There was Fudge
who always wore a navy blue blazer
and thick glasses
with his brown hair slicked straight back
looking like a diehard fan of the Chicago Bears.
Cookie was a bit of a mystery
since calling him by that name
guaranteed being chased.
Rumor had it he picked it up
in the slammer
after being slammed one too many times.
I forget what he looks like.
Mickey Mouse was a round man
presumably of mixed blood
the color of Irish coffee
with a frizzy thin moustache
and two tell-tale
puffs of hair on either side of his head
resembling giant black round ears
like the ones they glue to those beanies
at Disney World or Land or both
and I'm pretty sure he had a high-pitched voice.
And then there was the army of angry
African American pear-shaped lesbians
who spoke with potentially beautiful
Southern drawls tainted by inescapable urbanese.
Those were my favorite ones.
Oh
to be young again
having nothing to fear but
being empty handed
when one of these characters
unfit to supervise children
asked to see a hall pass.
6.30.2008
Another one slips past QC.
You don't know an honest day's work
until you've done some plumbing
in a three-foot-high crawl-space.
When you finish your piping and get to emerge
walking erect like the rest of the race
there's an instant flashback to whatever
ignited the sequence of events
that got you into such a fine mess.
You slap your dirty jeans
creating a cloud of dust
that makes you cough
and rub your hands on your sweaty shirt
knowing the grime under the fingernails
will have to be scrubbed out later
in the shower you can't wait to take.
It's a humbling experience that some of us
get to experience on a daily basis
the few fortunate ones receiving a benefit package.
Today, like so many others
I was the lucky winner on The Price is Wrong
though what I'm still paying for is debatable.
My partner and I were moving our tools
and material for the next day's mission
when I noticed a small white sticker
on the box of pipe fittings I was carrying:
"Proudly packed by C. Daly."
No, it couldn't be.
A mind like his wasn't being wasted
in a factory somewhere, not at this stage
in the game that we both chose to play separately.
My one-time best friend and I had our fair share
of fallings out, the last one enduring a few years
but I still wonder what he's up to once in awhile.
I know enough to resist dialing his number
that I still know by heart, unless he's changed it.
We shared our highs and lows, our songs and swigs
sometimes our women, but we differed in opinion on where
to draw the line when it came time to cash in
our karma chips. Our ends couldn't justify his means
for me so I did the hardest thing to do and said
goodbye to my one true peer at the time.
It wasn't me and him against the World
like he'd have everyone believe;
it was him and him against the World, against us all.
That's the way it is in everyone's case
and anyone who can't admit that
still has a long way to go.
But then again, so did he
when I last heard about his state of affairs.
Yeah, maybe that really was him
packing boxes in some dimly lit warehouse.
I did it once. Maybe by some twist of fate
he was serving the same sentence.
Once my co-worker and I reached our destination
I set the cardboard box down
ripping the sticker off and rolling it into a ball.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Wasted talent," I said as I threw
the crumpled sticker into a nearby trash can
pretending to take a shot from the foul line.
"I didn't know you played basketball in school."
"I didn't," I said as he gave me a puzzled look
that I let go unanswered.
We finished moving our stuff and headed
to our cars and long-awaited respective showers
though he often smells like he waits longer than I do.
Before getting into my car the foreman cornered me
and asked me to initial the building we had just completed
on his blueprint of the jobsite so he knew who did what.
The blood red ink of the marker screamed from
the bright white paper reflecting the sunlight:
"M.V."
and then this hypocrite drove home.
until you've done some plumbing
in a three-foot-high crawl-space.
When you finish your piping and get to emerge
walking erect like the rest of the race
there's an instant flashback to whatever
ignited the sequence of events
that got you into such a fine mess.
You slap your dirty jeans
creating a cloud of dust
that makes you cough
and rub your hands on your sweaty shirt
knowing the grime under the fingernails
will have to be scrubbed out later
in the shower you can't wait to take.
It's a humbling experience that some of us
get to experience on a daily basis
the few fortunate ones receiving a benefit package.
Today, like so many others
I was the lucky winner on The Price is Wrong
though what I'm still paying for is debatable.
My partner and I were moving our tools
and material for the next day's mission
when I noticed a small white sticker
on the box of pipe fittings I was carrying:
"Proudly packed by C. Daly."
No, it couldn't be.
A mind like his wasn't being wasted
in a factory somewhere, not at this stage
in the game that we both chose to play separately.
My one-time best friend and I had our fair share
of fallings out, the last one enduring a few years
but I still wonder what he's up to once in awhile.
I know enough to resist dialing his number
that I still know by heart, unless he's changed it.
We shared our highs and lows, our songs and swigs
sometimes our women, but we differed in opinion on where
to draw the line when it came time to cash in
our karma chips. Our ends couldn't justify his means
for me so I did the hardest thing to do and said
goodbye to my one true peer at the time.
It wasn't me and him against the World
like he'd have everyone believe;
it was him and him against the World, against us all.
That's the way it is in everyone's case
and anyone who can't admit that
still has a long way to go.
But then again, so did he
when I last heard about his state of affairs.
Yeah, maybe that really was him
packing boxes in some dimly lit warehouse.
I did it once. Maybe by some twist of fate
he was serving the same sentence.
Once my co-worker and I reached our destination
I set the cardboard box down
ripping the sticker off and rolling it into a ball.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Wasted talent," I said as I threw
the crumpled sticker into a nearby trash can
pretending to take a shot from the foul line.
"I didn't know you played basketball in school."
"I didn't," I said as he gave me a puzzled look
that I let go unanswered.
We finished moving our stuff and headed
to our cars and long-awaited respective showers
though he often smells like he waits longer than I do.
Before getting into my car the foreman cornered me
and asked me to initial the building we had just completed
on his blueprint of the jobsite so he knew who did what.
The blood red ink of the marker screamed from
the bright white paper reflecting the sunlight:
"M.V."
and then this hypocrite drove home.
6.29.2008
The shoe, the thimble, the man on the horse.
It was three years ago and I was a shit.
Well, not that I'm not anymore in my own right
but I'm talking a different breed of degenerate;
not someone who calls out of work to read novels
or catch up on his documentation, someone
who calls out of work because he was in the hospital
for some reason that could've been avoided
whether it be a beer bottle across the nose
or an ex-girlfriend's misinterpretation of the Word.
Regardless, it was a time in my life when
I'd stir the pot by taking spur of the moment trips.
A few of these times landed me in Cortland
visiting a friend in college.
It was a nice place to escape to, a college town
tucked away in the sprawling hills and
friendly accent of western New York.
He lived in a house with a few other students
though I rarely saw any of them during the day
since they were off participating in extra-curriculars.
At night it was a different story.
We'd drink. Beer, in mass quantities.
And none of the cheap shit for me, Jack.
I've always managed to acquire respectable booze
even when my wallet suggested otherwise
due to warehouse jobs or credit card bills.
I was going to get blackout drunk
in a town where no one would ever see me again.
And the time that I ran out of an alley
to hurl a garbage bag full of tap water
while screaming obscenities
at an innocent passerby with a hideous goatee
stumbling home from a frat party somehow
seemed like a rational idea in the heat of the moment.
But I digress.
I'd wake up the next morning after going from
house to house, party to party, staggering down
suburban streets well accustomed to the routine.
The sun would stab through the curtains
and sting my eyes as the cotton balls in my mouth
drove me to desperation. My buddy would still
be asleep and there would be nothing to quench
my thirst in the refrigerator. (Non-alcoholic, of course;
though I may over-indulge from time to time
I've never been one for the hair of the dog that bit me.)
For some reason we couldn't drink the water in his house
and the moldy filtration pitcher in the fridge looked contagious.
There was no orange juice left over from Screwdrivers
no flat soda from the Jacks-and-Cokes
not even some ice cubes to suck on.
But I did find an unopened jar of apple sauce
way in the back corner behind some half-empty beer cans
and did not feel the least bit guilty for swiping it.
I brought the whole container into the room where
I had slept, twisted the lid off, and drank it right down
like a fruity milkshake. I instantly felt my insides
being watered back to life and the sour taste of beer
was replaced with the sweet tang of the official state fruit.
When there was no apple sauce left I hid the evidence in
the back of a closet, well aware that it didn't matter.
I rummaged through my duffle bag for a book to read.
My friend woke up an hour later and we said our goodbyes
shortly after going to the local greasy spoon for breakfast
where I ordered a large glass of orange juice before sitting down.
Tonight as I got ready for bed I had a craving for apple sauce
so I went downstairs to the cupboard to get some.
It didn't bring me back to innocent times from my childhood
with my mother spooning it into my mouth, or Thanksgiving
Dinner or pork chops or cider houses or orchards along 87.
It made me think of the time in Cortland when a jar of apple sauce
saved me from a hangover worthy of equally severe debauchery
and how even then, three years ago, when I was still a shit
of the worst degree, I was able to make due with what I had
or better yet, what someone else had, and that, my friend
is how to put those little red hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.
Well, not that I'm not anymore in my own right
but I'm talking a different breed of degenerate;
not someone who calls out of work to read novels
or catch up on his documentation, someone
who calls out of work because he was in the hospital
for some reason that could've been avoided
whether it be a beer bottle across the nose
or an ex-girlfriend's misinterpretation of the Word.
Regardless, it was a time in my life when
I'd stir the pot by taking spur of the moment trips.
A few of these times landed me in Cortland
visiting a friend in college.
It was a nice place to escape to, a college town
tucked away in the sprawling hills and
friendly accent of western New York.
He lived in a house with a few other students
though I rarely saw any of them during the day
since they were off participating in extra-curriculars.
At night it was a different story.
We'd drink. Beer, in mass quantities.
And none of the cheap shit for me, Jack.
I've always managed to acquire respectable booze
even when my wallet suggested otherwise
due to warehouse jobs or credit card bills.
I was going to get blackout drunk
in a town where no one would ever see me again.
And the time that I ran out of an alley
to hurl a garbage bag full of tap water
while screaming obscenities
at an innocent passerby with a hideous goatee
stumbling home from a frat party somehow
seemed like a rational idea in the heat of the moment.
But I digress.
I'd wake up the next morning after going from
house to house, party to party, staggering down
suburban streets well accustomed to the routine.
The sun would stab through the curtains
and sting my eyes as the cotton balls in my mouth
drove me to desperation. My buddy would still
be asleep and there would be nothing to quench
my thirst in the refrigerator. (Non-alcoholic, of course;
though I may over-indulge from time to time
I've never been one for the hair of the dog that bit me.)
For some reason we couldn't drink the water in his house
and the moldy filtration pitcher in the fridge looked contagious.
There was no orange juice left over from Screwdrivers
no flat soda from the Jacks-and-Cokes
not even some ice cubes to suck on.
But I did find an unopened jar of apple sauce
way in the back corner behind some half-empty beer cans
and did not feel the least bit guilty for swiping it.
I brought the whole container into the room where
I had slept, twisted the lid off, and drank it right down
like a fruity milkshake. I instantly felt my insides
being watered back to life and the sour taste of beer
was replaced with the sweet tang of the official state fruit.
When there was no apple sauce left I hid the evidence in
the back of a closet, well aware that it didn't matter.
I rummaged through my duffle bag for a book to read.
My friend woke up an hour later and we said our goodbyes
shortly after going to the local greasy spoon for breakfast
where I ordered a large glass of orange juice before sitting down.
Tonight as I got ready for bed I had a craving for apple sauce
so I went downstairs to the cupboard to get some.
It didn't bring me back to innocent times from my childhood
with my mother spooning it into my mouth, or Thanksgiving
Dinner or pork chops or cider houses or orchards along 87.
It made me think of the time in Cortland when a jar of apple sauce
saved me from a hangover worthy of equally severe debauchery
and how even then, three years ago, when I was still a shit
of the worst degree, I was able to make due with what I had
or better yet, what someone else had, and that, my friend
is how to put those little red hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.
6.28.2008
On the role of firearms in maintaining a Healthy Relationship.
"Do you keep it loaded?" she asks
with an inquisitive face strangely cheery
for a woman, not seeming the least bit alarmed
at the answer she knows she'll receive.
"Wouldn't be much use if it wasn't."
She asks to see it.
I accommodate without hesitation.
She should know how it works--
might have to someday.
I think back to how odd it was that
my dad had me bring my
gun safety course certificate
to school when I was in the fourth grade
to show my teacher and principal
that I respected the rules
or at least knew them.
They patted me on the back uncomfortably
probably would've had me expelled
if it wasn't during the pre-Columbine era.
Some people won't ever understand that
fear is just a lack of knowledge.
I remove it from its case
making sure the safety's on
though I know it is, hoping that
she sees me following the proper procedure.
It feels like an old friend in my hands
though I haven't used it in eight years
at least haven't pulled the trigger.
"How many bullets do you keep in it?"
"Shells, not bullets. Two of them.
I have to pump it once
in order to load the chamber."
I show her what I mean as the two-fold
clicking noise of metal on metal
made popular by Hollywood
brings it all home.
"I used to keep a third one in the barrel
but not anymore."
I remember why I used to
and why I don't anymore
and it's not the cranked air conditioning
that makes me shiver.
The first shell ejects from the side
and lands on my bed as I pump it again
and the second is sucked into the barrel.
One more slide clears that one, too.
It's harmless now, a castrated pederast.
"See? It's easy."
I let her hold the empty shotgun
showing her how to raise it to eye level
and bury the butt in the meat of the shoulder
to absorb the recoil safely.
"Why do you only keep two in there?"
I think for a second.
"Well, if I can't hit whatever I'm aiming at
with two shots then..."
"...you're not very good and don't deserve to hit it,"
she finishes.
"Boy, if I had a dollar for every time..."
"Shut up, Baby."
She hands it back, I sheath it again
before returning it to its run-of-the-mill hiding place.
The rabbit scratches around in her litter box
in the corner of my room, the two of us
lay back down to stare at the ceiling fan
and all goes back to almost normal.
with an inquisitive face strangely cheery
for a woman, not seeming the least bit alarmed
at the answer she knows she'll receive.
"Wouldn't be much use if it wasn't."
She asks to see it.
I accommodate without hesitation.
She should know how it works--
might have to someday.
I think back to how odd it was that
my dad had me bring my
gun safety course certificate
to school when I was in the fourth grade
to show my teacher and principal
that I respected the rules
or at least knew them.
They patted me on the back uncomfortably
probably would've had me expelled
if it wasn't during the pre-Columbine era.
Some people won't ever understand that
fear is just a lack of knowledge.
I remove it from its case
making sure the safety's on
though I know it is, hoping that
she sees me following the proper procedure.
It feels like an old friend in my hands
though I haven't used it in eight years
at least haven't pulled the trigger.
"How many bullets do you keep in it?"
"Shells, not bullets. Two of them.
I have to pump it once
in order to load the chamber."
I show her what I mean as the two-fold
clicking noise of metal on metal
made popular by Hollywood
brings it all home.
"I used to keep a third one in the barrel
but not anymore."
I remember why I used to
and why I don't anymore
and it's not the cranked air conditioning
that makes me shiver.
The first shell ejects from the side
and lands on my bed as I pump it again
and the second is sucked into the barrel.
One more slide clears that one, too.
It's harmless now, a castrated pederast.
"See? It's easy."
I let her hold the empty shotgun
showing her how to raise it to eye level
and bury the butt in the meat of the shoulder
to absorb the recoil safely.
"Why do you only keep two in there?"
I think for a second.
"Well, if I can't hit whatever I'm aiming at
with two shots then..."
"...you're not very good and don't deserve to hit it,"
she finishes.
"Boy, if I had a dollar for every time..."
"Shut up, Baby."
She hands it back, I sheath it again
before returning it to its run-of-the-mill hiding place.
The rabbit scratches around in her litter box
in the corner of my room, the two of us
lay back down to stare at the ceiling fan
and all goes back to almost normal.
6.26.2008
Keeping up with the Joneses.
"Come on! Do it! Don't be a pussy!"
That was easy for him to say, he
was somehow immune to the smell
of it frying in the oil as it rolled around.
"Don't you want to be one of us?"
I did, but not as badly as I'd thought.
It was too late to turn back, though.
Giving the frying pan a little shake
I tried not to pass out as I heard the sizzle
get louder and felt my temples throb.
Surprisingly my stomach hadn't given up yet
probably due to the familiar feeling
of enough whiskey to stay well over the legal limit
for at least another eight hours.
"Hurry up. The longer you take the more time
you have to think about it and the harder
it will be. Just eat it already. You like your meat
on the rare side anyway."
The leader of the pack always knew how to end
his sentences with that extra punch
and when I finally got in with these guys
I was going to make damn sure to take his place.
I'd come this far, what was left to stop me
from putting some slightly more deranged bastard
overzealous with his catch-phrases
in his rightful place?
I turned off the gas range and stabbed it
with a fork, popping it on to a waiting plate.
Taking a gulp from my ninth cocktail of the night
I reached into the silverware drawer for a steak knife.
The butcher's knife in the sink next to me
had a filmy red streak half-an-inch thick
in the center of the blade.
A part of me wanted to run for the door
avoiding the members of this sadistic Secret Society
for the rest of my life and telling everyone else
it was all an accident.
But I didn't.
I scraped some off from the bone with my utensils
and shoved it into my mouth, washing it down
with another generous swig of whiskey and Coke.
The rest of the meat was consumed in the same fashion
in the span of five minutes as the Rules of the club
I'd just entered mandated.
Once I had finished I turned to face my new Brothers.
"So do you feel like one of us now? Well don't, not yet.
You got off easy. Johnny here had to eat something
far more unpleasant..."
Johnny's eyes dropped to the hardwood floor and
squeezed his thumb in his clenched fist
as his toes tried to console each other
through his shoes.
The others gave me a sympathetic look
as if to discredit what the soon-to-be dethroned
leader of the pack had just said. They knew
it wasn't an easy feat, they'd been there.
"I'm going to go wash my hands now,"
I said in a slurred monotone as I headed
for the bathroom. The small group parted in the middle
to let me through, but it was nothing like
Moses and his Red Sea.
Nothing at all.
It didn't look like me in the mirror, and not
just on account of the green tint my face had turned.
Somehow I was drastically different and would be forever.
I ran the faucet at full blast and splashed my face with water.
It almost came back up my esophagus on me, but I knew
they were listening and I'd never gain their respect if I
didn't hold it down. I gave the toilet that hateful stare
that I had so many nights before after too much liquor.
If only it were that simple this time.
Nothing would be ever again.
This was it.
The Big League, baby.
"You alright in there, man?"
It was one of the sympathetic ones.
I knew I already had his vote when the time came.
"Yeah, be out in a minute. Who's ex's house are
we torching first tonight, anyway?"
The cold water stung my hand
since the whiskey was starting to wear off in increments
and the adrenaline had subsided some as well.
I unwrapped my bandaged hand and saw the raw circle
of singed flesh where my pinky had been just
minutes before. The cigarette lighter from my car
had cauterized the wound fairly well, but I knew
it would sting a bit in the morning.
You'll have that from time to time.
That was easy for him to say, he
was somehow immune to the smell
of it frying in the oil as it rolled around.
"Don't you want to be one of us?"
I did, but not as badly as I'd thought.
It was too late to turn back, though.
Giving the frying pan a little shake
I tried not to pass out as I heard the sizzle
get louder and felt my temples throb.
Surprisingly my stomach hadn't given up yet
probably due to the familiar feeling
of enough whiskey to stay well over the legal limit
for at least another eight hours.
"Hurry up. The longer you take the more time
you have to think about it and the harder
it will be. Just eat it already. You like your meat
on the rare side anyway."
The leader of the pack always knew how to end
his sentences with that extra punch
and when I finally got in with these guys
I was going to make damn sure to take his place.
I'd come this far, what was left to stop me
from putting some slightly more deranged bastard
overzealous with his catch-phrases
in his rightful place?
I turned off the gas range and stabbed it
with a fork, popping it on to a waiting plate.
Taking a gulp from my ninth cocktail of the night
I reached into the silverware drawer for a steak knife.
The butcher's knife in the sink next to me
had a filmy red streak half-an-inch thick
in the center of the blade.
A part of me wanted to run for the door
avoiding the members of this sadistic Secret Society
for the rest of my life and telling everyone else
it was all an accident.
But I didn't.
I scraped some off from the bone with my utensils
and shoved it into my mouth, washing it down
with another generous swig of whiskey and Coke.
The rest of the meat was consumed in the same fashion
in the span of five minutes as the Rules of the club
I'd just entered mandated.
Once I had finished I turned to face my new Brothers.
"So do you feel like one of us now? Well don't, not yet.
You got off easy. Johnny here had to eat something
far more unpleasant..."
Johnny's eyes dropped to the hardwood floor and
squeezed his thumb in his clenched fist
as his toes tried to console each other
through his shoes.
The others gave me a sympathetic look
as if to discredit what the soon-to-be dethroned
leader of the pack had just said. They knew
it wasn't an easy feat, they'd been there.
"I'm going to go wash my hands now,"
I said in a slurred monotone as I headed
for the bathroom. The small group parted in the middle
to let me through, but it was nothing like
Moses and his Red Sea.
Nothing at all.
It didn't look like me in the mirror, and not
just on account of the green tint my face had turned.
Somehow I was drastically different and would be forever.
I ran the faucet at full blast and splashed my face with water.
It almost came back up my esophagus on me, but I knew
they were listening and I'd never gain their respect if I
didn't hold it down. I gave the toilet that hateful stare
that I had so many nights before after too much liquor.
If only it were that simple this time.
Nothing would be ever again.
This was it.
The Big League, baby.
"You alright in there, man?"
It was one of the sympathetic ones.
I knew I already had his vote when the time came.
"Yeah, be out in a minute. Who's ex's house are
we torching first tonight, anyway?"
The cold water stung my hand
since the whiskey was starting to wear off in increments
and the adrenaline had subsided some as well.
I unwrapped my bandaged hand and saw the raw circle
of singed flesh where my pinky had been just
minutes before. The cigarette lighter from my car
had cauterized the wound fairly well, but I knew
it would sting a bit in the morning.
You'll have that from time to time.
Don't bother learning Navajo.
As I look back over years and pages
tens of thousands of words
a shamefully long list of various fiascoes
(some ending better than others)
my latent reason for writing
many lines so cryptically
jumps out at me:
after X amount of time
(in the form of pay stubs
ripped movie tickets
admission bracelets
and yes, empty bottles)
even I don't know what I meant
by some of it, especially the drunk little #s
that read like the yarns of a stubborn general
from the side that lost the war.
But it's not a code I want to crack.
Whatever all those subtleties meant then
doesn't matter now.
Putting them down pretty
made it better at the time
and my enigmatic darlings
made it easier to forget.
Forgive yourself, it's time.
tens of thousands of words
a shamefully long list of various fiascoes
(some ending better than others)
my latent reason for writing
many lines so cryptically
jumps out at me:
after X amount of time
(in the form of pay stubs
ripped movie tickets
admission bracelets
and yes, empty bottles)
even I don't know what I meant
by some of it, especially the drunk little #s
that read like the yarns of a stubborn general
from the side that lost the war.
But it's not a code I want to crack.
Whatever all those subtleties meant then
doesn't matter now.
Putting them down pretty
made it better at the time
and my enigmatic darlings
made it easier to forget.
Forgive yourself, it's time.
6.25.2008
The day the morgue ran out of bags.
I was already half in the bag
when I noticed him working the door
from across the bar. When he went
out for a smoke I decided to follow
since it had been about ten years
since I'd seen or spoken to him.
By the time I made it through the crowd
and out to the dimly lit sidewalk
he was already halfway done with his Marlboro.
"Jesus, you in a hurry, Tyler?"
I was surprised I remembered his first name
after all these years, but couldn't recall
his last for the life of me, though I feel
it was something Slavic-sounding.
He looked up at me and started speaking
like he'd just seen me yesterday
and knew my full name and blood type
which I don't even know.
"It's a habit I picked up overseas.
We didn't have much time to smoke
since a red dot in the dark
becomes a target for the towelheads."
I had no idea he had joined the service.
The lasting impression I had of Tyler
was an image of him skating around by himself
in his rollerblades, long after the trend was cool
with a cheap plastic helmet on, to boot.
He had inadvertently made himself an outsider
though he was always trying to edge his way in
with his blonde hair and purple lips that seemed to be
squished together all the time, two flushed
caterpillars clinging to his peachy face
just under his clear blue eyes and nondescript nose.
"Those things will kill ya, kid. It'd be a shame
since you made it back from Hell in one piece,"
I assumed foolishly without taking non-physical casualties
into consideration.
"Yeah. I didn't even smoke until I went over there.
Seeing a pack of Marlboros reminded me of home, though."
I lit up my clove cigarette and moved closer to where
he was standing to hear him better, his back glued
to the brick wall out of some trained survival instinct
not yet unhinged from his day-to-day mode of living.
Inhaling the distinct, pungently sweet aroma
of my clove cigarette his eyes lit up as if
brought back to some memory of a better time
that the sense of smell often triggers.
I saw the covetous look in his pale eyes
and made him an offer since a hand-out
would probably be turned down
and it had been awhile since I'd had a Cowboy Killer.
He drew the red pack back out of his pocket
and handed me one of his cigarettes in exchange
for one of mine.
"I was going to start smoking these when
I got back from Iraq. I figured
it'd be a good way to quit
since they're not tobacco leaves
and therefore not as addictive."
That's when my face lit up
in that drunken expression of excitement
that transforms me into a caricature of myself.
"That's my plan, too!" I blurted enthusiastically
as I exhaled smoke from the seventh cigarette
I'd had that night already, thus disproving our theory.
But still, we had the same plan!
The two of us, without seeing each other for so long
and walking such different paths in life
wound up at the same half-assed conclusion
about how to kick the habit without
all the inherent failure of going cold turkey.
Both of us trailed off in thought for a few seconds
presumably over the irony in the situation, at least
on my part, and then laughed a little to break
the uncomfortable atmosphere that suddenly falls upon
two men who never really knew each other and find it hard
to pretend otherwise ten years after the fact.
The conversation died as I tried to picture him
with a machinegun posing for a macho picture in the desert
and he tried to figure out what the Hell happened to
the promising young honor student
who had covered his arms with tattoos for some reason
developed an affinity for rum-and-Coke and clove cigarettes
stopped caring so much about what others said he should
and started looking people in the eyes when he spoke.
We weren't quite drunk enough yet not to care
about the inability to find a safe topic of discussion.
My ride came walking outside shortly after
saving us from the building tension.
It was time for my friends and I to leave.
Tyler offered me another Marlboro since a clove's street value
is clearly equal to at least two regular smokes
but I declined; it was the least I could do for a veteran.
I shook Tyler's hand and said it was good to see him
good to know he made it home safely
but part of me wishes I'd never gone out that night.
I'd much rather picture him in those ridiculous rollerblades
and that mama's boy helmet that we made fun of him for
instead of a desert camo kevlar helmet designed
to protect whatever could be left of a life
after the innocence of age fourteen.
when I noticed him working the door
from across the bar. When he went
out for a smoke I decided to follow
since it had been about ten years
since I'd seen or spoken to him.
By the time I made it through the crowd
and out to the dimly lit sidewalk
he was already halfway done with his Marlboro.
"Jesus, you in a hurry, Tyler?"
I was surprised I remembered his first name
after all these years, but couldn't recall
his last for the life of me, though I feel
it was something Slavic-sounding.
He looked up at me and started speaking
like he'd just seen me yesterday
and knew my full name and blood type
which I don't even know.
"It's a habit I picked up overseas.
We didn't have much time to smoke
since a red dot in the dark
becomes a target for the towelheads."
I had no idea he had joined the service.
The lasting impression I had of Tyler
was an image of him skating around by himself
in his rollerblades, long after the trend was cool
with a cheap plastic helmet on, to boot.
He had inadvertently made himself an outsider
though he was always trying to edge his way in
with his blonde hair and purple lips that seemed to be
squished together all the time, two flushed
caterpillars clinging to his peachy face
just under his clear blue eyes and nondescript nose.
"Those things will kill ya, kid. It'd be a shame
since you made it back from Hell in one piece,"
I assumed foolishly without taking non-physical casualties
into consideration.
"Yeah. I didn't even smoke until I went over there.
Seeing a pack of Marlboros reminded me of home, though."
I lit up my clove cigarette and moved closer to where
he was standing to hear him better, his back glued
to the brick wall out of some trained survival instinct
not yet unhinged from his day-to-day mode of living.
Inhaling the distinct, pungently sweet aroma
of my clove cigarette his eyes lit up as if
brought back to some memory of a better time
that the sense of smell often triggers.
I saw the covetous look in his pale eyes
and made him an offer since a hand-out
would probably be turned down
and it had been awhile since I'd had a Cowboy Killer.
He drew the red pack back out of his pocket
and handed me one of his cigarettes in exchange
for one of mine.
"I was going to start smoking these when
I got back from Iraq. I figured
it'd be a good way to quit
since they're not tobacco leaves
and therefore not as addictive."
That's when my face lit up
in that drunken expression of excitement
that transforms me into a caricature of myself.
"That's my plan, too!" I blurted enthusiastically
as I exhaled smoke from the seventh cigarette
I'd had that night already, thus disproving our theory.
But still, we had the same plan!
The two of us, without seeing each other for so long
and walking such different paths in life
wound up at the same half-assed conclusion
about how to kick the habit without
all the inherent failure of going cold turkey.
Both of us trailed off in thought for a few seconds
presumably over the irony in the situation, at least
on my part, and then laughed a little to break
the uncomfortable atmosphere that suddenly falls upon
two men who never really knew each other and find it hard
to pretend otherwise ten years after the fact.
The conversation died as I tried to picture him
with a machinegun posing for a macho picture in the desert
and he tried to figure out what the Hell happened to
the promising young honor student
who had covered his arms with tattoos for some reason
developed an affinity for rum-and-Coke and clove cigarettes
stopped caring so much about what others said he should
and started looking people in the eyes when he spoke.
We weren't quite drunk enough yet not to care
about the inability to find a safe topic of discussion.
My ride came walking outside shortly after
saving us from the building tension.
It was time for my friends and I to leave.
Tyler offered me another Marlboro since a clove's street value
is clearly equal to at least two regular smokes
but I declined; it was the least I could do for a veteran.
I shook Tyler's hand and said it was good to see him
good to know he made it home safely
but part of me wishes I'd never gone out that night.
I'd much rather picture him in those ridiculous rollerblades
and that mama's boy helmet that we made fun of him for
instead of a desert camo kevlar helmet designed
to protect whatever could be left of a life
after the innocence of age fourteen.
6.24.2008
Let us return to the days of Kit Carson.
Someone needs to explain
the United States Postal Service
to me.
I'd greatly appreciate it.
And a back rub, maybe a cup of coffee
(light & sweet, just how I like my women).
A week ago my roommate said
there was a notice stuffed in the door
about a certified letter that required my signature.
I wrote it off at first as something trivial
like a label warning the Law's stance
on removing said label from a mattress
but became curious today
like a Catholic schoolgirl in her first freshman dorm
and decided to investigate.
After work I stopped by
the local Post Office around the corner
only to find it's a mere Substation of some sort
apparently nothing more than a glorified stamp store
with a blue mailbox out front
and a sexless flesh paperweight inside.
This disgruntled shell of a woman at the counter told me
I'd have to go to the Main Office
downtown to retrieve my mysterious letter.
Annoyed at the inconvenience
but further intrigued by the challenge
like Casanova with a bad reputation
I drove ten minutes east
to the other side of the tracks
not realizing I was about to take on
the Postal Gestapo, unarmed.
I pulled up along the curb
making sure to lock my doors
since this was no neighborhood
in which to leave a vehicle unattended.
Still sweaty and dirty and irritated from work
I climbed the stone stairs and strode
into the lobby. The equally cantankerous
clerk asked how she could help me
though her tone betrayed her false enthusiasm.
A faint smirk shot across her lips
as if she'd won a small victory
as soon as she asked me the date
on which I'd received the notice
and I shrugged my shoulders.
I never physically held the piece of paper
since my buddy was the one
who found it and then threw it away.
She thought her work with me was soon to be done
due to my lack of required information.
Soon she'd be snarling at the next person in line
waiting to badger her with pesky requests
and unreasonable desires of a parcel-shipment nature.
"Can't you find it with my name and address?"
didn't seem like too outlandish a question.
"No, there are hundreds of letters every day!"
You'd think a system so crucial
to the daily function of our society
would be better organized
but then again this is a country
that rebuilds countries it blows up
but lets its own homeless sleep in the streets.
Feeling foolish for my inadequacy
and wasted time, gas, and calories
I about-faced and headed for the door
cursing under my breath
when it dawned on me to call my friend
and ask if he happened to remember the date
that he received the notice.
He did.
I turned back around and marched up the stairs again
not yet ready to holster my tongue.
She saw me coming back
right to the front of the line
and asked if I knew the date now
with a slight tinge of defeat in her tone.
I could tell she was someone
who never turns right on red, even
with a line of blinking cars behind her.
"The Seventeenth," I sneered sarcastically
after waiting for her to finish processing a package.
She disappeared for two minutes
as I spun my keychain on my index finger
like a six-shooter, my triumph allegedly imminent.
Returning empty-handed
she told me it was not in the stack
of certified letters that had been intended
to be delivered on that date. Dumbfounded
I asked her to check if it was the Sixteenth.
A more hateful glare has not been given
from the prosecution's side of a courtroom
in a murder trial, but she complied
as that engraved nametag required her to do.
Another two minutes went by
without any sophomore optimism on my part
and she returned without anything in her hands
but a ballpoint pen squeezed in her balled-up fist
protected from germs by baby blue latex gloves.
The line of other blue collars was growing behind me
and the clerk's patience was clearly waning
so I wasn't about to ask her to check
the Eighteenth, or God forbid
the Fifteenth of June, suddenly seemingly
equal to the Ides of March
or one of the many Fridays the Thirteenth.
"You'll have to wait for a second notice
and return with that date, sir," with the
emphasis on the last word of the sentence
to express her thrill in having the last word.
She tried to go on explaining her fake condolences
while maintaining loyalty to her precious system
that would force a man to wait another week
for a letter that was just on the other side
of a partition constructed of oak and bulletproof glass
because an employee paid by his taxes
was too lazy to sift through a few more piles.
I had no intentions of coming back in search
of this elusive correspondence. Whoever wrote
whatever it is will find me somehow if it's meant to be.
"Nevermind, it can't be that important,"
was my reply before she had time to
hit me with another cookie-cutter
customer appeasement phrase
they teach in the training video.
I thought I heard a barely audible
"Sir! Sir!" through the walls of her fish tank
as I walked outside, this time not caring.
So, Ed McMahon
(if you're even still alive)
you and your big check
from Publishers Clearing House
will just have to find someone else;
or, if it's bad news in that envelope
I'm sure it'll manage
to find its way--
but Honey, don't rely on it being via
the United States Postal Service, try UPS.
And you can bet your bottom stamp
that this wouldn't have happened
in the days of the Pony Express.
the United States Postal Service
to me.
I'd greatly appreciate it.
And a back rub, maybe a cup of coffee
(light & sweet, just how I like my women).
A week ago my roommate said
there was a notice stuffed in the door
about a certified letter that required my signature.
I wrote it off at first as something trivial
like a label warning the Law's stance
on removing said label from a mattress
but became curious today
like a Catholic schoolgirl in her first freshman dorm
and decided to investigate.
After work I stopped by
the local Post Office around the corner
only to find it's a mere Substation of some sort
apparently nothing more than a glorified stamp store
with a blue mailbox out front
and a sexless flesh paperweight inside.
This disgruntled shell of a woman at the counter told me
I'd have to go to the Main Office
downtown to retrieve my mysterious letter.
Annoyed at the inconvenience
but further intrigued by the challenge
like Casanova with a bad reputation
I drove ten minutes east
to the other side of the tracks
not realizing I was about to take on
the Postal Gestapo, unarmed.
I pulled up along the curb
making sure to lock my doors
since this was no neighborhood
in which to leave a vehicle unattended.
Still sweaty and dirty and irritated from work
I climbed the stone stairs and strode
into the lobby. The equally cantankerous
clerk asked how she could help me
though her tone betrayed her false enthusiasm.
A faint smirk shot across her lips
as if she'd won a small victory
as soon as she asked me the date
on which I'd received the notice
and I shrugged my shoulders.
I never physically held the piece of paper
since my buddy was the one
who found it and then threw it away.
She thought her work with me was soon to be done
due to my lack of required information.
Soon she'd be snarling at the next person in line
waiting to badger her with pesky requests
and unreasonable desires of a parcel-shipment nature.
"Can't you find it with my name and address?"
didn't seem like too outlandish a question.
"No, there are hundreds of letters every day!"
You'd think a system so crucial
to the daily function of our society
would be better organized
but then again this is a country
that rebuilds countries it blows up
but lets its own homeless sleep in the streets.
Feeling foolish for my inadequacy
and wasted time, gas, and calories
I about-faced and headed for the door
cursing under my breath
when it dawned on me to call my friend
and ask if he happened to remember the date
that he received the notice.
He did.
I turned back around and marched up the stairs again
not yet ready to holster my tongue.
She saw me coming back
right to the front of the line
and asked if I knew the date now
with a slight tinge of defeat in her tone.
I could tell she was someone
who never turns right on red, even
with a line of blinking cars behind her.
"The Seventeenth," I sneered sarcastically
after waiting for her to finish processing a package.
She disappeared for two minutes
as I spun my keychain on my index finger
like a six-shooter, my triumph allegedly imminent.
Returning empty-handed
she told me it was not in the stack
of certified letters that had been intended
to be delivered on that date. Dumbfounded
I asked her to check if it was the Sixteenth.
A more hateful glare has not been given
from the prosecution's side of a courtroom
in a murder trial, but she complied
as that engraved nametag required her to do.
Another two minutes went by
without any sophomore optimism on my part
and she returned without anything in her hands
but a ballpoint pen squeezed in her balled-up fist
protected from germs by baby blue latex gloves.
The line of other blue collars was growing behind me
and the clerk's patience was clearly waning
so I wasn't about to ask her to check
the Eighteenth, or God forbid
the Fifteenth of June, suddenly seemingly
equal to the Ides of March
or one of the many Fridays the Thirteenth.
"You'll have to wait for a second notice
and return with that date, sir," with the
emphasis on the last word of the sentence
to express her thrill in having the last word.
She tried to go on explaining her fake condolences
while maintaining loyalty to her precious system
that would force a man to wait another week
for a letter that was just on the other side
of a partition constructed of oak and bulletproof glass
because an employee paid by his taxes
was too lazy to sift through a few more piles.
I had no intentions of coming back in search
of this elusive correspondence. Whoever wrote
whatever it is will find me somehow if it's meant to be.
"Nevermind, it can't be that important,"
was my reply before she had time to
hit me with another cookie-cutter
customer appeasement phrase
they teach in the training video.
I thought I heard a barely audible
"Sir! Sir!" through the walls of her fish tank
as I walked outside, this time not caring.
So, Ed McMahon
(if you're even still alive)
you and your big check
from Publishers Clearing House
will just have to find someone else;
or, if it's bad news in that envelope
I'm sure it'll manage
to find its way--
but Honey, don't rely on it being via
the United States Postal Service, try UPS.
And you can bet your bottom stamp
that this wouldn't have happened
in the days of the Pony Express.
6.22.2008
.308 is a fine caliber.
Like a hungover bridesmaid
trying to look her best
through her worst day
in that lovely green dress
as I lay here in bed from rise to set
passing between books and sleep
under the ceiling fan that's recently
developed a hefty wobble to it
and a rattling of its light fixture
obnoxious enough to replace
Chinese water torture
in its appropriate setting
with its appropriate face
and now looky here,Jim:
"This just in--"
Ah, shucks. It's enough to make
a grown man...
...well, you know.
trying to look her best
through her worst day
in that lovely green dress
as I lay here in bed from rise to set
passing between books and sleep
under the ceiling fan that's recently
developed a hefty wobble to it
and a rattling of its light fixture
obnoxious enough to replace
Chinese water torture
in its appropriate setting
with its appropriate face
and now looky here,Jim:
"This just in--"
Ah, shucks. It's enough to make
a grown man...
...well, you know.
On tailbones and my affinity for walnuts.
Sitting in boxers
scratching myself
in between chapters
on a bathwater Sunday
the power goes out
for a split second
not long enough
to make my digital alarm clock
lose its dog-ear in Time.
It doesn't make sense.
The storm hasn't hit yet.
Through my bedroom window
I watch a young squirrel chase
the object of his affection in circles
up and down the trunk of a tree
their passion so fierce I can hear
the scratching sound of their claws
digging into the bark as they
do their duty to Nature
in making haste
to perform the dance
that Darwin said
only the strongest would
get to act out
before someday
raising offspring.
The thunder finally rears
its head and the first drops
of rain fall as the two gray
rodents disappear to a limb
outside my field of vision.
I smile for the little guy.
I know he'll get his, they
can never resist a good storm
and thankfully
I've had my share.
(Isn't that right
Miss Bright-Eyed
and Bushy-Tailed?)
And just as fast
as they had come
the clouds are blown off
to their eastern destination
and the sun begins to dry the yard
as life goes on as it has forever.
scratching myself
in between chapters
on a bathwater Sunday
the power goes out
for a split second
not long enough
to make my digital alarm clock
lose its dog-ear in Time.
It doesn't make sense.
The storm hasn't hit yet.
Through my bedroom window
I watch a young squirrel chase
the object of his affection in circles
up and down the trunk of a tree
their passion so fierce I can hear
the scratching sound of their claws
digging into the bark as they
do their duty to Nature
in making haste
to perform the dance
that Darwin said
only the strongest would
get to act out
before someday
raising offspring.
The thunder finally rears
its head and the first drops
of rain fall as the two gray
rodents disappear to a limb
outside my field of vision.
I smile for the little guy.
I know he'll get his, they
can never resist a good storm
and thankfully
I've had my share.
(Isn't that right
Miss Bright-Eyed
and Bushy-Tailed?)
And just as fast
as they had come
the clouds are blown off
to their eastern destination
and the sun begins to dry the yard
as life goes on as it has forever.
(Insert bad fishing pun here.)
The only one I'd caught that day
had been by accident; I wandered over
to the pole on the ground, figuring the wind
had knocked it over or the tide had pulled it down
but when I picked it up I felt the tension on the line
that suggests the possibility of a fish being on the end
and sure enough, when I reeled it in, there was.
I was nine or ten then so my old man took it off the line
for me since I hadn't yet learned the art of taking the hook out
without cutting my hand or killing the fish. You could say I still
haven't, from a figurative point of view, but that's besides the point.
That was the only catch of the day for me, a ripe old catfish
pulled from the ruins of a pier in the Hudson. My father brought
us out, my uncle and cousins and me, and we were "going to have
wholesome fun, dammit. That's what fishing is about." And no, he
never said that, but it was always implied, as with all of the rest
of the things I was conned into doing as a kid when all I wanted to do
was sit in my room with my GI Joes and make up complex storylines.
My cousins were younger by three and five years, the girl being older.
The German-Italian side of the family was colder than my mother's
and any function with them always felt so forced. Hugs didn't happen
and even smiles were fake. It's part of the reason why I stopped going
to Christmas and Thanksgiving over there, it felt like eating cheese
and crackers at the city morgue. Anyway, these alleged blood-relatives
of mine had come along for the awkward ride and were not leaving without
saying they had caught some fish. They shadowed my father in all his
overly equipped glory as he cast his expensive rigs and untangled knots
in lines caused by the lousy technique of the amateur anglers who
supposedly were related to us. I had no interest in all that, though, I knew
how the script would pan out well enough to avoid a lead role. It's an odd thing
not being the main character in your own memories, but it explains why
I still can't sleep at night knowing he's out there somewhere
telling lies about my whereabouts and health when friends, family, and co-
workers ask, and seeing a woman who drives a white sedan.
While they watched him bait hooks and shoot lures out sixty feet
I stumbled around on the stony shore composed primarily of driftwood
and slimy green rocks submerged at high tide, still unsure of what I was
looking for. Somehow it seemed more interesting to explore on my own
than watch this charade unfold, see my father talk down to his little brother
like they were still kids, watch my cousins pick their noses and scratch
their crotches and not understand that to let it all play out again
is to say it was alright the first time. That's why I can't call him, you see.
It's my way of saying No to the cycle that his grandfather created.
It's a stubbornness of love that only those afflicted would understand.
It's a reason to sit on a hungover Sunday and write about a stupid fishing trip
that happened a decade-and-a-half ago and act like it matters, then or now.
The catch didn't interest me, the draw of the chase was not yet in my blood.
They were throwing them back anyway since fish from the river were deemed
inedible due to the pollution, except to the Koreans and Blacks and all those
in general too hard up to turn down a free meal based on speculation.
I had other plans for the quarry, however. I wanted to observe them
before tossing them back into the drink. Those slippery stones I stepped around
came in handy. I stacked them in a circle, more of a bastardized rectangle
just at the edge of the water and began filling it with the fish my family caught.
The smaller ones slipped through the cracks and the larger ones couldn't
swim in a wide enough radius to turn around, their dorsal fins sticking out
of the water, but it gave me something to do besides want to be somewhere else
and something to watch besides the waves and a family that was never really mine.
But then it happened, the tide came in. Soon the fins disappeared under the water
and only the tips of some of the bigger rocks stuck out and eventually
the entire coop had disappeared, along with my interest in it. He put his
rod down for long enough to walk over and state the obvious in fatherly fashion
like I didn't know I'd lose the battle with nature sooner or later; a ten-year-old
may not know how to yank a hook, but inferiority to the world is learned early on.
-----------------------------------------%%%%%^^**$$@~~~~~~~~}-~~~~~
And inferiority to the dead guys who did it better is learned these days
every time I sit down here to type. It should've read like a vague description
with a possible reference to the arc in his throw and the failed Atlantis
I tried building for awhile to distract myself from a situation I didn't want to be in.
That would've been so much more tasteful, so pleasing to the critical eye, but
I let what lies beneath all those images sneak its way into the story again.
For that I claim full responsibility, but let's see you lose a father
and his (uncomfortable, but none-the-less) family and not let that
spoil the surprise, take the fun out of deciphering it all for yourself.
Yeah, let's see you try it without missing, slugger.
My mother once said that he was the only man she knew
who could ruin a wet dream. It disturbed me to hear her
speak like that, but I guess it's true since he can even manage
to spoil the writing of a person he hasn't seen in a year-and-a-half.
You can write with the heart or with the mind, but not with both.
Currently reading:
"Tropic of Capricorn" by Henry Miller.
had been by accident; I wandered over
to the pole on the ground, figuring the wind
had knocked it over or the tide had pulled it down
but when I picked it up I felt the tension on the line
that suggests the possibility of a fish being on the end
and sure enough, when I reeled it in, there was.
I was nine or ten then so my old man took it off the line
for me since I hadn't yet learned the art of taking the hook out
without cutting my hand or killing the fish. You could say I still
haven't, from a figurative point of view, but that's besides the point.
That was the only catch of the day for me, a ripe old catfish
pulled from the ruins of a pier in the Hudson. My father brought
us out, my uncle and cousins and me, and we were "going to have
wholesome fun, dammit. That's what fishing is about." And no, he
never said that, but it was always implied, as with all of the rest
of the things I was conned into doing as a kid when all I wanted to do
was sit in my room with my GI Joes and make up complex storylines.
My cousins were younger by three and five years, the girl being older.
The German-Italian side of the family was colder than my mother's
and any function with them always felt so forced. Hugs didn't happen
and even smiles were fake. It's part of the reason why I stopped going
to Christmas and Thanksgiving over there, it felt like eating cheese
and crackers at the city morgue. Anyway, these alleged blood-relatives
of mine had come along for the awkward ride and were not leaving without
saying they had caught some fish. They shadowed my father in all his
overly equipped glory as he cast his expensive rigs and untangled knots
in lines caused by the lousy technique of the amateur anglers who
supposedly were related to us. I had no interest in all that, though, I knew
how the script would pan out well enough to avoid a lead role. It's an odd thing
not being the main character in your own memories, but it explains why
I still can't sleep at night knowing he's out there somewhere
telling lies about my whereabouts and health when friends, family, and co-
workers ask, and seeing a woman who drives a white sedan.
While they watched him bait hooks and shoot lures out sixty feet
I stumbled around on the stony shore composed primarily of driftwood
and slimy green rocks submerged at high tide, still unsure of what I was
looking for. Somehow it seemed more interesting to explore on my own
than watch this charade unfold, see my father talk down to his little brother
like they were still kids, watch my cousins pick their noses and scratch
their crotches and not understand that to let it all play out again
is to say it was alright the first time. That's why I can't call him, you see.
It's my way of saying No to the cycle that his grandfather created.
It's a stubbornness of love that only those afflicted would understand.
It's a reason to sit on a hungover Sunday and write about a stupid fishing trip
that happened a decade-and-a-half ago and act like it matters, then or now.
The catch didn't interest me, the draw of the chase was not yet in my blood.
They were throwing them back anyway since fish from the river were deemed
inedible due to the pollution, except to the Koreans and Blacks and all those
in general too hard up to turn down a free meal based on speculation.
I had other plans for the quarry, however. I wanted to observe them
before tossing them back into the drink. Those slippery stones I stepped around
came in handy. I stacked them in a circle, more of a bastardized rectangle
just at the edge of the water and began filling it with the fish my family caught.
The smaller ones slipped through the cracks and the larger ones couldn't
swim in a wide enough radius to turn around, their dorsal fins sticking out
of the water, but it gave me something to do besides want to be somewhere else
and something to watch besides the waves and a family that was never really mine.
But then it happened, the tide came in. Soon the fins disappeared under the water
and only the tips of some of the bigger rocks stuck out and eventually
the entire coop had disappeared, along with my interest in it. He put his
rod down for long enough to walk over and state the obvious in fatherly fashion
like I didn't know I'd lose the battle with nature sooner or later; a ten-year-old
may not know how to yank a hook, but inferiority to the world is learned early on.
-----------------------------------------%%%%%^^**$$@~~~~~~~~}-~~~~~
And inferiority to the dead guys who did it better is learned these days
every time I sit down here to type. It should've read like a vague description
with a possible reference to the arc in his throw and the failed Atlantis
I tried building for awhile to distract myself from a situation I didn't want to be in.
That would've been so much more tasteful, so pleasing to the critical eye, but
I let what lies beneath all those images sneak its way into the story again.
For that I claim full responsibility, but let's see you lose a father
and his (uncomfortable, but none-the-less) family and not let that
spoil the surprise, take the fun out of deciphering it all for yourself.
Yeah, let's see you try it without missing, slugger.
My mother once said that he was the only man she knew
who could ruin a wet dream. It disturbed me to hear her
speak like that, but I guess it's true since he can even manage
to spoil the writing of a person he hasn't seen in a year-and-a-half.
You can write with the heart or with the mind, but not with both.
Currently reading:
"Tropic of Capricorn" by Henry Miller.
6.20.2008
Try harder, Picasso.
It was only a matter of time
before one of them noticed
but I didn't see it coming today
as I stood on that ladder
or from the guy who doesn't even
remember where his tools are without me
or know his kids' birthdays.
I was reaching up with my left arm
to glue a fitting to a pipe
when his eyes narrowed to focus
before firing away with words
I couldn't bat down, even from
my temporary elevation.
"Hey, what's that line on your arm?
I never saw that before.
Did your tattoo guy forget to color that
part in? You should go back and
get it fixed."
Sometimes I fabricate a work-related accident
tale for those I don't know or like well enough
or those I know well enough not to like
but since he already had his own assumption
about its origin and probably wouldn't believe mine
I opted not to bother with that farce.
I finished the task I was performing
and tried not to stumble over
words I knew would trip up my tongue
as I avoided eye contact with a man
I'd always had a witty comeback for until now.
"Yeah, sometimes they don't heal right...
...tattoos, I mean. It doesn't bother me
anymore, though."
His phone rang just in time to save me
from further explanation. It was our foreman
telling us to go perform some random task
somewhere else on the job. We packed
the necessary tools and headed off
lighting cigarettes for the walk.
My partner didn't bring it up again
after we switched gears
and came back to where we were originally working.
I took that as his way of saying he knew
since he's not one to let things go
in conversation, especially when
he thinks he knows he's right.
That's all I need to spread through the Union:
"Shakespeare's crazy, and not just 'cause
he sits under a tree and reads while we eat lunch."
But for now I roll with them as they come
and sit here drinking cocktails in my room
in a house with a half-finished bathroom upstairs
and a boiler in the basement I've never bothered
to look at because although this is what I do
for a living now, it's not who I am
and thankfully who I am
is not who I was
when that stupid kid still thought
that anyone would notice
and be compelled enough
to try to change his condition
not yet understanding that only he could.
before one of them noticed
but I didn't see it coming today
as I stood on that ladder
or from the guy who doesn't even
remember where his tools are without me
or know his kids' birthdays.
I was reaching up with my left arm
to glue a fitting to a pipe
when his eyes narrowed to focus
before firing away with words
I couldn't bat down, even from
my temporary elevation.
"Hey, what's that line on your arm?
I never saw that before.
Did your tattoo guy forget to color that
part in? You should go back and
get it fixed."
Sometimes I fabricate a work-related accident
tale for those I don't know or like well enough
or those I know well enough not to like
but since he already had his own assumption
about its origin and probably wouldn't believe mine
I opted not to bother with that farce.
I finished the task I was performing
and tried not to stumble over
words I knew would trip up my tongue
as I avoided eye contact with a man
I'd always had a witty comeback for until now.
"Yeah, sometimes they don't heal right...
...tattoos, I mean. It doesn't bother me
anymore, though."
His phone rang just in time to save me
from further explanation. It was our foreman
telling us to go perform some random task
somewhere else on the job. We packed
the necessary tools and headed off
lighting cigarettes for the walk.
My partner didn't bring it up again
after we switched gears
and came back to where we were originally working.
I took that as his way of saying he knew
since he's not one to let things go
in conversation, especially when
he thinks he knows he's right.
That's all I need to spread through the Union:
"Shakespeare's crazy, and not just 'cause
he sits under a tree and reads while we eat lunch."
But for now I roll with them as they come
and sit here drinking cocktails in my room
in a house with a half-finished bathroom upstairs
and a boiler in the basement I've never bothered
to look at because although this is what I do
for a living now, it's not who I am
and thankfully who I am
is not who I was
when that stupid kid still thought
that anyone would notice
and be compelled enough
to try to change his condition
not yet understanding that only he could.
6.19.2008
Ba-deep, ba-deep: that's all, Folks!
I'll even keep it light-
hearted while proving my point:
think back to the pets you've had
while growing up; you can't even muster
one crocodile tear for the ones that died
that you never got around to naming.
I heard that long ago there was a tribe
who made it illegal, punishable by death
to name anything that took breaths
since all Life was beautiful
and all Beauty is fleeting.
I forget what our forefathers called them
besides the Enemy
and what our historians call them
besides grant-money fodder
but I'm almost certain
they put up a toast-worthy fight before
succumbing to the inevitability of fate.
If you want to see their bones
or dioramas of their villages
museum admission's cheap
and if you want to see the ones still breathing...
...Well, I can't give away all my secrets
at once, can I?
Currently reading:
The writing on the wall.
hearted while proving my point:
think back to the pets you've had
while growing up; you can't even muster
one crocodile tear for the ones that died
that you never got around to naming.
I heard that long ago there was a tribe
who made it illegal, punishable by death
to name anything that took breaths
since all Life was beautiful
and all Beauty is fleeting.
I forget what our forefathers called them
besides the Enemy
and what our historians call them
besides grant-money fodder
but I'm almost certain
they put up a toast-worthy fight before
succumbing to the inevitability of fate.
If you want to see their bones
or dioramas of their villages
museum admission's cheap
and if you want to see the ones still breathing...
...Well, I can't give away all my secrets
at once, can I?
Currently reading:
The writing on the wall.
6.16.2008
Say Anything, but with less John Cusack.
The storm hit and multiple transformers blew
and power lines went down
and I knew it'd take longer than a few hours
and that I wouldn't be able to sleep that night
without the aid of air conditioning and fans
due to the heatwave and humidity
so I grabbed some work clothes for the next day
and headed to my mother's house on the other side of town.
Half a mile down the road I saw where the power grid
must stop, the lights and signs on the other side of the line
making those on my dark side jealous
again.
Volunteers with pick-up trucks and too much spare time
were gathering outside the firehouse like ants
half-clad in black and yellow.
It's another thankless job
that's filled by those with a fetish for it
but those same folks fail
to wrap their overly ambitious little heads
around the fact that if they
perhaps found something more creative to do with their lives
it'd create at least fifty new jobs in the neighborhood.
But I'm no politician and I've already got my union card
safely guarding my wallet and my interests
so I'd be lying if I said I cared enough
to incite a riot or write my local congressman.
Looking down at the T-shirt I had put on for good luck
for my ride through the tumult I laugh to myself through my teeth
at what I know my mom is going to say, at least think: "You didn't
graduate so you're wearing her school's logo instead?"
In the Fifties guys gave their gals their Varsity jackets;
in this new century women pursuing undergraduate degrees give their
college-dropout construction worker boyfriends their T-shirts.
It's an ironic twist of fate and a fad that won't catch
but I've always preferred standing alone in my style.
I decided to make a detour, swing by her house.
I called her up and told her to look out her window
since I wouldn't be able to stop and chat, weather and other
conditions prohibiting. Her curls stuck out against
the dim orange glow of the lamp in her bedroom
as I slowed to a speed not too conspicuous, waved
and wished I could do more.
My stereo played the perfect song for the bad '80s movie moment
but that was no coincidence since I'd put it on repeat
for just such an occasion.
Hey, sometimes you have to make those memories just right
so when you embellish your stories later in life
you won't feel as guilty.
When I got to my mother's house they were all already asleep.
Part of me wished that I'd parked down the road and
ran through the rain so my glimpse through the window
would've been longer.
Sometimes you have to settle for hearing the same thunder.
and power lines went down
and I knew it'd take longer than a few hours
and that I wouldn't be able to sleep that night
without the aid of air conditioning and fans
due to the heatwave and humidity
so I grabbed some work clothes for the next day
and headed to my mother's house on the other side of town.
Half a mile down the road I saw where the power grid
must stop, the lights and signs on the other side of the line
making those on my dark side jealous
again.
Volunteers with pick-up trucks and too much spare time
were gathering outside the firehouse like ants
half-clad in black and yellow.
It's another thankless job
that's filled by those with a fetish for it
but those same folks fail
to wrap their overly ambitious little heads
around the fact that if they
perhaps found something more creative to do with their lives
it'd create at least fifty new jobs in the neighborhood.
But I'm no politician and I've already got my union card
safely guarding my wallet and my interests
so I'd be lying if I said I cared enough
to incite a riot or write my local congressman.
Looking down at the T-shirt I had put on for good luck
for my ride through the tumult I laugh to myself through my teeth
at what I know my mom is going to say, at least think: "You didn't
graduate so you're wearing her school's logo instead?"
In the Fifties guys gave their gals their Varsity jackets;
in this new century women pursuing undergraduate degrees give their
college-dropout construction worker boyfriends their T-shirts.
It's an ironic twist of fate and a fad that won't catch
but I've always preferred standing alone in my style.
I decided to make a detour, swing by her house.
I called her up and told her to look out her window
since I wouldn't be able to stop and chat, weather and other
conditions prohibiting. Her curls stuck out against
the dim orange glow of the lamp in her bedroom
as I slowed to a speed not too conspicuous, waved
and wished I could do more.
My stereo played the perfect song for the bad '80s movie moment
but that was no coincidence since I'd put it on repeat
for just such an occasion.
Hey, sometimes you have to make those memories just right
so when you embellish your stories later in life
you won't feel as guilty.
When I got to my mother's house they were all already asleep.
Part of me wished that I'd parked down the road and
ran through the rain so my glimpse through the window
would've been longer.
Sometimes you have to settle for hearing the same thunder.
6.15.2008
In a fight between me and me, I'd pick me.
The thing I remember first about him
is that when we met in junior high
it tickled me pink to hear him tell
the story of how he had suffered two hernias
by that point in life already: one while being born
the other while trying to lift a heavy rock as a kid.
His personality didn't seem much stronger, either;
a cheerful runt who meant well, but all-in-all
just another bland sap with a huge bookbag whom
I was stuck sitting with in those boring honors classes
that obviously got me real far.
And the unibrow, the unibrow made it obvious
that he was very Italian. One day in English class
he further emphasized the fact when sonnets of different forms
were being discussed. He raised his hand abruptly
to point out that his last name was the root
of the Italian who invented the rhyme-scheme
discussed at the time. ABBA CDDC none of it matters;
that sorry bastard was just using it to get laid
like the rest of us, only it worked for him
and he got his name solidified in the annals of time.
And a few centuries later some kid
got to raise his hand and claim relevance.
I respected that boy even less after that day.
We'd be in the cafeteria and he'd make a bad joke
and the pity laugh that used to surface wouldn't come;
he'd sold his soul, and for what?
It didn't change the fact that sticks in the mud
stuck to more concrete things like the Periodic Table
and Trig formulas; and even his precious poem template
was a fake, a recipe designed for success that
only dished out more meaningless nonsense
meant to make ugly things sound pretty
make truths out of lies.
So there you have it, ______ ________:
the only bad thing I'd ever have to say about you.
I hope, if you ever read it, it means even less
than your great-great-great-great
grandfather's contribution ever did.
Let's both roll over and go to sleep now
knowing we've earned it with our own shoulders.
is that when we met in junior high
it tickled me pink to hear him tell
the story of how he had suffered two hernias
by that point in life already: one while being born
the other while trying to lift a heavy rock as a kid.
His personality didn't seem much stronger, either;
a cheerful runt who meant well, but all-in-all
just another bland sap with a huge bookbag whom
I was stuck sitting with in those boring honors classes
that obviously got me real far.
And the unibrow, the unibrow made it obvious
that he was very Italian. One day in English class
he further emphasized the fact when sonnets of different forms
were being discussed. He raised his hand abruptly
to point out that his last name was the root
of the Italian who invented the rhyme-scheme
discussed at the time. ABBA CDDC none of it matters;
that sorry bastard was just using it to get laid
like the rest of us, only it worked for him
and he got his name solidified in the annals of time.
And a few centuries later some kid
got to raise his hand and claim relevance.
I respected that boy even less after that day.
We'd be in the cafeteria and he'd make a bad joke
and the pity laugh that used to surface wouldn't come;
he'd sold his soul, and for what?
It didn't change the fact that sticks in the mud
stuck to more concrete things like the Periodic Table
and Trig formulas; and even his precious poem template
was a fake, a recipe designed for success that
only dished out more meaningless nonsense
meant to make ugly things sound pretty
make truths out of lies.
So there you have it, ______ ________:
the only bad thing I'd ever have to say about you.
I hope, if you ever read it, it means even less
than your great-great-great-great
grandfather's contribution ever did.
Let's both roll over and go to sleep now
knowing we've earned it with our own shoulders.
6.11.2008
On the dangers of women with orange cars.
What the Brothers Grimm didn't tell us
was that the problem with dating Cinderella
is that every sucker in the whole damn Kingdom
swears he has her slipper, too
and that even Prince Charming's big, brown eyes
turn green every now and then as a result
(though any honest princess will confess
that she secretly likes that, the need to feel
desired being primeval, and all).
But hey, at least she ain't any got wicked stepsisters.
I'll take older brothers over them any day.
was that the problem with dating Cinderella
is that every sucker in the whole damn Kingdom
swears he has her slipper, too
and that even Prince Charming's big, brown eyes
turn green every now and then as a result
(though any honest princess will confess
that she secretly likes that, the need to feel
desired being primeval, and all).
But hey, at least she ain't any got wicked stepsisters.
I'll take older brothers over them any day.
6.10.2008
Once prescribed, but you don't really need them.
I know how it'll happen
twenty, thirty, forty years from now
standing in line at a grocery store
or gas station, if either still exists.
If I still do.
A tap on the shoulder from behind and
the click of the hammer being pulled back
though not necessarily in that order
or maybe just him asking if the name belongs to me.
The voice.
The voice will give it away
and the smell of cigarettes and mediocre whiskey
and I won't have time to explain
or even finish nodding my head
before these brains cover the counter, the cashier in front of me
as somewhere miles off graves roll and statistics cheer
as the cycle ends and truth prevails again
though the headlines won't show it, only a senseless act.
An old friend used to tell me
"It's not a lie if you believe it,"
but those are a coward's words to live by
so I let him keep his beliefs to himself
thinking I was any better.
It's best we formed factions, parted ways
but I see the similarities now.
The deathbed confessions of a sinner of our caliber
could take weeks.
It's a good thing I've got unemployment insurance.
twenty, thirty, forty years from now
standing in line at a grocery store
or gas station, if either still exists.
If I still do.
A tap on the shoulder from behind and
the click of the hammer being pulled back
though not necessarily in that order
or maybe just him asking if the name belongs to me.
The voice.
The voice will give it away
and the smell of cigarettes and mediocre whiskey
and I won't have time to explain
or even finish nodding my head
before these brains cover the counter, the cashier in front of me
as somewhere miles off graves roll and statistics cheer
as the cycle ends and truth prevails again
though the headlines won't show it, only a senseless act.
An old friend used to tell me
"It's not a lie if you believe it,"
but those are a coward's words to live by
so I let him keep his beliefs to himself
thinking I was any better.
It's best we formed factions, parted ways
but I see the similarities now.
The deathbed confessions of a sinner of our caliber
could take weeks.
It's a good thing I've got unemployment insurance.
6.09.2008
Shit or get off the pot, Kid.
I saw a spider fall from my ceiling this morning
and instantly knew that somehow this
angered God more than centuries
of war in His name.
and instantly knew that somehow this
angered God more than centuries
of war in His name.
6.08.2008
You sunk my battleship!
Summer storms hit like letters from home.
The thunder shakes the window panes
and I don't know whether to shit or go blind
whatever that means
and when it did tonight it came into focus.
I thought of her dog, Benji.
The one my parents got me
for my fourth birthday had the same name
until he ran away at the fireworks
and became roadkill somewhere on 9W
but that's another story.
Anyway, this Benji of hers
a little terrier of some kind I believe
really loses it when lightning strikes.
He wakes her up from sound sleep
when the thunder rattles the house
howling and hiding under beds
like my father's dog used to when his old man
came home drunk on Bacardi looking to beat up
on someone, usually my favorite absentee.
My rabbit was on the floor in my room
when that same storm hit tonight.
At first her muscles tensed and she jerked her head
poised for the worst, but after a few pensive moments
of risk analysis she resumed chewing on the socks
thrown on my floor. Yeah, sure; who am I kidding?
She wasn't contemplating the threat of death
she just has the memory of a goldfish
and went back on her merry way when she realized
she was still alive and well and breathing.
Rabbits don't have time for fear.
They're a breed that the fight or flight instinct
has overlooked.
If it all goes to shit and the rug's pulled out from under
they're all royally fucked, but they won't see it coming
ignorance being Swiss and all.
And I'm not scared either
so the animals are fitting.
Dead men may not tell tales
but I'd much rather have a story for Adolf
and the bunch when I finally get there.
Let's do this, long sleeves
be damned.
Currently reading:
"Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski" by Neeli Cherkovski.
The thunder shakes the window panes
and I don't know whether to shit or go blind
whatever that means
and when it did tonight it came into focus.
I thought of her dog, Benji.
The one my parents got me
for my fourth birthday had the same name
until he ran away at the fireworks
and became roadkill somewhere on 9W
but that's another story.
Anyway, this Benji of hers
a little terrier of some kind I believe
really loses it when lightning strikes.
He wakes her up from sound sleep
when the thunder rattles the house
howling and hiding under beds
like my father's dog used to when his old man
came home drunk on Bacardi looking to beat up
on someone, usually my favorite absentee.
My rabbit was on the floor in my room
when that same storm hit tonight.
At first her muscles tensed and she jerked her head
poised for the worst, but after a few pensive moments
of risk analysis she resumed chewing on the socks
thrown on my floor. Yeah, sure; who am I kidding?
She wasn't contemplating the threat of death
she just has the memory of a goldfish
and went back on her merry way when she realized
she was still alive and well and breathing.
Rabbits don't have time for fear.
They're a breed that the fight or flight instinct
has overlooked.
If it all goes to shit and the rug's pulled out from under
they're all royally fucked, but they won't see it coming
ignorance being Swiss and all.
And I'm not scared either
so the animals are fitting.
Dead men may not tell tales
but I'd much rather have a story for Adolf
and the bunch when I finally get there.
Let's do this, long sleeves
be damned.
Currently reading:
"Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski" by Neeli Cherkovski.
6.04.2008
Your mother listens to Coal Chamber.
It's working a fourteen-hour day here and there
to pay for mistakes of your dead liver.
It's rinsing and repeating when the water turns gray
after said fourteen-hour day.
It's wondering if you left the sink running
or if your house is haunted, too.
It's peeling off the Band-Aid
and finding a tattoo of a Band-Aid.
You can't deny using sandpaper
when you ran out of tissues
or throwing bottles
when you ran out of ammo
that you should've rationed.
It's understanding when to bury hatchets
while maintaining the belief that even duct tape
and pocket knives can't fix some things.
You shouldn't have called, but you did
and at least now you know where you'll always stand.
It's staying out of all the gin joints in all the world.
It's telling Sam to never play it again
since neither of us can take it.
It's acknowledging that we never had Paris.
It's moving on.
It's ignoring the results of Sonny's initial car door test
and getting double the milk later on.
It's finally achieving it again, simultaneous completion
and knowing neither one is faking it, literally or otherwise.
It's realizing that no one really has any friends
just people who need favors
and we barter to get what we want
until what we need
but don't have
finally kills us.
It's late-night phone calls with eyes barely open
as best friends talk lent literature
while disregarding hypocrisy in verse.
(Double the milk as those further back, remember?)
It's telling you to go fuck yrself
and going to bed
almost content
though not for that reason.
Goodnight, motherfuckers.
to pay for mistakes of your dead liver.
It's rinsing and repeating when the water turns gray
after said fourteen-hour day.
It's wondering if you left the sink running
or if your house is haunted, too.
It's peeling off the Band-Aid
and finding a tattoo of a Band-Aid.
You can't deny using sandpaper
when you ran out of tissues
or throwing bottles
when you ran out of ammo
that you should've rationed.
It's understanding when to bury hatchets
while maintaining the belief that even duct tape
and pocket knives can't fix some things.
You shouldn't have called, but you did
and at least now you know where you'll always stand.
It's staying out of all the gin joints in all the world.
It's telling Sam to never play it again
since neither of us can take it.
It's acknowledging that we never had Paris.
It's moving on.
It's ignoring the results of Sonny's initial car door test
and getting double the milk later on.
It's finally achieving it again, simultaneous completion
and knowing neither one is faking it, literally or otherwise.
It's realizing that no one really has any friends
just people who need favors
and we barter to get what we want
until what we need
but don't have
finally kills us.
It's late-night phone calls with eyes barely open
as best friends talk lent literature
while disregarding hypocrisy in verse.
(Double the milk as those further back, remember?)
It's telling you to go fuck yrself
and going to bed
almost content
though not for that reason.
Goodnight, motherfuckers.
6.02.2008
Slutever.
The monotony of it turns my stomach anymore.
The dirty looks and snyde remarks the ogre role elicits
in the unrecognized name of responsibility.
The clean-up and the mourning after.
The hair-ties, bobby pins, backs of earrings.
Loose change from the pockets of loose women.
Paper bags from plastic dinners for rubber souls.
Expensive beer missing from the bottom bin in the fridge.
Cheap beer left half-drank on every flat surface.
Bottle caps, beer tabs, crushed potato chips.
Beer pong balls under tables sticky with spilled drinks.
The empty bottles I bought a few days ago
that I barely got to have any of before the bastards
cleaned me out, house and home, limb from limb.
And if they ever come back looking for their dignity
I'll tell them to check between the cushions of the couch.
The aftermath of a good time had too fast for the wrong reasons.
Phone calls asking him to come clean up the vomit
he left for me in the morning.
At least he's one of the few who will.
Still, it's sad to watch, has been for years.
Binge/purge.
I know why he does it.
We have similar reasons, only mine are mentioned
and almost go away from time to time for as long as
they choose to stay.
"Never let me drink that much and that fast again."
"Yeah. So we'll do it again this Saturday?"
"Yeah, give me a call."
It used to be all part of the game, but I've hung up my gloves.
Yeah, I know. I keep saying that.
And I bet you're looking
for a reference to yourself right about here.
Don't hold your breath.
No.
Do.
Maybe all of this stems from
the cigarette I'm craving.
I smoked the last one in my last pack
today and want to see if I can go without that vice.
Bumming a few while drinking won't count
or after a hearty meal or mind-shattering sex--
it's the ones you suck on your down-time
at work every day that kill you slowly.
Somewhere along the way talent was replaced with style.
Shortly afterwards, the man with the biggest gun shouted
"Every man for himself!" and we've all paid the price ever since.
Or at least most of us.
I'm not asking for the strength to deal anymore.
I'm asking for a mortgage and locks that only I have the key to.
Well, only me and mine.
Bobby pins.
Jesus saves.
Gretzky scores.
Or did I mix those up again?
It's all the same.
And it will continue to be
until they're gone.
Until they're all
fucking
gone.
Today I quit smoking
like tomorrow I'll quit you.
But I have to go now, it's almost time.
Something tells me we won't get to the movie
and I don't mind that one bit.
In fact, it's the only thing.
Currently reading:
"The Selected Stories of O. Henry."
The dirty looks and snyde remarks the ogre role elicits
in the unrecognized name of responsibility.
The clean-up and the mourning after.
The hair-ties, bobby pins, backs of earrings.
Loose change from the pockets of loose women.
Paper bags from plastic dinners for rubber souls.
Expensive beer missing from the bottom bin in the fridge.
Cheap beer left half-drank on every flat surface.
Bottle caps, beer tabs, crushed potato chips.
Beer pong balls under tables sticky with spilled drinks.
The empty bottles I bought a few days ago
that I barely got to have any of before the bastards
cleaned me out, house and home, limb from limb.
And if they ever come back looking for their dignity
I'll tell them to check between the cushions of the couch.
The aftermath of a good time had too fast for the wrong reasons.
Phone calls asking him to come clean up the vomit
he left for me in the morning.
At least he's one of the few who will.
Still, it's sad to watch, has been for years.
Binge/purge.
I know why he does it.
We have similar reasons, only mine are mentioned
and almost go away from time to time for as long as
they choose to stay.
"Never let me drink that much and that fast again."
"Yeah. So we'll do it again this Saturday?"
"Yeah, give me a call."
It used to be all part of the game, but I've hung up my gloves.
Yeah, I know. I keep saying that.
And I bet you're looking
for a reference to yourself right about here.
Don't hold your breath.
No.
Do.
Maybe all of this stems from
the cigarette I'm craving.
I smoked the last one in my last pack
today and want to see if I can go without that vice.
Bumming a few while drinking won't count
or after a hearty meal or mind-shattering sex--
it's the ones you suck on your down-time
at work every day that kill you slowly.
Somewhere along the way talent was replaced with style.
Shortly afterwards, the man with the biggest gun shouted
"Every man for himself!" and we've all paid the price ever since.
Or at least most of us.
I'm not asking for the strength to deal anymore.
I'm asking for a mortgage and locks that only I have the key to.
Well, only me and mine.
Bobby pins.
Jesus saves.
Gretzky scores.
Or did I mix those up again?
It's all the same.
And it will continue to be
until they're gone.
Until they're all
fucking
gone.
Today I quit smoking
like tomorrow I'll quit you.
But I have to go now, it's almost time.
Something tells me we won't get to the movie
and I don't mind that one bit.
In fact, it's the only thing.
Currently reading:
"The Selected Stories of O. Henry."
5.31.2008
Los Dolores,
My mother and stepfather went to Florida yesterday.
Before leaving she asked me to go check on the Old Lady
once or twice while they're away, enticing me with leftovers
in the fridge. Since I had to pass by their development
on my way home from work today I figured I'd swing by.
No one answered the phone when I called ahead to see
if my grandmother's caretaker needed milk for the two of them.
I contemplated buying a half-gallon anyway, but didn't.
When I got there I saw why no one had answered the phone.
The woman who tends to the Old Lady was out back on
the patio talking to her friend. She introduced us and
I was surprised to hear him say "How are you?" as we shook hands--
me avoiding eye contact, him avoiding a firm grip.
In my broken Spanish and her broken English we established
that they did not need milk or bread or any other staples
and that Grandma was upstairs in her room. About-faced
and trudged through the living room with my workboots on
not caring about the carpet since my mother was all the way down
the Eastern Seaboard, far out of harm's way.
I knocked on her open door and greeted her with the formal salutation
small Hispanic children are trained to say to their elders upon greeting
and parting, a word I believe roughly translated means "God bless you."
She turned from the window where she had been looking down
at my previous engagement, shining her big dentures at me
and spreading her arms so wide in preparation for a grateful hug
her pastel striped blouse spread wide like a sail and the sun shone through it.
I hugged her gingerly but with feeling, a feat necessary
with those eighty and older
easily accomplished by the patting of the back to show emphasis
without enough strength to hurt frail bones.
I tried to keep our chests from touching since I was still covered
in white concrete dust from work.
"Hello, how are you?" was the anticipated first question
that bought me some time while I quickly ran a scan of
my hazy memory for a proper response in Spanish.
"I'm good, I've been working today." It felt more like the beginning
of an eighth-grade oral test than a conversation with a woman
responsible for my existence. Not being fluent enough to do more than understand
some of the language is one of the few things I'll never forgive my mother for;
she should've continued to teach me as I grew older. As a baby I spoke both
but the inconvenience drove her to give up on the process
and I'm now no better off at expressing myself than your typical
junior high student, especially with past-tense verbs.
I knew it'd only be more awkward from there on in. "Yeah? On a Saturday?
You're a good boy." My limited vocabulary made me curl my toes in my boots
as I spat out the next words for the sake of saying something coherent:
"Yeah, I've been trabajando como un hombre fuerte," laughing in my head
at how tacky that sounded as I flexed a bicep and hoped she didn't laugh
at her grandson for saying he'd been "working like a strong man"
with a straight face.
She didn't. Her face lit up and I interjected with what I knew she wanted to hear next
since this script never changes much. "Mom said there's food for me to take home."
The sense of urgency that took over her wrinkled face proved that she was definitely
a mother of three obsessed with feeding her offspring. "Yes, take it and eat it
and be healthy and strong!" Good advice, and more simple words I could handle.
I went on to tell her to have her caretaker dial the phone for her
if she needed anything, milk or eggs or fresh fruit, and she smiled again
saying that she had asked my mother to leave my number with them
in case of just such an emergency. I already knew that fact because
upon walking through the kitchen earlier I saw my number on a Post-it Note
next to the Spanish phonetic spelling of my name that my grandma used to
write on birthday card envelopes and the like: Maico.
Her appreciation for my sense of duty was evident when she went off on
a rant too fast with emotion for me to decipher, but I got the basic idea.
The part at the end of her speech said that she calls me her son
because she always thought of me as her "real" son since she spent
so much time with me as I grew up. Out of about ten grand- and great-grandkids
I was the one she spent the most time with, something I value.
Grinning a stubbled countenance of contentment I said goodbye
with that same silly word I've been brainwashed into saying
and edged my way towards the stairs. She spread her arms wide again
and embraced me with full force. "No, be careful, I'm dirty from work!"
I warned her, but she only held me tighter. "You're my son, and even
when you think you're dirty, I still think you're clean and pure."
Clean and pure. The words rang out. Sometimes I forget that
in some eyes I still am and always will be.
That's worth all the potential bread and milk and egg deliveries in the world.
Clean and pure.
I squeezed tighter, too.
To hell with that fake back-pat hug.
Love like that is worth brushing some concrete dust off a pastel-striped blouse.
Currently reading:
"Open All Night" by Charles Bukowski.
Before leaving she asked me to go check on the Old Lady
once or twice while they're away, enticing me with leftovers
in the fridge. Since I had to pass by their development
on my way home from work today I figured I'd swing by.
No one answered the phone when I called ahead to see
if my grandmother's caretaker needed milk for the two of them.
I contemplated buying a half-gallon anyway, but didn't.
When I got there I saw why no one had answered the phone.
The woman who tends to the Old Lady was out back on
the patio talking to her friend. She introduced us and
I was surprised to hear him say "How are you?" as we shook hands--
me avoiding eye contact, him avoiding a firm grip.
In my broken Spanish and her broken English we established
that they did not need milk or bread or any other staples
and that Grandma was upstairs in her room. About-faced
and trudged through the living room with my workboots on
not caring about the carpet since my mother was all the way down
the Eastern Seaboard, far out of harm's way.
I knocked on her open door and greeted her with the formal salutation
small Hispanic children are trained to say to their elders upon greeting
and parting, a word I believe roughly translated means "God bless you."
She turned from the window where she had been looking down
at my previous engagement, shining her big dentures at me
and spreading her arms so wide in preparation for a grateful hug
her pastel striped blouse spread wide like a sail and the sun shone through it.
I hugged her gingerly but with feeling, a feat necessary
with those eighty and older
easily accomplished by the patting of the back to show emphasis
without enough strength to hurt frail bones.
I tried to keep our chests from touching since I was still covered
in white concrete dust from work.
"Hello, how are you?" was the anticipated first question
that bought me some time while I quickly ran a scan of
my hazy memory for a proper response in Spanish.
"I'm good, I've been working today." It felt more like the beginning
of an eighth-grade oral test than a conversation with a woman
responsible for my existence. Not being fluent enough to do more than understand
some of the language is one of the few things I'll never forgive my mother for;
she should've continued to teach me as I grew older. As a baby I spoke both
but the inconvenience drove her to give up on the process
and I'm now no better off at expressing myself than your typical
junior high student, especially with past-tense verbs.
I knew it'd only be more awkward from there on in. "Yeah? On a Saturday?
You're a good boy." My limited vocabulary made me curl my toes in my boots
as I spat out the next words for the sake of saying something coherent:
"Yeah, I've been trabajando como un hombre fuerte," laughing in my head
at how tacky that sounded as I flexed a bicep and hoped she didn't laugh
at her grandson for saying he'd been "working like a strong man"
with a straight face.
She didn't. Her face lit up and I interjected with what I knew she wanted to hear next
since this script never changes much. "Mom said there's food for me to take home."
The sense of urgency that took over her wrinkled face proved that she was definitely
a mother of three obsessed with feeding her offspring. "Yes, take it and eat it
and be healthy and strong!" Good advice, and more simple words I could handle.
I went on to tell her to have her caretaker dial the phone for her
if she needed anything, milk or eggs or fresh fruit, and she smiled again
saying that she had asked my mother to leave my number with them
in case of just such an emergency. I already knew that fact because
upon walking through the kitchen earlier I saw my number on a Post-it Note
next to the Spanish phonetic spelling of my name that my grandma used to
write on birthday card envelopes and the like: Maico.
Her appreciation for my sense of duty was evident when she went off on
a rant too fast with emotion for me to decipher, but I got the basic idea.
The part at the end of her speech said that she calls me her son
because she always thought of me as her "real" son since she spent
so much time with me as I grew up. Out of about ten grand- and great-grandkids
I was the one she spent the most time with, something I value.
Grinning a stubbled countenance of contentment I said goodbye
with that same silly word I've been brainwashed into saying
and edged my way towards the stairs. She spread her arms wide again
and embraced me with full force. "No, be careful, I'm dirty from work!"
I warned her, but she only held me tighter. "You're my son, and even
when you think you're dirty, I still think you're clean and pure."
Clean and pure. The words rang out. Sometimes I forget that
in some eyes I still am and always will be.
That's worth all the potential bread and milk and egg deliveries in the world.
Clean and pure.
I squeezed tighter, too.
To hell with that fake back-pat hug.
Love like that is worth brushing some concrete dust off a pastel-striped blouse.
Currently reading:
"Open All Night" by Charles Bukowski.
5.22.2008
As I sit here with my right testicle hanging out of my shorts...
There's a select breed of them I've known
who stand apart in a seemingly backwards
scenario: they tire of their men
who are in turn frightened away from them
for one reason or fifty.
Watercolors remind me of them
and ponchos
and poetry from the heart
and anything bright
or dull or dead.
Somehow, when talent and wit were being doled out
their pregnant mothers sold their souls
to get to the front of the line, but for naught.
Ever since being birthed back in the Eighties
it's as if they've tried sucking up the world
in an attempt to portray or perfect it, but forgot to live in it
in the process; like my mother said of my father's type:
"So Heavenly bound that they're of no Earthly good."
Eating ribs in a white T-shirt and cursing at other motorists
and spitting on bugs when the childishly cruel urge comes up--
It's all OK, kids--
at least to these whelmingly human eyes and hands and feet
this Cowboy more free than anyone else claiming to be.
But don't let their alleged innocence fool you, Pilgrim:
Not that I'd know any better
than the next poor bastard
(this old dog found new tricks
less painful to the joints)
but something tells me if one brave enough to bed
one of these beauties lifted her sleeping hand
from the sheets the next morning
he'd find paint chips, sheet rock dust, and some of his skin
under her fingernails.
It's not their faults, they mean well most times.
It's like that one about the scorpion who stings the frog
as the latter gives the former a ride across the river
and they both drown-- it's just in their nature.
Still, they're the kind of women who
if they don't slow down
will end up aging less than gracefully;
smelling of their India ink
and wet clothes locked in a trunk to grow musty;
looking like a sadist tried shucking an oyster
with a baseball bat.
If you're wondering if this was all supposed to be
a pro or con statement, you are not alone.
I'm not even sure what I meant by any of it, I just know
that it's in the limbo where some memories live.
I can't argue with the fact that they've served a function
that I thought was impossible:
they've made me feel sane, by comparison.
After some of the charades, firsthand and otherwise
it's hard not to feel baffled
like a helicopter pilot after an F-16 flashes by
asking himself, "Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!"
And maybe all this is just a projection of my bitter envy
over the fact that any given one of them
could write circles around me without trying, instantly
reducing me to a wanna-be version of my obvious literary anti-hero
a lacking facsimile of one who lived it more
and bitched about it less.
Eh, whatever. It killed twenty-seven minutes
while waiting for home to get here.
who stand apart in a seemingly backwards
scenario: they tire of their men
who are in turn frightened away from them
for one reason or fifty.
Watercolors remind me of them
and ponchos
and poetry from the heart
and anything bright
or dull or dead.
Somehow, when talent and wit were being doled out
their pregnant mothers sold their souls
to get to the front of the line, but for naught.
Ever since being birthed back in the Eighties
it's as if they've tried sucking up the world
in an attempt to portray or perfect it, but forgot to live in it
in the process; like my mother said of my father's type:
"So Heavenly bound that they're of no Earthly good."
Eating ribs in a white T-shirt and cursing at other motorists
and spitting on bugs when the childishly cruel urge comes up--
It's all OK, kids--
at least to these whelmingly human eyes and hands and feet
this Cowboy more free than anyone else claiming to be.
But don't let their alleged innocence fool you, Pilgrim:
Not that I'd know any better
than the next poor bastard
(this old dog found new tricks
less painful to the joints)
but something tells me if one brave enough to bed
one of these beauties lifted her sleeping hand
from the sheets the next morning
he'd find paint chips, sheet rock dust, and some of his skin
under her fingernails.
It's not their faults, they mean well most times.
It's like that one about the scorpion who stings the frog
as the latter gives the former a ride across the river
and they both drown-- it's just in their nature.
Still, they're the kind of women who
if they don't slow down
will end up aging less than gracefully;
smelling of their India ink
and wet clothes locked in a trunk to grow musty;
looking like a sadist tried shucking an oyster
with a baseball bat.
If you're wondering if this was all supposed to be
a pro or con statement, you are not alone.
I'm not even sure what I meant by any of it, I just know
that it's in the limbo where some memories live.
I can't argue with the fact that they've served a function
that I thought was impossible:
they've made me feel sane, by comparison.
After some of the charades, firsthand and otherwise
it's hard not to feel baffled
like a helicopter pilot after an F-16 flashes by
asking himself, "Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!"
And maybe all this is just a projection of my bitter envy
over the fact that any given one of them
could write circles around me without trying, instantly
reducing me to a wanna-be version of my obvious literary anti-hero
a lacking facsimile of one who lived it more
and bitched about it less.
Eh, whatever. It killed twenty-seven minutes
while waiting for home to get here.
5.21.2008
One for the road.
Friday I'm leaving work early
to go visit my grandmother's brother
who went to the doctor for a routine check-up
and wound up in the hospital on his deathbed
at the ripe age of ninety-six.
The problem I have is not knowing whether
or not to wear that long-sleeved button-down.
Would that imply that I know that he knows that I know
that this will probably be our awkward goodbye
in my family's foreign tongue that I can't speak fluently?
Something tells me that when his pale blue eyes
see the meek look in mine
such trivialities as my shirt won't matter, but
it's just another of those things I won't know for sure
until I'm on the other side of the barrel.
God deals too many of those cards.
to go visit my grandmother's brother
who went to the doctor for a routine check-up
and wound up in the hospital on his deathbed
at the ripe age of ninety-six.
The problem I have is not knowing whether
or not to wear that long-sleeved button-down.
Would that imply that I know that he knows that I know
that this will probably be our awkward goodbye
in my family's foreign tongue that I can't speak fluently?
Something tells me that when his pale blue eyes
see the meek look in mine
such trivialities as my shirt won't matter, but
it's just another of those things I won't know for sure
until I'm on the other side of the barrel.
God deals too many of those cards.
5.19.2008
Gobble Gobble, Motherfucker.
Once, you banished him
from your miserable mansion property
suggesting that I rent elsewhere;
but Oh Captain, My Captain (Behoover)
came back with (a pipe wrench and a shotgun
and a speech impediment and) a vengeance
better than Bruce Willis
to put a cap in your turkey's corn-fed ass.
I had to pick the bullets out
and shave some feathers before
cooking his succulent breast, but
it was delicious-- breaded and seasoned and fried
like chicken cutlet a la Vahsen.
There was much hateful rejoicing
in celebration of the Spite Turkey, don't doubt that.
Guard your pets from now on, bitch;
we like Chinese food, too.
-- Robert "The Beast" Mahoney, 2008
from your miserable mansion property
suggesting that I rent elsewhere;
but Oh Captain, My Captain (Behoover)
came back with (a pipe wrench and a shotgun
and a speech impediment and) a vengeance
better than Bruce Willis
to put a cap in your turkey's corn-fed ass.
I had to pick the bullets out
and shave some feathers before
cooking his succulent breast, but
it was delicious-- breaded and seasoned and fried
like chicken cutlet a la Vahsen.
There was much hateful rejoicing
in celebration of the Spite Turkey, don't doubt that.
Guard your pets from now on, bitch;
we like Chinese food, too.
-- Robert "The Beast" Mahoney, 2008
5.18.2008
Turquoise or Amethyst?
It was one of those stupid tiffs couples have--
a slight inconvenience complicated by timing
and further confused by alcohol. It would've blown
over by morning had no one addressed it, but
she didn't let it come to that. I got out of bed
to take a leak. When I came back I noticed
that my pillow was missing and hers was now
in the center of the bed. I figured that meant
I'd be sleeping on the floor and didn't have
the energy to argue over it, but I was wrong.
"I hid your pillow. We can share mine if you want."
Any of you who've had a relationship of this caliber
know how amazing make-up sex is, so I'll spare you
the details.
"Did you like my trick?" she asked afterwards.
"Yeah, thanks for coming through."
It wasn't so much a trick as a tool to reconcile.
It felt good knowing I wouldn't be the only one to
make amends before bedtime from now on.
We passed out in each others arms
bare as the days we were born
with the lights still on
and our legs entangled in a marbled mess.
She must've gotten up to hit the lights
at some point during the night, and
she didn't even turn off
the air conditioning I'd begged to turn on
even though she was probably cold.
I'm sure the sight of me drooling on the sheets
with my hairy beergut let loose to gravity
in my post-coitus slumber didn't repulse
her one bit, even though it'd be enough
to frighten most. I'm insecure
about certain things and probably always will be
but she somehow manages to make me feel beautiful
on a daily basis; not in the way Grace Kelly was on the screen
nor an Olympic figure skater in the rink-- no, nothing inherent
or blatant or boastful. It's all filtered through the prism of her love
like the way an old, haggard blues guitarist
with liver spots and bloody gums is transformed
as soon as he makes those notes bend
you to tears, or a welder who knows his trade
better than he knows his children
binds those metals together expertly and with pride
until the last joint is sealed.
It's a loveliness often missed out on since it requires
more attention than most take the time to give
and it's more than I think I deserve being given, though
she begs to differ, thankfully.
After the Incident
my mother told me a day of reckoning would come
and until then I'd rack up experience points
for the long haul.
I know she'll sleep better
knowing the hands
my heart's finally in
after she meets the pillow thief.
Currently reading:
"Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson.
a slight inconvenience complicated by timing
and further confused by alcohol. It would've blown
over by morning had no one addressed it, but
she didn't let it come to that. I got out of bed
to take a leak. When I came back I noticed
that my pillow was missing and hers was now
in the center of the bed. I figured that meant
I'd be sleeping on the floor and didn't have
the energy to argue over it, but I was wrong.
"I hid your pillow. We can share mine if you want."
Any of you who've had a relationship of this caliber
know how amazing make-up sex is, so I'll spare you
the details.
"Did you like my trick?" she asked afterwards.
"Yeah, thanks for coming through."
It wasn't so much a trick as a tool to reconcile.
It felt good knowing I wouldn't be the only one to
make amends before bedtime from now on.
We passed out in each others arms
bare as the days we were born
with the lights still on
and our legs entangled in a marbled mess.
She must've gotten up to hit the lights
at some point during the night, and
she didn't even turn off
the air conditioning I'd begged to turn on
even though she was probably cold.
I'm sure the sight of me drooling on the sheets
with my hairy beergut let loose to gravity
in my post-coitus slumber didn't repulse
her one bit, even though it'd be enough
to frighten most. I'm insecure
about certain things and probably always will be
but she somehow manages to make me feel beautiful
on a daily basis; not in the way Grace Kelly was on the screen
nor an Olympic figure skater in the rink-- no, nothing inherent
or blatant or boastful. It's all filtered through the prism of her love
like the way an old, haggard blues guitarist
with liver spots and bloody gums is transformed
as soon as he makes those notes bend
you to tears, or a welder who knows his trade
better than he knows his children
binds those metals together expertly and with pride
until the last joint is sealed.
It's a loveliness often missed out on since it requires
more attention than most take the time to give
and it's more than I think I deserve being given, though
she begs to differ, thankfully.
After the Incident
my mother told me a day of reckoning would come
and until then I'd rack up experience points
for the long haul.
I know she'll sleep better
knowing the hands
my heart's finally in
after she meets the pillow thief.
Currently reading:
"Hell's Angels" by Hunter S. Thompson.
5.12.2008
On selling your soul for a buck.
My bucket of tools banged against
the side of my leg as I moped
to the house I had to work on.
The site was like a ghost town
due to the weather, figured I'd fake
a kind word to one of the few souls
actually there. Switching hands
with my load, I forced a hungover smile
and told that sole carpenter the fascia
he was nailing to the roof of the porch looked good.
The rough wood was no longer visible
replaced instead by decorative white aluminum.
He stepped down from the ladder, pretending to
need nails, and showed that he was lonely
by saying more than "Thanks." My foreman
wasn't around but I still wouldn't drop my bucket
to chat; whatever he said had to be quick, but it wasn't.
"It looks good, but I feel like an asshole. These two birds
keep flying around me trying to get into the gaps
in the wood I just sealed off with aluminum. They must
have a nest in there somewhere, probably babies."
He shook his head and gave me the look of disgust
that comes with the burden of doing whatcha gotta.
I saw in his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses
that he was one of us, the cursed and conscienced
minority on the job.
I picked up the pace to avoid further awkward
seemingly meaningless conversation
and pitied the poor bastard for trying to walk my line
having a heart on a construction site.
Don't worry, man. This isn't Nuremberg, you were
"just following orders" will fly. By the time I finished hooking
up the furnace behind the house he was gone.
The birds were still there chirping their little hearts out.
It dawned on me that it's not always for the reason
we'd like to think.
the side of my leg as I moped
to the house I had to work on.
The site was like a ghost town
due to the weather, figured I'd fake
a kind word to one of the few souls
actually there. Switching hands
with my load, I forced a hungover smile
and told that sole carpenter the fascia
he was nailing to the roof of the porch looked good.
The rough wood was no longer visible
replaced instead by decorative white aluminum.
He stepped down from the ladder, pretending to
need nails, and showed that he was lonely
by saying more than "Thanks." My foreman
wasn't around but I still wouldn't drop my bucket
to chat; whatever he said had to be quick, but it wasn't.
"It looks good, but I feel like an asshole. These two birds
keep flying around me trying to get into the gaps
in the wood I just sealed off with aluminum. They must
have a nest in there somewhere, probably babies."
He shook his head and gave me the look of disgust
that comes with the burden of doing whatcha gotta.
I saw in his eyes behind Coke-bottle glasses
that he was one of us, the cursed and conscienced
minority on the job.
I picked up the pace to avoid further awkward
seemingly meaningless conversation
and pitied the poor bastard for trying to walk my line
having a heart on a construction site.
Don't worry, man. This isn't Nuremberg, you were
"just following orders" will fly. By the time I finished hooking
up the furnace behind the house he was gone.
The birds were still there chirping their little hearts out.
It dawned on me that it's not always for the reason
we'd like to think.
5.11.2008
homemade tattoos.
It's a very definite look, tangible almost:
when briefly locked eyes leak
that he knows
that you know
that both of you know
what it's like to be
There.
Then comes the question of
who got where first and to what extent--
brain, heart, and loins being bartering chips.
Really none of it matters.
You're both on her list
and wound up in the same places in the end--
the liquor store and the drawing board--
and all you can do is be thankful that
some souls still know what it's like to forgive
and leave Judgment Day to our Maker's discretion
...though I have a hell of an advantage
having found one who sucks the poison
from snakebites on this leper's limbs.
How's that for a douche-bag?
when briefly locked eyes leak
that he knows
that you know
that both of you know
what it's like to be
There.
Then comes the question of
who got where first and to what extent--
brain, heart, and loins being bartering chips.
Really none of it matters.
You're both on her list
and wound up in the same places in the end--
the liquor store and the drawing board--
and all you can do is be thankful that
some souls still know what it's like to forgive
and leave Judgment Day to our Maker's discretion
...though I have a hell of an advantage
having found one who sucks the poison
from snakebites on this leper's limbs.
How's that for a douche-bag?
5.07.2008
Sometimes friends fight.
Despite the whiskey on a Wednesday, I know
you'd be proud: I finally deleted
all of the Numbers' numbers.
It was a form of groveling that even I
was ashamed of. Remember those days, pal?
Yeah, me neither, but we're still paying
in spades and honest alibis.
Not that it matters now anyway. Bloodshed
can't be undone and that war was too blatant
to deny its existence.
(Women: 0, Junior: N/A)
Despite the five o'clock shadow
and taste for vengeance I am not and never was close
to being any sort of Clint Eastwood; always
The Bad or The Ugly, usually both.
(Here's the one you think you deserve;
Shitty consolation, I know.)
What plagues me now
is the opposite of the Monet Effect: though people judge me
from afar, the flaws disappear as one gets closer; though
sometimes new ones appear when the boundaries between
me and them disappear and they see it from my insides out.
Life isn't as grand through these eyes, Kid.
They aren't even mine, they're my father's
and look where they got him, wherever he may be.
At least the scars are my own, take
them or leave them.
Neither will surprise me.
Nothing much does at the age of twenty-four
going on fifty.
It felt old to drive a friend home from
a party, surprisingly mostly sober, when the drugs
hit him too hard. But the real kicker
is seeing bad luck multiply at the cellular level
in someone who clearly doesn't deserve it, someone
who will make a difference here someday
when this latest test is passed.
I swear this isn't pity, but strength
or an Oscar-worthy fraudulent version
is enough to make a fan crumble
after the ovation.
I'm not a religious man, or even spiritual, just
know that whatever manner of prayer
a sinner like me could make is with you.
But, like the rest of the aforementioned, she'll
stretch a mile before she tears an inch.
The good ones always do.
Currently reading:
"1984" by George Orwell.
you'd be proud: I finally deleted
all of the Numbers' numbers.
It was a form of groveling that even I
was ashamed of. Remember those days, pal?
Yeah, me neither, but we're still paying
in spades and honest alibis.
Not that it matters now anyway. Bloodshed
can't be undone and that war was too blatant
to deny its existence.
(Women: 0, Junior: N/A)
Despite the five o'clock shadow
and taste for vengeance I am not and never was close
to being any sort of Clint Eastwood; always
The Bad or The Ugly, usually both.
(Here's the one you think you deserve;
Shitty consolation, I know.)
What plagues me now
is the opposite of the Monet Effect: though people judge me
from afar, the flaws disappear as one gets closer; though
sometimes new ones appear when the boundaries between
me and them disappear and they see it from my insides out.
Life isn't as grand through these eyes, Kid.
They aren't even mine, they're my father's
and look where they got him, wherever he may be.
At least the scars are my own, take
them or leave them.
Neither will surprise me.
Nothing much does at the age of twenty-four
going on fifty.
It felt old to drive a friend home from
a party, surprisingly mostly sober, when the drugs
hit him too hard. But the real kicker
is seeing bad luck multiply at the cellular level
in someone who clearly doesn't deserve it, someone
who will make a difference here someday
when this latest test is passed.
I swear this isn't pity, but strength
or an Oscar-worthy fraudulent version
is enough to make a fan crumble
after the ovation.
I'm not a religious man, or even spiritual, just
know that whatever manner of prayer
a sinner like me could make is with you.
But, like the rest of the aforementioned, she'll
stretch a mile before she tears an inch.
The good ones always do.
Currently reading:
"1984" by George Orwell.
5.05.2008
Smiling through the afterbith.
How novel it was:
neither one cold while sharing the shower
washing off sex in our suits of lather
praying that we could wear them forever
changing the sheets every day for good measure
with noses buried in books side-by-side
until the diner calls or we die.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson"
neither one cold while sharing the shower
washing off sex in our suits of lather
praying that we could wear them forever
changing the sheets every day for good measure
with noses buried in books side-by-side
until the diner calls or we die.
Currently reading:
"The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson"
4.30.2008
...while you were sleeping.
"Shuttlecock"; "Raincheck":
These are words I don't understand.
Like when you ask someone
middle-aged or older
their telephone number and they look
you square in the eye, foolishly unashamed
and say "I don't know
it, I never call myself."
Well, maybe no one else should be calling
you, either, pal.
Nero played that fiddle beautifully as Rome burned
but I doubt a person such as yourself could
make ignorance nearly as tasteful.
And girth, can we talk about girth for a moment?
The blessing, the curse, the verdict is in
and the Feel Good Revolution
just got a little hindered by diameter.
Their mothers must tell them to say that
to all the boys, though it's a kind strategy.
Butt it sure is pleasant to think up names
when my mind wanders at work.
The irony of the lousy job I'm on right now
is that it's one giant mud pit.
Sometimes I sink halfway up to my shins
as I trudge along from building to building
trying my best to roll with those right hooks.
I related this woe to a friend the other day
and she said she didn't pity me, she'd love
to play in the mud. That's fine and good, but
I'm sure there are also a lot of perverts who'd swear
they'd love to be gynecologists until the day
they'd actually have to stare up those for eight hours.
When the analogy went unanswered I considered
the Realist the victor and flicked the butt
out the window of my car at a garden
triumphantly.
Though I'm not always such a crabapple.
Yesterday driving home I saw a turtle in its shell
in the middle of my lane. My first reaction was
to stop, but the rush hour traffic suggested otherwise.
When I stopped with a passenger last summer
she jumped out and saved it in time. A few months later
when I saw another one and didn't stop since
I was with a coworker and too embarrassed
I saw its smashed shell upon returning.
The law of averages told me what would happen to
yesterday's jay-walker if I didn't stop again, but I couldn't
bring myself to turn around and do it with all those
damn cars. Me of all people should've been able to relate
being the recluse that I've become hiding in this
shell made of bottles and bookshelves, but pride wound up
costing that turtle his life, too.
Or maybe that one made it.
It's not enough to lose sleep over
but it still irks me to know
that I'll never know.
At least there's one thing I'm sure of now:
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008.
These are words I don't understand.
Like when you ask someone
middle-aged or older
their telephone number and they look
you square in the eye, foolishly unashamed
and say "I don't know
it, I never call myself."
Well, maybe no one else should be calling
you, either, pal.
Nero played that fiddle beautifully as Rome burned
but I doubt a person such as yourself could
make ignorance nearly as tasteful.
And girth, can we talk about girth for a moment?
The blessing, the curse, the verdict is in
and the Feel Good Revolution
just got a little hindered by diameter.
Their mothers must tell them to say that
to all the boys, though it's a kind strategy.
Butt it sure is pleasant to think up names
when my mind wanders at work.
The irony of the lousy job I'm on right now
is that it's one giant mud pit.
Sometimes I sink halfway up to my shins
as I trudge along from building to building
trying my best to roll with those right hooks.
I related this woe to a friend the other day
and she said she didn't pity me, she'd love
to play in the mud. That's fine and good, but
I'm sure there are also a lot of perverts who'd swear
they'd love to be gynecologists until the day
they'd actually have to stare up those for eight hours.
When the analogy went unanswered I considered
the Realist the victor and flicked the butt
out the window of my car at a garden
triumphantly.
Though I'm not always such a crabapple.
Yesterday driving home I saw a turtle in its shell
in the middle of my lane. My first reaction was
to stop, but the rush hour traffic suggested otherwise.
When I stopped with a passenger last summer
she jumped out and saved it in time. A few months later
when I saw another one and didn't stop since
I was with a coworker and too embarrassed
I saw its smashed shell upon returning.
The law of averages told me what would happen to
yesterday's jay-walker if I didn't stop again, but I couldn't
bring myself to turn around and do it with all those
damn cars. Me of all people should've been able to relate
being the recluse that I've become hiding in this
shell made of bottles and bookshelves, but pride wound up
costing that turtle his life, too.
Or maybe that one made it.
It's not enough to lose sleep over
but it still irks me to know
that I'll never know.
At least there's one thing I'm sure of now:
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008.
4.27.2008
postal
Dear Jim,
I am writing again to remind you there are worse things than Death.
Sleeping has been fun again as of late. The sore throat and fever are finally gone so a full eight-plus night is once again possible. It's the subject matter of the dreams that have really made it a hoot, though. Two out of the last three nights I've had dreams similar to "Die Hard" movies, only I always have a partner and I'm not balding. Guns, terrorists, public places in need of rescue: these are the things that swirl in my head at night as I try to save the day, in my fantasies at least. Last night's sidekick was a guy from work we call Rambo since he has a veritable arsenal at home. We had the stealth mode hand signals down and everything, duct-taped the clips of our automatic weapons back-to-back like in the movies to make for faster reloading. But somehow I was always running out of bullets and scrounging for more magazines on the ground that usually turned out to be empty anyway. I'm not sure if this is supposed to symbolize some sort of self-perceived sexual inadequacy or if I'm really just paranoid about shootin' blanks in a fire-fight. Either way I was always alright in my dream, Rambo had my back and that's always a good thing.
Which really isn't too far from the truth. Eddie's been good to me, one of the many father-figures I've met in this silly union business who has replaced the absent sperm donor. Edward "Rambo" Staff III, doesn't get much manlier than that. He's given me everything from recipes for vennison, to tools he has extra of and knows I need, to tips on wooing women and sexual positions that only older men have had the time to discover. Not having raised his own child for whatever reason (I never really asked), it seems as though he's another who passes the torch to his apprentices to fill a void similar to mine. I'm one of the few "Kids" he'll agree to work with, him being such a meticulous craftsman of the pipe trade and all, so it's an honor to be deemed a valuable commodity to the company in his eyes.
Which is why I know he'll be disappointed to hear that they're shipping me out to another job this week supposedly. It's a long story that you've probably heard in bits and pieces over cocktails and soapboxes, Jim, so I won't reiterate all the details. Apparently, though, my employer became angry when he found out that I took five days off last week due to my illness. I had a serious throat infection that only allowed me to sleep two hours a night and prohibitted me from speaking. Do you think I wanted to lose a week's pay? Sure, I could've done what most guys do and went to work sick. I wouldn't have been worth a shit and would've gotten my coworkers sick, though, so I opted to take one for the team by staying home, rolling around in bed with sweaty fevers flipping pages of books between the sheets. It was no vacation, trust me. Well, my boss didn't see it the same way and decided a few days ago that he wanted to punish me by sending me to the housing job across town where the benefit package is a fraction of what it usually is for a commercial job. I worked the last phase of that project for the majority of last year and took the hit already; the vacation check I'll be getting May First which is usually a few grand is only going to be a lousy forty-eight dollars for Christ's sake, all because of the lesser rate being paid into my benefits fund. That's a hit I'm not willing to take again. Besides, I've already mastered the mindless art of plastic piping a la crawlspace. I'm learning new aspects of the piping industry on the courthouse renovation job I'm on now, which is the point of the apprenticeship program after all. I don't want to be one of these useless slugs who comes out of his time without really being able to call himself a mechanic. Those are the guys who sit on the bench waiting for that job that never comes. No, that won't be me, dammit. If this arrogant prick wants to play God now that he can afford to write a good paycheck on time again for the first time in a year then I will be forced to stick to my guns by taking a lay-off. There are other contractors out there, I work out of a hiring hall whose job it is to find work for me. In the meantime I'd collect unemployment and work on the side and wind up making double my normal income anyway without even working a full week. So, Jim, if you know anyone who may need some plumbing and/or heat work done in the coming weeks...
But enough about me for a minute, how the hell are ya? Oh, really? Well that sure is unfortunate if I do say so myself. I tried to tell ya, but you didn't wanna listen. Yeah, that's what she said. Good talk.
What is it with these band names, Jim? All of these ominous phrases stating some kind of urgency, some sort of debauchery, maybe a bit of John Wayne Syndrome in there. It's getting to be ridiculous. I think a band should name itself with one to three words. This music of today isn't changing the world, it's just dropping teenage panties. And any "musician" who says he picked up an instrument for any reason other than pussy is a fucking liar, right? We seasoned veterans do it for the love of the game at this point, of course, but those initial teenage years of fumbling through clumsy chords and feeling our fingers hurt from the strings were only inspired by the desire for otherwise unobtainable ass. It scares me to think we'll be too old for this someday, the second we resort to playing covers to get gigs we'll know and have to get out.
People like them deserve each other. That's all I have to say about that, please take the hint by not asking such a personal question again so shortly after the quake. You know I'm not one for being candid, but even this greenhouse pulls the shades once in awhile when absolutely necessary.
I hit the books pretty hard this morning, it felt good to do it by choice instead of necessity now that I'm no longer deathly ill. I let the rabbit out of her cage to romp around my room for awhile. I felt bad because I failed to set her free yesterday since I wasn't home for long. I don't get us, Jim. We can feel guilty for not giving a pet it's exercise/play time while reciting our sins of the last six years without as much as flinching. Somehow what we've done to people in the past isn't as big an issue, at least not in the forefront, as littering or not doing the dishes promptly or being late with a credit card bill. People are only people and deserve what they get since people are the ones who made us the way we are, right? Hurt people hurting people, justifying it all with the weird way God wired us. It's really gotta end, man. Maybe it finally has this time.
I'd love to stay and bore you some more, but I want to go clothes shopping. Sometimes the second-hand T-shirts just don't cut the mustard. And I need to get out into that fresh air so I can smoke a cigarette. Feast or famine, brother. You decide.
Your equally disgusted compatriot,
Dave
Currently reading:
"Alcoholics Anonymous" by, uhhhh, some dude who used to be a drunk I'm guessing (I found it at the Goodwill and couldn't resist).
I am writing again to remind you there are worse things than Death.
Sleeping has been fun again as of late. The sore throat and fever are finally gone so a full eight-plus night is once again possible. It's the subject matter of the dreams that have really made it a hoot, though. Two out of the last three nights I've had dreams similar to "Die Hard" movies, only I always have a partner and I'm not balding. Guns, terrorists, public places in need of rescue: these are the things that swirl in my head at night as I try to save the day, in my fantasies at least. Last night's sidekick was a guy from work we call Rambo since he has a veritable arsenal at home. We had the stealth mode hand signals down and everything, duct-taped the clips of our automatic weapons back-to-back like in the movies to make for faster reloading. But somehow I was always running out of bullets and scrounging for more magazines on the ground that usually turned out to be empty anyway. I'm not sure if this is supposed to symbolize some sort of self-perceived sexual inadequacy or if I'm really just paranoid about shootin' blanks in a fire-fight. Either way I was always alright in my dream, Rambo had my back and that's always a good thing.
Which really isn't too far from the truth. Eddie's been good to me, one of the many father-figures I've met in this silly union business who has replaced the absent sperm donor. Edward "Rambo" Staff III, doesn't get much manlier than that. He's given me everything from recipes for vennison, to tools he has extra of and knows I need, to tips on wooing women and sexual positions that only older men have had the time to discover. Not having raised his own child for whatever reason (I never really asked), it seems as though he's another who passes the torch to his apprentices to fill a void similar to mine. I'm one of the few "Kids" he'll agree to work with, him being such a meticulous craftsman of the pipe trade and all, so it's an honor to be deemed a valuable commodity to the company in his eyes.
Which is why I know he'll be disappointed to hear that they're shipping me out to another job this week supposedly. It's a long story that you've probably heard in bits and pieces over cocktails and soapboxes, Jim, so I won't reiterate all the details. Apparently, though, my employer became angry when he found out that I took five days off last week due to my illness. I had a serious throat infection that only allowed me to sleep two hours a night and prohibitted me from speaking. Do you think I wanted to lose a week's pay? Sure, I could've done what most guys do and went to work sick. I wouldn't have been worth a shit and would've gotten my coworkers sick, though, so I opted to take one for the team by staying home, rolling around in bed with sweaty fevers flipping pages of books between the sheets. It was no vacation, trust me. Well, my boss didn't see it the same way and decided a few days ago that he wanted to punish me by sending me to the housing job across town where the benefit package is a fraction of what it usually is for a commercial job. I worked the last phase of that project for the majority of last year and took the hit already; the vacation check I'll be getting May First which is usually a few grand is only going to be a lousy forty-eight dollars for Christ's sake, all because of the lesser rate being paid into my benefits fund. That's a hit I'm not willing to take again. Besides, I've already mastered the mindless art of plastic piping a la crawlspace. I'm learning new aspects of the piping industry on the courthouse renovation job I'm on now, which is the point of the apprenticeship program after all. I don't want to be one of these useless slugs who comes out of his time without really being able to call himself a mechanic. Those are the guys who sit on the bench waiting for that job that never comes. No, that won't be me, dammit. If this arrogant prick wants to play God now that he can afford to write a good paycheck on time again for the first time in a year then I will be forced to stick to my guns by taking a lay-off. There are other contractors out there, I work out of a hiring hall whose job it is to find work for me. In the meantime I'd collect unemployment and work on the side and wind up making double my normal income anyway without even working a full week. So, Jim, if you know anyone who may need some plumbing and/or heat work done in the coming weeks...
But enough about me for a minute, how the hell are ya? Oh, really? Well that sure is unfortunate if I do say so myself. I tried to tell ya, but you didn't wanna listen. Yeah, that's what she said. Good talk.
What is it with these band names, Jim? All of these ominous phrases stating some kind of urgency, some sort of debauchery, maybe a bit of John Wayne Syndrome in there. It's getting to be ridiculous. I think a band should name itself with one to three words. This music of today isn't changing the world, it's just dropping teenage panties. And any "musician" who says he picked up an instrument for any reason other than pussy is a fucking liar, right? We seasoned veterans do it for the love of the game at this point, of course, but those initial teenage years of fumbling through clumsy chords and feeling our fingers hurt from the strings were only inspired by the desire for otherwise unobtainable ass. It scares me to think we'll be too old for this someday, the second we resort to playing covers to get gigs we'll know and have to get out.
People like them deserve each other. That's all I have to say about that, please take the hint by not asking such a personal question again so shortly after the quake. You know I'm not one for being candid, but even this greenhouse pulls the shades once in awhile when absolutely necessary.
I hit the books pretty hard this morning, it felt good to do it by choice instead of necessity now that I'm no longer deathly ill. I let the rabbit out of her cage to romp around my room for awhile. I felt bad because I failed to set her free yesterday since I wasn't home for long. I don't get us, Jim. We can feel guilty for not giving a pet it's exercise/play time while reciting our sins of the last six years without as much as flinching. Somehow what we've done to people in the past isn't as big an issue, at least not in the forefront, as littering or not doing the dishes promptly or being late with a credit card bill. People are only people and deserve what they get since people are the ones who made us the way we are, right? Hurt people hurting people, justifying it all with the weird way God wired us. It's really gotta end, man. Maybe it finally has this time.
I'd love to stay and bore you some more, but I want to go clothes shopping. Sometimes the second-hand T-shirts just don't cut the mustard. And I need to get out into that fresh air so I can smoke a cigarette. Feast or famine, brother. You decide.
Your equally disgusted compatriot,
Dave
Currently reading:
"Alcoholics Anonymous" by, uhhhh, some dude who used to be a drunk I'm guessing (I found it at the Goodwill and couldn't resist).
4.24.2008
Padre Santo, Padre Bueno.
My mom just stopped by with some soup
some meds, cough drops, and Jello
(like I don't have enough of the latter)
to combat this latest illness. As she picked up my rabbit
and held it close she told me my grandmother
fell in the bathroom again today, threw her nightgown
at her last night saying she wants to die.
Her eighty-eighth was four days ago, she told me
she was turning fourteen when I asked
and she may have believed herself.
I guess I can't blame her for her wishes, though.
Her husband died before my mother was even born:
fifty-four years of solitude, far more real than Gab's 100.
Maybe He'll be gracious and grant her wish already.
Call me morbid if you like, it's just how it is.
Or maybe not and the more she asks for final rest
the longer she'll stay on Earth. He's a funny one like that
and I wouldn't put it past Him. Just look at what he did
to our alleged Superman and "Magic" Johnson.
I don't believe in God
but I fear Him.
some meds, cough drops, and Jello
(like I don't have enough of the latter)
to combat this latest illness. As she picked up my rabbit
and held it close she told me my grandmother
fell in the bathroom again today, threw her nightgown
at her last night saying she wants to die.
Her eighty-eighth was four days ago, she told me
she was turning fourteen when I asked
and she may have believed herself.
I guess I can't blame her for her wishes, though.
Her husband died before my mother was even born:
fifty-four years of solitude, far more real than Gab's 100.
Maybe He'll be gracious and grant her wish already.
Call me morbid if you like, it's just how it is.
Or maybe not and the more she asks for final rest
the longer she'll stay on Earth. He's a funny one like that
and I wouldn't put it past Him. Just look at what he did
to our alleged Superman and "Magic" Johnson.
I don't believe in God
but I fear Him.
Fall back, Spring ahead.
Laying here with this one
oooooooh!
something fever
watching the ceiling fan spin
its futile heart out
as the neighborhood weed-whackers
don't seem to stop
except to refuel, reload
and
it all culminates
into so jagged an edge:
A million coal shovels
when all ya need is a spade
but the antibiotics haven't kicked in yet.
What I really mean to say--
ask, rather--
is
Would you lose a finger for me?
And if so, which one?
I don't think I could
get her off--
beat her off me, rather--
if I tried with all my two-twenty
not that I'd ever want to.
If this isn't It
then it's something similar
maybe better.
Now I know what my mother meant
when she said she wished she could
suffer that pain on my behalf.
Maybe it's just the weather.
I'd like to think it's not.
oooooooh!
something fever
watching the ceiling fan spin
its futile heart out
as the neighborhood weed-whackers
don't seem to stop
except to refuel, reload
and
it all culminates
into so jagged an edge:
A million coal shovels
when all ya need is a spade
but the antibiotics haven't kicked in yet.
What I really mean to say--
ask, rather--
is
Would you lose a finger for me?
And if so, which one?
I don't think I could
get her off--
beat her off me, rather--
if I tried with all my two-twenty
not that I'd ever want to.
If this isn't It
then it's something similar
maybe better.
Now I know what my mother meant
when she said she wished she could
suffer that pain on my behalf.
Maybe it's just the weather.
I'd like to think it's not.
But what will the neighbors say?
Do you think empires were built
pondering the answer to that question?
Did Alexander, Attila, and Napoleon
take that into consideration
before building what they did?
This has the potential to be
of the same caliber, don't sell it short.
And while I'm at it let's discuss
what one of those red-petaled
thorned stems that tend to smell
how mothers are remembered
would truly be if referred to as
by any other name.
Spades are spades; anyone who can't
accept that rule might as well cash in
their chips and get out of the game
because from here on out I play for keeps.
I've been bluffing these Aces and Eights
for four years now, Fate owes me some
pocket Queens or better.
You're the only one who's heard my voice
for more than three sentences in days
strep throat be damned
and it was worth every second of pain
to know that you slept better as a result
as I sit here sleepless downing pills
trying to practice my persuasion.
If the ring fits
wear it, dammit.
pondering the answer to that question?
Did Alexander, Attila, and Napoleon
take that into consideration
before building what they did?
This has the potential to be
of the same caliber, don't sell it short.
And while I'm at it let's discuss
what one of those red-petaled
thorned stems that tend to smell
how mothers are remembered
would truly be if referred to as
by any other name.
Spades are spades; anyone who can't
accept that rule might as well cash in
their chips and get out of the game
because from here on out I play for keeps.
I've been bluffing these Aces and Eights
for four years now, Fate owes me some
pocket Queens or better.
You're the only one who's heard my voice
for more than three sentences in days
strep throat be damned
and it was worth every second of pain
to know that you slept better as a result
as I sit here sleepless downing pills
trying to practice my persuasion.
If the ring fits
wear it, dammit.
4.22.2008
Number 85 slides into Third.
Hem's first kill, Hank's first beer
Dostoyevsky's first betrayal
Gabriel's first piece;
they'd all be lying
if they claimed to remember them
perfectly, or even as anything more
than a haze that started them all
on their respective journeys.
So, it's with humble reluctance
that I mention mine now
for fear of feeling fake.
Suffice it to say that I was fifteen
in the foothills of some New Hampshire range
visiting family when my cousin's friend, Meg
took a liking to me, or at least tolerated
my innocent exploration of the female form
for the first time. The frustrations of finding
the finger's true function only served to reinforce
prior failures as I never found many specifics
that fine morning in May after my family
had fallen asleep. I don't even remember if
we kissed or not, just that the movies we'd rented
were over and there seemed only one thing left to do
and not very well, at that. My hand so timid that her
skin warmed mine before I'd crossed that boundary.
My heart churning it's irregular beat at the pace of
ten thousand coca leaves. My mind wondering
if this was really it, the final frontier so many friends
had raved over, a scattering of coarse hair over an
indefinite wetness in the Holiest of Crevices.
I think what bothered me most about the ordeal
was how silently submissive and lovelessly limp
she was, merely accepting it as something
that was supposed to happen next in the script--
probably not the first time for her,
unfortunately not the last
for me.
Like a man knocked unconscious
I'm not sure how long I was under
just that I was.
Retracting my hand as the sun came up
in case someone stirred awake
and found us on the couch under the covers
I knew life would never be the same
even though I'd merely touched upon
its new meaning, literally.
And nine years later I hold strong
that I was right, though I doubt she remembers me
any more than I do her last name
but that's only appropriate
for the crystallization of the fairytale
in my mind's eye
that may or may not have happened
as I like to
or need to
remember it.
(D. I swear it was something British-sounding
starting with the letter D.)
Dostoyevsky's first betrayal
Gabriel's first piece;
they'd all be lying
if they claimed to remember them
perfectly, or even as anything more
than a haze that started them all
on their respective journeys.
So, it's with humble reluctance
that I mention mine now
for fear of feeling fake.
Suffice it to say that I was fifteen
in the foothills of some New Hampshire range
visiting family when my cousin's friend, Meg
took a liking to me, or at least tolerated
my innocent exploration of the female form
for the first time. The frustrations of finding
the finger's true function only served to reinforce
prior failures as I never found many specifics
that fine morning in May after my family
had fallen asleep. I don't even remember if
we kissed or not, just that the movies we'd rented
were over and there seemed only one thing left to do
and not very well, at that. My hand so timid that her
skin warmed mine before I'd crossed that boundary.
My heart churning it's irregular beat at the pace of
ten thousand coca leaves. My mind wondering
if this was really it, the final frontier so many friends
had raved over, a scattering of coarse hair over an
indefinite wetness in the Holiest of Crevices.
I think what bothered me most about the ordeal
was how silently submissive and lovelessly limp
she was, merely accepting it as something
that was supposed to happen next in the script--
probably not the first time for her,
unfortunately not the last
for me.
Like a man knocked unconscious
I'm not sure how long I was under
just that I was.
Retracting my hand as the sun came up
in case someone stirred awake
and found us on the couch under the covers
I knew life would never be the same
even though I'd merely touched upon
its new meaning, literally.
And nine years later I hold strong
that I was right, though I doubt she remembers me
any more than I do her last name
but that's only appropriate
for the crystallization of the fairytale
in my mind's eye
that may or may not have happened
as I like to
or need to
remember it.
(D. I swear it was something British-sounding
starting with the letter D.)
4.20.2008
On writ-
Yeah, but we need more whiskey.
What do you mean there's no C.C.?
Seagram's will do.
This is stronger than five dollars-worth.
They must know.
Be right back, I have to go say Hello.
If I'm not back in ten
write it for me.
Ten went by, and four did, too.
Masters? Me too, in Life.
I bought four so we can double-fist
for the main event. They're opening strong
so I'll piss during the follow-up that no one knows.
This doesn't matter, your bobbing and weaving
in the crowd with my rum-and-coke.
He rubs my shoulders during the chorus
and thanks me for the refill.
She doesn't matter because She does.
It's all come full circle as I light up
the rebel cigarette and think back
to how it was
how it could've been.
The kids don't know
they aren't alright
But I will be now.
He punches me in the ribs
as I take my hat off and rub
the sweat from my brow.
A leg hits me in the head
and I almost spill my cocktail, she saves
hers as she falls to the floor
and I help her up.
I go for a strategic piss during another one
no one cares about.
When I return it's the last, he grabs my arm
and we sing again. They walk off the stage
and we chant for an encore.
The next four mean more.
I go to the center and hurt
the kids trying to crowd surf.
Not totally intentionally, mind you.
I find a wallet on the floor that I'll return
to the proper authorities later.
This means more right now.
I'm OK and I'm sweating and my neck hurts
because I'm too old for this shit
but he has the same amp as me
and he's playing all the right songs
and she's disappeared from my sight
as much as she has from my heart.
I know it this time.
I've found it again
among the roots somewhere
in western New York.
They finish and I stomp out my second
secret cigarette and find my ride.
We bitch about our battlescars
and sing the band's praises.
We're young again, celebrating
second chances.
I say goodbye at some point
but think more of how much
I can't wait to say Hello
again to the one who's
managed to rupture the balloon
and save its captive.
The ride home is mostly silent
as I smoke cigarettes and think
of how lucky I may be
if all goes as planned.
(It wasn't what you think
but it doesn't matter now.
Let's finish growing up.)
-ing Chapter Five.
Currently reading:
"Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970" by Charles Bukowski.
What do you mean there's no C.C.?
Seagram's will do.
This is stronger than five dollars-worth.
They must know.
Be right back, I have to go say Hello.
If I'm not back in ten
write it for me.
Ten went by, and four did, too.
Masters? Me too, in Life.
I bought four so we can double-fist
for the main event. They're opening strong
so I'll piss during the follow-up that no one knows.
This doesn't matter, your bobbing and weaving
in the crowd with my rum-and-coke.
He rubs my shoulders during the chorus
and thanks me for the refill.
She doesn't matter because She does.
It's all come full circle as I light up
the rebel cigarette and think back
to how it was
how it could've been.
The kids don't know
they aren't alright
But I will be now.
He punches me in the ribs
as I take my hat off and rub
the sweat from my brow.
A leg hits me in the head
and I almost spill my cocktail, she saves
hers as she falls to the floor
and I help her up.
I go for a strategic piss during another one
no one cares about.
When I return it's the last, he grabs my arm
and we sing again. They walk off the stage
and we chant for an encore.
The next four mean more.
I go to the center and hurt
the kids trying to crowd surf.
Not totally intentionally, mind you.
I find a wallet on the floor that I'll return
to the proper authorities later.
This means more right now.
I'm OK and I'm sweating and my neck hurts
because I'm too old for this shit
but he has the same amp as me
and he's playing all the right songs
and she's disappeared from my sight
as much as she has from my heart.
I know it this time.
I've found it again
among the roots somewhere
in western New York.
They finish and I stomp out my second
secret cigarette and find my ride.
We bitch about our battlescars
and sing the band's praises.
We're young again, celebrating
second chances.
I say goodbye at some point
but think more of how much
I can't wait to say Hello
again to the one who's
managed to rupture the balloon
and save its captive.
The ride home is mostly silent
as I smoke cigarettes and think
of how lucky I may be
if all goes as planned.
(It wasn't what you think
but it doesn't matter now.
Let's finish growing up.)
-ing Chapter Five.
Currently reading:
"Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970" by Charles Bukowski.
4.14.2008
Shave the beard, lose the Christ Complex.
Then there was that one part
of the Sacred Myth Worth Killing For
where He washed the sinner's
feet with His hair to prove His love
for her (She was a hooker
if that helps the anal-
ogy any.) though scholars swear
it was for all humanity
which sucks out the Passion
for me, at least.
Well, the way I see it is this:
if she really
appreciated the gesture
like I do
and the effect it had on her life
like Yours has on mine
then she should have rode up on Calvary
with a band of fellow strumpets
hacking through Romans
in order to take Him down from that cross.
But hey, that's one story I didn't write.
Don't worry, Honey.
No good deed goes unnoticed
around here, just like others can't seem
to forget the shamefully
less-than-sober ones
that this old whore's still payin' for.
I'd sooner sell my soul (again)
than watch You take that spit and whip
that spear and nails
'cause hey, it's obvious that the hardest part
to believe for most (the ones we kill for disagreeing)
isn't all those Revelations at the end
but where that tired Martyr rose from the dead
like it'd matter two-thousand years later.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing
I'd let my Savior go out like that.
I'm hangin' up the gloves;
This lover's done fighting
unless it's
for You.
Currently reading:
"Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
of the Sacred Myth Worth Killing For
where He washed the sinner's
feet with His hair to prove His love
for her (She was a hooker
if that helps the anal-
ogy any.) though scholars swear
it was for all humanity
which sucks out the Passion
for me, at least.
Well, the way I see it is this:
if she really
appreciated the gesture
like I do
and the effect it had on her life
like Yours has on mine
then she should have rode up on Calvary
with a band of fellow strumpets
hacking through Romans
in order to take Him down from that cross.
But hey, that's one story I didn't write.
Don't worry, Honey.
No good deed goes unnoticed
around here, just like others can't seem
to forget the shamefully
less-than-sober ones
that this old whore's still payin' for.
I'd sooner sell my soul (again)
than watch You take that spit and whip
that spear and nails
'cause hey, it's obvious that the hardest part
to believe for most (the ones we kill for disagreeing)
isn't all those Revelations at the end
but where that tired Martyr rose from the dead
like it'd matter two-thousand years later.
I couldn't sleep at night knowing
I'd let my Savior go out like that.
I'm hangin' up the gloves;
This lover's done fighting
unless it's
for You.
Currently reading:
"Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
4.09.2008
Compliments from a bullfrog.
To talk about time so flippantly
like it's something to possess;
I was born there, too, you know.
The one thing we have in common
is who we'd die for--
you: rightfully
and me: still, and
proving it every day.
(Proving it's harder, brother.)
But most things don't turn
out as planned.
Most of us start out wanting to be more
than we ever will be, -ologists especially:
zoologists, marine biologists, paleontologists.
Me, my first unrealistic career choice was
to become an archaeologist, maybe because
I'd seen the Indiana Jones movies too many times.
In a way I've fulfilled that elementary school dream
if you look at it in the broader sense
of making a go at digging up the past.
Next came the FBI Agent phase. Imagine me
in a suit and tie with badge and gun
and hangover-- not quite what J. Edgar had in mind.
But again, maybe I still wound up trying to
bring about some sort of justice, warped as
it may be at times.
So then there was the teacher thing, to-date
the ultimate failure of dropping out
though I still find myself teaching
myself, mostly
about myself.
And now, in the grand scheme, the pipe-fitter
making substances move from Point A to Point B
more efficiently than the me of yore
with the aid of convenient tubes and pumps
and, yes, gravity riding it all
in the end
having the last word
which is something a writer would kill for.
And even then, I'm still no bonafide plumber.
At the union hall tonight someone asked
if I was a boxer. I didn't understand at first
until he mentioned the tattoo on my left arm.
I said it was on "some guy's" tombstone, failing
to mention that it was on the grave of my favorite author.
A true fitter would've laughed it off and thrown a jab
to the arm while changing the subject, though at least
I knew better than to deny ever stepping in
for a round or two. Not all prize fighters wear gloves.
Not all rings have ropes around them, though
the spectators are always there. (Stalk much?)
The black half of my rabbit's face has black whiskers
and the tan half shoots out tan ones, thus proving
to my chagrin, that there is in fact a God
and His hand is infallible. There, I think that's
how he would've ended it.
T.K.O.
Alas, I've had far too much gin
(if there is such a thing) tonight
for this to make sense
the way it did in my head.
I know this because I've played
the same song over and over
for the last twenty minutes.
That's
how Hank would've ended it.
Honestly.
Humbly.
(Do you still remember the song, Friend?)
Make that a K.O.
like it's something to possess;
I was born there, too, you know.
The one thing we have in common
is who we'd die for--
you: rightfully
and me: still, and
proving it every day.
(Proving it's harder, brother.)
But most things don't turn
out as planned.
Most of us start out wanting to be more
than we ever will be, -ologists especially:
zoologists, marine biologists, paleontologists.
Me, my first unrealistic career choice was
to become an archaeologist, maybe because
I'd seen the Indiana Jones movies too many times.
In a way I've fulfilled that elementary school dream
if you look at it in the broader sense
of making a go at digging up the past.
Next came the FBI Agent phase. Imagine me
in a suit and tie with badge and gun
and hangover-- not quite what J. Edgar had in mind.
But again, maybe I still wound up trying to
bring about some sort of justice, warped as
it may be at times.
So then there was the teacher thing, to-date
the ultimate failure of dropping out
though I still find myself teaching
myself, mostly
about myself.
And now, in the grand scheme, the pipe-fitter
making substances move from Point A to Point B
more efficiently than the me of yore
with the aid of convenient tubes and pumps
and, yes, gravity riding it all
in the end
having the last word
which is something a writer would kill for.
And even then, I'm still no bonafide plumber.
At the union hall tonight someone asked
if I was a boxer. I didn't understand at first
until he mentioned the tattoo on my left arm.
I said it was on "some guy's" tombstone, failing
to mention that it was on the grave of my favorite author.
A true fitter would've laughed it off and thrown a jab
to the arm while changing the subject, though at least
I knew better than to deny ever stepping in
for a round or two. Not all prize fighters wear gloves.
Not all rings have ropes around them, though
the spectators are always there. (Stalk much?)
The black half of my rabbit's face has black whiskers
and the tan half shoots out tan ones, thus proving
to my chagrin, that there is in fact a God
and His hand is infallible. There, I think that's
how he would've ended it.
T.K.O.
Alas, I've had far too much gin
(if there is such a thing) tonight
for this to make sense
the way it did in my head.
I know this because I've played
the same song over and over
for the last twenty minutes.
That's
how Hank would've ended it.
Honestly.
Humbly.
(Do you still remember the song, Friend?)
Make that a K.O.
4.08.2008
It's all over but the screamin'.
I stayed home sick from work today.
An old spark on amiable terms heard this
and took the time to assure me that it was
in fact caused by germs
not karma, despite my personal conviction.
Laughing at the need for such consolation
I scrubbed the toilets in preparation for visitors
and wondered who will win this week's round.
Went to my mother's for some comfort food--
turkey legs and mashed potatoes--
one of my favorites since I was a kid
that she still makes for me from time to time
even though my stepfather hates it.
My mom explained to my grandmother
that I didn't want to kiss her hello
for fear of spreading germs. She responded
by shoving a piece of turkey down my throat
in typical grandma "food heals all" fashion.
The meal went well, I told my mom some
funny stories in between covered coughs
to pass the time as she cleaned up.
As she did the dishes in her big
yellow rubber gloves
she appeared to be Wonder Woman
or some other Superhero, which she still
is and always will be. After all, who else
would a little kid trust to remove splinters?
Who else would this punch-drunk
recalculator still confide in?
She packed some leftovers for me
asking if I was seeing anyone new
as I put my shoes on to leave.
When I shook my head tentatively
she responded to the transparent half-lie
with a jagged statement laden with latent advice:
"Good, you don't have time for women."
She wasn't done exhaling before I countered with
"Yeah, they cut into my drinking time
and get pissed when I ignore them in bed
for books." Pretending to be astounded
as I walked out the door she unsuccessfully hid
a proud laugh; she knew she didn't raise no fool.
Driving home in the still-present evening sun
I decided to call someone I may have
been able to comfort, but failed miserably.
I said something about hoping she was
enjoying the weather, she said it was a bit hard
considering she was at the wake.
And there you had it, the soft damp hum
of final radio silence.
Epic fail, in short.
Later on I was accused of being evasive
and informed that defense mechanisms
cause people to die younger.
"Good," I said, half joking.
"Why would you say that?"
"Because most of my other habits are self-
destructive. Why not be consistent?"
I smiled whatever a shit-eating grin must be
and wondered why people bother talking
to me anymore. After a day of dialogue
like today I might as well donate my
tongue to science, pre-mortem.
But maybe tomorrow when I go to work again
that old mason will be cutting his bricks at
the wet-saw again, whistling that sweet
40s Standard that only a man over sixty
can lull even the most angst-ridden beast
of a plumber with. And the only sound more
comforting than that will be her
quiet
snoring
Friday.
Currently reading:
"The Waste Land and Other Poems" by T.S. Eliot.
An old spark on amiable terms heard this
and took the time to assure me that it was
in fact caused by germs
not karma, despite my personal conviction.
Laughing at the need for such consolation
I scrubbed the toilets in preparation for visitors
and wondered who will win this week's round.
Went to my mother's for some comfort food--
turkey legs and mashed potatoes--
one of my favorites since I was a kid
that she still makes for me from time to time
even though my stepfather hates it.
My mom explained to my grandmother
that I didn't want to kiss her hello
for fear of spreading germs. She responded
by shoving a piece of turkey down my throat
in typical grandma "food heals all" fashion.
The meal went well, I told my mom some
funny stories in between covered coughs
to pass the time as she cleaned up.
As she did the dishes in her big
yellow rubber gloves
she appeared to be Wonder Woman
or some other Superhero, which she still
is and always will be. After all, who else
would a little kid trust to remove splinters?
Who else would this punch-drunk
recalculator still confide in?
She packed some leftovers for me
asking if I was seeing anyone new
as I put my shoes on to leave.
When I shook my head tentatively
she responded to the transparent half-lie
with a jagged statement laden with latent advice:
"Good, you don't have time for women."
She wasn't done exhaling before I countered with
"Yeah, they cut into my drinking time
and get pissed when I ignore them in bed
for books." Pretending to be astounded
as I walked out the door she unsuccessfully hid
a proud laugh; she knew she didn't raise no fool.
Driving home in the still-present evening sun
I decided to call someone I may have
been able to comfort, but failed miserably.
I said something about hoping she was
enjoying the weather, she said it was a bit hard
considering she was at the wake.
And there you had it, the soft damp hum
of final radio silence.
Epic fail, in short.
Later on I was accused of being evasive
and informed that defense mechanisms
cause people to die younger.
"Good," I said, half joking.
"Why would you say that?"
"Because most of my other habits are self-
destructive. Why not be consistent?"
I smiled whatever a shit-eating grin must be
and wondered why people bother talking
to me anymore. After a day of dialogue
like today I might as well donate my
tongue to science, pre-mortem.
But maybe tomorrow when I go to work again
that old mason will be cutting his bricks at
the wet-saw again, whistling that sweet
40s Standard that only a man over sixty
can lull even the most angst-ridden beast
of a plumber with. And the only sound more
comforting than that will be her
quiet
snoring
Friday.
Currently reading:
"The Waste Land and Other Poems" by T.S. Eliot.
4.07.2008
Some clarification on my alleged Misery, partially for myself.
Shitstorms come in threes, when it pains it whores or something like that, yadda yadda yadda. I can't seem to shake the shadow of death lately, though it ain't me in the valley. Once again the nefarious Mr. Vahsen manages to skate along the rim of the volcano, but this time he can't help but take some time to put it in perspective for himself and those who may judge him for his deceivingly pessimistic outlook. I've been thinking about the strange and unfortunate coincidences lately, but the flip-side of the coin was revealed to me in a way unusual to those other than my over-analytical self. See, I was driving to stupid plumbing class, windows down and a cigarette dangling from my lips, when I thought I noticed a friend coming towards me in the opposite lane on his motorcycle. Whenever I see a big, doofy bastard in a bright green jacket on a crotch-rocket of the same color I automatically assume it's him, only this time I was right. He put his hand out to say hello as he passed and I felt embarrassingly special as I braked for the traffic light and joined my fellow rush hour motorists. I took a drag and felt foolishly proud. Yeah, that's right, I know people. Good people. People who wave. And somehow, silly as it sounds, it got me thinking that it's time to acknowledge that the glass is in fact half full, though some of you may have just fallen out of your seats at such an astonishing revelation from your favorite incorrectly labeled misanthrope to stalk.
Without getting too into detail I'll briefly describe the first two-thirds of the recent eye-opener. An important character from the last innocent chapter of my life (yes, I had some of those) was recently diagnosed with a serious illness. A kindred soul with a spirit too different to accommodate just lost a close relative to cancer. (Maybe I should stop smoking.) And the kicker came today at work when word got out that an apprentice from a class two years ahead of me was killed by a drunk driver last night. I heard his last name and wondered if there was any relation to a kid I went to elementary school with since the wake is being held in the town we grew up in. I asked around at the union hall during plumbing class this evening and my assumption was correct, it was my old friend's older brother. Thinking back to the only memory I could really muster up from such an early age I was instantly brought back to the green vinyl seat of a schoolbus sixteen years ago. My friend had a backpack full of X-Men "action figures" (they're not dolls, dammit) that he was pawning off on me for some questionable reason. He briefly explained each superhero's mutant power and shoved them into my bookbag. When I asked him why he was getting rid of them so hastily (OK, so I didn't use that word back then) his succinct reply was that they were his older brother's. I got the vibe that they had gotten into a fight, and though it was wrong of me to accept his vengeful gift, it is highly difficult for an eight-year-old to turn down an entire assortment of new toys. Flash-forward a decade-and-a-half, a few dozen other dolls of sorts, and here I am: a grown-ass man with a dead kid's old toys in his mother's shed somewhere. It's enough to make a guy think twice about his whole immortality complex.
That sort of thing makes me feel bad for spending so much time and energy bitching about the trivialities. Granted, I use this medium to vent on a rather frequent basis, but please don't think by any means that that makes me a miserable human being. A lot of people joke about my so-called Misery, myself included, but it's all in good fun. Most people who take the time to get to know me would probably admit that I am actually a pretty positive person and can even be fun sober, though sometimes at the expense of others. It's more or less an identity thing really; Mike, the Miserable One who gets hammered alone on weeknights and whines about how much certain aspects of his life blow in pretty little stanzas. Don't be fooled, folks. I'm a'ight. In fact, I have a lot to be thankful for: a loving mother who's made more sacrifices than any martyr I know of, a great job with benefits that will allow me to support a family someday, coworkers who have taken me under their wings and filled the void of my estranged sperm-donor of a father, friends whose company is chosen by the beating of their hearts, a rabbit who licks my face and chews my beard when I get home, and maybe a few women who have tried to teach this stubborn prick what love really is. So there you have it, an apology for my favorite passtime. Don't get used to it. I eat haters like you for breakfast.
Currently reading:
"Come On In!" by Charles Bukowski.
Without getting too into detail I'll briefly describe the first two-thirds of the recent eye-opener. An important character from the last innocent chapter of my life (yes, I had some of those) was recently diagnosed with a serious illness. A kindred soul with a spirit too different to accommodate just lost a close relative to cancer. (Maybe I should stop smoking.) And the kicker came today at work when word got out that an apprentice from a class two years ahead of me was killed by a drunk driver last night. I heard his last name and wondered if there was any relation to a kid I went to elementary school with since the wake is being held in the town we grew up in. I asked around at the union hall during plumbing class this evening and my assumption was correct, it was my old friend's older brother. Thinking back to the only memory I could really muster up from such an early age I was instantly brought back to the green vinyl seat of a schoolbus sixteen years ago. My friend had a backpack full of X-Men "action figures" (they're not dolls, dammit) that he was pawning off on me for some questionable reason. He briefly explained each superhero's mutant power and shoved them into my bookbag. When I asked him why he was getting rid of them so hastily (OK, so I didn't use that word back then) his succinct reply was that they were his older brother's. I got the vibe that they had gotten into a fight, and though it was wrong of me to accept his vengeful gift, it is highly difficult for an eight-year-old to turn down an entire assortment of new toys. Flash-forward a decade-and-a-half, a few dozen other dolls of sorts, and here I am: a grown-ass man with a dead kid's old toys in his mother's shed somewhere. It's enough to make a guy think twice about his whole immortality complex.
That sort of thing makes me feel bad for spending so much time and energy bitching about the trivialities. Granted, I use this medium to vent on a rather frequent basis, but please don't think by any means that that makes me a miserable human being. A lot of people joke about my so-called Misery, myself included, but it's all in good fun. Most people who take the time to get to know me would probably admit that I am actually a pretty positive person and can even be fun sober, though sometimes at the expense of others. It's more or less an identity thing really; Mike, the Miserable One who gets hammered alone on weeknights and whines about how much certain aspects of his life blow in pretty little stanzas. Don't be fooled, folks. I'm a'ight. In fact, I have a lot to be thankful for: a loving mother who's made more sacrifices than any martyr I know of, a great job with benefits that will allow me to support a family someday, coworkers who have taken me under their wings and filled the void of my estranged sperm-donor of a father, friends whose company is chosen by the beating of their hearts, a rabbit who licks my face and chews my beard when I get home, and maybe a few women who have tried to teach this stubborn prick what love really is. So there you have it, an apology for my favorite passtime. Don't get used to it. I eat haters like you for breakfast.
Currently reading:
"Come On In!" by Charles Bukowski.
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