Hips for Miles

A former rendition of myself
thanked him for letting us use
his apartment-- complete
with absent roommate--
to reacquaint one another
with our precious animal magnetism.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning,"
he said as he departed
down West 50th
after nodding her hello
and goodbye in one motion
under the shower of streetlights.
It didn't seem like long enough.
Now it feels fossilized:
the way it used to be;
an alternate dimension.

She had hips for miles
and could make a hipster smile;
dark features of my people
with a muse-blessed hand
and a mind I could wander
for a lifetime.
Her brute, she called me
or maybe that was someone else--
Yes, I'm positive of that.
I had softer nicknames.
We had softer nights.

She's already subway bound
by the time my buddy enters.
I'm standing in my boxers
drinking water piped from mountains.
"But what the Hell happened to the wall?"
he asks, his eyes interrogating spots
above the pillow where white slits of plaster
cry out against the hunter green paint.
I blush through my beard, mumbling no apology.
It's not my fault her nails are the claws of a tigress
though that safari should've been
the beginning.

Survivor's Guilt

He killed himself
nine years ago
by cheating on his chance.
It was her birthday Wednesday.
There was no call.
She's married.

A ghost of a joke
or maybe that's backwards
still wanders her poster-lined bedroom.
"Go for the gold," she said
so he did.
Virginity's much overrated.

Sex never means
"I'll see you again,"
though the images play on for decades.

No one in France blamed Anne Boleyn
but her head rolled hard just the same.


Currently reading:
Poetry magazines in which I'll never be published.

Idaho Apology

That potato's still there
shriveling to nothing
on the top shelf of my fridge.
A friend brought it
over the summer
after I'd been temporarily blinded
by an unexpected welding flash at work.
It only lasts a few hours, but the
feeling of having sand in ones eyes
is unpleasant.
There's a chemical in spuds
that helps ease the discomfort
so when she asked what else
she could bring
aside from her matching underwear
I mentioned a trip to the produce aisle.

She arrived with two varieties
in case one worked better
sliced two slivers off
and placed them on my eyelids
like coins for the ferryman.
Although I couldn't see
we made the most of a lousy night.
There've been times I've wanted hash browns
or a baked to go with steak
but that window is long gone now.

It's only there to remind me
that somehow
some of them
care for this mess
whether or not he deserves it.
And the truth is
more often than not
I can't see the obvious
regardless of work-related injuries.

Maybe she wanted more.

A Lush's Advice To a Novice

Dave marches into the bar with a purpose. He's been lied to before, but never as beautifully as this. It's time to seek vengeance or at least an explanation. The perpetrator's present and probably drunk. It is, after all, almost noontime.

"Goddammit, Hank. I've heard your lisp on the tapes. I see through your blind braggadocio. You've drank more screwdrivers than you've turned. You've probably never even owned one."

One of the neons in the gin mill's window flickers. Neither burnout fazes Hank. He continues staring straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar shelves. A small crease forms at the visible corner of his mouth. This is assumed to be the makings of a smile, thus infuriating Dave even further.

"You think this is funny, old man? There comes a time in every recordist's life when he chooses the pen or the promise. I've had my fun at their expense, and the more..."

But Hank cuts in before he can finish.

"You've chosen neither, kid. You've got to have both in order to decide on one. Do you really think you've mastered your passion? How cute, how precious, how sickening."

Hank sips his Vodka Seven and turns to a man propped up in the darkest corner, his hand on a mojito sweating profusely onto the oak. "Hey, Ernie. Can you spot me lunch? Martin's got a a check in the mail this week."

Ernie raises his hand in agreeance. The barkeep shouts an order to the cook without asking Hank what he'd like to consume. Regulars have it that way. Barflies take it, like it or not.

By the second gin-and-tonic Dave is almost back to normal. His ears have lost their redness. They flush when he's been prodded. He pulls his stool alongside Hank's, who's now working on lunch. The plate of ribs before him is half-way gone.

"So what am I doing wrong?" Dave asks, his tone exuding humility.

"Do you want the list in alphabetical order?" Hank quips. He sucks barbecue sauce from his bony fingers and turns to face his progeny. "Writing's not for weak of heart. That much you've got, but there's more to it than that." He swivels a bit to address the inquisition.

"It's like this rib," he says, holding a morsel of pork in his hand. "The bone is the truth: hidden, but there. The details of how her hair smelled, the plot you've pulled from dead-end jobs, the characters you've met at whorehouses: they're the meat of the story. And see this?" Hank asks while pointing to the blubbery edge of the rib in his hand. "This is the fat. Trim it at all costs. That's what most hacks can't muster." Ignoring the knife set before him on his place mat, he reaches into his pocket for a pearl-handled switchblade. With a flick of his right wrist he slices away a strip of lard from the rib he's holding up with his left.

"But you've cut too deep," Dave points out, more confused than accusatory.

"Not unintentionally," Hank replies as he brings the culinary metaphor closer into view. "See that sliver of white poking through? That's what separates the good from the great."

He sucks the meat from the bone and turns back to his stoic self, his work and good deed for the day being done.

Dave kills his cocktail and tips the girl heavily. He's back at his desk before the sun sets; and like that old pal who bought lunch for Charles says: that bastard sometimes decides also to rise.

Filed Incisors

The Riesling was weak
but the pint of lager
pleased them;
pried lips enough apart
for two strangers
to meet eyes.

He reaches
to light her cigarette
between street lights
on the sidewalk.
"You're good at that,"
she tells him
naively appreciative.

He smiles, sparks his own
and tries not to let on
that there's been a bit of practice.
His skill comes at a cost.

It's not in his nature
to let the last word leave her lungs
but the proudest wolf plays dumb
if he ever wants to eat.

Coughing Up Coffee Grinds

Then three of us
got anchor tattoos
since it seemed
like a good idea
at the time.
Mostly we don't speak anymore.
I conveniently forget
it's there on the back of my arm.
No one's safe from hope's cruel joke.

We could have everything we've wanted
if the thought of that didn't terrify us.
Our lives are sung falsetto
the same way that they're lived.

Amen.

The Devil in Headlines

A sinkhole in Florida
swallowed a man.
His bedroom was sucked
down the pit fifty feet.
They pulled his brother
away from the scene
unable to save his mortal remains.

"It wanted his soul,"
my mother said, spooked.
"A portal to Hell. They're out there
you know."

I think of the dozens of doors
that I've dreaded
and nod at her statement.
My hells are bulimic.

Crass Castrati

Cut off your face
to join your nose.
You're vexed by
such small room to talk.
A gentleman never tells
but those who claim so
aren't.

I've fudged too many tax returns
to let some skirt get the best of me.
Truth be told, John Q, it's unclear
what that would be
though there's a club
who sometimes sleeps with me
precisely for my faults
and another sadder sector
that wishes that they could.

(I'd kind of like to put things
where you didn't know
you'd like them.)

Keep calm until the sheriff comes.
He always carries breath mints.

Cold Chinese Food at 2:00 AM

No one knows it but me:
There's a bear in Riverside Park.
He's the only one on the isle of Manhattan.
As a result he's lonely
and fills the void by eating from trash cans
even when he's not hungry.
Sushi is his favorite.

It's almost as sad
as women who buy themselves flowers.
Almost.
And if I'd married that girl
like she thought I should've
then
and I think I should've
now
I wouldn't be wasting
our time
with this.

That bear.
He's not real, you know.
No one hibernates
for that long
and gets away with it.

Eulogy

How does one write about a life too magnificent for words? How does one honor a person who so selflessly changed a multitude of lives and lived to meet the fourth generation made possible through her existence? I knew for years the time would come when that precious task would be laid before me. Its gravity was intimidating, but its message is crucial. I brought pen and paper to the lake at Bear Mountain to try to capture some thoughts to share in the pastoral serenity of the setting sun mirrored by the water. As glorious as that environment was it pales in comparison to the place where I know my beloved grandmother, Maria Amengual, shall eternally reside. Please bear with me as I try to harness the comfort in this fact to make it through the rest of this as clearly and tearlessly as possible.

Many of us knew her as Tita, short for Chiquitita, the smallest of the small. Her family placed a ladder in front of their stove in their rural Puerto Rican home so this tiniest of their tribe could prepare and cook food for their household. The gift of a servant's heart was instilled in her from a young age. Most of us have had the pleasure of experiencing this quietly noble trait in the forms of her generosity, nurturing, and mouth-watering cuisine. Even those not fluent in Spanish felt what her secret ingredient was-- the universal language of Love. Don't be fooled by the sofrito, Adobo, or garlic-- it was her genuine sentiment that filled our grateful bellies for so many years at her table. She wasn't satisfied until she'd fed you. It was hard to avoid complying. And whether we knew it or not at the time, our spirits were just as sated as our bodies when we left.

After losing her faculties and moving in with my mother she was no longer allowed to operate any kitchen appliances. A gas stove and a forgetful woman are a dangerous combination. At first she'd be caught trying to boil water for coffee once in awhile, but eventually it set in that those days were done for her. I remember her offering me a cup at my mom's one time, then explaining that she would have to ask someone else to make it since it wasn't a good idea for her to operate equipment fueled by combustibles any longer. The grace of acceptance had set in. Even in her capacity as someone requiring constant care she filled her former role of caretaker. Adaptation-- another of this fine woman's many qualities.

It's no surprise that she excelled in that area. She came from a generation of those forced to cope with hardships that we can't comprehend today. Her husband died tragically in a car accident shortly after their young family's immigration to America. This was a devastating blow to a mother of two sons unfamiliar with her new home's native tongue. New York was a different place from the farm in Puerto Rico to which she'd been accustomed. Unbeknownst to her, the recurring sickness she was experiencing was a side effect of her pregnancy with her third child-- my mother-- who had been conceived earlier in the month prior to the loss of her miraculous father. It would've seemed a complication to most-- one more mouth to feed in an already impossible venture-- but that's not how she saw it. Some people are such survivors that they need an extra challenge to keep their wits about them. My grandmother was one of those individuals. Working in factories, selling food to blue collar men in the neighborhood, and running restaurants were a few of the ways in which she managed to make ends meet for herself and her three children. Government assistance was not in her vocabulary. Milking the system was not on her agenda. She worked hard to provide without Uncle Sam's handouts in this new land of hers. She was here to make a better life for herself and those she loved in the face of adversity, thereby embodying one facet of the American Dream, just as her husband and two brothers did their part as citizens by serving their country in World War II. We are a family of pride for a reason. Those who came before us have walked too tall for us to slouch, even those ancestors who didn't break five feet. Let's never forget that.

But this isn't a day of mourning, it's a celebration for a victory that's been won long ago. There are plenty of sunsets in ninety-two years. Our precious mother won't be here to see another, but the choices we make can honor one setting sun who set an example for all of us to follow. She was stronger than any man I've ever worked beside. Her sacrifices reverberate through the destinies of many in this room. Consider her the personification of unconditional love. The doctors are wrong-- her heart never failed.

Bendicion, Abuela Tita. Te amo siempre.

An Aberrator's Genuflexion

Speak not in victims' rhythms.
Hear not the liars' lure.
You are a son of Abraham;
no less, no Holy More.
To tell it on the mountain
wastes air where it's most thin.
Go sing it in the valleys
where the meek are soaked in gin.

All elbows need some skinning.
Don't waste time rubbing saints.
They're hard to find and hard to please
and paint life what it ain't.

A man knelt here, repenting
for a life's worth of remorse.
He rose rejuvenated
and rode out on the horse
that'd brushed him off a few times
on branches growing low.
Not all reduced to crawling
learn what seeds to sow
in the desert where arroyos
promise nothing of a stream
and beautiful mirages
have eyes and teeth that gleam.

It's not so bad, the Hell we make.
The danger's in the nest
of iniquities we foster
when we settle like the rest
for anything that's warm and wet
and listens when we weep.
Some searched the dust for forty years.
Thank God the wine here's cheap.

A Verse On Good Service

What roiling the blood does
when called up to churn.
No claim laid as a fighter
though still some lessons learned
like you lead in with an uppercut
and pour from underneath.
Nothing makes good neighbors
like fences and loose teeth.

If your might swings to one side
and inertia goes unchecked
then use those rigid forearms
to shelter and deflect
since you know the counter coming
will be a rookie's right
dig in with the left arm.
This chance won't come up twice.

From there you're on your own, kid.
A bar fight's not like chess.
Predictions there are limited.
It soon becomes a guess.
The trick is to keep swinging.
No mercy for the weak.
If the sloppy fool deserves it
then you won't let him retreat.

Hesitance is poison.
Your liver's overworked.
The novelty of winning
is a minor perk.
It's more about the mirror
and what is has to show
in the morning after battle.
How trophy bruises glow.

Moron Lobbed

"Take it off the pedestal,"
they said.
"Love the one you're with,"
they said:

All such sage advice
from those who've never needed it.

Ear plugs silence snoring moms
and county lines aren't thick.

I want to have a son someday.
I'd like to name him Jack.

Nicotine Stains

A stranger in his forties stops me
on the street for a light.
I pause to pass my Bic
and he shoves a pack of Reds
in my hand after sparking his smoke.
"Take them," he says
like he's known me for years.
"I'm hanging out with my girlfriend soon
and can't be caught with them on me."

"Been there," I confess, shoving the
Cowboy Killers into the breast pocket
of my denim work shirt.
I thank him and proceed to the entrance
of my apartment building
slightly more satisfied
with the state of the human race
even though they're not my flavor.

Anyone want a pack of Marlboros?

One About a Ribcage

Tonight
the only poetess
I've ever railed
with feeling
asked if I still had it:
the verse she penned
nine years ago:
an ode to star-crossed
meddlers.
"It's been my favorite one
forever.
I want to read it again,"
she said.

At first I swore I did--
the packrat sentimentalist
who cherishes his trinkets.
I dug through drawers
in the desk my mother bought
when I was in fourth grade
to no avail:
Just photos of another;
And postcards;
And notes;
Reminders of the criminal
who purged
what wasn't hers.
Pictures painted:
Gone.
Cursed verses:
Stolen.
Snapshots not including her:
Missing ancient history.
Clandestine acts of vengeance
set like landmines by a maid;
Almost two years later
and she's still staking her claim.
I send a text to tell her so.
Thank God there's no reply.

I may live this life
without another rhyme
ever making way to paper
thin enough to pierce my skull.
There are men who die unwritten.
Most of them don't mind.
But me, I'll always wonder
why the optimist forgot
to commit her lines to memory.

There was one about my ribs.

Prospect

The patrolman's spotlight
illuminates the stage
through fogged up windows.
Thankfully it's mostly conversation
that he's catching.
We fiddle for ID
and hand it over
promising to leave the park
like truant teens.
"I didn't see the sign.
It's dark and raining."
He buys it because it's the truth.
The best lies usually are.

I follow her
to the train station
and recognize the rollers
on a car parked down the block.
This will be a safe place
to harbor curiosity.
It's almost 3 am
but the Metro runs all night.
"Are you sure we're good?"
she asks as we lean in for a kiss.
"Better than good,"
and I hope this isn't passing
like the empty locomotive
rolling through without a whistle.

I lay awake another hour
after getting home at four.
It's been too long
since someone's
held my hand across a table.
Our waitress at the diner
didn't mind our endless dinner.
Blah blah blah blah blah
and four syllables right here.

(It's not writing if you're happy
but I'd rather live than scribble.)


Currently reading:
"Gates of Fire" by Steven Pressfield.

For Those Just Tuning In

If you read
the written record
of his failures
out of context
you'll miss the point
he's making
and assume
the count is final.

(Final was the morphine
his mom kept in the fridge
that hospice had delivered
when his grandmother
was dying.
Final was the story
that he swore he'd never tell.
Final was the way
they all looked
over shoulders
when they realized
that to stay with him
they'd curse themselves
to Hell.)

There are far worse things
than lonely.
Only sinners learn to love.
He wears and shares
his stumblings
whether with
or without whiskey.

When asked
to sum himself up
in a solitary word
the rambler
doesn't miss a beat--
"Resilient" bounces back.

XXIX

Cowgirl prevails
and the new year's official.
I left a fresh roll on the counter
but she doesn't see it
and digs under the bathroom sink.
A glass of water is offered and accepted.
Clothes go back on shamelessly.

I hear her sigh
as she descends
my stairwell
both of us confused
as to our intentions.
The deadbolt slams home
keeping me in
more than them out.

It takes an extra blow
to extinguish the candle
on my night stand.
I lay in the dark
staring straight
and scratch myself.
So this is twenty-nine:
more of the same, but closer
to the inevitable.
I dislike it already.

And if you want the absolute
God's honest
Scout's honor truth
I'll give it to you:
I don't want to meet anyone.
I'm tired of explaining myself.
Even those who understood
don't get me anymore.
I'm toward the top of that list.

More staring.
More scratching.
I fall asleep to the intangible.

Michael, row the boat ashore.
We're all tired of your shit.

One Less Dreamer On Main Street

He strides sans braggadocio
some consider swagger
toward his solo bachelor
birthday sushi
not that these dates matter.

When the tiny Asian girl in black
sits him near the sidewalk
he laughs, as any seaman would
considering the times
often wasted with the wrong souls
perched behind the glass
for the passersby to gawk at
while he tried exuding class

but the truth is that he's better
less the mercy of their thighs.
There's no such thing as comfort.
It's another Friday night.

Nothing Like Sheep

My mother's card came first.
The one from my insurance agent
didn't count, regardless of its
real signatures from office staff.
Of course, hers had a religious theme:
the blessing that was my birth, etc.
She penned a script novella
in the margins true to form
and included several pictures
from our last fun time with Grandma.

There were some keepers in there, ones
I hadn't seen til then, the three of us
with smiles that no sadness could repel.
"Thanks, those are great photos,"
I told her on the phone.
"She's been gone now for one hundred
and thirty-nine days," she sighed.
It broke my heart.
She's counting.
And I'll someday know the sorrow
of not having parents left.

We take death as it comes:
the final part of life.
We try to fit the splinters
back together when they're gone.
Like warriors on horseback
we move on counting coup
in the form of days remembered
that no Man in Black can have.

The Heathen's Final Hour

I'm loading up mags
in the back room
when I hear the Secret Knock:
One, two.
Pause.
One. Two.
It's never been said explicitly
but developed over time--
the hesitant refrain of a friend
who knows better.
I jam the last three rounds in
and make way for the door.

"They're coming for you,"
he tells me through the four-inches
allowed by the chain.
"They caught me in the hallway.
Asked when you're around.
I answered in Spanish to throw them.
Next time they'll bring an interpreter.
They mean business.
They want you.
Bad."

His news arrives as no surprise.
I knew this day would come.
"Thanks," I tell him
sliding a cheap Chinese food container
through the crack.
The neighbors send me meals sometimes.
My sentence has its perks.
"Tell her it was perfect."

I resume my faithful loading.
Lock the guns up.
Go to sleep.

The sun's been out for hours
when I wake to threatening cadence:
One.
Two-three. Five, Six.
Sev'. Eight.
"Shave and a haircut:
two bits."
It's them.
I'm done.
It's over.

My feet swing down
from the mattress.
They're pounding again
but I'm too drunk with my fate
to notice which chipper tune it is.
The hardware stays locked up.
If they want me, they can have me--
like this, in my boxers, with crud on my face.

I don't bother with the peep hole.

"Hello?" I ask humbly
awaiting my conviction
through that four-inch space
that seems to gape
between me and the suits.

"Mr. Vargas! We've finally
found you!" one of them exclaims.
"Do you know," sings the other
"that the Lord loves you
so much that He knows every hair
on your head?"

I scratch myself through my shorts
behind the safety of the door
hoping God's not granted
X-ray vision to his well-pressed Witnesses.

"Yeah, I've heard that one,"
I remind them with a sigh, rubbing my skull
with my visible hand.
"Do you have any literature on you?"

They beam with delight, ruffle through
their briefcases, and assault me with
some pamphlets that contain pastel cartoons.

"Thanks," I smile piously.
"But I really must be going.
I'm meeting with a man at noon
who wants to buy my soul."

The door cannot close fast enough.
I hear them through the hardwood:
"That poor man is doomed.
Do you think that he was naked?"

I'm still laughing when I flip my eggs.
If there's a God
He's on my side.
We share the same sick humor.

Keep Up Your Kegels

The Devil buys no souls.
He's diversified his bonds.
It's a common misconception
romanticized by lore.

Besides, what's left of ravaged men
can hardly pay a debt;
and as for ravished women:
the Morning Star quotes Job.

If you could hock
what isn't yours--
If you could trade your fate--
Would you sway the Sculptor's swing
so His hammer missed the chisel?

Medals aren't what make a man.
Success: semantic antics.
A bottle broke my nose once.
I wouldn't sell that scar.

Introitus Interruptus

I'm leaning on the bed
sweaty and pumping away
when I'm jolted so hard
that I almost pull out.
"What the Hell?" I yell
as she turns around
making fearful eye contact.

My grip loosens.
I drop my hose and ask
if she realizes what she's done.
A blank stare says otherwise.

I resume filling 'er up
and let her drive away.
I've gotten good at that.

It's only a scratch
on my bumper
but enough flesh wounds
will bleed out the best.

Chivalry's not dead;
it's just drowning in pressed grapes.

Like Sherman Burnt Georgia

My mother swears
"She's out there";
always tells me so.
God, I fucking hope not.
What's life without a hunt?

Shotguns are for peace time.
Rifles are for war.
The truth's reserved for late at night
when you're all at the bar.


Currently reading:
"Against the State:  An Introduction to Anarchist Political Theory" by Crispin Sartwell.

Pot Calling Kettle

One of them
carried a Jenga piece
in case she had to knock on wood.

Another slept with a bar of soap
under her pillow
even at my place
because she liked to smell
and fondle it.

The saddest called me
a psychopath
after I brought her flowers
though she's been taking meds
for half her life, been diagnosed.

Then there was the nut
my so-called friends all loathed.
We sometimes wish we'd wifed it.
(We speak in Royal We.)

But whoever said that opposites attract
was waxing roses.
The crazy ones don't find me.
We sniff each other out.

Plenty of Fish

The irony escaped him
like the trout that we were hunting
but I was mortified enough for two
as we fished the lake at Bear Mountain
and the newlyweds appeared
for their sunset photo shoot
the wedding cake just barely
in their bellies.

"We're in the shot, Dad.
We should move over."
He pretends not to hear me
but I slide to the left
still reeling in my lure
while searching for the cameras
filming my reaction.
It seems a well played joke
custom tailored for a bachelor
brazenly sanguine and stubbornly hopeful
for what isn't, but should be.

"Good. Now don't look at each other,"
the photographer demands
from the perfect, snow globe couple.
Her hands cling to his cummerbund.
I throw the hook again.

"It's getting dark," my father says.
"You ready?"

My eyes are catching diamonds
and flecks of polished gold
from their corners
when I answer
a question never asked.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

Sardines for Dinner

My neighbor
growing up
smoked a pipe
in spite of cancer.
That sweet tobacco scent
still comforts me today.
Once, when I was five
I leapt into his pool
without my water wings attached.
I squatted on the bottom.
Pete jumped in and saved me.
It's strange what you remember.

It isn't that we can't
but rather:
We don't want to.
There are lines
in things like sand.
Some cross them
just to see.

My father took the fence down
between our place and the Bakers'.
I smelled when Pete was home
through the hole cut in his throat.

Square Peg. Round Hole. Dead Trails.

My stomach grumbles
on a stiff mattress
that hasn't hosted
the likes of this forlorn lover
in quite some time.
An array of pillows
is scattered on the floor
in the darkness of a room
I've never seen lit up.
The one I kept to sleep on
is too thick, too firm
and breaking my neck
like a slow-working noose.
Gas pains plague my guts
as I try to focus
on the familiar sound of the fan
instead of her eyelashes blinking.

This is the music
when the charm routine ends.

I keep her up most of the night
feeling awful that she works so early.
My tossing and turning
cannot be contained.
I'm a coyote with his leg in a trap
that doesn't want to gnaw through the bone
in case it's never caught again.
Her alarm clock beckons, she stalks
to the shower, I dress and make way
for the door while it's safe.
Goodbyes are harder than hellos
so it seems.
Part of me wants to make the bed
but I don't bother with my own.
Why falsely advertise?
I tried being honest.
I saw where it got me.
I'll slip out like I slid in:
shoegazing.

An ice storm coated my truck
overnight. I warm it up enough
for the wipers to work
and pull out
for the second time.
"Bullets," I mumble
as I head for the bridge.
Too many muscles relax
as I cough. 
Those rumbling bowels
get their revenge.
Oh no.
That didn't happen.
My life is a Ben Stiller movie.
The drive of shame's intensified
with a new sense of urgency.
I climb the stairs to my place
gingerly
and tend to pressing matters.
Maybe not having kids
wouldn't be so bad.
There are certain trials
you have to face alone.
They're the ones that make you.

Sleeping it off until mid-morning
feels better than I deserve.
I shoot back across the bridge
and double-park my vehicle
while delivering a package
that crossed my mind before:
a box of copper bullets
for that gun she's never fired.
I know what it's like
to be unprepared
when the cavalry says
they're not coming.

The bag hangs from her doorknob.
There's no need for a note.
She's never liked my words.
I can't say that I blame her.

Reflections On a First and Last

The coat rack welcomes
me back home
to my still
third-storey walk-up.
Where the metal's
scraped the wood
is clear--
They see where
I'm rubbed raw.

I take a swig of week-old wine
and wonder--
Why'd it sour?

My bladder drains
the drinks we shared
and offers consolation.

I hang my best plaid shirt again
to fight another day
as Casey grips his birch.
We cling to hope like bettors.

The Three-Day Rule is tossed aside
to ask if she's home safe.
My senses prove as honed as feared--
she's home, I'm great
(from a distance)
(for another).

I knew when she
thanked me three times--
the guilt of robbing hangdogs.

More wine.

Blizzards and Bygones

There was a time
though not for some years
that getting snowed in
was a threat of good fortune
with chili and chocolate
and movies on couches;
with anything but
a girl, fully dressed.


"The Words" by Jean-Paul Sartre.

Why I Am Not a Short Story Writer

There was a story I'd been meaning to write for years. It wasn't very good, not even in that primordial mental soup that tends to make lustreless notions shine. Perhaps it was due to the Nineteenth Century Russian novelists I'd been reading with their cynical tears staining the candelit pages, or Papa's blind bravado plagued by the need for a love unreal, but whatever it was should've stayed in my subconscious. Every few cycles of the sun I'd get the sophomoric urge to tackle my ungainly American classic once and for always, critics be damned. All of these spasms were squelched by the vainly conservative belief that it was not yet time to unload such greatness upon the literary battlefield; and so, thankfully for all parties, it was vanquished and banished to the cobwebbed recesses of my over-zealous mind. Only now, in this relatively new rendition of a rehashed predicament that's shadowed my romantic existence, I feel it's time to spit it from my ribcage to end the threat of future failure. There are a handful times when that's within our means. It's best to devour them.

So you have a man, a young man, of dark features and light heart. He lives in a village that could pass for the crystallized Western European backdrop which we've witnessed countless times. There are lots of browns and greens in this description. He wears high leather boots, possibly suspenders. Straight strands of hair fall into his forehead as he toils in the fields, or the mines, or whatever my foolish mind envisioned for this martyr; and you know he is one, because in all tales of love the theme is the same: it ends.

But first, of course, he has to find it; and find it he does, in the most unusual way. A roving band of gypsies comes through town and...nay, that won't do. Too believable. Let's not waste time inventing a story I'm throwing at you so I never actually tell it. Suffice it to say he falls in love, and hard. She's everything he's never realized he wanted. Her mere existence gives him hope for the fate of mankind. I picture her with long, loose ringlets the color of chestnut shells and high cheekbones that offset her frail smile. The rest doesn't matter. She has eyes, she has ears, there are other parts that command his attention, but you don't need to know about them. All that should concern you here is that she's perfect, seemingly flawless, in the longing eyes of our young man who would've been better off in a Bildungsroman than this tragic tale of what we're all in for, one way or another. If you still need to know it to satisfy your curiosity then what you're assuming is true: she wore lots of white.

She truthfully wore it on her wedding day since this custom still meant something. They were united in holy matrimony, cleaved unto each other, and granted the sacred rights that come with such formalities. There was exchange of names and bodily fluids. Neighbors kept their windows closed despite July's heat so as to not overhear the promises and pantings made by young lovers in the stillness of the night where sound is carried farther. God, they were in love, as it was meant to be. And then, as if the depraved of the world became rabid with envy, a War broke out-- a Great one.

Men of fighting age are called to line the trenches. Shiny new machine guns are given out like prizes. There is carnage that should never be seen by God's creations. There is bloodshed that's a far cry from the honeymoon's first night. Half the boys are injured and all of them are starving. There are rumors that the cargo train was blown to smithereens and with it scores of boxes of much needed ammunition. The fighting subsides as both factions wane. In their desperation to gain ground without expending bullets or mortar shells the gas rounds are launched along miles of no-man's-land. Our hero breathes mustard for longer than average while saving a corporal who's caught in barbed wire. He chokes down the poison and loses his sight.

This is the part where you, as the reader, flip through the remaining pages and see how much of this abortion of a story remains. If he dies there can't be so much left to tell. You read on to ascertain his vitality and discover you are right. He arrives home on a train in a wheelchair and a head wrap. His bride carts him home and tends to all his wounds. As is the case with most true love he's healed by acts inexplicable. His vision's restored and his sutures work their weave. As soon as he's well he requests his redeployment. She begs him not to go, but his comrades are in need. With renewed determination he flails through stark engagements. Knowing that his second chance at going home rides upon the outcome of the war he maneuvers like a madman driven only by passion. There are no medals given, but his peers see his courage. At night he pulls shrapnel from his flesh with hot tongs like a child yanks splinters when leaving the playground. When the soldiers still standing at armistice march home our specimen carries an added distinction-- the letters of the fallen are entrusted to him. For weeks he recites accounts of bravery that may or may not have happened to ease the weary hearts of widows and ex-parents. It's one more price to pay before settling into his earned life next to his beloved. And finally, after the dust from the War to End All Wars has settled, he does just that.

If I were telling this story properly I'd spend time on their home life at this juncture; how they nurtured what other couples craved; what their routine consisted of and what they planned on naming their children; but I can't, and I won't, since this is a mere mockery. There's no point in polishing a self-proclaimed dud. It happened as it does in a movie montage. This tired observer won't bore you with facts. There is only one detail that's key to this telling: she sold off her ring to help pay the tax man when the war was still raging and money was scarce. His usual offer to ladies in waiting was spurned and cursed for the sin that it was.

If there would be dialogue anywhere in this nightmare I'd bet that it's here that the author would need it to make it believable. The man who survived the horrors of war can't bear that bare finger on his wife's fair left hand. A new band will cost him more than his budget will ever allow with the post-war economy. He abandons his craft, whatever that is, and takes up a job laying slate roof tiles. It's backbreaking work hauling stone up ladders, spreading slats around chimneys, kneeling for hours on end-- but it pays accordingly. "Blood money", some call it, though he's seen too much of that crimson liquid spilled to throw such terms around. This was when a stranger could tell your trade by the way that your body deformed over time; sunset to dusk, crawling on shale, hands cut from edges the grindsman neglected. It was no surprise when he rolled from the rooftop that Saturday morning. These things happen after months without rest. She ran to his side as soon as she heard, but the doctor had already closed the man's eyelids.

What they didn't know, since autopsy was neither performed nor what it is today, is that exhaustion played no part in his demise. The young man's heart was fine until that shard of steel made impact. A tiny metal sliver in his knee from a shrapnel wound of yore had been pushed a little deeper every time he knelt at work. Eventually it pressed its way into the nearest vein. It didn't take long to reach his heart from there. It was in the name of love that this roofer met his Maker. There can be no greater honor. There can be no bigger fool.

And that's where it would end should I decide to write it. Hopefully now you can see why I'll refrain.

Ancestral Mythology

"Those were my father's,"
my dad soberly states as he notices
the ancient box of bullets
sitting on the front seat of my truck.
I found them while sorting through
some musty bits of leather, steel, and wood
he passed down to me recently.
I've brought the .30-30 cartridges
to give to a friend I may see later
who owns a rifle in that caliber.
There's no sense in hording
what you don't have.

"Winchester Silvertips--
Like he was hunting vampires."
He smiles at his own joke
as the best of us learn to do
and invites me in to the warmth
of his home.

Neither of us say it, but I'm sure
we're wondering the same
as we climb the snow-covered steps:

Do we ever really kill the monsters
lurking in our forests
or do they get bequeathed
like a beat-up box of shells?

Waxing Nostalgic

We were liquored up
best friends
or so it seemed
wasting a perfectly good Thursday
on my couch.
It's unclear how it came up
but it did--
What if one of us should be departed?
(One of us being me, of course.)
There were already thousands invested.

I brought out a sheet of paper
and an envelope, pulled a pen
from my pocket
neatly printed the safe's combination
and scribbled a sentence
asking him to sell off my collection.
"You keep one, give the rest
of the money to my mother."
I signed it with a rummy's hand.
He vowed to oblige, a tear in his beer
and the hacked legal document
was sealed and passed over.

Well, I've changed the code since then
and I haven't seen that kid in two years.
Won't even return my calls.
They're funny, the promises we make
to each other, well aware that
most of them will melt with the ice cubes.

Something tells me man's end won't be by fire.
It will be far friendlier than that.
You'll see.

Familiar Saboteur

The witching hour kills
like a day of closed curtains.
There were words gone wasted--
a writer's pet peeve.

Forced to recite
the same script at gunpoint
until stale lungs
knew the syllables' rhythm.
Marinate in shame
behind enemy lines
where they won't be permitted;
where the blood has congealed.

These chords were stolen
from a man who played better.
This is a song about swinging a noose.

Bear Mt.

"Don't over-tighten them,"
I bid my father
as he tugs at the kid's laces
like it could bring his parents back to life.
Tactfully, I leave out the implied
"...like you did to mine,"
for the sake of letting him
have his second go at it
unfettered, unheckled
unchecked by the truth.

My brother's no better
at walking on knives than I was
at his age
and the ice poses a problem
for both of us.
The knack has lost my legs
and I sneer at the memory
of skating backwards.
It's not like riding a bike.
There's a window of time that closes.
Youth is squandered on the young.
I take a lap around
gaining my bearings enough
to be able to safely steer a three-year-old.

My father and I each reach down
for one of his tiny, gloved hands.
It's a sight to behold, two men and a boy.
Not one of us seems too familiar.
The kid's got it the worst.
Under the ridiculous helmet
his mother picked up
his wool hat is creeping down
over his eyes.
Our dad tries to adjust it
but I intervene with servant's hands
more nimble and precise
though just as sincere.
"He can't skate if he can't see."
"Sorry," the fumbling sexagenarian
apologizes unneededly.
The shaky legged trio manages a pass
around the rink, no innocents taken out
in the process. I can feel the eyes upon us.
I'm jealous that the other two can't.

When it happens I let it.
Falling is inevitable.
My left arm takes most of the weight
so he lands painlessly on the ice.
The pout he shoots up at me
describes the pain of his pride
not his body.
I maintain my composure
ignoring his Oscar-worthy disdain
and gently grip his hands.
"Use your legs. You can do it,"
and he does.

Getting back up runs in the blood.
Getting back up is what matters.
If he learns that now we've won.

Wine, Whiskey, and Several Thousand Shells

Tether your dark
should you want to keep
her fair complexion.

Who needs different grays
when you shit one shade of black?
Maybe it goes back
to the things you've claimed unwanted.

You type since no one listens.
All you've ever sought was home.

Garnished Beloved

The sweat's still drying
in the denim of my shirt
from a day of wrestling sinks
and toilets and tubs.
I'm waiting on a makeshift bench
at the only flower shop I trust
since it's run by Asians
and they focus on detail.
They killed us in poetry
("Keep your heart small")
numbers, now cars--
even invented gunpowder
so we'd blow ourselves up.

Some poor slob
in a Tee three sizes too tight
is pacing near the counter
a look of remorse plastered
to his droopy mug.
We never make eye contact
though not by my volition.
There's a song on the radio
that I'd comment on
if the ice was properly broken.
It isn't. He's too buried in shame
to notice my expression.

"You'll be forgiven," the fine
young female florist says
as she brings his bouquet
to the register.
He doesn't respond, merely hands
her his card
to pay for his flower-bought penance.

The sight's too sore for blue collar eyes
so I gaze passed the tips of my outstretched boots
at the indoor pond they've had here for years.
Moss grows on the fountain
and the goldfish sprout cancer.
Some saps along the way
have mistaken it for a wishing well.
I look to join their folly
and fumble through my left pocket
but no change jingles.
All I feel are keys
half of which go to locks
I've long forgotten
thank God.

The fake carp mouth their understanding
in my general direction.
No need for luck.
We'll wing it
as we always have.

That boor who beefed up
slinks toward the door.
I suck in my dogs
so he can get by.
Part of me wants
to tell him the truth
but it won't mean a lick
if it's not learned by fire.

If you win
say nothing.
If you lose
say less.

"Tulips," I tell the florist
as I rise to be helped.
"Tulips are her favorite."

Sushi On Saint Mark's

To wake from Freudian nightmares
too symbolic to repeat
to a message from the only one
whose scent you still remember
is Divinest intervention
or perhaps Old Scratch's act.
I pray whatever ends it
sneaks up quietly at least.

Amendment

The man who tried to add this part
was never read again:

"They begged to pry that cross
from Him
along that desert street."

Ad Hoc Safewords

I'm no Creationist
though the facts stand

that you can't make something
out of nothing;

that your grandfather's flag
means less folded;

that the cowgirls are gone
but forgive you in your dreams.

No expectations
yield no disappointments.

I never, in clear conscience
could've named someone Olivia.

Indian Giver

Words like 'maidenhead'
never passing through your lips
you wonder--
Who will scratch the itch
that's been dealt
and firmed and seeded?

Answer:
The man in red and black
who gives out rings like candy.

He'll defend his lady's honor
even in her absent evenings.
He remembers what was on her
in the morning when she's bare.

There can only be redemption
once you've fallen through the filter.
Save it up for days, oh stubborn
human driftwood.


Currently reading:
"Fifty Shades of Grey" by E.L. James.

Dysfunction

"She can be as lithe
as liquid
or like a boa's grip.
I can't finish
if not in it,"
and by that he meant his heart.

The best confession's over cocktails.
We let him ramble on all night.
When he left we changed the subject
damn well knowing he was right.

Faux Politico

The hero hangs there bleeding.
The room is dim, a light bulb flickers.
His hands are bound with razor wire.
He wishes they'd fall off.
His toes are already gone.
They didn't fall.
They were harvested.

Two chatting lovebirds enter.
Each draws a knife.
Each takes a slice.
One cuts left, the other cuts right.
There are hundreds of lacerations.
It's been going on for days.
None seem to show remorse.
Neither of these two hesitate.
They wipe their blades, sheath them.
Their conversation takes them to the hall.
The hero groans pathetically.
Dark blood oozes down his ribcage.
Mercy died with God.

Words he thought he'd never fear:
"It's time for your transfusion."
Three medics wheel the IVs in.
Veins are stabbed haphazardly.
The art of needling's lost.
They pump him with more fluids.
It seeps from spots he's taken steel.
It seeps from everywhere.

A drain below catches crimson rivulets.
The tile floor is slick.
One of his prodders almost slips, curses.
When they're gone the sprinkler opens.
It washes down the red.
The grout lines are a scarlet grid.
The tile's white again.

There is Freedom in the plumbing.
There are Rights in jars on shelves.
There are those who'd let the strangers cut.
I'd rather arm myself.

Cristóbal Colón y San Salvador

The cabinet held medicine
that did him little good
until a victory came silently
with a swing upon its hinge.
There amongst his toiletries
laid a toothbrush not his own
brought and used and left--
the implications lovely.

Somehow, Regardless, They Always Grow Up

You pull into a driveway lined with stones he stole from a demolished institution. Exotic ornamental trees in dire need of pruning attempt to draw your attention away from the heaving pavement and its unsuccessful disguise made of tar. An ancient pine frowns down at you from the confines of the front eighth-acre. He tried donating it to the Rockefeller Center for use as a Christmas tree one year, but even they didn't want it. Such is the way.

As you approach the crumbling concrete steps you can't help but notice the sun-faded blue tarp draped over the garage. When its roof caved in that's all he could muster. There, in the moldy darkness, rust hundreds of tools that he never learned to use. We curse our fathers for what they didn't teach us. We fumble our ways through precious lost years.

The first room you'll enter is laden with cedar; a Florida room they call it, though it's anything but tropical. The kid's got his toys rightfully strewn about as his predecessor once did. It's a great room to play in, even with its leaking skylights. The wood's grain is warped, its color tinged dark. His early addition's a lesson in acceptance. We'll leave this room now. There are too many windows.

Linoleum so hideous it shames its creators clings to the floor of his out-of-date kitchen. Its plumbing, at best, is like an old ship's. There wasn't a way to heat food sans the stove until last month when his son gave a gift in the form of a microwave found in his closet.

A new wife convinced him to rip up the carpets. They were matted and tattered. They'd been soaked through with humans. Lo and behold there was hardwood beneath. A mother's intuition may have sniffed out the wax. It won't matter long. The dogs' nails are sharp. Some living rooms do a lion's share of living. It's best to forget most memories there.

Cast iron baseboard surrounds the circumference. It's the Cadillac of heat, though the main floor was barren without their knowing for years. That zone's pump had failed them. No hot water moved. Circulation was halted while the boiler cranked-- and then that same son. There's a tally somewhere in an odd drawer in Heaven. There's a list of the deeds we never should mention for claiming their worth negates any merit. How does one go through a life with such discipline? It seems a waste to fear being mortal.

There's only one bathroom. That never would fly for a four-bedroom house built in today's age of modern convenience, or even by the standards of four decades ago. Extra space abounds where its three owners aren't. They take turns. They share. It's a novel idea.

And in my favorite place, the basement, the wood-stove's still warm. The smell of charred timber mixes with mildew that no amount of heat could remove from the rug or the walls or the layers of my brain cells. That basement floods easily. There's no ark in sight. They'll all be okay. They're watched by a hawk.

Less Obvious Vermeers

You boil a bone
and sell it as soup.
The furniture's nice.
Let's wrap it in plastic.

Some kid calls, drunk
to play-act the friend
but I know better--
mine died in the war.

I swore that this time
I'd be second to say it
though saving it up
is for misers and men.

There's something about
getting caught lighting candles
that ruins the mood
you were trying to set.

Lest We Forget

I savor days like this
when the fog engulfs Mount Beacon
making plain the view from all three
of my eastward facing windows.
The church's rotting steeple
seems the zenith of the landscape.
A conjured crow appears
and pecks at rooftop puddles.

It reminds me that perception
is often not the truth
and the folly built by man
is the altar of the damned.

The cars splash by on Main Street.
The buildings strive to climb.
But that mountain, sneezed by God
will be there again tomorrow.

Coronary Lassitude

Keep your nose clean, Corporal.
No one here is prone to jump
claiming "I am Spartacus,"
as we're circled in this valley.

A romantic hates to say it
but the realist knows it's true:
We're all born and die alone
with some solitude between.

No one cares for your Green Gables.
We're all capable of painting.
The purest here among us
hid little with the brush.

There's a hawk perched
near the off-ramp.
Addictions all catch up.
"Pry your hands off the merchandise,"
a decent sport would say.

The Ebb

The Ambassador is leaving
and with him
voice of reason.
Who will stop
the tourist
from falling into
gaps and grapes?
There will be exchange
of platitudes
some sacrosanct cliche
and a bottle tipped
toward ceiling fan
in the name of work undone.

A few months back
they found a corpse
by the tracks a mile south--
twenty-five with no regrets
'cept for unread stacks of books.

One can hear the snap
crisp and clean
like a glass rod
used for stirring highballs
or a more formal concoction.
Most choose to ignore it.

I was lucky.
Mine would knock.

Romanza

When the taxes are paid
and the hatchets are buried
and all the wrong reasons
are finally set straight
I'll be driving some highway
when there from my right
she'll pass a lit cigarette
(though we're trying to quit).

The Hessians

The trout were biting
well into dark.
My brother ran around
with our father's flashlight.
The lake took our blind casts
with the familiar grace
that makes even the slow nights
well worth the trip.
When our fingers
couldn't bait the hooks
we wrapped up
poles and buckets.

I carried him across
the field back to where
we'd parked.
My hands pressed his thighs down
against my shoulders
like my dad used to do for me
when I was too tired to walk
as a kid.

His tiny hands gripped mine
releasing their hold as his snoring began
there atop my head.
Somehow, despite the bounce
he managed to fall asleep.
"Do you have him?" Dad asks
as we haul gear to our vehicles.
I assure him of the ease.
Pleased with himself
and the fruit he's yielded
he sings that 60s chorus
"He ain't heavy, he's my brother,"
in his off-key voice
I missed for half a decade.
Behind him I smile
over what'd make some cringe.

Later on, after tucking in the boy
the two of us split an entire
carton of ice cream.
He tosses its remains in the can outside
to get rid of the evidence
before the Powers That Be
can arrive home from the night shift
to discover our decadent indulgence.
It was his idea.
I only complied.
And I'd do it a thousand times over
if given the blessed chance.

Most folks only
get to live through one childhood.
I pity them.

Forgotten Wisconsin

When her hand reached
to answer
he was sweating there
mid-stride
wondering recipients
of a pleasure
doled by nature.

"Hello?" she coyly asked
while muffling short breaths
a furrowed brow above
eyes locked into passion.

At first his string was shortened
by apparent lack of interest
until he smelled intentions
of a heightened play with risk.

She nodded in agreement
with her unaware inquisitor
simultaneously signaling
her lover's ardent steam.

The two continued knocking
at their small back door to Heaven.
One entered the palace.
The other followed soon.

Somewhere in the offing
a caller ends confused
as to why those yelped responses
seemed to have a steep crescendo.

Slaughter At Jericho Hill

The State Department
regrets to inform
you
that it didn't matter

that he was loaded for bear
when the bombardment commenced

or waited 'til he saw the whites
of their eyes

or rationed his ammo
when the cavalry came
too late.

A hat clung to his brow
when they found him.
His heart was in his throat.
And the brass horn
he almost mastered
will be shipped
after polishing
to join this flag.

Vote Turner.

Graphic Novels Are Glorified Comics

There are gains
for which blind men fight--
a vessel large enough
to hold what's been seeping
from seams--

and in the meantime
deaf warriors write
to keep their hearts from sleeping;
to vitalize their dreams.

If they will
or if they may;
if they huddle up
like blood clots;
there shall be
a note resounding.
It'll echo through
your dark.

Flight Risks, Other Than Crashing

I've been seeing eagles
while working on the river.
I suppose that may sound funny.
Most rivers work on me.

There's a lion's share
of tiger's blood
within the disco inferno.
Valor trumps discretion.
The drawing board's redundant.

Mother was right:
No wonder they run.
Sir, may I offer suggestions?

Leave this town.
Never look back.
There's a pregnancy test
in the trash can.

You Deserve the Love You Don't Expect

Studies have shown
that the bayonet
has always been
a useless tool
in battle
as human beings
have a hard time
with the physical act
of stabbing
and will use the blunt end
of a rifle butt
to bludgeon an adversary
before prodding his torso
with a muzzle-fixed blade.

Vanity Plates

A blizzard.
A truck.
A mem'ry of two drivers
crazy enough to venture
where their parents warned
of wrecks.

Unhanded wheels and trust
too easy to pretend.

A road trip.
A border.
A photo turned to painting
but never quite completed
before the altered lease.

That immortal laugh
too evil to appease.

He still drives in shitty weather
when it's worth it, only slower.
She can thank his guilty conscience
for the breaths she takes with ease.
There are some mistakes you learn from--
Rattled cages sworn for sabers.
That dreadful thing that drives you--
Never pry it from your sleeve.


Currently reading:
"Journal of a Novel: The 'East of Eden' Letters" by John Steinbeck.

Necessary Nativity Evils

It's a rare thing for Marty Guilfoyle to catch a break so close to Christmas. Usually it's unpaid bills, expensive gifts on installment, a whispered suicide too far removed to matter. When his foreman rings the bell hours ahead of schedule on Christmas Eve without saying a word, the men on the production floor don't ask questions. Factory work is hard-- harder with a boss who only speaks to kick your shins-- so every little drop of humanizing grace is savored. The day shift punches out in a huddle with talk of pungent eggnog, women too weary from chasing excited children to put up a fight, and sanctified gifts of matrimony that only come on special occasions after the honeymoon's faded. Most of them are lying. They'll sleep as unsatisfied as ever. A wise man once warned Marty not to marry for love, but for friendship. Love will recede with beauty over time. A companion of the truest form will be there when you wake without teeth in the morning someday. That same sage went mad years later. They said it was work-related, but Marty knew better. There are thousands of ways a man can make money, but far fewer means of rationalizing the race. Something told Marty the catalyst had a name and a face, a way of pinching the outside corners of her eyes when she smiled. He thinks of what she might smell like in the morning as he lets his coworkers clock out ahead of him to embark on their hopeful homeward dash.

Marty's trek is not a long one. When he and Ethel picked a place to call their own he made it a point to keep it close to the living, breathing building where he slaves for minimum wage and partial benefits. Even on his days off he can hear the whistle that punctuates the beginning and end of lunch break. Ethel has always criticized him for his inability to expand his horizons. This year he's hoping to make up for his simplicity with the boxed and wrapped necklace he's clutching in the pocket of his heavy overcoat with threadbare elbows. After last year's mistaken gift of a kitchen appliance he swore he'd never fall short in the present department again. Ethel never once made waffles, before or after that doomed twenty-fifth.

A headline jumps out at him from the remnants of a tattered newspaper decomposing in the gutter. The Communists are taking over in a land too far east for him to fathom. Marty could never comprehend how a foreigner's chosen system of government could affect his daily living or justify sudden absences in positions once held by young men at his factory. That was another point of contention for Ethel-- a prime example of his naivete that kept her crawling up the walls. The concept of a Cold War escaped Marty's narrow thinking. If anything, he sometimes joked to himself, the term should be used to describe love after forty.

When he climbs the steps to his apartment a chill comes over his shoulders like a cold breath from above. Something doesn't feel right. The hallway seems too quiet. There are no squeals of merry children sneaking under loosely fitting doors. Without noticing it he clings harder to the small package in his pocket that cost him three-weeks' pay. Ethel's taste is specific. He hopes he's gotten it pinned this time. A strange unfamiliarity descends as he reaches for the lock with his battered brass key. The knob turns, but the door is caught by the chain. Ethel never uses that added means of safety and laughs at Marty's paranoia when he secures it before bed. No lights or sounds come from the gap revealing his slice of rehearsed Heaven. Marty looks down and sees a pair of boots he doesn't recognize on the uneven hardwood floor. Instantly he knows; he knows and doesn't want to.

"Just as well," he whispers to the peeling paint of Apartment 4B's entrance. With a loveless toss the perfectly wrapped jewelry box lands in the Stranger's left boot, a penance paid for having come home too early for the motions to continue. There's an opportunity for overtime on the aptly named Bachelor's Shift that appeals to the place where Marty's heartache should reside. A man, if given the chance, will gracefully go gray. He hurries down the stairwell hoping not to hear the whistle that designates beginnings of the shift and his new life. Saint Nick and the Communists aren't the only coming red-clad men.

Reading, Writhing, Rhythm Tic

Not that it alters
the story for most
but I was jewelry shopping
when I saw him
this time.
Unlike the last
I reintroduced myself
eighteen years after
his heart taught my mind.

"Last name?" he asked
to filter out thousands
of others he helped
through the system for years.
A warm recognition
came when it hit him.
He shook with his left--
his right on a cane--
proof that we've both
had our battles since then.

There wasn't the shame
there had been before.
Success is not something
one mounts to a wall.
And still, like in grade school
the pages hold answers.
He nurtured a searcher
who's still on the trail.

Contingency Plan

From my 10:03 window
on Christmas Eve morning
a bouncing squirrel stops
to drink from the edge
of a frozen puddle
formed on the rubber
of the roof next-door
by the faulty pitch
of a day-laborer
who cared not
if the rain
made it to the gutter.

By the time I return
from typing this
it's gone in search
of the next small break
waiting in a frozen world.
I crack my last three eggs
over a warming pan
grateful that none of my parents
kept a room for me
when I fell from the nest.

It took two weeks
to remember the name
of the last girl I dated
after she split.
They may all be flight risks.
I'll go unchanged.
Unshadowed convictions
won't douse my flame.
There's a reckoning with irony
that I'll live to see.

Two Is One and One Is None

She's been sick
for the last two days
with the hacking
fevered congestion
that only falls
upon the undeserving.
After working
with her husband
I swing by the diner
that makes her favorite
matzoh ball soup
and drop it off
at her condo;
two orders
in case she wants to share
or savor it.

Her first of three husbands
was Jewish and this kosher spin
on comfort food
is all she can stomach
when ill
to this day.

"How'd you know
I wanted that?"
she asks from
the top of the stairs
pretending that her son
doesn't know his creator.

One day I'll find my secret comfort
maybe someone to discover it
and when I give them both up
I'll know what it is to love.

The Sirens of Pompeii

Was it karma
catching fire?,
or a show
of beating flesh?

A white cat
on its tenth life
darts from the alley
while I smoke
thinking
Maybe this is what
good luck looks like--
a drawer full of anagrams
palindromes
what have you.

And I will help you hang
your pictures
since you've helped me
rip some down.
Only Christ could dangle
mercifully.
The rest all longed for blood.

We've Got a Live One Here

If you can dish it
darling
bet that I can take it.
I've done my time
and know that mine
has always served a purpose.

The way you lay them on me
when the urge writhes in your flanks
regardless of the sidewalk
has me giving thanks
for the many men who made me
and the women who were wrong
about a twisted minstrel
with a complicated song

and even to the evenings
that start and end like this.
I hear the party on the street.
It's nothing that I miss.

If you can stand it
sweetie
I'd like to lick your soul.
"Wolf!" cried boy
and every toy
he ever had was worthless.

Oxford Comma

It's a rare real conversation
with a man I love
who made himself scarce
for years.
The wife's gone to work.
The kid's asleep under my arm.
The steak dinner and stars have aligned
to allow two kindred ships
to pass closer in their darkness.

He lets me lead for a change, smiles
knowingly when my hits score points.
I can tell he's surprised to hear sage words
come from the lips he passed down, a soul
he helped form whether or not it was intended.
"Like your father used to say, 'There's a little larceny
in everyone's heart'," I jab with a ringer.
His eyes gleam at the familiar advice
heard from a freshman he told ten years ago.
He shouldn't be so shocked that I've cited
a kinsman who died before I was born.
A writer, if nothing else, is a keen observer.

The years have been kind to him, at least
on the outside. Time has smoothed his face
like driftwood. There are no deep ridges
like windtorn valleys digging through
his aging countenance. And still the eyes--
always the eyes, the deep brown orbs
that reach as far inside of him as mine do in me.
A yellow glow warms the living room
where part of me grew up
as I cherish every word exchanged
not knowing when the last will come.
One never does.
He must read my mind.
The eyes again.

"God forbid anything should happen to me..."
he begins, his hands rubbing themselves
as if to feel for some latent illness
waiting to rear its head.
I nod and stroke my brother's arm
loose with the peace of dreamscapes.
Life's not worth the burden
until it's lived for someone else.
Torpedoes be damned, I have that now.

We wander back to the baffling
doled out by the fairer sex.
Years' worth of failed coronary experiments
are summed up in a matter of minutes.
One of them even gets a name.
I owe him that much, one character
in my tale. Some things, however
I keep for myself.
Only I know of the clandestinely acquired
ring sizes, the accidental misgivings, and
what they all mean to the penitent.

There's only one left to chamber
so I fire it
confident that my bullet will pierce.
"It's hard for a drowning man
to grab a buoy slowly."

My father picks my brother up
and carries him to his bedroom.

Save the Date

It's nailed to my refrigerator--
a constant thin reminder
of the chances that exist
regardless of the sand.

There's a formal one to follow
this embrace in black and white
with its swooping cursive letters
that sing of my friend's fate.

Ten months stand between us--
ample time for suits and gifts
perhaps a Plus-One venture
if the pendulum swings true

though that's not what it's about.
Selfless joy lays like a rug
in most people who've forgotten
what the Good Book vows on love.

From the Latin

The only one that matters
if the Editor should ask
is the group of honest stanzas
that had to be released
despite the burning redness
which the doctors couldn't cure
in these eyes that soak too much
of what's right and wrong and real.

There should always be a price
that is paid for making waves.
If the penman's heart's not in it
there's no blood left on the page.
When the feet-thick, dusty manuscript
is laid at Peter's toes
there won't be time for repentance
since offending parties know.

It's not so much the weather
that has him wearing sweaters.
If the Editor should ask
it was in the name of science.

Ode From a Morbid Whore

Jesus Christ
that little jump they do
when squeezing jeans on...
I'd give my
oh-uh-uh-uh--
I lost it in my ankles.
To think
not once
but thousands
of bygone better times
I've witnessed such communion
and lived to humbly miss it.
These catatonic rods and cones
may never see again
so hold the line
and keep the faith
for sins of omission
prove equally mortal.

All points east are out of bounds
for a noose-burnt harrier on the prowl
though it's just as well
he has his limits
that his tether snapped.
The denizens of sea-faring towns
and those who build the world
are skilled in the realm of tying knots.
But me?
I've lashed my hands.

In the words of a better man:
"There'll be water if God wills it."

This is the strangest lick of love
the likes of me will pen
as all fingers are left out
along with senseless questions.
Sometimes, though rarely
the best man wins
but when a loser gets lucky
he'll only break toes
for kicking the curb
when out it runs
like the ink
like the blood
like the time in our lives.

The Soiled Misadventures of Johnny Rap-Sheet and the Skid-Mark Kid

Cruising passed a Red Lobster
I think of my conception:
a waitress, a lecher, some gin--
It doesn't take much.
"They broke the mold, alright,"
says the Happy Accident never.

How Spartan of him.
He's smitten with a franchise.

I could get used to this
firm water pressure
if only her eyes could
pierce like the weather

but for now it's back to the rules:
-No sex in the champagne room.
-No guns on the coffee table.
-Please turn down the music
while this party is bleached.

They've exhumed corpses
and found claw marks
in the caskets.
How much more real
do you expect it to be?


Currently reading:
"East of Eden" by John Steinbeck.

Bombardier's Eyes

The scene's two pickled cowboys
at ungodly three a.m.
thumbing through the pages
looking for the lines
while trying to succeed
in the remnants of a city
where public transportation
still has the right of way.

"Pass the pen, I found it!"
my conspirator exclaims
prior to reciting
a bit on shameless death.
It feels so right
to share our prayers
regardless of our state
since a jester lacking audience
is more or less a fool.

To love is to surrender
and reality's perception
so even if they take this night
I've had it, I don't mind.
It all flows back
to the same old bit--
they don't want
what we can't give.
We whip them off their pedestals
and strap our six-guns tight.

I'm often not at liberty
to share my true adventures
but this one made it all worth
coming home to face my sheets.
There's nothing like a friend
from smoother trails who's seen your
stumble and still reserves a spot
on your couch when back in town.

Road Soda

I can drink you under tables
and remember the whole evening.
I can perch a house of cards
on the backs of sleeping demons.
I can build you up
and tear you down
all with the same tongue.
I can paint a pretty picture
with an ugly set of crayons.

I can tell what that long thumbnail's for
and it isn't turning pages.
I can thread your little needle
and sew what needs my string.
I can start off on the bottom
and still come out on top.
I can throw a fool's Hail Mary
on a whim to win the game.

But there's something
in my eyes
that warns them
all's not right
as I slice my way
into imperfect wombs
and wait for morning.
The better sex is with
the girls with poorly placed tattoos
but they tend to count my scars
while I'm still adding blessings.


Currently reading:
"The Dangerous Summer" by Ernest Hemingway.

Pavo Flaco

"Maybe your cousin will offer you a turkey carcass the day after Thanksgiving," my mother quips. It's a reference to an old inside joke. My grandmother pretended to be thankful for the sad remains of a turkey delivered so rudely by one of her many granddaughters years back. "You could make a soup out of it," was the accompanying phrase, though being invited to the feast in the first place would've been preferred. Good old grandma smiled thankfully and waited until her company left to throw the skin and bones into the trash can. It was an instance the three of us would laugh about whenever poultry came up back when there were still three of us.

"One can only hope..." I type from the safety of my cell's keypad in response. It dawns on me that this will be our first holiday without her. It must be breaking my mom's heart, too. Neither of us mention it, but we know. A mother and her only son always know without saying.

I stop what I'm doing at the time, which doesn't amount to much, to think of what I'm thankful for this year: a new brother, an old father, and the beautiful life and gracious death of the woman who taught me the most about love. Suddenly it's not so bad; lonely still, but not so bad. There are people who will need me around a bit longer. There are promises I've made to photographs on shelves.

I go back to painting the mask I'll wear tomorrow when meeting my father's in-laws and hope for, among other things, the paint to dry in time.


Currently reading:
"The Selected Poems of Robert Creeley".

Water Cooler Talk From a Far Away Place

"Hey. Did you hear about Chuck from the mail room?" asked Dante as he stirred sugar into his coffee, his hand as dark as the cup's contents.

"No, what happened now?" Lamar replied, tightening the knot in his tie with the help of the mirror mounted over the kitchenette sink.

"He chased his girlfriend through their trailer park with a butcher knife and was arrested." Dante drew a sip of his brew, inserting a perfectly timed pause for dramatic effect, then continued. "The company let him go this morning when the newspaper hit certain desks." His voice was that of disappointment thinly veiled by false pity.

"That's the second honky we've fired this month 'cause of this type of shit," Lamar whispered scandalously.

"Oh, don't sound so disappointed," Dante accused in his booming baritone. "These people are their own worst enemies. White-on-white crime is higher than it's ever been. My wife wants to sell the house because of the recent influx of crackers."

Both black gentlemen looked around the break room to establish that it was safe to continue speaking freely. Such language wasn't encouraged by corporate. When the walls were real instead of cubicles the truth often came out. There had to be a time to vent. Being an equal opportunity employer was one thing, but to condone such a lifestyle for the sake of contrived fairness seemed insane. What company could afford such folly?

"Be easy, brother. Don't go throwing your bigotry around here. I have a lot of white friends."

"And by that you mean you want to pound out Charlene, that dainty little butter bean that winks at you while she pushes her broom down the hallway. If her body was any straighter they'd have Hank in maintenance run the flag up it every morning instead of the pole out front. Jesus, Lamar. I'm no racist, but statistics don't lie. And don't you remember how close they came to costing us that labor contract with the Christmas party fiasco?"

Lamar tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile before answering.

"It's not their fault they can't dance, Dante. Not everyone is born with rhythm. The playing field's not level."

"Listen to you, man. You sound like a bleeding-heart liberal or something. They shouldn't have taken such full advantage of the open bar if they knew it would get ugly. Those people can't resist their Pabst Blue Ribbon, though. They almost ruined it for all of us. Thankfully Jamal understands that they can't help themselves-- a little too much, if you ask me. The only reason he promoted Scott was because..."

"Now you stop right there," Lamar interjected. "Scott and I went to high school together. He was always one of the good ones. In gym class he didn't even bother trying to shoot the ball, he'd pass it right to one of us who could sink a basket. That's being a team player, and it's a trait that's carried on into his career. Scott deserved that raise whether you like it or not."

Lamar flicked his wrist toward the floor in a tic that only showed itself when he needed to make a point. The heavy links of his gold watch jumped and landed again, their settling sound punctuating his statement.

"Try telling that to my kids when they're ready for college. Lord knows I can't afford to send all of them to private schools. At least one may have to go to a state university, unless they get scholarships. Do you know how hard it is for black kids to get scholarships in this day and age? It seems if a white boy can spell his name right some government agency wants to throw our hard-earned tax dollars his way to send him off for a degree he'll never use. Two semesters go by and he's right back on the streets selling meth anyway, only now with a little more chemistry experience for his crank-cooking activities courtesy of hard-working Niggas like you and me. Doesn't it turn ya' muhfuckin' stomach?"

A new presence was felt in the room, but Dante was not to be slowed.

"And the way they can't pry themselves from their damn televisions Sunday night, and then be talkin' 'bout that shit all Monday. Or if they lazy asses finally figure out how to cook sumpin' decent and feel the need to take pictures of it to show all they friends. Or how 'bout when..."

"Excuse me, Mr. Jackson, but I find this conversation quite..."

"Goddammit, Leroy! You get yo' ashy ass up outta here before I beat you upside the haid with that 'Uncle Tom of the Year' trophy the comp'ny gave you."

Lamar shrugged his shoulders at quiet old Leroy Jefferson and turned back to an enraged Dante, who would now be visibly red had there not been so much melanin in his skin. It was all a necessary evil. A man could only take so much before feeling like he was being used by a system that abandoned him decades ago. The country was going down the tubes, partially due to the recent trend of giving hand-outs to people who didn't want to work, some of them being white. It was enough to anger any God-fearing, self-respecting, taxpaying citizen like Dante Jackson. Lamar could sympathize. It was, as Dante often said, enough to drive a Nigga crazy.

An Easy, Late-Night Let-Down

...and she was nowhere near
my ideal woman, the one
who'll someday crack me open
for the final time like an egg
hitting a tile floor, but seemed
to be a real sweet gal for someone else.

"You have perfect teeth," I replied.
"I could never date someone
with perfect teeth."

Thankfully for both of us
I never heard back.

Marrow

I was basking in that precious brand
of warm, mid-Autumn sunshine
with the afternoon's first cigarette
dangling from my lips
as a man, perhaps a vagrant
careened westward down the sidewalk.

He reached into the garbage can
spewing on the corner
and removed a brown beer bottle
that a merrymaker left.
At first I thought the refund
was the gent's intended bounty
until he tipped the bottom up
to suck a stranger's swill.
When the last drop hit his tongue
like the gods' most sacred nectar
he jettisoned the longneck
moving on about his day.
I thought I did the same
until it dawned on me this evening
that he must be out there somewhere
grabbing joy by its thin throat.

I've seen cowardice so blatant
that I've looked for hairless tails
and I've walked by dusty mirrors
and lakes on windless days
but the bravest man I've seen this week
was chasing down a thirst
that no white boy prone to staring
could make him fail to savor.

Cloak and Dagger Tulips Too Soon

"Turn yourself in, Dale," Melanie begged. "You've got too much to lose this time."

She mostly meant herself, and Dale agreed with that assessment, though he couldn't let on that any of it was true. The moment you gave them the satisfaction of having wings you were done. It was an unspoken truth that she'd swooped down and plucked him out of his self-imposed gutter. It would be that much harder to crawl back into it while pretending to stand the stench. Dale didn't fear the law as much as he did what the ramifications could imply for his fate with Melanie. He couldn't believe he'd put that at risk. Even after all the changes he made to prevent himself from losing this chance, the cut ties and deleted numbers, there was still one fact staring him in the face: Dale had a streak of sorts exacerbated by the bottle. It wasn't necessarily a mean one, hence his omission of the word; but it was there. Too much reading of cowboy novels, too many calibers collected like the paper proverb contents of fortune cookies, too long on the trail that almost brought him to that final clearing. Dale had given up on blaming genetics. His father could barely be held responsible for his own actions, let alone those of his wayward progeny. If there was one thing Dale was good at it was simply being Dale. He hoped that would be enough for Melanie. He hoped for a lot of things, but rarely spoke of them sober for fear that mentioning his dreams would scare them away like precious feathers floating on the water in which he'd been treading for years.

"I can't, sweetheart. Not yet."

The pained look of disappointment on her face at the sound of his refusal cut his soul to its stubborn bone. How could he say no to the one woman graceful enough to love the likes of him so completely? It made him want to bury himself in that foul trench from which he'd been rescued. Men of his staggering gait deserved every bit of karmic justice which came their way. Dale felt sick at the thought of what that meant for his hand. It'd been Aces and Eights for far too long. A few pair of Queens came and went along the shuffle, a Suicide King adding blood to the mix. It was his turn to call and watch that black-hooded villain read 'em and weep. Sore knuckles and a barely blackened eye were saying otherwise, however. "Don't think I've come out of this unscathed," one of those Queens had slung at him during a textbook farewell speech. He supposed the same held true for brawling. Winners and losers-- they all walked away with a trifling bit of a limp.

Her eyes never met his, but he felt just as guilty. "It's about time I wash this blood off of me," he said, changing the subject to one equally scandalous. Most of it was not his, not that he mentioned that to Molly. Saying so would have made him sound barbaric, a gloating sadist glad to have inflicted pain. That was not the case. It was merely a fact. He had delivered more blows, and to the face. Not unscathed, though not as worse for the wear as his dance partner.

Dale excused himself to the bathroom. He wiped gingerly, his reddened knuckles resisting certain angles, then took a plunger to the ever-clogging toilet after relieving himself. He'd miss the faulty plumbing if the plan didn't pan out so graciously. Through the hollow bathroom wall he heard his neighbor playing an electric guitar. Something soothing, clean, arpeggiated. He'd miss that, too. Everyone should share at least one wall with a musician, Dale thought as he loosened the shower handles. Warm water came down from the head in giant beads that seemed to find more sore spots than he realized existed. He winced as he scrubbed and he rinsed. Not enough dirt swirled down the drain.

A combination of the warm stinging sensation and the rhythm of the water had him hypnotized as he stared at his toes in the controlled deluge. That's when the lights cut out. They've killed the power, Dale thought, one too many Hollywood shoot-'em-ups swimming through his aching skull. But no SWAT teams burst through any doors or windows to slam him with an arrest warrant after pinning him to the tile floor, naked and ashamed. Instead a thin hand reached through the darkness and drew back the vinyl curtain enough for a lithe female figure to slide in next to the fugitive.

"Room for one more?" Melanie asked as she  wrapped her arms around Dale's torso.

"Always," he said, a grateful desperation in his tone. The legal consultation could wait until Monday. There were larger things at stake than securing a retainer. If and when the time came they'd face the firing squad together; not Dale and his advertised attorney.

There, in the silent assurance promised by an unseen tenderness, the lucky couple made love without the need for intercourse.

No One Can Love a Broken Record

For the first time in my life
"Angie" by the Stones
comes on without me dumping
money in the juke.
After realizing Mick's point
I delete her number--
long overdue, with the rice
in her shoes.

When the barkeep
makes eye contact
I halfway raise my left
while downing the Club
with my right. He's pouring
out more whiskey
as the final chorus ends
with a promise and a pleading piano.

As the ice cubes hit my teeth
I make amends with
a twenty-year-old
who got too cocky
without having the knack.
The cocktail slides my way
as I try to tell the difference
between late Winter
and early Spring.

It's tough when you can't
trust the women
who've let you inside them
and worse when you can't
trust yourself
but we don't have those problems
here, this man serving the drinks and I.
(The waitress called him Mike, poor slob.)
We've trued up ancient sums
and I'm about to pay him, too.

It will be a short drive home.
I tip thirty percent
and feel I got off easy
though honestly, when do I not?


Currently reading:
"The Wind Through the Keyhole" by Stephen King.

Never Tell Me the Odds

It's late and I'm sober
when there's no excuse to be.

I can hear the bricks
of my bedroom walls breathing--
The sound of karma snoring
deep beneath the waves.
"Keep your heart small,"
the rhythmic pulse entreats
though I know nothing
of such travesties
and might yet die
an honest man
if I can stay the course--
Here, for lease, with option to buy
and a lifetime supply of adjectives.

A Marksman On Retainer

The thought of turning cheeks
was more daunting at the time.
Details make the lie
and liars make their deals.
Say what you will
but the kid can take a punch--
A soiled name in circles
and without a bridge to cross.

Starting over's hard
when your fists still write the script.
"A man walks in a bar..."
and proceeds to plead the Fifth.
There behind the oak
is a woman pulling strings.
There's a rhapsody in progress
that'll pass you if you blink.

Behold the Bride Iscariot With Emeralds In Her Eyes

"You don't have to go through with it, Linda," her sister-in-law said sweetly without knowing her breath was wasted. "The family considers you a member. That'll never change." Gail's eyes weren't visible through the telephone wires, but Linda could see them looking up and to the left. She couldn't blame anyone for feeling as they did. The heart wants what the heart wants. Linda had been through enough transformations to know that like math.

"Thanks, Gail," Linda answered, still cringing from the bit about being "considered a member". They made it sound like their kinship was some sort of elitist country club to which she'd been, and would be, an honorable guest regardless of her low-caste bloodline. It was a favor she didn't want from anyone, least of all these stunned Anglo-Saxons scurrying for cover. She slid the pile of forms closer to her and began filling out boxes and blanks, careful not to use any lower-case letters in case Uncle Sam raised his eyebrows. "But I think it's what Paul would've wanted-- for me to be free, to move on and rebuild, without having to think of him every time I sign my name."

A silence fell over both rooms simultaneously despite the dozens of miles between them. Mention of the deceased had brought it back to brass tacks. He'd barely been in the ground for a month, but then again they'd only been married for two anniversaries. Time would always be relative, whether or not these strange people would consider themselves the same. A mass of confusion had muddled the circumstances surrounding his death. A suicide, and with no note; it seemed uncharacteristic of their beloved Paul to react so intensely, and to what? The lack of explanation was unlike him. Paul was more verbose than those around him could tolerate at times. He was the one whose drinks were watered down first at family parties for fear that they'd never end otherwise. Once his lips got rolling it was hard for them to stop. Aside from his verbiage, his passion raised questions. Theirs was a love he'd always been seeking. To give it up so brashly after finally finding solace in the storm made no sense. Passionate, rational, and long-winded:  their son's demise failed to fit with any of these traits for which they'd known him. The abundance of alcohol in his system at the time of autopsy deemed an investigation unwarranted, however. Local police wrote it off as another maudlin drunk's permanent solution to a temporary problem. There was little that loved ones could do to refute this. Statistics, like bedsheets, don't lie.

"Well, as you wish. Let me know if you need anything. Being back there again must be so difficult for--" but Gail fell to sobbing before she could finish. A love nest turned crime scene was what the home had become. Linda had refused to enter it until now even though the last strand of yellow police ribbon had been plucked from the premises weeks ago. Suicide was a crime, but not one that could be tried. Paul would have his Maker as his soul's sole judge. And Linda would have the pieces to collect, though not necessarily by herself.

"I will. I promise. Give your family my love. I really must be going, though," and with sparse goodbyes and verbal curtsies the two women ended what would be their last conversation.

Linda had almost completed her Change of Name paperwork when the telephone rang again. The afternoon had waned to evening without her noticing the change. At first her hand hesitated for fear that it was another ex-in-law, but something in her gut swore otherwise.

"Hello?" she asked from behind a timid veil.

"Are you almost done over there?" came a curt, masculine voice, gruff and sore and soaked with whiskey.

"Yes. I'll be heading out shortly," she sighed, a slight alteration in her tone. "Shall I bring anything special?" Linda knew well what he'd be desiring immediately, particularly after the alcohol, but her pawn in brute's clothing understood that saying so would only cast it farther out of reach. The fairer sex knows how to sell it.

"No, darling. Just you," he said with a schoolboy's sincerity.

"Good. I'll see you soon."

After signing away her brief former self to the sanctioned powers that be, Linda walked around the house turning out the lights. She wouldn't miss that place or the future it could've held for her. The money was now hers, and time. What else could've mattered? She thought nothing of it as she pulled the lamp chain above Paul's desk and left the answers in the dark to be discarded by the real estate agent prior to the showing. There, in the wastepaper basket tucked under the antique roll-top, was a crumpled ball of receipts she'd failed to hide well enough from her groom, as well as the charred remains of a letter scrawled in nervous strokes that ended with "Goodbye".

"How could you?" was her favorite line, a rare succinct sentence from her former lover.

She had a lifetime to reply.

Wayward Waterfall Companions

"Someone call the sawbones!"
and then the Inquisition.
The promise ring has tarnished.
The junkie shoots up Hope.

A mammal cried for Mercy
when the catheter was yanked.
A peasant's face, a Russian's
by candlelight sans icon--
In lieu of further sexcapades
go tell yourself you're owed.

I've ridden this horse
into battle before
and notched my pistols' grips.
Most times the shortest chapter
is the best one in the book.

On Playing the Minefield

What
the Duke
tried in vain
to tell us
with film:

When
fuckbuddies
f
all for you
it's all
over.

("I remember
what's behind
those trusting eyes,"
she said
capping our convo
on Change.)

Judas here
burned
the hottest
flame
he ever held

and envies
his lesbian neighbors.