be graduating regardless, but that night it felt good to be focused on something other than what had been on my mind all week.

"You could've stopped to brush the spark off your jacket," he said in his gruff voice when I'd finished. "I smelled cotton burning, then hair, then skin." The crack-lipped grin he followed his sentence up with would be the only form of credit I'd get, but it was good enough for me. "You could be a good welder if you kept trying. Too bad you got such a late start."

"My joints look more like staggered nickels than a stack of dimes," I said, taking off my mask. And he was right: if any of us cared enough to try we probably would produce far prettier practice runs in that dark basement two nights-a-week. But the truth is that with most of us out of work and no real merit to our efforts it all seems such a farce. The same eight-inch piece of pipe over and over. The same blue sparks. The same smell of burning swordfish. The same steel cut, welded, and thrown out every week. They say that anyone can master a skill after five thousand hours of experience. I'm not so sure that's true without a bit of desire to kick it in the ass. "I'm taking a break," I told my instructor as he inspected the inside of my pipe with his flashlight.

Out back it was all the same routine: most guys were smoking, waving their dirty hands over sports games and woman troubles. I went through my barrage of text messages while craving one of their coffin nails. What did my cell phone have in store in the way of news? A good night to see grandma; what was for dinner at the bachelor ranch; this week's flavor of major malfunction. Maybe it's the predictability that I like.

When I returned to my station my teacher was still there. Something on his face told me it was for a reason. That dry smile was gone.

"Hey, I forgot to ever ask you. How'd you make out with that crisis?"

"She'd already left by the time I got there."

"Jeez. They're all crazy. I'd rather drink beer and go fishing with the boys. They understand me, nothing's ever an issue. If it wasn't for the sodomy part I'd gladly be gay." It seemed a bold statement for a rough-and-tough old construction worker to be making to a kid half his age and a quarter as wise. I appreciated his honesty and almost feel bad for mentioning his confession here. It is, after all, the nature of my beast, though-- myself not unincluded.

One of my classmates kicked my shin as he walked by, sending me into a crouching wince. "Oh, come on. I didn't get you that hard."

"It's a little sore from something else," I replied, grabbing the spot where the scab had formed. Already receiving my fair share of unsolicited advice for the evening I let the wound and its origin remain a mystery, despite the quizzical look on my buddy's face that was waiting for some work-related injury sob story.

The lights flashed off and on three times. That was the signal to clean up and get out of that dungeon. Deliverance at last.

On my way home I was given a rare opportunity to intervene on behalf of another lost soul. There on the side of the road was a white sign with red lettering, one like politicians' henchmen overzealously litter every intersection with during election times. The message on this one, however, was quite out of the ordinary. "Mary, will you come back?" It was hard to believe that someone had been that desperate. It was harder to admit that I hadn't thought of it during my own years of pining. Images of rock bottom flashed in my head: the solitary drinking; the reclusive nature; the weeks between shaving. I pulled over into the shoulder, put my truck in reverse, and did the sorry bastard a favor. Mary would never see the sign, her ex would be spared the torment of dealing with her again, and I would be sure to dispose of it properly as soon as I got home.

A few hundred yards down the road two dead ducks laid in the road, a male and a female. At least they both got it at the same time-- the driver was merciful. I doubt he drove a Mercedes with a Jesus fish on the back. Add that one to your scavenger hunt list. Cross "man blessed with another chance" off of it.

They say that insanity is repeating an action and expecting a different outcome. I say that's faith.

daymares

With the onset of warm weather
my daysleeping's been assailed
by bad dreams. The sun turns
my room into a midday oven
and I writhe in sticky sheets
senselessly battling the subconscious.

Today's line-up was worth
the price paid for ringside seats.
First my girlfriend ate something unpleasant
halfway through her salad and lost her composure.
She asked for a Diet Coke to wash down
whatever food was left in her throat.
When I brought one to her she said she couldn't
drink it, it didn't taste right. I asked her
what it was that she'd eaten but she
wouldn't tell me. I figured it must've been
a bug hiding in the lettuce. It didn't change anything
but for some reason I shoved a handful of
onions in my mouth as some poor penance
and moved on to the next dreamscape.

The waiting room was full of hunchbacked
widows in pastel sundresses with curly white hair.
My father and I were standing in line
seeking aid for the same malady
though I can't recall what it was.
As usual he made a fool of himself
embarrassing me with his boisterous antics
and making the old biddies blush.
Whatever had been ailing me was suddenly
not worth the wait so I bolted for the door
leaving the old man to seek his fate alone.
It's only in dreams that I take my own advice.

When I awoke it took me a few good breaths
to decide which nightmare had been worse.
The clock read twelve-eighteen, the sun stabbed
through the slits between the blinds
and I knew that the worst was yet to come.

On days like this it's hard to fathom
the point of putting pants on
but it'll do me well to leave the cave
and venture out into the madness.
The devil you know...it's the rest
you've got to worry about.



Currently reading:
"The Elegance of the Hedgehog" by Muriel Barbery.

Newark

so at three
in the morning here
i am
after leaving empty glass
and borrowed butt
behind
to wonder what my man
would do
the one who called to me
about Being So Alone It Made Sense
in less and better words

and in all honesty
the pages i flipped to
on my smoky porch
made no goddamned difference
just as he knew
they wouldn't:
"The agony, always the agony,"
or some jive
as he misquoted Lorca
who i claim to understand
since i read of the
gay poet's death
in that book on the Spanish
Civil War. The truth is
nothing. It doesn't exist.

But as i skimmed those
age-old pages
that i bought when a buck meant more
i found what he was talking about
Mr. Bukowski:
a mouse to my left
shook dead leaves among the ivy
looking for a bite to eat
and in between drags
and ignored phone calls
i spat in its general direction.
that's life, friend.
that's agony.
consider this my humble
resignation.

Blue on Beige

Hurting yourself to hurt someone else.
The cutting of noses to spite faces.
At what age do we learn such hideous tactics?

I remember times growing up
when I'd sleep on my floor
if my mother had angered me.
The charity of the bed she'd provided
was no longer welcomed.
I'd tough it out for as long as I could
but usually wound up missing
the comforting springs of my mattress.
One time, though, I managed to sleep through
the night on the thin tan carpet.
When my mom walked in my room
to wake me for school that morning
I noticed that she couldn't look me in the eyes.
There's no delusion there that it meant
she'd been defeated, admitted being wrong
or any other such victory on my part.
It was more the fact that she recognized
my will to do my best to show her
the extent of my discontent with whatever
trivial thing we'd been bickering about.
Thankfully for my back it was a pre-pubescent phase
that I grew out of, though its replacements
proved to be more detrimental to other aspects
of my health and general well-being. I learned
instead to kiss the bottle, find a new female
strike up a match, and far worse in the worst cases--
anything it took to distract myself for long enough
with my own self-destructive tendencies to
forget whatever it was that upset me in the first place.
It reminds me of the old slapstick bit where a man
would complain of an injury to his friend and wind up
getting smacked in the face as a diversion. It's not
quite as funny when you do it to yourself.

So now before my foot enters my gaping mouth
I try to think back to those many sore hours spent
festering alone on the floor at my mother's condo.
It's no way to live, even for an unfairly labeled misanthrope.
Believe what you may; I'd rather be happy.

...and on the other hand:

When you wake up alone at four in the morning
your hair wet with sweat, your sheets and guts knotted
and it's noontime now and you've still only heard
"Hello, you've reached So-and-so..." without any ring
so you know that her phone's off and hope that she's sleeping
the three time zones between you tearing you apart
but you keep calling anyway in the hopes that it'll change.
It'll change.

If that's how you've got it then you're fighting the good fight.

It's April, He is risen.

I pull the gold foil down
and proceed to bite the ears off
in one giant chomp.
Now you can't tell
what kind of animal it is.
I feel less guilty about it that way.
The rich chocolate
melts on my tongue.
Dark chocolate. My favorite.
My mom knows me well.
Will anyone know me the same way
ever again? I wrap the wounded head
in the remnants of the foil
and place this year's Easter bunny
on my bookshelf, its caved-in hollow head
safely out of sight.

I'm 26 now.
How many more years will I get them?
As many as she's alive.
A good mother, arguably.
A penitent son at best.
I won't find out until it's my turn
to do the bunny-buying
but I hope that I've inherited
more than her lazy left eye.
One parent had to do the work of two.
She succeeded. Even on my darkest days
I can't deny her that.

A moment to live for when you can't think of one:

When she's lying on her back in bed
and rolls her weight onto her shoulders
lifting her ass in the air
so you can slide that thin layer of cotton down
around her thighs, freeing the elastic from her ankles
as she points her toes towards the ceiling.

If that's not enough then you may as well end it.

The Fruit, the Tree, and Gravity

They'd only been divorced
for a few years and I still
spent most weekends at his place--
the house where our family had lived
and died. My mother had taken her things
to her apartment across town
but the house remained basically the same
since her possessions didn't amount to much.
That probably made it harder for me to be there
though for my father it seemed like a never-changing haven:
the six-two, two-thirty male version of Dickens'
Miss Havisham who tasted love, lost it, and holed up
in its tomb-- the main difference being that he'd
had the unfortunate chance to consummate and bear child.
That lie they spread about having and losing being better
is for those who waste time trying to make life a greeting card
that it's not and never will be.

My father had reverted to his bachelor habits
in the single status that he'd so expertly earned himself.
For years he didn't buy new towels. The same faded brown
rags, threadbare in places and constantly moist, hung from the
rack in the bathroom for days on end until the task
of doing laundry couldn't be avoided any longer.
Due to their constant presence in the dampness
of his bathroom they took on an overbearingly musty
smell caused by the mildew that had tainted the fabric.
No amount of washing ever cleansed them of their stench.
It clung to your body afterwards, it hung in the air like
a noose. I was too young to realize the degree of ignorance
on his part. That's just how dad's towels smelled. I dealt with it.

Tonight when I pulled the vivid blue towel that she bought for me
from the rack and dried my hair I could smell the sour odor
of that bathroom I haven't been in for years and won't ever again.
It'd been a few days since I'd rotated. After drying myself off
I tossed the towel into the laundry hamper, an old persistent fear
poking its ugly head out from the darkest corners of my mind.

I won't.
I can't.
I'm trying.

One Waldenite I Like

Even his untraditional choice
whether subconscious or not
to ride in the shoulder
on the left side of the road
facing the oncoming traffic
is a badge of his rebellious courage
or unfettered ignorance
depending on how one looks at it.
His bicycle's front end is a bit too wobbly
to be wholly trusted; maybe he'd rather
see the truck coming then guess
if and when it's upon him.
There's a pack of Marlboro Reds
or Winstons peering from his chest pocket
making it clear that his ride is not
intended for exercise purposes. This is a man
whose body won't give up on him
even when he tries-- the doughy
alcoholic with an underlying strength
that comes out when called upon
to lift the heavy axle of a friend's project vehicle
or two thirty-packs of a cheap cream ale
when the shade-tree mechanic decides to
call it a day and succumb to what the night
holds in store. He knows that his vice
will only send him further down the spiral--
losing his license for awhile for driving under the influence
is why he's forced to ride a bike around town--
but a forty-something redneck ain't 'bout to change now.
I admire his stubbornness as only a peer can appreciate
and make sure to give him enough room on our
shared roadway by blatantly crossing the double yellow.
Ride on, brother. It's only six months.

Taillights of the hostage.

There's a black mascara stain
on the pillowcase
and in another case I'd turn it over
but today I rest my face
on it. If I inhale
deep enough she's still there.
I wonder if Hank or Hem
or any of the old boys ever did it
like this, then stop that thought entirely.
It doesn't matter.
It's how I'm doing it.
Far from slaked, but breathing.

Watch Out Ireland

There in the tracks
like slugs slowly melting--
the June-rain sidewalk;
the pouring of salt--

reside my gentle misspellings
of your name
that beg no correction...

Mother, forgive us:
We've become straphangers.

Jack chased Jill
right up that hill
to fetch a better lawyer.
They've waived their rights
on the dotted line.
No docking fees.
It's over.

I know it's a verse
that I've fed you before
but it's not a mistake;
it's a promise:
Someone declared
Every Man for Himself
and we've all paid the price
ever since.

That one with the lisp
and the tick in his neck's
picking his teeth before batting cleanup.
He'll hunt down all of the witnesses
leaving the rhythm for fools.

It's not here, Bailey.
The reasons, the words.
Call off the search
for the night, for the month
and peel off the page of your calendar.

Christ Interrupted

With a prime location like that
it's no wonder that the church
just before the intersection of five different roads
near my union hall posts messages
on its black-on-white deli-style sign near the road;
my only gripe is that something tells me that
God would not be so obnoxiously sarcastic or
condescending, even with His righteousness and all.
"No one knows the pain of rejected love like Jesus,"
reads this week's addition to the list of little gems.
The funny part is that last week it was the same
except for one word: they changed 'unrequited'
to 'rejected'. My assessment of the maneuver
was that a vote at the meeting of church elders
may have decided that a five-dollar word like
'unrequited' was a bit too much to chew
for the target demographic. Dumb it down
for the down and out, Christian soldiers.
Turn the Holy Trinity into a few pan-handlers and
see if anyone notices. I suppose that means
I'm still on the right track, or at least not so deceived.

Three ducks-- two brown females and
one male with his trademark shiny green head--
foraged for worms in a lake of a puddle
formed in the church lawn by the spring's heavy rains.
They didn't know that it wouldn't last much longer
or if they did, they didn't care. God to them was how
He should be: a giver of life, not a dependent neighbor.

We've taken a good script and written out the hero.
It's not who they'd have you believe.

A Good Sport

I could tell by the way that he spoke
that it was family. There's a certain type
of spite reserved solely for ones blood.
A question came and stumped him
shortly into their conversation.

"I'm at...uhhh...uhhhhh...Casey's,"
he explained into his cell phone
as if I weren't there.

To help perpetuate the illusion
I sank further into the crack between
the cushions of my couch
hiding inside the glass of orange juice
that I'd been nursing in a vain attempt
to shake the Sunday morning hangover.

"I'll be home in fifteen minutes," he barked.
A nasal voice squeaked some obscenity
just before he hung up and pocketed his phone.

The three of us stared at the television screen.
My hand reached down to unpause the video game
that'd been interrupted by the unfortunate ring.
We finished the game we were playing.
Both of them.

"Well that was sure obvious," the third party said
after our friend had headed to his house.

"I guess my name's been scratched from the record."

It wasn't the first time.
I hoped it was the last.
I was tired of feeling bad for being.

Nonexistence is a fair price to pay
for keeping that friendship, though.
He'd played his tough role masterfully;
I couldn't deny him that.

And when the time comes he'll know.
He'll know.
Hell knows.

Make it a double.

The second egg rolled across my kitchen table
in a curved path dictated by its asymmetrical shape
finally stopping in a groove between two tiles.
I picked it up and returned it to the blue cardboard carton.
Half the cholesterol if I only have one, I thought to myself.
Besides, the bagel I'll put it on will be filling.

I held the remaining egg in my left hand and cracked
it over a bowl with a fork held in my right-- I've never
even tried to master the edge-of-the-bowl technique
for fear of messy failures during the learning process.
Carefully, I dumped the contents into the ceramic receptacle
below it and shook my head at the ironic affair:
there, like a yellow reminder in futility, floated a nice double yolk--
the first one encountered in years, dozens and dozens of eggs.

I scrambled it vigorously, forgetting the milk.
My left eyelid spasmed for three seconds
as it had been doing incessantly since I woke up.
Some mornings of this seven-month sabbatical
I wonder why I bother trying to control anything more
than my immediate appendages. We've all got to go sometime
clogged arteries or not. Use the second egg next time.


Currently reading:
"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy.

Coping with Groping and Living Apart

If there was one thing Milton Lemlach looked forward to on Sunday nights it was his wife's walk back from work. Marie's twelve-hour nursing shift ended at eight thirty, paperwork permitting, and she'd be back in the apartment that she subletted by nine to shower and get into bed for barely enough time to be rested for Monday's third and final shift of the week. The train ride back Upstate to their newly-purchased home was often hard for her, her heart still belonging to New York and its promising lights, but Milton was always there waiting at the station to help her with her bags and open the car door for her. It was a consolation prize that she'd learned to live with for the greater good of their relationship. Her sacrifice didn't go unnoticed.

Why did he enjoy Sunday nights in particular? Most people were on their living room couches or prolonging the surrender to sleep at that time so the Transit Authority saw fit to pare down its bus fleet in order to cut costs; therefore, when Marie called him during her brisk walk back to her rented room he'd be able to hear her more clearly without being subjected to the violent whoosh of passing buses, the accordion-like extended monsters being the most aurally invasive. "Dammit!" he'd yell when it happened, pulling the phone away from his half-deafened ear. "Why can't the rest of the City walk like you do, Marie?" She wouldn't answer. She knew when not to bother. When the streets and avenues were bustling with Saturday night revelers or Monday night commuters getting home late from work she wouldn't make the call to Milton until she was in the quiet safety of four walls. Otherwise, his frustration could be too easily confused with misdirected anger. It made more sense to avoid that sort of thing whenever feasible.

But this was no Sunday night. It was a Saturday, and an unseasonably warm one at that. The hooters and hollerers had joined the buses and taxicabs in the rambunctious pavement symphony with the coming of warm weather. When Marie reached the tranquility of her room she dialed Milton to say goodnight.

"Hey, Moose," she rasped into the mouthpiece of her phone.

"Hey," Milton responded, fighting back a smile wasted on the darkness of their bedroom. Moose was a nickname his junior high friends had given him long ago because of his disproportionately large ears. When his mother had slipped after having too much wine and told that story to Marie it quickly became her new term of endearment for him. She was the only one who was still allowed to call him that without his temperature rising. In fact, he secretly liked it.

"Good walk today. Needed to stretch my legs after such a slow shift."

Weekends tended to be boring at the hospital where she worked. Doctors were off in the Hamptons cheating on their spouses; patients were sleeping through visits from family members to evade any awkward conversations; the literary half of the hospital staff caught up on its reading and crossword puzzles. It wasn't entirely a bad thing, but the lack of things to do made the day drag on endlessly and the muscles tighten from disuse. There was only so much that even the most attentive of nurses could do to keep busy, and Marie was not one for sitting still.

"Anything exciting happen today?" Milton asked out of habit. He knew that someone was probably admitted. He knew that someone else was probably discharged. He knew, and sometimes wished he didn't, that yet another patient had died. Somehow, even though they were faceless for him, the deaths seemed to hit him harder; at least that's how it appeared. It took a special kind of person to deal with that final aspect of life on a daily basis, a gift of lightheartedness and a sense of humor resilient enough to cope with the passage of a soul into the sky and a body into the ground. Milton knew he didn't have either of those traits and respected his wife for her much-needed ability. At first their many differences seemed to be an obstacle, but once their attributes and downfalls had been identified they were able to appreciate how well they complemented one another. It pleased him to know that others were benefiting from their time apart. He liked the idea of sharing such a special woman with a small sector of the sickly world fortunate enough to know her.

"No one died," she said in that sultry voice that made him want to kiss the neck that produced it. Mind-reading was another one of her many talents, though it was one that Milton sometimes despised.

"That's good," he said, passing casually over the topic. "How was your walk home?"

He usually tended to hesitate before saying that last word. To him her home was where he was, sixty miles up the lazy Hudson in a foreclosure that they'd bought for half its value and were in the midst of renovating. Home was the three-bedroom ranch with the mailbox out front onto which Marie had painted "The Lemlachs" on a sunny afternoon, even though she didn't take his name when they'd married. (That'd always confused him, especially since she was so much closer to her mother's side of the family and didn't bear their name anyway.) Home was with him, wherever it was; but for the sake of conversation he used the term loosely. Besides, she'd probably make fun of him if he made such an obvious effort to avoid using the phrase.

"I was accosted by a man a block away from home," Marie said nonchalantly, free from any pauses at all. The proverbial bush was never beaten around when it came time for her to answer a seemingly simple question.

"What do you mean? Are you alright?" Immediately after his concerned response a very small portion of Milton's brain stopped to analyze the sequence of the two questions. Should one have come before the other?

"Yes, yes. Fine. Some drunk guy on the sidewalk put his arm around me and told me I was beautiful. He tried to kiss my cheek, but I pulled away in time." The words left her mouth like a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Perhaps it was the flat delivery, not just the content, that made Milton's ears pound with the pumping of his blood.

"You've got to get out of that neighborhood," he said frantically. "It's not safe."

"Oh please," she laughed. "The same thing could happen while walking the strip of bars downtown up there." The tone with which the last word was delivered suggested that it was hated. In her attempt to write off his worry her ruse of having no remorse for leaving her beloved city had temporarily failed. It didn't matter. Milton still admired her act, lapse in persuasion excused.

"It could, yes. But then again, a meteor could also fall on our house tomorrow. Could and would are two very different words. Too many things could happen here and would happen there. I'm just worried about you being down there alone for three days at a time. What if..." but he didn't bother finishing a sentence that he swore he'd heard his mother say before.

"Look, Milton," she said, clearly done with the loving overtones of Moose for the moment. "You knew it'd be this way. We talked about it before buying the house. If you can't deal with my..." but in a rare display of censorship she too prevented herself from sounding like someone she didn't want to emulate.

"You're right. I'm being silly. I'm sorry. Really. I just care about you so much and don't ever want any harm to come to you while I'm not there to protect you."

"Oh, Moose," Marie cooed into his quieting ear canal. "I love you so much, even though you can't admit you weren't put on this earth to protect me from it."

Milton smiled in the dark again. At least she acknowledged his stubborn crusade.

And the last bit of their short conversation went better than any one that either of the couples that'd spawned them ever had; but some things, even for a writer, are private.

The Devil's in the Details.

It came as no surprise when I spotted it
for the first time looming over the entrance
to the Lincoln Tunnel like a futuristic hawk's nest
encased in white steel and tinted windows.
I'd seen man-lifts before on construction sites
but never with a fully concealed control tower topped
with cameras and spotlights and blinking yellow bulbs.
The letters "NYPD" informed the public of its
benign intentions, but I knew better than to believe
the ruse. A portable vantage point from which to spy
on the locals was all too Big Brother for my liking.
"They're probably looking in here right now through
their binoculars," I said from the second-storey bedroom.
"I'll close the blinds, you're still undressed."
No one in the neighborhood will feel any safer
due to its presence. If the shade of the windows
wasn't so impenetrably black maybe it wouldn't
be as imposing. "The sun's rays require it. It's like
an oven in here," the officer in question would say as he tried
to cover the air-conditioning controls with his clipboard.
We taxpayers aren't as gullible as the polls would suggest.

Later on during a stroll through the Bronx I watched
people gathered in a chain-link cage with a wall
down its center, the most appropriately sized venue
for sporting activities that a city that crowded can fit.
Old men with gloves crouched low to reach stray blue balls
and smack them back at the wall, their opponents waiting
for the rebound. They cursed their arthritic knees and misspent youth
as future generations of handball contenders practiced on the court
opposite them not knowing that the world they were inheriting
was a far less trusting place with masses of men in blue
protecting them from themselves and the mistakes they might make.
Maybe the ones who don't want kids are right.

Victoria's Lie

For the first time in months
my laundry appeared to be void
of any female trimmings
as I transferred the load
from washer to dryer.
A Sign, I solemnly considered;
my clothes-processing appliances
had been transformed into
the mage's crystal ball
in an all-too-me skewed perception of reality.
We were doomed.

But then, like the trumpet blast
of the cavalry just over the hills
our fate was mercifully rescued:
some twisted light blue panties
exposed themselves in the pile of soaked
clothing to be dried.
Hers. My favorite ones, no less.
We were saved by a pair of underwear.

I slammed the door and hit the button
content that another near catastrophe had been foiled
by a childish superstition with too accurate
a batting average to be wholly denied.

Lagomorph Blanking

An old friend in the Service called me up--
said she's trading her anti-social cat in
for a rabbit, wanted some advice, knew who to call.
I commended her decision to ditch the finicky feline
while down-playing the fact that my rabbit
wants nothing to do with me most times.

"She's very independent," I told her through two states.
"It's on her terms." It always is, really.

She proceeded to inform me that in Tokyo
or some other Japanese city that we didn't blow up
they now all have rabbits for pets and let them have free range
of their homes like I have here for years, half-way around the globe.

"An innovator," my mind proclaimed to itself
well aware that I've never had one original idea
in twenty-six years. By the time my friend hung up
I'd built myself up to genius status
right there alongside the Greats.

She wouldn't call again for years
and that was fine, just fine.
Men of my caliber have schedules to keep.

------

Somewhere on a sun-drenched island in the Pacific
a roomful of yawning Asians work their hands like mad
to produce a plastic contraption invented here in the States
and perfected, productionwise, overseas. The shareholders in that
factory feel the same false pride in their actions as I do in mine
and the Yin and the Yang remain balanced enough for the world
to keep on spinning towards the bowling pins.

I look through my side window and see
the neighbor's outdoor cat run to hide under the shed
as a galoot in green and white with a cigarette dangling downward
wanders about the yard in search of something unbeknownst.
It makes me wonder if maybe I'm more
of a cat person than I'll ever admit.

Rising to rip the sour sheets off the mattress
I confess that cleanliness and brilliance can never go hand-in-hand.
It's failures like this one that keep me trying, though.

Lack Toes In Taller Ants.

I snuck downstairs for one last crack
at that compromised half-gallon of 1% milk
that I bought last week and forgot about.
In a rare consumer slip I'd failed to check
the expiration date when selecting it;
I usually sift through the containers
until I find the one with the latest date
but she was on her way to my house
and I was running late and it was bad enough
that we'd argue over whether or not the "sell-by" date
is in fact a scientifically established shelf-life or
a mere estimated suggestion to be flippantly ignored.
That plastic jug hid behind the spiced tomato juice
which had commandeered the short-lived role that the
infamous Bloody Mary managed to play in my life
until this evening when I shuffled some
fridge-dwellers aside in search of something
that I had yet to identify. The date printed
in faint blue ink jumped out at me like a cackling
maniac, pointing and sneering and winning the war.
Today was the day. I couldn't let it go to waste.
I went to the cupboard for chocolate chip cookies
and began nibbling at them ravenously
washing every bite down with a man-sized swig of milk.
A paranoid sector in the sensory perception department
of my central nervous system detected a slightly foul taste
since it was just past midnight and therefore
one day overdue already, but I rejected the notion
that minutes mattered when it came to things such as rot.
Before I knew it most of the half-gallon was gone
swishing around in my gurgling belly. Back in high school
one of the more sadistic fast-food managers bet two of the
slower kids who worked in the kitchen that they couldn't drink
an entire half-gallon of milk in ten minutes without throwing up
shortly afterwards. I, being trusted with the critical task of
timely customer service via drive-thru, was too clever to fall
for such an obvious trick. Here I am, however, ten years later
doing it to myself by my own volition-- but I swear I'm not
my worst enemy. It's them pesky cows, Your Honor.

"Matches for toys!" beg the girls and the boys.

Forty lashes, forty nights
forty degrees outside
pouring through my bedroom window

and I can feel it now
like the pinpointed pressure
between the front part of my skull
and the spongy pink mass
of miswired electrical paths.
I know that this rod is the finger of God--
"Do it," I mock the Father
but I know that He won't
the coward that He is
as Creation, abandoned, shows us.
"They'd all be better off," comes the lie.
It's not so selfless, never is.
We were built in His flawed image.

The pressure builds to a definite climax
an undeniable presence in my senses
and subsides like a broken tide, a broken time.
My eyes open sideways on my shameful pillowcase
seeing nothing in the blackness of my room
and close again-- seeing nothing, knowing nothing
missing nothing.

They come and go, these threats and foreshadowings
of the Maker, of the Grand Puppeteer.
I fear none of them more than a moth
though when it finally burns me
I'm sure I'll scream like the rest, like the wretch.

You're promised nothing by your unfair birth--
not even a good death.

Lemonade

Route 300 was a parking lot
last Saturday afternoon.
The traffic light was taunting me
turning every color but mine
when what I knew would happen
did: the old man standing in the shoulder
clapping his hands in the breeze said Hello.
"Sir, I like your tattoo," he lied unconvincingly through
my passenger window that I'd foolishly left open.
I responded with "Thanks" not knowing
which one he meant and doubting that he could
even distinguish between any of the work
on my left arm which was fixed to the steering wheel.
His green sweater was one size too small
for his bowling pin torso and the dark khaki pants
that strangled his calves
puffed out at the sides of his thighs
like a Fascist field marshal
of the last century's center.
Gaps were more common to his forced smile than teeth
and his pink balding head was crowned with
a cap that looked like the ones cab drivers
and newsboys yelling "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"
used to wear in the movies.
Everything about him screamed "Escapee!"
though from where I couldn't determine.
It would've been fair to assume that the sign
he stood next to was how his presence
on the side of the road was justified--
a human attention-getter for a one-day sale
or the like-- but I didn't stick around for long enough
to find out. The traffic light finally turned my color
and my foot responded accordingly. I allegedly left him
in my rear-view, though maybe this is proof that I didn't.
Maybe this is proof that I never do entirely.
Haunted or not it's still safe to say
that a rematch is not in the works.

Make it last.

Here it is
a month and five days later
and she still has Valentine's chocolates
left over-- her favorites, of course
since she's saved the best for last again.
I look through the three half-eaten survivors
of the labeled assortment
considering her technique--
she takes small bites, savors a little at a time
as opposed to my pop-'em-right-in method.
In another two hours she'll be here
greasy, hungry, and tired from the ride
and in the same way that the candy tells me
I'll know the Magic Eight-Ball was correct.
It's just a matter of not killing each other first.

Pulmonary Relapse

I finger the pink gouge
on the bridge of my nose
where the beer bottle broke bone
five years ago this month
and remember what the doctor told
an inebriated version of myself
prior to sewing me up:

"Nothing is ever as strong again
after it's been broken."

My limited knowledge of anatomy
is subpoenaed from my baffled memory
and I agree across the board
with that faceless man with the needle.

The sound of water spinning
down the sink drain
sucks me back out of the mirror
and I finish shaving the neck line of my beard.

Sleep won't come easily tonight.
The world's too sad a place.
You don't need a string tied to your finger
to keep that one in mind.

A soaking non sequitur.

Your friend was walking west
cross-town through the Village
with everything still wet
on a hallowed Sunday morning
as the birds tried to make the best
of soggy, swollen bread.

He felt his calf dampen
from the water that'd crawled
up his denim pantlegs
through capillary action
and decided to step higher--
you can never tell
what vile bodily fluids
are reconstituted by the rain
to float in city puddles
alive and well and malevolent.
The fumblings of Saturday night's
overserved bar patrons
become the trappings of
Sunday morning pedestrians
in another one of life's little pleasantries.
The man you claim to know trudged onward.

Food delivery boys of various ethnicities
earn their tips in the rain. Their bicycle helmets
are fitted with clear plastic faceshields, their brakes
screech obnoxiously if they work at all. A Mexican
rode by in his helmet and cheap poncho, his bike chain
padlocked around his waist for temporary storage
and tried to avoid the splintered skeletons
of discarded umbrellas trampled by the legion of taxis.
Wind destroys commuters' umbrellas, automobiles turn
the remnants into landmines for bicyclists. The cycle
continues everywhere, even in the Promised Land.

Smoke poured from manholes and seeped
through the asphalt where sizzling electric lines
had been damaged by the flood. Utility workers
in white and blue trucks worked overtime to combat
the smoldering rubber
more concerned with their pension plans
than the task at hand.
Coffee break came and the smoke billowed ominously
in the company of a nonchalant crew.

A mud-caked ragdoll laid in a puddle:
a sock with a ribbon for a scarf, buttons for eyes
and no one left to care--
another failed attempt
to reach out to fellow man.
The scattered evidence of a bum fight
in the form of tattered clothing
and useless trinkets spewing from a patched suitcase
further proved the point that the genius is right
and we're all doomed.

But never had our subject had so much hungover fun
as the time he watched a car with those sickly yellow plates
try to parallel park on a narrow one-way street
in Manhattan's West Village. The third time was the charm
for the Jersey boy, I mean. I hate to admit that he won.

Atonement

A hospital waiting room is a funny thing.
In my case when I'm in one
it's usually to wait for a certain nurse
to take a break or finish her shift.
For most of the others there
the faux leather chairs aren't so comfortable
because someone they love
is sick or dying. You can see the heaviness
in their faces like an eight-hour drunk.
It's for this reason that I try to stay focused
on my book and avoid eye contact at all costs
though sometimes I can't resist watching and listening.

The last time I lost concentration on the book I'd brought
to pass the time I looked up and noticed a Jewish family
standing in front of the elevator. The father dressed casually
in a baseball cap with a three-day beard growing, the strawberry
blonde mother in a long, puffy coat. I wouldn't have guessed their
religion had it not been for their pre-teen son who seemed
out of place in his yarmulke, his temples sprouting truncated
versions of what would grow to be the telltale curls. His sweatpants
had thick stripes down each side, his bubble jacket looked like
it belonged back in the mid-Nineties, and the portable video game
he was playing commanded his complete attention-- so much so
in fact, that when the elevator doors opened his mother had to
remind him to follow them into it. The tone in the parents' voices
suggested that someone was dying; dad's hair was becoming more
salt than pepper in anticipation, mom's eyes sank deeper into her
sockets, and the boy, whether he knew it or not, was submersing
himself in the game so effectively that Death couldn't phase him.
When the steel doors closed behind the trio I slouched further into my
seat wondering if any of them acknowledged that their little messiah
was dressed and groomed to make up for the sins of their slacking.
Perhaps it was a charade to please the dying elder upstairs.
I wasn't sure and wouldn't waste any more time thinking about it.

In the restroom minutes later I observed that my fly
was already down and wondered how long it'd been that way--
how many bustling New Yorkers on the streets of Manhattan
had silently witnessed my blunder. That kid, had I been closer
was the only one who would've been honest enough to tell me.
Quite the fool, quite the judge, quite the corrected hypothesis.


Currently reading:
"Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury

Tyne of Cortland

I briefly knew a girl years back
whose taste I never learned.
We'd met through a friend
who went to the same school
as her in western New York
tucked beneath the Finger Lakes
one of which I've swam in, I believe.
A few forgettable phone conversations
one brazen Friday night
was all it took to lure me to
the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked
beauty whose impressive literary knowledge
was only surpassed by her canned beer consumption.
The boxes had been extra heavy at the warehouse that day
and I was in search of a blessing, only finding a disguise.
When I got there three hours later
after deciphering her barrage of drunken messages
my ravenous Zelda had already found her Scottie Fitz
for the night. I settled for a twelve pack that cost more
than the thirties that the undergrads around me
were pounding and found solace in that friend of mine--
the person, not the suds.

I can't remember what she looks like now-- at least
not well enough to picture her in my head
but I do recall that she was named after
a river in England that is probably just as cloudy
as my vision was back then. There are some failures
for which we should be grateful. As for me and mine
we shall.


Currently reading:
"The Voice Imitator" by Thomas Bernhard

Burying his brush strokes, covering his tracks.

In retrospect we should've seen it coming, but who anticipates plague or senile dementia? The once-great cook botched the proportions in some recipes and confused sugar with salt in others. Going to church became more of a chore than it was worth for an eighty-five-year-old woman so my grandmother's friends took turns visiting her to read from her Spanish Bible. She was just as excited to have other visitors whenever they arrived, often unreasonably so, but sometimes required prompting when it came time to greet them by name. The garlic-scented apartment where she'd lived alone for thirty years was more of a living tomb combined with an experiment under glass than a home. But what really should have tipped us off was that abomination she was creating on her living room wall.

It started off as a six-by-four oil painting that hung opposite the couch. The main subject was a small country house sheltered by the proud old limbs of a deciduous tree. A delapidated fence served as the boundary between the tall yellow grass in the yard and the tall yellow grass in the field. Shades of gray and teal made up the oblong pond next to the front porch. No smoke came from the chimney, and from the looks of things no one had occupied the property for quite awhile. The artist's signature adorned his tacky abortion in a vivid red more fitting for a portrait of a vampire than a lack-lustre pastoral scene. I'm not sure where, how, or why my grandmother acquired the piece, but I know that her taste in art and her ability to concoct tasty food were on opposite ends of the spectrum. Then again, maybe that's why she decided to modify the artist's work.

It started with just one or two, but quickly grew to six. By the time we visited the following week she'd already doubled her additions to the canvas. Drawings and photos of birds from whatever magazines and books she could get her hands on began appearing left and right on the painting. She even glued some fish from one of my books to the pond. Nothing was the right size. Birds as big as the cabin cluttered the tree's leaves and a cartoon squirrel from a children's magazine sat smiling on the fence. The fields were teeming with bright and surreal life. When she ran out of creatures to add from her collection of publications she started drawing her own with my ancient crayons and pasted the pages to the places she saw fit on the painting. Somewhere in a shallow grave the original artist was rolling over. His vision, dull as it was, had been corrupted by a woman who'd never driven a car, tasted alcohol, worn pants, or formed a complete sentence in English. My grandmother single-handedly shamed a person she'd never met beyond all salvation. It humored us at the time, but time is known to change.

We should've read the signs and recognized that what was really on the wall was that proverbial writing. Instead we chose to laugh. And now, six years after my grandmother had to move in with my mom, I'm left to wonder two things: what ever happened to that huge collage she gave birth to in the glorious glare of her mental decline, and does she even remember the joy it brought her?

Lion of Judah

From my blue plastic bus seat
lined with fake velvet
I watched a man on the sidewalk
fighting his fate.
A thick brown beard not unlike my own
hugged his face. A worn-in baseball cap
shielded his heavy eyes from the March sun.
The olive cargo pants he wore had pockets
undoubtedly filled with electronic devices
and his sneakers were the same type for running
that are rarely used for their intended purpose.
But what struck me most about this man
in his early thirties walking through the West Thirties
was the prayer shawl he wore under his orange plaid button-down.
I knew it was there because of the long white strands
protruding from the sanctuary of his shirt-tails
as most other people native to New York would recognize
but something in his make-up made him want to blend in better
with the other lost souls of his jaded generation.
I watched him wait at the corner for the traffic light to change
for those few seconds and as my bus glided away
I amended my assessment: he wasn't fighting his fate--
he was making it.

Candles is back in town. Wants to know if you'll blow him.

The first card received in the mail was a dud.
There was no return address on the envelope
let alone a check
and the eight to twelve names
suggesting various ethnicities threw me off.
I flipped it over and noticed the logo
of my insurance agency on the back.
Great-- the people whom I pay monthly in case
I'm robbed, my truck crashes, or I die
are checking in to wish me a happy birthday
or maybe just to see if I'm still ticking.
Those payments come from somewhere.
That's all that matters to them.

My uncle Ray was the first person I actually know
to call and send his best, though his victory
wasn't flawless: he was a day early. The heartfelt
out-of-tune song that shall here remain nameless
for fear of a lawsuit from the estate of Michael Jackson
(that's right, he bought the copyright) was enough
to make up for his error. Besides, it's not his biggest blunder.
He did fifteen years for a heinous crime forty years ago.
I didn't know about it until he let the cat out of the bag
during one of our many fishing excursions when I was a kid.
It didn't change anything in terms of how I saw him.
He liked that. So did I. We dumped the extra worms
and got back in his beat-up silver sedan.
I'd like to say I'd care just as little today, but I might be lying.
I'm not sure how affectedly I measure men anymore.

And then there was the liquor store fiasco.
The middle-aged woman who carded me at the check-out
congratulated my twenty-sixth year of survival
noting that it was the same date as her brother's.
I reminded her to call him after work.
She said that'd be difficult since he'd
been dead for four years. "Well, celebrate anyway,"
I replied, shaking my head at myself
as I ran for the solitary safety of the parking lot.
"See," I mumbled to the upturned collar of my jacket.
"Keep it to yourself next time."

Guayaquil

Gwen Reinstahl sat at her four-by-two desk at the front of her classroom. Referring to the desk and other objects around her, even the room itself, as "hers" felt like a crime. Technically they belonged to the generous taxpayers of the City of Ramden, but her students were still too young to challenge her temporary ownership. The "My dad pays your salary!" routine had never been a problem, thankfully. Despite the fact that she was only ten years older than most of the adolescents on the other side of her desk they gave her the respect that the degree on her bedroom wall commanded. Spanish, like most language courses at the high school level, was an elective; students chose to be in that particular course of study at that point in the educational game. What Miss Reinstahl said was the law of the land. Her land. I speak from long-gone experience when I assure you of the existence of such a place.

Gwen looked down at the wooden name placard that sat somewhat uncomfortably at the far corner of her desk. Her father had made it in the garage as a gift to celebrate her first teaching job since graduating from college. Unwanted wooden gifts had become the norm for holidays and special occasions ever since he'd given up drinking a few years prior. Most recipients faked smiles upon receiving the poorly lacquered handcarved abortions and hid them in the remotest of closets, but not Gwen. Her father had funded the secondary schooling that got her where she was; she'd do him the justice of accepting his token of pride humbly, though if it were ever to fall off her desk and into the tin wastepaper basket she'd cordially fail to notice. Besides, her students were not to refer to her as "Miss" anything. To them she was "Senorita Reinstahl", and one day her identity would transform once again to "Senora Luckman"; when that day comes Mr. Reinstahl won't be feigning any craftsmanship. He'll probably go back to the bottle, and rightfully so. He won't be the first man she's driven there.

The first rays of the day penetrated the dusty window at the eastern side of her classroom. Gwen was fortunate in that she'd been assigned a corner room that had windows on two walls. Other members of the Ramden High faculty, primarily and not surprisingly female, complained about such a gross misallocation of prime real estate while sipping stale coffee in the safety of the lounge. Issues of tenure, seniority and general worthiness were tossed out as reasons, but it was quite clear what the true point of contention was: the withered female staff resented Gwen Reinstahl's natural beauty, one so becoming and pleasant that it never could have graced their features even in their misspent youth. People like them had always been too ugly and bitter on the inside to be anything but on the outside. It was a flaw so commonly overlooked every morning in millions of bathroom mirrors across the globe. Gwen always did her make-up in the rear-view mirror on her way to wherever she was going, if at all. She didn't need it, didn't care. That innocent nonchalance was what ate up the insides of her jealous female critics most and made men love her the hardest, made their hearts burn the hottest. It had gotten her this far in life; it'd get her the rest of the way, too. Bear with my insistence for the sake of my delusions.

Senorita Reinstahl scanned the worksheet she'd typed and printed the previous night for places where accents, tildes, and backwards and upside-down question marks were needed. The word processing program she used didn't have a simple way of inserting such specialized characters so she had to resort to the tedious method of printing one copy, inserting the marks herself, and then photocopying the altered version to distribute to her students. It seemed like a futile undertaking for the sake of some curves, dots and dashes, but then how many German Americans have fallen in love with the Spanish language and dedicated their lives to spreading its proper usage? To Gwen it was a small effort she made in an earnest effort to be as accurate as possible in her presentation of the foreign tongue that had changed her life while studying abroad in South America. To her students it was another ridiculous act of an overzealous teacher. To those old bats in the coffee room whose therapy-trained husbands had made sure to buy the right computer program that included a Spanish punctuation feature it was a rookie's way of compensating for a total lack of professionalism. And to me it is a way of knowing she's still out there, hasn't changed.


I have. Still am. Will forever.


Currently reading:
"West With the Night" by Beryl Markham.

Promissory

I wake alone
coughing
in her Midtown West
apartment
tangled in the unforgiving
crimson of her sheets.
She left for work
two hours ago
but her side of the bed
is still warm.
A folded tank-top she wore
the night before was left
on her pillow
as a temporary substitute
for the spicy scent of her skin.
I reach over and pull it
under my pillow case.
The smell might drive me mad
right now in this half-dreaming state.

I turn towards the street noise
coming from behind the drawn blinds
and notice a pint glass on the night stand
that wasn't there when we went to bed.
It's full of tasteless water fresh from
the Catskill Aqueduct, hundreds of small bubbles
clinging to the side of the glass.
No lip marks mar the rim, no sip is missing--
it was placed here for me specifically
while I was still asleep.
I raise the cup to my mouth and swallow slowly
savoring its lack of mineral content or impurities.
Funny, I only drank water at restaurants
before we met. Now I crave it from her tap.

And this is what I say
to those who don't understand
that to love
is to forgive:
I've got my glass of water.

An Exercise

Think of your bedroom-- the place where you pay or someone more responsible than you pays to sleep most nights. Imagine this room of yours to be on the second floor. Then picture flames at the base of that staircase, yellow tongues licking the bannister in an ominous ascension. You, of course, are in your room when this is happening. The smell of the smoke wakes you from a shallow sleep. In the brief time that you have to escape you think of five things within your four walls that you value most. These items are the only things that you'll have time to fling through your window before climbing through it and down a fire escape. If you don't live in an urban area then assume that the ground is covered with two feet of snow, enough of a layer to cushion your fall. The snow is not important, though. Neither is that steel ladder. It's the fire you've got to worry about. It's coming, and it's coming fast.

Aside from yourself, what will you choose to save? Your wallet filled with various plastic cards establishing your identity, priveleges and credit history? Some photographs of people you miss and may never see again? A record collection that listens like a chronological timeline of your brief and meaningless existence? Life-changing books filled with underlined passages and notes in the margins? A pet whose gruesome death you don't want on your conscience? A marble notebook or leatherbound journal laden with things you were too ashamed to tell anyone else? A heartfelt letter that almost had you convinced that the race is not so doomed and people may actually care about more than themselves? A suit or a dress that you'll never fit into again but keep for nostalgic reasons? Hurry! Think! What matters most?

I've looked around my room tonight. I'd let it all burn.

Bellum para Vellum

In the places that most men ignore
where women would rather be touched
lays like tiny windblown wheat fields
that fine blonde flaxen hair
only visible in the morning light.

It's all there really is to live for.

Alcomists

We were too young to drink
legally and the gas stations
that sold beer to us
were way on the other side of town
so when the bottle of Jack
an older friend had supplied for us
ran out that snowy night
in the downstairs of his parents split-level
he was far from hesitant
to hit up the liquor cabinet
of the recently deceased.

"Here," he said. "Try it."
He handed me a small porcelain cup
full of a dark brown liquid
that seemed more like a baking ingredient
than a merry-making agent.
I sucked it down and tried not to vomit
my face a twisted expression of
gastric discontent.

"That's not bad," my altered voice lied.

"It's vermouth," he replied, taking
a big swig of his own
right from the bottle.
His post-swallow face was more impressive.
I was new to the game we were playing.

We were too young to care
whether it was the dry or sweet type
and too naive to know the difference
being years away from martini culture;
we'd barely graduated from forties of malt liquor.

The record played on to our senses
too dull to notice the ache anymore.
At his parents next party someone
would go to make a cocktail and notice
the bottle had been opened
but neither of us cared.

It was the price of Big-League living.
We were on the verge of something huge.

He may have found it since then
but I bet he played his cards wrong, too.

Estuary

What am I
if not an ashtray?
a wandering, empty cathedral;

paper-thin walls
and a photo
telling the truth in my dreams.

And how is it that
you've redemption?
never with words
that weren't Scripture.

This wouldn't be Paul's
epistle
pissing
our sunsets away.

So where are we
to cast the keystones?
a clean bill of health and a promise.
The plot in the meadow's still barren.
The boathouse sank into the lake.

I still won't know how to take it
when all's said and done
but the funeral.
Father, your son couldn't make it.
Fattened and killed for the feast.

Perpetuating Stereotypes on the Streets of Manhattan

We were walking through
the Garment District
or one of its impostors.
Twenty feet ahead of us
a group of three young black men
were walking passed the storefront
of an overpriced boutique. One of
them knocked a legs-only mannequin over
presumably by accident, though totally remorseless
and proceeded to laugh as he caught up
with his two cohorts and sped away.

A black couple was walking
five strides behind the offending party.
The man shook his head, picked up
the display, brushed off the jeans it was wearing
shook his head again, reached for
the hand of the woman by his side
and continued on down the sidewalk.

"See, Honey," I said once we were at the corner.
"That's the difference between a..."

"Stop," she interjected.

"...and an Af-..."

"I know."

"...and I'm glad that the latter gets just
as frustrated with the former as we do."

We both pondered how inclusive a "we" I meant
and continued with our lovely day
accepting the fact that all of us live
in an imperfect world.

Not for a billion dollars.

With my unfailing luck it was a gay bar that I chose as a cave in which to lick my wounds. It was dark and very wooden, and with a name like the Ninth Avenue Saloon, who would've thought? When I first walked in there were just a few regular workingclass guys having an afternoon beer: a construction worker, a mailman, some other nondescript laborer. Little did I know that it was more of a Village People routine than a simple Happy Hour crowd. When the Asian businessmen and flamboyant artists sauntered in half an hour later it became quite clear that I was surrounded by homosexuals in their celebratory nest of sodomy. But again, how was I to know? The rainbow flag next to the mirror behind the bar seemed commonplace; many businesses in the city show their support. And the jar of neon NYC condoms sitting on the bar between my coaster and the bowl of popcorn so graciously presented to me-- that could fit in anywhere, too. To be honest it didn't bother me at first. The Spaniard tending bar was making my Canadian Club-and-Cokes fairly strong, though now I question his motives, and the silent looks I received from the corners of various eyes were not so intolerable. My black wool watchman's cap, thick beard, and heavily tattooed arms must've thrown them off a bit. I honestly believe the glances I received were more of a sizing-up than a checking-out; they knew I wasn't one of them, they just wanted to know what in God's fairy-hating name I was doing in their fine establishment. And really, considering my reason for being there, it made quite a bit of sense: the Ninth Avenue Saloon was the last place I'd encounter another woman.

But of course, as in any fine tale, there has to be a conflict. Mine came half an hour into my medicinal drinking. I'd been diligently plugging away at a crossword puzzle the whole time in between long sips of my cocktail when an elderly gentleman walked in from the cold. The stool next to mine must've had his name written all over it despite the fact that I was sitting far down the oak minding my own business with plenty of empty seats between the door and me. He sat down, glanced over at me rather conspicuously, and ordered a beverage. I felt his eyes all over me, could hear his brain arguing with itself over what to say. It was one of the most uncomfortable feelings I've ever experienced. I now know what those poor young women who get gawked and whistled at as they walk by construction sites feel like; except I was never and would never be interested in any advances made by a man, let alone such an old and ugly one.

"It's very cold today," my new fan pathetically broke the ice with. He was an unflattering seventy with a grotesque scar that split the front of his nose in two. It looked like an ancient axe wound, the kind of thing that makes ex-lovers cringe in retrospect and young mothers turn the heads of their staring children.

"That's the Northeast for you. Maybe you should move down South." I sipped my whiskey and kept my eyes fixed on the crossword book before me. Sixty-nine down was a hard one, alright. The irony did not go unnoticed.

"Ah, very true. It is to be expected." I noticed a European accent that I couldn't distinguish.

The old man didn't peel his eyes from me once. I felt his corneas burning into my flesh. Part of me wanted to put my coat back on for some protection from this utter violation, but it'd be too blatant. I was hoping he'd take the hint and leave me alone if I gave him the cold shoulder. You'd think I would've learned about how far hope gets me by now.

I had to shatter the awkward silence for fear that I'd explode so I asked him where he hailed from. "France," was all that he replied with as if to discourage any further discussion of his origins. I was not so disappointed, though it made me wonder if he'd had some horrible childhood that had chased him to America, to the bars, to other men's arms, to believing that it was OK to hit on me even though I was so very uninterested. Had his stubborn persistence earned him that hideous scar on his nose in his unfathomable youth? I almost started to feel sorry for the man, but he obliterated my pity shortly afterwards.

"You have a lot of tattoos," he said, touching the piece on my right forearm and thus crossing another boundary. "This one is interesting."

I lifted my arm to show him in the dim light of the bar. "It's a pipewrench, a pen, and a pin-up girl," I said with a bit of emphasis on the last word. That hoping got me nowhere again. Frenchie was relentless.

"I see. You're doing quite well with the crossword," he commented, his praise as unwanted as his company. A sick smile shot across his pock-marked face.

"These last few are tough," I said, catching myself before I shared which number I was stuck on at the moment. Putting any unclean images in his head was the last thing I needed.

"The last ones always are," he replied with the air of a man who's done a thousand puzzles in his lifetime. His eyes burned hotter than ever.

In a sincere effort to give my stalker a hint I turned to my left and asked the Asian man in business attire the time, not caring that I clearly had a watch on my wrist. He answered coldly without glancing in my direction. The others weren't going to bail me out. I had invaded their territory, thrown off the balance of their atmosphere, and would have to fend for myself. It sounds odd, I know, but I felt so betrayed.

I had to get up. The bathroom seemed the only logical escape, and the three cocktails I'd downed didn't disagree with leaving my body. By the time I returned from relieving myself Frenchie had relocated to the far side of the bar.

Another old man came out of the woodwork and stood behind Frenchie. He rubbed his shoulders vigorously, kissed him on the lips when he turned around, and consoled him. "Don't feel bad," he said with a feminine voice that didn't match his burly physique. Right. Sure. Side with him-- the rude old pervert who can't take a hint. It was time for me to head back to her apartment. These guys weren't my type, and not because of their sexual orientation. They simply weren't fair. I'd had enough of that feeling for one day.

"Alright, gentleman. Have a good one," I proclaimed after donning my coat and leaving a hefty tip. The heavy-handed bartender deserved it. He made my drinks as strong as I would've at home. I felt that he was the only one on my side in the joint, even if he was trying to get me sauced up to lower my inhibitions for the sharks to make the kill. A few stray nods and "Take cares" mumbled out from the ranks of the regulars and I was out the door and on my way.

The avenue felt strangely warmer on my walk back even though the sun had set. My pockets were filled by my firm fists for a lack of a better place to put my hands, not to stay warm. A Mexican bus boy was closing down the outdoor eating area of a cafe for the evening. I was five steps too short to aid him by holding the door as he wrestled a dish bin full of cheap porcelain in through the entrance of the establishment. It felt like a crime in timing.

She'd be angry when she smelled the whiskey on my breath, and the comedic affect of my mishap wouldn't warrant telling the story. "Karma," she'd probably say. Maybe she'd be right.

Three pigeons picked at some chicken bones in the street. I wondered if they realized they'd become cannibals.

Unleash the cadaver dogs.

After reading the eulogy she'd written me
my telephone rang-- her mother:
the one person who might change our fate;
but, as usual, it was just the contents
of her pocketbook dialing away-- a false alarm.
Life was becoming a series of those.

I shoved my muted phone back into my pocket
and returned my focus to the road and staying on it.
How was I supposed to take welding class seriously
on a night like this? The bond formed by two metals
paled in comparison to the other one that'd been broken.
My classmates were mostly married, either experts or victims
of that coveted and feared union. I was glad I'd stopped
to buy a pack. Enticing them with a smoke break behind
our union hall would encourage some much needed company.
The four walls and dead authors of the last five months weren't
enough. Admitting that felt like another isolated defeat which
worried me. It's battles that lose wars, mostly for want of nails.

A song that would've seemed sad
regardless of its lyrics came on the radio.
Some small Mexican kids waved at me from the back
of the bus that I'd approached at a stoplight. I feigned a smile
but couldn't find the gumption to wave back. I'd told enough
lies that afternoon, most of them to myself--
"I'll miss the cat most," being my favorite of the batch.

The welding went surprisingly well
perhaps due to the welcomed distraction
but when the call came I left
and the rest is the rest.
Even a window's entitled to a shade.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

When Officer Henderson arrived on the scene there had already been one murder. Marty Jenkins was standing on the porch of the Rosetti house, his dog's still warm corpse dripping blood on the slate near his feet. It was going to be a long shift for Hendo if the current scenario was to be any indicator.

"How we doin', Marty?" the policeman asked casually. The two men frequented the same coffee stop in the morning. Henderson was hoping to hear a tone similar to that sort of encounter, but knew it wasn't coming. Other neighbors had called the station for fear that things were about to get ugly based on the shouting coming from Vince Rosetti's porch, though solely from Marty Jenkins. This approach was a feeble attempt, but one that the officer felt he had to make.

"Everything was fine 'til Vince shot my dog!" Marty exclaimed like a third-grader who'd been called on to answer a difficult math question and swore he knew the right response.

"That's not what happened, Hen," Vince's steady voice came from his place behind his cracked front door.

"Everyone knows you've got an arsenal in there, and that you're a crack shot. Who'd'a thunk you'd kill your neighbor's pet, though? You're an animal, Vince. Ya know that?"

Before things could escalate any further the veteran member of the Newbury Police Department decided to interject. "Let's not go jumping to conclusions, Mr. Jenkins," Hendo said, his change in tone and familiarity being noticeably altered. "We'll get to the bottom of this. Don't worry. Mr. Rosetti, did you do what your friend here is accusing you of?" The pleading sound in Hendo's voice would've been enough to convince someone to agree regardless of the truth, but Vince Rosetti was known to be a man of his word.

"It wasn't me who shot the damn thing, Hendo," he answered unwaveringly, his strikingly dark eyes fixed on the officer's. "But I can't say I blame whoever did. That thing's been barking from five to seven in the morning for the last two weeks. Someone was bound to get sick of it eventually. If Marty here couldn't handle keeping his dog inside then maybe he should've brought some nice quiet goldfish home instead."

Marty was so appalled by Vince's words that he took a step back, kicking his dead dog in the process. His heel bounced off of the animal's snout as if his hand had never stroked it. It's presence was reduced to a source of evidence. All affection had been drained from the relationship the moment that shot rang out, destroying the tranquility of the crisp February morning. Officer Henderson felt his blood pump harder to fight the sudden chill that came over him. What was he to do in a situation like this? Half the people in town owned guns and five of them had yards that bordered the Jenkins'. Vince Rosetti was the obvious assumption for a man like Marty Jenkins for precisely the reason that the former's initial statement had displayed: he wasn't afraid to do and say what he felt was right, regardless of the consequences. It was something that Marty would never understand, and one that gained the respect of Hendo, even in his Officer Henderson role. Still, some effort had to be made to satisfy the violated party.

"Vince, would you mind letting me take a look around? If a shot was recently fired from inside the smell of gunpowder would still be in the air." Hendo's right eyebrow raised as he finished his last sentence as if to signal his desire to end things quickly and in Vince's favor. He knew the oath he'd taken as a peace officer long ago required him to protect and to serve, but somehow it was harder to do when it involved hassling an honest man like Vince Rosetti to appease the Marty Jenkinses of the world.

"Not a problem, officer," Vince replied with a nod that signified his understanding of the lawman's intentions.

But before any of the three men could make another move the second shot of the morning broke the tense silence. Then a third, a fourth, all coming from directly behind the Jenkins' house.

"That's the old Colston place!" Marty yelled from his newly acquired safe position behind a fifty-five-gallon drum Vince kept in his yard as a burn barrel. Officer Henderson noted the speed which Marty displayed in his strategic displacement.

"Sure sounds that way," Vince agreed.

Officer Henderson wasn't about to question the two men. He instantly reached for his radio and called in the location of the disturbance. The three of them remained with their feet planted firmly to the frozen ground in anticipation of another shot. It never came. When three more squad cars pulled up in front of the Rosetti home Officer Henderson snapped back into action.

"Alright, men. I don't know what's going on over at the Colstons', but there might be a burglary in progress. Let's wait and see if anyone comes out." The authority in his directives comforted the younger police officers. Newbury had never seen any real violent crime before, but cable TV piped in plenty of haunting images. Every man in blue wanted to go home to his wife and kids at the end of the day more than he wanted to be a hero. If the revered Officer Henderson wanted to wait it out, they'd wait. Gladly.

But before any of them could even recall the last time they'd drawn their weapons from their holsters other than to clean them the mystery was solved. Old Man Colston came storming out of his cottage with his hands raised high. "Take me in, boys! After takin' care of that first nuisance earlier this morning I decided to get rid of that other thorn that's been in my side for the last fifty years. She's on the kitchen floor, dead as doornail."

Officer Henderson took the ornery old man into custody, making sure not to tighten the cuffs too much. This would be a lot of paperwork, alright. At least it happened early enough in the day to make supper at home feasible.

Marty Jenkins stood up straight beside the steel drum he'd befriended. As he scratched his head he turned to face the inevitable scorn from his long-time neighbor who'd been wrongly accused, only to find out he was wrong for the second time that day.

Vince Rosetti was already back in bed waiting for his alarm to sound. Winter was the off-season for the building trades; he was savoring his unemployment. It was foolish to get out of bed before nine for anything short of the Rapture.

The Drawing Board

"Stop reading love letters and help me move your mattress," I half joked. She was kneeling down beside her bed, a shoebox's capacity of old bill statements, forgotten parking tickets, and various other correspondence strewn about her on the floor like the paper orbit of a beautiful sun.

"It's from you," she replied, trying to hide the watery sheen her eyes had just acquired. Why'd she have to find this now? So much for production.

I stepped closer and looked down at the three poorly ripped pages of composition notebook paper. They were folded into three unequal sections. It looked like a four-year-old had torn them out and butchered their creases. Even in the early days of our courtship I'd failed her. My coordination, my presentation, my overall effort: they were lacking. Only my intentions were there, but what good had they done us? Or anyone, for that matter?

"Oh. Right. I remember that crooked I." And I did, though partially because I'd drawn an arrow to it and made mention of its ambiguity in the margin of the paper. It looked like an upper case Z, or perhaps a 2.

Scanning the fine-point black ink over her shoulder didn't jog any tangible memories in terms of content. My observation of the letter was like that of a child looking for constellations in the night sky. They're there if you say so, those mythical beasts. So were my yearning words of yore; I just didn't recognize them. Acknowledging their presence was an exercise in faith, a faith as fake as my father's.

The climate of the room changed, though not due to the hissing radiator. She shot me a smile, one I didn't deserve. "You're the best, Babe." I wished I knew which ancient line had convinced her of such a fanciful notion. It could be the premise for a best-selling book to dupe the masses.

"Thanks. I think I can lift this mattress alone," and I did. Somewhere in the back of my dense skull I sensed that I'd be doing a lot more things on my own quite soon. This first act seemed like good practice. Even my absent dad would agree with my assessment: Christ, too, was more fisherman than carpenter.

Wrrrrrrrrrr

"I'm venturing out. Back hurts. Book's boring."

"Oh, good. Walk around the city for a bit. I'll be home in a few hours."

"My highlighter's running dry and I need some hot sauce for my burrito later."

"Speaking of later...could you pick up some batteries while you're at it?"

"What size? AA or AAA?"

"I don't know."

"Well I'm not going to check."

"Why not?"

"I'd have to touch it."

"So?"

"It feels weird without you here."

"You're such a man."

"Thanks, Babe."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Text me when you come up with one then."

"It could be awhile."

"Love you, too."

Copper and Steel

Out of sheer boredom I decided to "sign on" for the first time in months. The real-time online talking platform lost my interest years ago. I'd much rather leave it to the long-term avenues of discussion such as email; or better yet, write something that only the most motivated potential conversationalists would even respond to via post, though sometimes they prefer the cowardly anonymous route. Besides, I was once enslaved by the Instant game, my moods and actions being too easily determined by the presence, state, or statements of other people who didn't realize their power over me. The constant need to be in the Matrix became a sick addiction, thankfully one that I managed to escape. So now when I visit it's only to remind myself of how much I despise it.

Today was a typical session. A few people I'd rather avoid tried chatting me up. Some others I tried making contact with didn't respond, leaving me to wonder if their "Away" status was either true or a convenient ruse. And then there was B100452. We didn't speak or try to, but I knew she was there on the list located on the right side of the screen. Beth was an old lady I worked with at Burger King eight years ago. She smoked cheap American Gold cigarettes that I'd only bum when absolutely desperate and drank stale decaf in between taking orders on the drive-thru register. Her hair was always a vibrant red closer to purple, though she was sixty-something. During slow times in her shift she'd pick the wheat-back pennies out of her drawer and trade them for ones in her purse-- a simple collection for a woman raised in simpler times. Her three sons had been reared in the traveling military fashion, her husband a retired soldier. Their boys wound up becoming servicemen as well, one Army Ranger and two helicopter pilots. She used to show me pictures of their families, all of which seemed the same: wholesome, God-fearing men hugging smiling blonde wives from the midwest, both surrounded by eager boys in close-cropped brown hair. I see Beth's screen name on my list of fairweather friends now and wonder if all of those smiles are still there. I know her husband passed away a few years back. She told me when I ran into her at the gas station, her hair finally its natural gray as if in defeat. Have her sons faired well in these last war-hungry years? Have the trophy wives managed to neglect the widow's black veil? Are the kids still alright? I hope so.

And one day years from now I'll make the mistake of signing on again and B100452 won't be there. I won't run into her at the gas station, either, and I'll be forced to wonder: Do people on the Internet ever really die? I suppose it's akin to her wheat-back pennies. You collect them, lose some, find others.

Enablers

We were years and cases beyond needing another excuse to drink, but we conjured one anyway. There were three weeks solid where I'd call him to go "car shopping". My twelve-year-old sedan was coming apart at the seams and I'd been working steady enough to justify monthly payments. It was time to invest in something worthwhile-- new to me, though not necessarily "new". The string of used car lots along 207 became our playground. The bartenders on the strip almost learned our names. This one sorry dame conned us into buying the promotional glasses that were used to serve a new beer we'd been sampling. One of them broke a week later in my dish rack, some roommates being better at doing dishes than others. I still have the other one. When I look at it I remember those three weeks of clandestine stool-sitting. Needless to say I didn't buy a thing from any of those hustlers; wound up selling my soul to a dealership near Jersey that laughed when I tried to trade in the beater. And my friend and I? We're limited now to Saturday nights, though if I needed more I'd have it. Any excuse for a beverage. Anything for a wingman. A cup of sugar, a gallon of milk. It's there.

Liver like Swiss

I look down at my spread palm and wonder where it came from-- the injury, not the hand. Two fools made the latter almost twenty-six years ago. Last night's bout was pretty heavy; so much so, in fact, that for the dwindling life of me I can't remember acquiring said wound. The half-inch-wide diameter of red irritated flesh dead between the base of my right middle finger and the horizontal crease that runs the width of my hand stares back at me and laughs: "You lost control again. You don't even remember."

Like a self-abhorring patient who says "It only hurts when I do THIS, Doc," I stubbornly press down on the bruise. If I close my eyes I can find it through my tactile sense, the small raised bump at its center drawing me in like a sad homing beacon. I look closer at this nucleus and notice a dark purple shard where it resides. A splinter of bone, perhaps? There my mind goes running off again. Damn that hypercreative brain housed by that unnecessarily thick skull. It's gotten me into so many waltzes. It's gotten me here, into this. I press again, harder this time, as punishment. The cocktails weren't enough. I had to chase shots with them as well.

Checking my email reveals a sudden burst of subpar inspiration before succumbing to the alcohol's effect: a few trite words meant to encapsulate a mood, a moment, that may or may not have happened. And what will it amount to? The same as the rest of this: nothing. How many shallow nights have ended in this same vein, a last-ditch effort text message sent to my email account from the safety of my mattress since the liquor made it too hard to get back up and stagger to my desk. It's hard to remember when beer still did it for me. It's just not strong enough anymore. I want to disappear when I drink. Most times I succeed.

But back to that nagging sore on my hand-- Where did it come from? When will it leave? I scan my lapsed memory in search of its origin. Slamming it down on the bar, perhaps, after a rough swallow. Christ, I've become him. The revolutionary loses again. The new boss, same as the old. And for the record that's not being kept any longer, Fuck Pineapple Larry. He doesn't even exist.

"The Four-Legged Avenger"

I was sitting at my desk
when I witnessed it through the window:
the handyman the widow next-door had hired
chasing a dog down the stairs. It was obvious
that he'd let the pooch out of the house by mistake
and was trying to catch he before it escaped into the yard.
He failed, stumbling awkwardly down the steps
in pursuit of the canine on the loose.
The widow and the handyman's helper
emerged from the door, a frown on the former's face
a smirk on the latter. The small white-and-black dog
ran off to kicked up leaves with his back feet
under the big elm that canopied the rear half of the property.
The handyman, winded and in his late fifties, reached down
tentatively as the dog barked his discontent.
It was no surprise that the old coot would miss
as he lunged for the dog's collar. The smirk and frown
grew larger simultaneously. The handyman slapped his thigh
in frustration and spit sideways onto the driveway
wishing he could mutter the list of four-letter words
that were running through his mind. The sign on his van
would not allow for that, though: "Friendly Home Repair, LLC".
The dog began to run in circles around the garage, barking
his battlecry of scorn as he pounded a victory lap into the ground.
Whistles, threats, the clapping of hands: none of them worked.
A plume of smoke rose from the widow's face
as she lit a long slim cigarette and ran her bony fingers
through her tassled gray hair. Her reddened face squinted
in my direction as she tried to make out whether or not
she saw a shirtless tattooed man sitting at his desk
watching her dilemma through the window. If it'd matter now;
if she could hear me through this double-paned glass; if poor old Richard
weren't rolling in his grave like a rotisserie chicken, I'd say it:
"You put the old man six feet under. This is what you get."

With your libido, yes.

Don't get me wrong:
I've loved the ride
though I envy those most
who've never lost sight
of whom and what
they've wanted.

Pray it's not
this neutered sundown
of a declawed life
sleeplessly wasted
in a town where no one's
grown up yet.

Sable

"I've got some road work for you,"
his deep voice boomed
over the phone.
For a brief second I feared
that meant paving
until I remembered it was February.
"I need you to go pick up some blueprints
for me. I'm bidding a couple jobs."
It was good news for an unemployed plumber.
Besides, anything sounded better
than being confined to the four walls
of my room so I gladly volunteered.

It felt fast doing ninety on the Thruway.
Looking down at the speedometer aged me.
My silver pick-up had some get-up-and-go
but the Blue Bullet easily did a hundred in its time
duct-taped bumper be damned. For a car that was
ten years old and held together by rusted bolts and luck
it held its own. It held a lot. It held what I let go.
Thinking about it then brought a belated smile. It's just not
what the cards held. The exits passed silently until
it was my turn to get off.

I'd never seen a gas pump that worked so inefficiently.
The price rose so slowly that I could count along.
My hand froze in place from holding the nozzle.
I rubbed it with my left one to get the blood flowing again
as I walked in to pay for the fuel. The fifty-spot
he'd given me burned a hole in my pocket. At least
he'd reimburse me for gas and tolls. I was on my own
when it came to that egg sandwich, though.

"Good luck," the tired clerk said as she handed me
the receipt. "Oh wait. You didn't buy a lotto ticket."

"It's OK. I need it just as much," I replied.

She laughed, but didn't mean it.
I took it not to heart.

"Fission"

"Jesus it was cold out there."

"Yeah."

"You sure you don't want me to turn up the heat?"

"No thanks, Joe. I'll be fine once my bones warm up."

"That's all you are anymore: bones."

"I've been eating more."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I swore I heard something coming from over there."

"It's in your head. That's all you are anymore."

"Good one. You still want to watch a movie later?"

"Not really."

"What's wrong, Jane?"

"Nothing."

"I know when something's bothering you."

"I'm just worried."

"About what?"

"This is the way I felt last time."

"Last time what?"

"Nevermind."

"Oh. Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well. It's impossible, right?"

"Right."

"I mean you can't be."

"No."

"But if you were..."

"I couldn't."

"I know that. I wouldn't ask you to."

"I couldn't, Joe."

"It's alright. Stop crying. Please? For me?"

"Sorry. You're right. It's probably nothing."

"There! That. Did you hear that?"

"No."

"It came from the closet. Let me go check it out."

"I'm not stopping you."

"No wonder we're still cold. The window's open."

"There's a window in your bedroom closet?"

"Yeah. This part of the house was an addition."

"So?"

"So they built the closet afterwards and left the window."

"Seems pointless."

"But why bother boarding it up?"

"Right."

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"Did you open the window?"

"I didn't know it was there. I couldn't."

"Right. You couldn't."

THC

My mother had stopped by
after her grocery shopping
to borrow a few books.
The burdens of the tethered housewife
put her in a funk sometimes;
we both agreed that novels
might offer some escape.
They were waiting on my kitchen table
when she came reeling through the door.
A firm hug, my hand through her hair, the
cold still on her scarf stinging my face.
We made small talk as only blood can.

"No! Don't eat those," I warned
as she shoved a chunk of brownie
into her mouth. The fresh batch
my roommate had made the night before
laid on the stove so deceivingly innocent.
"They're doctored. Wait. You might like them."

She sliced a strip off with a butter knife from the counter
and continued to partake of her other form of escape.

"These are good. Can't even taste it.
Tell him to come cook at my house sometime."

I laughed. There was a time I wouldn't have.

A conventional childbirth was out of the question.
My mother still has the C-section scar.
My head was too big when I entered the world
but it's shrunk a bit since then.
Don't let my hat size fool you.


Currently reading:
"The Battle for Spain" by Antony Beevor.

Blame it on poor camera-work.

The first train back upstate
was a bust; the alarm clock
decided to die the one time
I needed it and Grand Central
was too far to make it in ten
minutes, even by cab.
I took my time getting ready
and made the 9:47 instead
which had changed to the 9:52
since I'd checked the schedule
on the previous day. Metro North
has that luxury. The cars
were still mostly empty half an hour
before the departure so I had options
in the seat-picking process.
In lieu of taking one on the east side
of the track I went for the spacious
three-seater on the right. Let the fools
have their river view, I've fallen for
that trick enough times already.
The books are better anyway.
I'd be switching between the stories
of John Updike and a book on
the Spanish Civil War.
I've learned to go the whole trip
without looking up from the pages once.

But on this trek something changed.
A sudden jerk by the conductor
jostled me enough to warrant an upward
glance from the trusty words of Mr. Updike.
We were under a bridge in Westchester somewhere.
A makeshift bed was sprawled out next to a pillar
blankets and shopping bags covering
a tattered mattress that became another man's treasure.
Its owner wasn't present, probably off foraging somewhere.
It's appalling how many people live under the bridge
in the most literal sense in a nation that's so quick
to send foreign aid and fight others' battles.
Mao suggested that we "Civilize the mind
but make savage the body." It seems
somewhere along the way the two got confused.
The angel Azrael comes for all of us eventually.
Those bridgemen don't fear Death, though; it's St. Peter
who'll be fumbling for words.

I went back to my short stories for the rest
of the way north. My stepfather was waiting for me
at the Beacon station. The Spanish Civil War
was an effective topic to curtail the awkward silence
in the car ride to my house where a day of cleaning laid in wait.
He's a history buff. I tried to explain the
Abraham Lincoln Brigade and how Hemingway
was one of the American volunteers who fought
against Franco and fascism, but it he didn't get it.
Maybe I'll lend him the book when I'm done. Maybe not.

If I'd made the 8:47 the bridgeman still would've been in bed.
It's a good thing I was late.