Laughing at Sinners, Crying on Saints

There was an electrician on the job
who looked just like Billy Joel.
One eye even shot out to the side
like he'd gotten into one drunken accident
too many, it was almost a thing of beauty.
I built up the nerve to tell him who he reminded me of
minus the whole DWI thing.
He told me he gets that all the time--
the Billy Joel spiel--
and that he recently visited
a high-end whore in the City
who said the same thing, topping it off with
"But you're much nicer, he was here last week."
"Good," he claims to have told her. "You can
put this on his tab then."

I thank God for the people I meet
and the stories they give me.
I'll never run out of material
as long as the world continues
to pump out these freaks.
I sleep surprisingly well.

Working late at the Office.

No one should have to hunt for their heros at a ginmill. I took a chance in driving out there, but his truck wasn't parked out front like I had hoped. The bar seemed pretty quiet for a Saturday afternoon. I assumed that people were out enjoying the early spring day mowing lawns or riding motorcycles instead of drinking, smoking, and gambling away money that they didn't have. The amateurs had better things to do. What better way to laugh off a life of debt, of living in the red as a true American, than to enjoy the pleasant weather? I pulled into the parking lot to join the dregs for a beer or five. There was no sense in turning down a cold one just because it might be slightly lonelier than usual. I had to get used to that eventually, it was in the cards of a future hand.

Paulie had evidently been there for awhile, judging from the bills of various denominations spread across the bar in front of him. The white sweater that clung to his small frame seemed ridiculous in that bar mostly frequented by construction workers and bikers. I suppose he fit in through the same loophole as me, though: the Rogue Clause. His feathered hair and neatly trimmed beard made him look like a miniature lion, his gray eyes twinkled in a key I've yet to identify. B Sharp maybe? C Flat? I already know, you don't need to tell me.

I'd met Paulie at least three times over the years, but he'd always forgotten my name. We'd greet each other on sight and share a bad joke whenever the opportunity presented itself, but other than that we were just two more barflies drinking away the time, and hopefully, some pain. One night I had a few smokes on the porch with him as he told me his latest sob story about the job interview that never happened as planned. He'd met someone at a party who made him an offer that must've been inspired by the booze. Poor little Paulie went out and bought a cheap suit and downed vodka and oranges at the bar all day waiting for the phone call that never came. It was hard to look at him standing there in the dim light of the neon beer signs as that suit screamed "Department Store" at me through a haze of cigarette smoke. People with tragic tales shouldn't be allowed to have props. I tried to cheer him up by asking him how his prized hunter green Jaguar was doing. He told me he'd just sold it, and for less than he was hoping to get. Talking didn't seem like a good idea for me anymore that night so I stuck to listening from there on out. I heard him confess via phonecall to his live-in girlfriend that the interview never happened and he'd spent all his money on cocktails and the suit. I heard she came and picked him up shortly afterwards, but I didn't stick around to see. There's enough heartache in the world, I don't need a front-row seat.

Paulie didn't remember that night too well, of course. When I saw him today with that silly white sweater he smiled like it had never happened at all. A tall mug of ice water garnished with a half-ripe lemon sat in front of him next to his cash. "Hey, Brother," he said when his song finished playing. He called me Brother instead of trying to guess my name, which I appreciated. I felt like I was at a Union meeting. "Hey, Paulie." I extended my hand and shook it firmly. It was good to see a friendly face, even if it wasn't hiding much of a brain. The lull in the jukebox music between songs was taking longer than usual and Paulie took offense in the lapse. He must've been the one to dump singles into it. "Come on, Barb. Get that thing fixed already." A rebellious smile spread across his salt-and-pepper cheeks as he raised the water to his lips. The bartender ignored him, but he didn't seem to mind. "Play it again, Sam," he said proudly as if to display his cultural breadth. "If she can take it, I can take it," I replied into my pint glass, waiting for some acknowledgement of the classic Bogart film from which the famous line came. That reference was never corroborated. Paulie just looked at me, confused but still smiling. I imagined he'd spent much of his life wearing that expression. The next song came on and he picked up a ketchup bottle to use as a microphone. I rest assured knowing that I was in the right place for the kind of mood I was in, Thursday Night Karaoke be damned.

"What's with the water, Paulie?" I asked, throwing in his name to emphasize the fact that I knew it.
"Rough night. Barb's makin' me drink lots of water before she serves me any alcohol."
"Screwdrivers again?"
"Yeah, and shots of cinammon- and licorice-flavored liquors. What's your name again, Brother?"
"Jesus. And Mike. Well, you know what I mean."
He chuckled and the ice in his mug clinked against the glass as his arm brushed against it.
"Yeah, Mike. I know what ya' mean."
He winked at me slyly to express his masterful comprehension of the conversation. I made a mental note to add one to his tally on the invisible chalkboard of Life.

Barb kept refilling his mug with water and ice, ignoring the sorry-looking lemon, and Paulie kept sucking them down in the hopes that a beer would come next. I chimed in with "The Hair of the Dog" Theory to his defense, but it didn't work. Finally, after witnessing him drink four or five glasses against his will, he smartened up and dumped the contents of the glass out when he went for a smoke on the porch. "What happened to the ice?" Barb asked when he came back inside. "I ate it," said the little man-lion with the Cheshire Cat's grin. "What about the lemon?" she retorted in a motherly superior tone. "Damn, the lemon..." he groaned as he palmed his forehead in shame. A man should know better than to try to outsmart a woman. She filled his glass again as a sort of victory lap. "It's OK, Paulie," I offered in my best Bogart, which is actually pretty bad. "You're just as much fun sober as you are drunk anyway." He shot me a harmless look of playful reproach and I saw something in his face that convinced me that he would've outdone Humphrey any day of the week if given the chance. There is much talent hidden in the dark realms of taverns. Don't be fooled.

I disappeared into a few more solitary drafts and listened to Paulie butcher the verses and belt the choruses of classic rock songs from before I was born. Hunched over the oak like that I could almost tolerate his wail without cringing. F Sharp, it was definitely F Sharp. "Barb, are we square?" I asked after downing the last of my fifth pint. "Yeah, we're square." She walked towards the cooler at the end of the bar to grab a bottle of an all-American brand for an all-American blue-collar man who'd just walked through the door. She didn't need to ask him, he was a regular. It's that kind of bar. Paulie and I love it for that. It's the one thing we have in common. I am grateful for that on multiple levels every day that I lace up my boots. On the Seventh Day, as you know, God rested. I figure I'll do the same.

It's not a tumor.

No bathroom break at work is complete
without examining your face in the mirror.
Check for grease stains from the machines.
Pipe dope. PVC glue. Dust from the ceiling joists.
Check your eyes to make sure you're still in there.
It's a process, though not many will admit it.

Today's inspection revealed something new
something I hadn't noticed before.
There was a small flap of skin protruding from my neck.
I tilted my head back to get a closer look, rolled it around
between my thumb and index finger.
It seemed harmless enough, but I wanted to get
rid of it. No free rides here. Besides, it could be cancer.
Pinching it between two fingernails didn't hurt
but when I pulled it did. The little ball of flesh
wouldn't let go of me. It took five tries
and when it finally ripped free
there was blood on my fingers.
I wiped it a few times for the next five minutes
and went about my business as usual with the pipes.
No one noticed anything, not even the red smears.

When she got here tonight it was one of the
first things she mentioned once we got settled in bed.
"Where'd it go?" she asked, rubbing my neck.
"I did a little bathroom surgery today."
"Oh no! I loved it!"
"I didn't even know I had it."
"You've had it since I've known you."
"Well it's gone now."
"That's OK, there's another one over here."
She moved her hand towards the second intruder
but I beat her to it and felt around until it was located.
"No, leave it. You'll bleed."
Funny how she knew that already;
motherly intuition or the female advantage.
I complied after a fake protest.
If she could take it I could take it.

A woman who truly loves you
does it for all your flaws.
Rejoice in the Kingdom of Heaven--
or at least stop making your own little Hell
for long enough to acknowledge the silver roses.

trench stench

My truck seemed to drive better
after the oil change, psychomatic of course.
It was sixty-five for the first time
in six months, the city streets were crawling.
Maybe that's why I didn't notice at first.

But when the novelty of warmth faded
and my eyes unhooked themselves
from the red light I realized where I was.
They poured down the marble stairs
like ants fleeing a hill.

My foot floored the brake pedal
while longing for the accelerator.
My hand reached for the volume knob.
I turned it clockwise, heard his
"Don't you hate it when it turns out..."
get progressively louder.
My hand swiped the knob a few times
even after the volume had been maxed out.

It was like when a soldier keeps pulling the trigger
long after his clip's been emptied, but in my case
there was no seasoned veteran to come
snap me out of it in time to dodge the bullets.
The mortars had thinned to the platoon to a squad
to a one-man kamikaze mission.
I have a receipt to prove it all.

There was still time to dig the foxhole deeper, though.
There still is.
It just gets too quiet sometimes, even for a hermit.
And pretty soon I fear I'll hit magma.

A green light never brought such composure.

Anyone
can be replaced.
Most have been.

I swear I'm trying my hardest.
Check my knuckles.



Currently reading:
"Go West, Young Toad" by Gerald Locklin.

Don't Try.

I've been reading the third and final book of letters written by my favorite writer, Henry Charles Bukowski (published after his death, of course). I know the year he died, I see that the pages are quickly diminishing; he knew that Death was coming too, despite all the weary years when part of him yearned for it via gas stove, bridge, or butcher knife. He survived the Depression, talked his way out of being drafted in World War II, starved and went mad in roominghouses, didn't overdose in the 60s or 70s, drank his liver into submission for the duration of his seventy-four years, laughed off tuberculosis without even knowing he had it for months, avoided the AIDS epidemic when it came out towards the end of the century...and then there were the women. Surviving them was undoubtedly his greatest feat, other than that of failing to destroy himself successfully. Leukemia, however, is about to take its toll. The letters consist of chemotherapy stories now, friends and long-time publishers being on the receiving end of his final punch-drunk witticisms in the face of the inevitable. These last ten pages will be tough to read. It's like watching the end of a tragic movie when you already know the unfortunate ending.

Ben Gibbard said that "Love is watching someone die." I didn't get that at first, but I think he meant that if you love someone you won't give up on them by turning your head away in their last moments to spare yourself the grief. I know my old friend Hank better than that, though, and for his sake I hope he was alone since being laid up in a hospital bed didn't allow him to be drunk and at the typer like he would've had it if given the option. That's not to say that he lived a loveless life, but his form of love was mostly to be found in the bottle and Word that allowed him to escape this world for a few hours at a time.

He always said he respected plumbers more than politicians and the like, I have those sentences highlighted. More specifically, the blue-collar bums who came home from their back-breaking jobs to try to make sense of it all in front of a keyboard hit harder for him. They, not the snobs of the publishing world, were the true bearers of the flag. Reading statements like that made by my literary (he'd curse me for using that word) hero have encouraged me to continue trudging through the toils tied to this passion. Writing, to people like us, was and is a need much like defecating. Some people won't ever understand that. Those who do prefer it that way.

I'm writing this now before reading the final archived piece of correspondence for a reason: I don't want to be biased by that last shotgun blast from the hip. From one lover of the precious Line to another, I hope that your last one hit home, Hank, though something tells me it didn't. That, as you know it, is Life.

Shower Scene

There was a time
believe it or not
when I was eighteen.
The showers weren't as long then
since the dirt, sweat, and failure of construction
had yet to be encountered.
Sometimes they were just as miserable, though.

Like when I blew my nose in my hand
and saw thick strands of bright, oxygen-rich blood;
my Achilles Heel, at my most vulnerable naked moment.
I became light-headed
believe it or not
put my hand against the tile wall to steady myself
and kneeled down in the tub.
The water splashing against my back
was colder than it had been while I was standing.
It was the first time I noticed that phenomenon.

The steam swirled around my dizzy head
as the blood ran down over my lips and dripped off my chin
forming crimson rivulets in the drainward flow.
Dinner came back up with that gruesome sight
and joined in the exodus of my bodily fluids.
I closed my eyes and bent over as far as I could until
my forehead hit the warm white bottom.

Some days I feel like I never got back up.

Parade me away to sweet Montana.

It was like a 50-ton bomb went off
and I was in my own version of Hell
when the smoke cleared.
Suppose a stiff cocktail or smoke in hand
would've made it slightly more tolerable.

Bagpipes blaring down the drag
with plaid skirts showing knobby knees.
Veterans with liver spots and canes
marching to the death they avoided
fifty years ago in some war or another.
Children too young to be embarrassed pulled on trailers
as they fling candy at the crowd parked in lawn chairs.
Drunken local football team has-beens
pouring lite beer into plastic cups
and heckling their neighbors as they pass.

I'm not sure how I avoided the panic attack.
Perhaps it was the distracting shrill of the party horns.

I'm not proud of a lot of the things
that I am, or can be fairly called
but I'm thankful that Irish isn't one of them.
Most of my best friends have been, though.
Maybe that makes sense.

St. Patrick is turning over in his snake pit somewhere.

I'll drink on Father's Day instead, thank you.

I am not knowing.

Run, don't walk
from that which would plant you in
the easy flow of the moon's attraction.

Whoever did the dishes last
left some shards of glass
that I feel now in the back of my throat.
It's too late. Save yourselves.
It's too late to save yourselves.

Just out of spite;
Just 'cause you can't;
I'll bite--
as long as the red geyser doesn't hit the bookshelf.

It'll all be like when time froze at that traffic light in Memphis.

Jackpot

Fight the truth as you may
there are two kinds of people
in the world:

those who buy lottery tickets

and those who've accepted their bad luck.

Why is it that I often find myself
plagued by the stubbornness of the former
usually when I'm in a rush to be somewhere?
They fumble with their numbers
dates of births, deaths
marriages and divorces
driving convenient store clerks mildly insane
with their onslaught of losing picks
that will ultimately fund State highway construction.
It's a sad dance that's more painful to watch than perform.

There wasn't enough gas in my tank
to get to work this morning so I stopped
at the station at the end of my road.
I was already running a little late
but figured I could make up for lost time by passing
a few crawling sedans despite the double-yellow.
Filling up took longer than expected.
I strode inside deliberately to pay and get back on the road.
There were two people in line ahead of me
after I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and a buttered roll.
I saw the flimsy tickets in their hands.
My hopes of being on time to work died.
I wondered why anyone would buy lotto tickets at 6:30 a.m.
The rest played out like a script I wouldn't fire my agent over.

Middle-aged man, graying at temples: "What's it up to?"
Kid behind counter: "Twenty-seven Mil."
Man, between sips of coffee: "I hope I'm back here to claim it tomorrow."
Kid, half-heartedly: "Good luck."
Middle-aged woman, rotund: "I thought you said it was five numbers."
Kid behind counter, shifting gears: "It's four."
Woman, authoritatively: "I want my money back."
Kid, perturbed: "The machine won't let me do that."
Woman, offended: "But you lied to me. These aren't my Lucky Numbers!"
Kid, sarcastically: "I'm sorry, you must've heard me wrong."
Woman, authoritatively again: "I want to speak to your manager."
Kid, from finish line: "He's not here."
Woman, grasping at straws: "What time will he be in?"
Kid, killing time: "Nine."
Me, stepping forward with cash in hand: "Here's forty-two bucks."
Kid and Woman turn heads my way in unison.
Me, like a half-asleep Bogart: "This should be plenty. I don't have time for this."
Plumber exits, stage right.

I got to work three minutes early
only because I went around a school bus illegally.
Survival of the fastest.

There's a girl I know who feels guilty
because her great grandfather was a key figure
in the Nazi Party, one whose name you hear on TV.
I hold firm that she shouldn't feel so bad;
there are far more common casualties inflicted
every day upon humanity by the down and out
and sore loser population.
Consider yourself warned.

Ocean(floor)liner

At a traffic light tonight
I scrambled for a pen
to jot something down
that seemed worth it at the time.

I brought the bill I wrote it on
inside when I got home to transfer it
to the digital one-liner database.
I'm reading it now:
"The difference between a squirrel
and a rat is only a tree."
It sounded better at the time, I swear.
I should've run the little fucker over.
I suppose that only would've yielded
an even worse outcome here.
I decided to spare you all.
All twenty-five of you left.
Cheers.

To really make this hobby
what I want it to be
I'd have to dedicate more time--
time that I simply don't have.
The short story, the novel
the decent poem for once;
they elude me like people
who accept hand-me-down mattresses.
I left on the last S, savings be damned.

That's why it's a term I use loosely
and never about myself.
I know a girl who posts many pictures
of herself on the internet.
Does that make her a Photographer?

I never won those reading contests in school.
Hell, I always came in last.
I was the only one dumb enough
to actually finish the book.
The same mindframe gets me no further now.
It makes for funny exchanges, though.
Verbal and otherwise.

He heard me crashing down the stairs
then heard me in the laundry room.
"Oh, you're turning the dryer on again.
It must be bedtime."
My first reaction consisted mostly
of four-letter gems that'd keep me
from getting published in those free 'zines
my mother keeps pawning off on me.
Then I came to grips with the fact
that I had it coming.
"Don't write about it if you don't
want to be made fun of for it."
He was right.
"It's fair game," I told him.
I shrugged my shoulders
even though he couldn't see
the gesture of surrender
from where he was upstairs.

Mockery: the only thing remotely fair about life.

The smell of propane on Amateur Night.
Stories that go nowhere.
Oceanic finger food too rich for my blood.
The swarm intelligence and snoring cadence change.
You see, it was funny because they were...

If I took myself so seriously all the time
I'd look as old as I feel, or maybe that's backwards.
Like the first girl to break my heart told me:
"Go with the flow."

(Did this sound conversational?
It was supposed to sound conversational.)

Where the Drinking Gourd leads you.

It made sense that I was the passenger.
We were on a two-lane highway somewhere.
It also made sense that said highway resembled
the one I take to work every day, but
we weren't going fast so we weren't going to work.

Something was hunched over the double-yellow
ahead of us. We veered around it just in time.
I snapped my neck around to look through
the rear windshield, my eyes weren't to be trusted.
They told the same story the second time, though.

"Did I just see that?" I asked the driver, a nondescript man whose
bland features resembled no one in my nightmares' usual cast.
He nodded his clean-shaven face without looking at me
and kept driving. I watched the spectacle behind us in horror.

A fuzzy brown head atop a slimy pink body.
It was playing with a pile, brown and red.
The creature took a bite from the fleshy suit in front of it
turned and made eye contact with me, smiling.

Then the baboon pulled its skin back on like over-alls and walked away.

I woke confused to the sound of my progressively loudening alarm.
The crescendo climaxed as my fingers fumbled for the button
after stumbling to my desk in the dark.
That's what happens when I go to bed still in my cups.

I'll teach you to drink whiskey.

We weaken our limp immune systems
at the designated watering hole
until our phones start ringing
from wives and alibis.

If I were sober I'd insert something relevant here.
Turns out I'm a nasty drunk these days
and a terrible writer.
I forgot the first and best line in the shower tonight.
It won't be missed.
I'll continue, half-cocked and half-hearted and arbitrarily.

He breaks my heart with every
twist of his broken wrenches.
He pays my bills and much more
with his pints of pilsner lies.

Turns out...

An absent father will make you
a lover of men and barstools
both slightly off kilter.

I've fried bigger fish.
Ink ain't forever.

Fuck, Tom.
I owe you more.



Currently reading:
"Death in the Woods" by Sherwood Anderson.

the clap and toilet seats

I felt bad for not heading out there
to support the band playing that night
but that college bar would've eaten me alive.
Not so much the bar itself
as the man standing behind it
slinging drinks to likewise disillusioned souls.
The Ex Chain of Command would've been implemented;
the Look the one who came after gives
that says it all: "Thanks for letting me bat clean-up."
All because of a Standard Issue Break-Up Haircut
that signaled him right in to make the kill.
Yup, I've made more Assists than Rebounds
in my time.
An accidental team player of sorts.

You said once, though not to me directly, that
you "Read to escape Reality," CAPITALS
being used through my own discretion.
Well, Goddammit, I've filled seven shelves
but that resilient dog is still chasing me.
What's the deal? Stop holding out.
And I finally read 'Tender Buttons'
but the joke had lost its humor.
There's a statute of limitations on that.

It's all about as satisfying
as getting in that list wipe
before it flushes.

Sometimes I run the dryer again just to help me sleep.

His had eighty-seven.

We were there buying boxers
and taking a stroll, not holding hands
or anything. It was good to get out
of the bedroom, put pants on.
It was even better that the store whose
underwear I've worn exclusively for ten years
was having a sale in that department.
A whole new wardrobe of plaids and pirate ships.
My ex's flamboyantly homosexual friend
rang me up. I don't think he remembered me.
I was simultaneously thankful and insulted.

The mandatory loser lap through that pathetic
one-level mall composed mostly of sneaker stores
came next. We rolled with the self-inflicted punches
and were fortunate enough not to see anyone
we disliked in high school and feel the same way about
now, which is usually the case when there.
Those awkward passings-by are easier when
you're not alone; a problem shared
is a problem halved almost fifty-percent of the time.

In one of the larger intersections in front of
one of the larger stores there was
an array of pianos on display where
a few benches and tropical plants used to be.
We approached cautiously and navigated through the
polished chunks of wood and faux ivory.
As if on cue an old man in a gray suit
with a face like a rubber Nixon mask
began playing one of the pianos
as he tapped his foot gently on the
imitation marble floor and avoided eye contact.
It instantly made my heart drop.
Suddenly I wanted to hold hands, but didn't.
It's just not my style anymore.
I've learned where holding things gets you.

Two weeks later I returned to that dismal place
to exchange something at that large store
near that large intersection. I was alone
and in my work boots and dirty jeans
with sawdust in the long curls protruding from my hat.
I heard the music in the piano maze and cringed.
A quick glance shot around my perimeter
left me baffled for a few brief seconds
since the old man in the gray suit
was nowhere to be seen.
Then I saw the sign:
"Learn to play piano on your very own!"
It was propped up on the most hideous one there
which was spewing out a warm melody
that somehow left me feeling cold.

An automated piano for an automated world.
I'd found something sadder than the old gray man
and my boxers weren't on sale anymore.
Served me right for trying.

They name disorders after people like us.

The last time was at a show
we both assumed we'd attend.
I hoped, you dreaded.
Secretly.

A band we loved that you got me into.
A band whose love I've spread since.
A love I haven't quite.

We faked smiles.
We forced questions, answers.
We forged our way through the crowd
in that dark room like we used to years back
even the night we met on that checkered floor.
This time I was old enough to buy you a drink.

The Canadian Club had hit me hard.
The goofy grin helped mask the hidden pain.
That and the nostalgia, the strained lyrics and lines.
I confess that I think I touched your hair
while you were standing in front of me
watching Tim drunker than us on that stage.
I thought that you touched me back at some point
maybe a hug, maybe a mid-sentence arm-grab.
I probably made it up.
Me or the whiskey.

They played the classic Martyr as I played mine.
The one about being "at my worst when I'm at my best"
is playing now, on repeat for the duration of this plea.
When the horn section comes in I crumble.
I remember catching your eye
when we heard it for the first time that night.
The rest of the phrases, the climax
the painfully premature ending: it's almost too perfect.
Most things in your Chapter were, though.

We screamed along to the words we knew
and faked the ones we didn't.
What else can they ask for?

That poem on love and loss and "never at all"...
It's no secret where I stand on it.

On playing guitar alone in a small fluorescent room.

You have to write music
that you wouldn't mind dying to;
not in a morbid sense, but rather
in the way that you know a film is over
when a certain song plays.
A soundtrack
to a life unlived, or lived too well.
Potential in a wasted world.
From the gut, unapologetic.
Dynamic, dramatic.
Moving ahead while looking backwards.
The walk that turned a life around.
The chords that framed the cadence.
A village to raise a child.
A handful to craft a song.
Leave nothing to the imagination.
Leave nothing left unsaid.
Any takers?

Draft.

He was one of those One-Uppers; you'd tell a story, and he'd magically have a similar one that always out-did yours. It was annoying as hell, but it sure made that first year of plumbing class go faster. Somewhere along the way he fell through the plumber's crack and left the union to pursue his oh-so-thriving auto mechanic business that he constantly ranted and raved about. Probably just more malarkey, mind you, but that was his story and he stuck to it.

My favorite of his many tales involved a tavern down in Rockland that he used to frequent. In true college humor movie fashion there was a designated night of the week where a ten dollar cover charge rented you a dirty mug that you could have filled with cheap beer for a penny. One red cent per brew seems to good to be true, and it was. The catch was this: the deal only lasted until the first person broke down and took a leak. Well, let me clarify-- used the bathroom. Who was to say that people couldn't go right in there pants? He claimed that grown men often times wore diapers under baggy jeans in order to be able to urinate on the sly. Others duct taped their members into plastic bottles. The first and foolish pioneers in cheating the system tried hiding their weakness in condoms, but that plan blew up in their faces. Well, pants. At least that's how his story went.

And then, as predicted, there were the beefy looking biker types standing in front of the entrance to the John. The collective body of patrons had their own bouncers, but they only bounced you if you tried to use the head. We were fed some whoppers about rolling some sorry slobs in the parking lot for trying to relieve their aching bladders. The One-Upper was one of the guys doing the pounding, according to him, which came off a tad too predictable for our taste.

His tall tales were always entertaining, though. He'd ridden every motorcycle, been to every gentleman's club, proposed marriage while skydiving in Cuba. We smiled, nodded, and continued to solder copper pipe until our instructor let us out at eight o'clock. We let him be the hero for three hours a night, two nights a week. No one had the heart to burst his bubble. We all knew deep down that even if that penny-a-beer bar existed he was no enforcer of the common good; he was only one of the guys who woke up in a saturated pair of Huggies on his ex-girlfriend's couch in a trailer park somewhere.

To his credit he never broke the mold.
Any one of these conjured legends follows the same set of rules:
Those who need talk about it probably haven't done it.
Those who choose to write about it probably want your attention.
Those who only read about it should be dragged out back and shot.

Reverse Polarity

Welding class was boring as usual. The basement of the union hall was filled with smoke and disillusioned apprentices, half of which where laid off. Our green jackets, long leather gloves, and face shields made us look like intergalactic visitors. Some of us felt the part more than others.

My phone rang during one of my contemplative homesick breaks in between pointless steel seams. It was Aaron, a kid in my class four years my junior. The runt of the litter, but a third-generation pipe welder. The one who would unabashedly make pipe his life. His long, long life. I listened for the back-country twang in his voice but didn't hear it. He sounded like he was dying.

"What's up, Aaron?"
"You there?"
"Did you leave already?"
"No, I'm upstairs laying down."
"Oh."
"Can you come take me to the hospital?"
"What's wrong?"
"I'm dizzy. I threw up and I can barely walk."
"Be right there."

I told the welding instructors about the situation while en route to my ill brother. Their concern was apparent, though somehow different from mine. Slightly distant. Almost sixty, and therefore mature. The three of us went up the steps. He was laying there in the lobby of the hall sprawled out like a wet noodle on that uncomfortable couch. What little color he usually had in his cheeks was gone. His voice shook when he spoke. I let the men do the talking, then I went downstairs to turn off my welding machine and grab my jacket.

When I returned the mood seemed different. It was an atmosphere of waiting apprehension.

"You ready, Aaron?" I pulled my keys from my pocket.
"You're not taking him anywhere," one of the old men said.
The tone used was almost accusatory. I was confused.
"God forbid something happens on the way."
"Yeah, you're right," I replied as I put my keys away.
"We called an ambulance."
I went back downstairs, but didn't turn my welding machine back on.
I was done for the night.

Twenty minutes later we cleaned up and went home. Aaron and the welding instructors were still waiting for the ambulance in the lobby. Good thing it wasn't an emergency. As I took that familiar winding road like a seasoned veteran the ambulance went by in the opposite lane, rollers still and no sirens. I could've had him there sooner. It was a chance I was willing to take for a friend who asked the favor. I guess that's the difference between a twenty-five-year-old and a man double his age, though: the willingness to risk a lawsuit.

I heard from Aaron the next day. The doctors told him he had a high fever and his blood pressure was low when he finally arrived at the hospital, but they treated him effectively. He thanked me for trying to spare him the five-minute, thousand-dollar ambulance ride. We laughed in spite of our youthful ignorance, silently applauding our foolish priorities.

If I ever ask you to take me to the emergency room, and I won't, just do it.

It's hard to hold a tune when someone's singin' a different song.

The album began triumphantly
from my pick-up's stock stereo.
I skipped the filler songs
but couldn't bring myself
to sing along. My sore throat
tightened up. The ten-year-old
words wouldn't come out
like they had so freely in the past.

A sick kid in my head, a sick girl in my bed.
The accelerator was the alternative.
I took it.


Currently reading:
"The Element" by Ken Robinson.

John made his point in Chapter Three, but what'd you give yours up for?

My father killed God for me a long time ago, probably by the age of five or six. He did it in multiple ways and through various exhibits of over-zealous Christ-cramming. The ones that were most influential in my life, aside from the final conflict of ideologies that led to this two-year rift, were the ones that happened when I was young and still receptive to the conventional doctrines of Higher Powers. I hadn't learned to question things yet, I hadn't put my faith in other places. Whiskey and women were still only things that sinners indulged in. Ah, to be young.

Naturally, in an effort to secure a spot in his precious Heaven, my father taught Sunday School. Well, he did for a few years, until they politely asked him to stay with the adults for the whole service. He was probably scaring the children. I didn't realize it at such a tender age, but he was scaring me too.

I loved art as a child. I was constantly drawing or painting or gluing some sculpture together. Many only children find ways to entertain themselves creatively; if they're lucky it carries over into adulthood. Not even my holy-rolling father could suppress my mind forever. He tried one time. I was using crayons to make a picture of Christ's unfortunately necessary crucifixion in Sunday School. The other kids could draw what they wanted, but my father wanted me to capture this particular moment in mythical time. He paced around the room and waited for everyone to finish their artwork.

My little hands moved quickly to try to please both him and God. Calvary was a huge mound and less of a mountain. And it wasn't as sad a scene as people made it out to be. In fact, the sun was shining and the grass was a bright green and colorful flowers blossomed everywhere. Hell, even Jesus and the two thieves next to him were smiling from their crosses; they must've seen the silver lining. I was proud of my masterpiece when I finally drew the last m-shaped bird.

Good ol' dad wasn't too pleased, however. He walked over to inspect my creation when he saw me drinking my apple juice and munching on my donut and figured I was done. "What is this?" he asked indignantly as if I were the Antichrist. "It's what you told me to draw, Dad," I replied innocently while chewing. "No, no. It's all wrong," he preached. "That was a terrible day in history. The sun wasn't out, the people weren't happy. Even the grass had died. Fix it." He reached down to my box of crayons and rolled the brown and gray ones my way. I knew what I had to do. I hated him for it.

The brown crayon covered up the grass and flowers if I pressed hard enough. The gray one took care of the sun and the blue sky, replaced them with clouds. I couldn't figure out a way to turn the smiles upside down so I blackened out the faces in a frustrated rage. I raised my hand to get the attention of that distant man once again. He rose from his seat and walked over to inspect my alterations.

"Good job, Michael. Much better."
"Thanks, Dad."
"But I can't see that the grass is dying."
"The brown is supposed to be dirt."
"I know. Can you draw a few clumps of grass here and there?"
"OK."
"It'll show that there once was life there, but it disappeared."
"OK."
"And why are the faces all black now?"
"We don't know what they looked like and I don't want to lie."
"Good boy. You've remembered the Eighth Commandment."
"Yeah."

He took my picture and walked back to his desk. I wished I could recover it and throw it away. Now, in my own way, I suppose I have. In twenty years I've learned that most of the ugliest things happen in the prettiest places. I'm convinced more than ever that my original drawing was more accurate.

God, if you do exist, don't blame the old man for my straying. None of us ever recognize the repercussions of trying too hard at the time. I'm not scared of Hell. I tan well.

An old friend wrote this one, whether she knows it or not.

No matter how much
you love someone

or better yet and more commonly

no matter how well
you pretend to reciprocate

your nose is due to grow
if you can't admit that you enjoy
the temporary ability
to sleep diagonally
when they leave for work or school
or wherever it is that they go

when you're not inside them
or they're not inside you

though you both always are
if you're lucky.

Like hiding that you masturbate.

I wasn't surprised when the beer didn't do it.
It hadn't worked quite right in five
or six years, depending on your mode
of damage assessment and logistics.

At least the shower was warm this time.
A spider two inches in diameter
tried its hardest to cling to the wet tile corner.

The hiccups, or -coughs, or however the hell
decided to hit me hard mid-shampoo.
I felt like a mouse in those cartoons
that they don't make anymore, the good ones.
The first one hit me, made me laugh.
The second one made me grab my chest.
The third one rocked me off my feet.
I hit my head on the way down
like it had a chance of missing.

When I came to my eyes opened
already fixed upon the wall.
The spider was gone.
Respect those who quietly succumb to the inevitable
without an audience.

I knew I wasn't dreaming or dead
because the race still disgusted me.
Any evidence of the fall had been washed
down the drain which was good since I'm bad
with the sight of my own blood
unless it's in size-10 font.

There was a gash in my scalp
that made me grateful to have thick hair.
Less questions. They never ask the right ones anyway.

Water was still warm.
Soap still stung eyes.
I didn't need to pinch myself.
I wouldn't have, regardless.

No one greeted my forehead
with a blackjack when I released the steam
into the hallway after a lazy drying session.
The cowardice of people astounded me again
and I hiccupped or hiccoughed or whatever the hell it is
my way up here to commit another dull night to memory.

That spider had lucked out.

But honestly
I never fell
and neither will you.
Get over it.

First Commandment, Second Amendment, Third Strike.

"Fire protection fitters have it made."

"Why's that?"

"All their pipe comes pre-fabbed from the shop."

"Cut to length. Mindless installation."

"Exactly."

"And macho uniforms."

"Whatd'ya mean?"

"You know, the sprinkler guys from that last job."

"The Rock-Safe Boys?"

"Yeah, with the camo pants, combat boots, black shirts..."

"You ever been to their shop?

"No, but it sounds like you have."

"My old contractor sold them some tools once. I delivered."

"So what was the deal with their place?"

"There were M-16s and AK-47s laying around everywhere."

"Why?"

"They think they're some kind of militia."

"You're joking."

"Nope. They even use military issue ammo crates for storage."

"Of the guns?"

"Of the tools."

"So why didn't you sign up? You're from Pine Bush."

"I may listen to country, but assault rifles don't turn me on."

"Construction workers make for good stories."

"Storytellers make good enemies."

"People don't believe me when I tell them these things anyway."

"It's not that. They just don't care."

Shady Dealings in Stranger Danger

Then, in the dim and blotchy blue
of the moon reflected off fresh snow
or the pale white of a charging phone
or the monitor beckoning with bad one-liners
their features always bottleneck
to form What Never Was.

Eyebrows become finer, more arched.
Noses grow slender, round at the end.
Lips fill out, equidistant between smile and frown.
Eyelashes lengthen, sometimes change color.
Cheekbones and jawlines do
whatever it is they have to do
to fulfill your little Fantasy
and of course that smell...

The smell requires no light at all.
None of it does, it's an illusion.
She was what you made her to be
like every one that came after
and every one that will.

It's safe to watch that trilogy now;
someone's plucked her wings.
Row the boat ashore. Hallelujah.

Too young to talk to skulls.

She looked like wrinkled Death
and dressed like Gandalf;
sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West
had been converted to Catholicism;
but that woman loved the hell outta me.

Most elementary school librarians
have some quirks about them, at least mine
didn't smell like fish sticks or cat food.
To this day I swear that if she'd been born sixty years sooner
she probably would've wanted my hand in marriage.
That's the only reason I can think of
to explain why she gave me the role of Hamlet
in the sixth-grade play she proposed to produce.
I had no acting ability and was too shy and awkward
to read aloud without mincing words or pausing mid-sentence
to un-jumble that confounded Elizabethan English.
To top it all off, the too-tall redhead who got the part of Ophelia
was my pre-pubescent female arch nemesis
who had hated me ever since I moved in on her teacher's pet turf
in the oh-so-competitive fourth-grade.

I never learned my lines, of course
and would butcher them quite masterfully while painfully
reading from the cheap pamphlet printed in faded purple ink
that the twenty-or-so of us held in our laps in a circle of chairs
in the library every Thursday afternoon for forty-five minutes.
More than anything it was an excuse for us
to get out of class, and I had no problem
being the scapegoat for the play's indefinite postponement
and eventual cancellation.

Freckle-faced Ophelia never failed to rub mismatched Hamlet's
alleged memory lapses and sheer laziness in his face.
She's happily married now to a man
who swept her off her feet in true fairytale fashion, God bless her.
They both probably sleep with pillows between their knees.

I don't lose any sleep over it.
Some people are just better at sticking to the script.
You can pick them out at an early age--
it's a trait and a fate that sticks with them.

And me? I'm still stalling, just getting out
of class here and there for a little while at a time.
It beats the alternative.

Relax: Even Cowards Get Tombstones

With days like one-act tragedies
it's a constant origami of the soul:
keep folding, try again.

My watch ticks from my dresser
louder than it does on my wrist.
I rarely wear it anymore, or even pants
through these laid off weeks of observation
basking in the smut and squalor of
a newfound twenty-five.
I'm not the only one
but I'm the only one Here
most times.
I hate to admit it, but
I see what he meant now.

It's my party and I'll cr...
--be predictable--
...if I want to.

Statistically speaking
we shouldn't be breathing.
The odds defeated pave the way;
let's get together and feel alright
minus the whole Jamaica part
if only for one night.

More bridges burned than fences mended;
more bad news, bare;
more thumbnail fights against an invisible grain;
more jetlag messing with my head;
all this multitasking's left me weak in the knees
and in need of a guild that'll never come to be:

Apathy is the new white.

Two years is two years.
Some nights the pillows are fluffier than others.



Currently reading:
"The Iceman Cometh" by Eugene O'Neill.

It must be a Pine Bush thing.

"Man, the seafood salad I had for lunch is tearing me up."

"Was it the kind with the squid and octopus and stuff?"

"Yeah, where you can see all that nasty shit."

"I'll pass on that."

"I love it."

"...until it tears up your stomach."

"I like freaking my kids out with it."

"Do I even want to know?"

"I open my mouth. They scream when they see the testicles."

"The testicles, huh? I'd scream, too."

"That's 'cause you're an apprentice."

"No, that's 'cause I'm straight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tentacles, man, tentacles. Testicles are in your bag."

"Whatever, Shakespeare."

"No, dude. There's no getting out of this one."

"Octopuses..."

"...octopi..."

"...have testicles."

"Maybe they do, but their legs are called tentacles."

"My tentacles are next to my testicals. Close enough."

"You're lucky we're the only ones working today."

"You're lucky I'm here to amuse you."

"...and countless others."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Go eat some more testicles."

Sangrita

It may have been a bad time
but I was thinking about blood again;
mine, specifically--
the Most Precious kind.

Was it the same batch
that had been swimming
through my arteries and veins
as when I was a kid?
Had it suffered the same losses
won the same battles
and could it go another round of either?

Was there some cellular contest
to see which Reds and Whites
could stay inside this Shell the longest?
Or were they dying to get out
dry up, flake off, and blow away?

Was it really blue when lacking oxygen
like they tell you when you're young?
And what's with the copper taste?

My thoughts regrouped and acknowledged
that there's another blood drive
at my union hall in a few weeks
that I won't be able to attend
since the sight of a needle dangling
from my arm makes me dizzy and nauseous.

Luckily, a friend said he'd sit in
on my behalf for the second year in a row--
the greatest birthday gift
one could ask for.

But if I were forced, how would I get out of it?
Me: "I've been tattooed in the last year."
Nurse: "Times are tough, we can ignore that."
Me: "I'm a bit of a coward, no one would want mine."
Nurse: "Come on now, it won't hurt."
Me: "Can you save me a vial? I have a letter to write."
Nurse: "Maybe you're not the best donation candidate."
Bingo. I had the answer, and without lying.

The shampoo got in my eyes
and distracted me momentarily.

"I'm a lot of things
but a bleeder
isn't one of them,"
I told the shower curtain.

My Track Record suggested
I check the color of the bubbles
floating in the wake
and reevaluate my stance.

The soap slid from my hands.
I almost slipped and fell
while intercepting its descent.

The shower curtain and my Track Record
laughed in mocking unison.

It was getting harder to be right.

A and D

Like most other decent Americans
I'd grown up on it
but at a young and dumb eighteen
when I went away to college--
the real kind, not these plumbing classes--
I stopped drinking it altogether
in exchange for whiskey sours.

After the quiet homecoming it was something
else, aside from myself, to be rediscovered.
It took me awhile, but I did. Both.

In fact, my hiatus from its indulgence
made it seem far more appealing:
by the gallon, by the quart
by the way this ain't a metaphor.

The catch, and there's always a catch
was that my absence brought about
a digestive intolerance. Anything more
than a-glass-and-a-half with my nightly
chocolate made me pay the price
the next morning.

I just flushed the last installment.
In five years, almost to the date
I still haven't learned.

The point, and there's rarely a point
is that milk and other pleasures
don't necessarily
do a body good.

Though even while lining up a fly
and crooning to a sleeping auditorium
I wear that mustache with my stubborn pride
that not even four bottles of Tylenol could stop.



Currently reading:
"Reach for the Sun: Selected Letters 1978-1994, Volume 3" by Charles Bukowski.

My greatest fear, come to life.

The rabbit's fur's been smelling like maple syrup
more and more frequently.
I'm starting to believe that she's been going
to McDonald's for McGriddles at four in the morning

and she's been holding out on me.

I'd ask my roommate, but I know he wouldn't fess up;
no one likes a tattle-tale, not even a rabbit.

If she starts smelling like the leather interior
of a European luxury car and listening to
German techno, then I'll know who her accomplice is.

Which way did she go?
Which way did she go, George?



Currently reading:
"Tender Buttons" by Gertrude Stein.

Saturday morning scissor-lift shop-talk.

"Sometimes I do it on purpose..."

"Bend her over..."

"Pull all the way out..."

"So it gets stuffed with air..."

"And she gets embarrassed..."

"Even though we secretely like the sound."

"Funny how that stuff gets us off."

"Yeah."

"You gonna eat the other half of that bagel?"

"Nah, you can have it."

Pornstars have the worst tattoos.

Twenty-four was a decent year for me, despite the time
caught masturbating by a man too drunk to notice
my pants around my ankles. At least I think he didn't know
any better, he kept talking to me like nothing was wrong...
and traccidents? Pshaw!
I've learned to look for the Adam's Apple.
I've managed to refrain from writing about roadkill.
I've still got a thing for Miss Ana Phora.

Yesterday I even put pants on, ventured out
for my daily dose of sunlight
and the unemployment check.
The bank teller counted the Twenties
so smoothly with that rapid shuffle
from right hand to left, the comforting
sound of skilled labor behind a counter
helping skilled labor sitting on a bench.
It was enough to leave the grenadine out
and take it like a real man, one who walks away.

Five weeks ago while showering
I popped a blood vessel between my eyebrows
while thinking about the many uses of Molotov cocktails.
Ironically, his God books are in my old bedroom now.

And I wish I could ease my mother's sorrow
but the older I get the more I understand
that we're past that point in each other's lives
and have problems of our own.
My scraped knees are mine alone now;
her bed is hers to sleep in, with him.
Thank God she's got her weed
and I've got my weekly pack to cope.

I heard somewhere that chemicals in
cigarette smoke relay a message
to the DNA in lungs, telling them
that they should grow another set.
Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Whatever comes my way these days I try to remember
that it can't be worse than the time my meth lab exploded.
It's a shame, really. Guillermo was a good man...

Bonaparte with Beer Muscles.

"Did he tell you about the time he got fucked up by a midget?"

I took a sip of my beer to center myself and make sure I'd heard my coworker correctly.

"No. I've seen him at the hall and know who he is, but I've never spoken to him."

Dave wet his lips with his draft and set the pint glass down on the oak. He turned his stool towards me and assumed the I'm About To Tell You A Really Good Story pose.

"He was partying at a bar in New Paltz, something with a P in it..."

"Yeah, the place where girls dance on tables and the pisser's a bathtub filled with ice that you wait in line for twenty minutes to use. I've been there a few times."

"Right, well he was pretty tanked up and went to the bar for a round of drinks. He was talking to the bartender respectfully, nothing off the wall. Some guy, a fuckin' midget!, comes up and sits down on the stool next to him and says to back off. He rubs his eyes to make sure he's not seeing things."

"You sure he wasn't high, too?"

"Dude, if he says it was a fuckin' midget, then it was a fuckin' midget."

"Fair enough."

"He tells the midget that he's obviously not hitting on his girlfriend behind the bar; the drinks he ordered are all girly drinks for the women he arrived with, Sexes on the Beach and faggot shit like that. Little Man doesn't want to hear any of that, though."

"A bit of the Napoleon Complex perhaps..."

"So the midget grabs his arm and takes a swing at him. He can't believe what's going down. Once he comes back to reality he grabs the midget and slams his head against the bar. The little bastard bounces off the bar and lands flat on the floor. Bouncers descend on our poor union brother from all angles and wrestle him to the ground. By this time the midget is on his feet again and running towards him. He kicks him in the head and he blacks out for a few seconds."

"Wait, so he got kicked in the head by a midget?"

"Yeah, man. His buddies pulled the bouncers off him and revived him. They slapped him in the face at first, but when that didn't work they poured a beer over his head. He had the midget square in his sights. He cocked his arm back to punch the little fucker and send him flying again for kicking him in the head while he was down, but he used his better judgment and ran out of the bar instead."

"Wow. That's about the best bar story I've ever heard."

"Tell me about it. Whenever that guy would try to bust my balls on the job after he told me that story I'd tell him I'd get the midget to beat him up again. He'll never live that down."

"I would imagine not. That's ridiculous. And I thought my life had some unfortunate twists..."

"That's the best part of being in a union, bro. You hear all of these absurd fuckin' stories. You can't make shit like this up."

"You're right. I'll tell it just how it was told to me instead."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Finish your beer, we gotta get back to work."

Too long for the Obits.

Alex was a few years younger than me, but infinitely wiser in his own regard; was, is, whatever. I'm not sure how one's supposed to address those in his category, those of his caliber, other than with utter admiration for unabashedly admitting that the world's a lousy place and not worth fighting for, despite Hemingway's famous lie of an introduction to "For Whom the Bell Tolls". 'Cause you know what, fellow lush? It doesn't toll for you and me. Try to put as positive a spin on the globe as you want. It just doesn't.

I remember our last conversation like it was yesterday. He approached me with that same sarcastic grin that was always glued to his face, but the sparkle in his eye was magically more omniscient. He'd discovered some Great Truth that he wasn't about to share with the likes of me or anybody else on the job, and I wasn't about to waste my breath asking him. Al was basically alright, even though some people mistook his aloof nature for arrogance. I knew him better than that, though; or at least I thought I did, based on the brief glimpses into his life that he chose to share with me at what were usually the most inappropriate times. Maybe I shouldn't have down-played it so often. We all knew what he meant when he said those things he did, we just didn't like to acknowledge it. We sure didn't think he'd go that far. Poor kid.

"My uncle's living out of cans somewhere in Florida and his kids won't send him money."

"I'm sorry to here that, Al. Can you pass me that wrench?"

"Social Security doesn't send him checks anymore because he failed to show for probation and he's a felon."

"The five-eighths socket isn't snugging up enough. Toss me the nine-sixteenths."

"My cousins and mother have disowned each other for the fifth time as a result of it. Mom's been sending him money a few times a month without telling my stepfather. If he knew he'd go ballistic, even though she works more than he does."

"Yeah, where's your old man been lately? Haven't seen him at the bar."

"He's not my father. My father and I haven't spoken in over two years."

"You know what I mean, Al. Take it easy."

"My mother. My mother says I drink too much, but she's got a few nasty habits of her own. I don't mention them anymore. I gave up reverse-parenting back in high school. She kicked me out of the house once when I got rid of her stash. My mother's going to die someday and suddenly I'll realize what love really is, but it'll have been too late."

"Jesus, Al. Lay off the soap box talk. Have you been eating leftovers at one in the morning again?"

"Not everything's a joke, Dave."

"Oh no? Then what is it?"

"The world's a sad place."

"Are you going to tighten those nuts up or am I going to have to do it for you?"

"I'll take care of it."

"I'll believe it when I see it, Socrates."

"Plato. Call me Plato. Socrates didn't exist, he was conjured to take the blame."

"The blame for what?"

"For the world being a sad place..."

"I thought I just told you..."

"...and people having a need to write about it like it were someplace else."

I remember our last conversation like it was yesterday, because it was. Alex T. Zonuffstra, you may be missed by some, but at least I won't have to carry your weight at work anymore. Those nuts don't just tighten themselves, you know.

the KGB's greatest weapon

I only know she exists because
I've seen her up close, spoken to her--
well, was rejected--
when I tried to cash a check there once--
well, withdraw money from my unemployment account.
"Sorry, I'm only here to receive deposits.
I can't give anything out," she said
in her thick Russian accent--
well, Ukrainian or Latvian, or maybe Lithuanian--
right out of a Bond film.
At least I think that's what she said;
I wasn't paying attention--
well, was distracted by her dark hair
pulled back tightly in a perfect bun
and her clear blue eyes piercing my very soul.
I picked my haggard self up by my dusty collar
and escorted myself out of there in a flesh--
well, flash, did I say flesh?--
making sure my tongue was still in my mouth.

Now, many moons later
whenever I pass by that bank's pointless substation
I can't help but notice her there
sitting at that desk
not doing a thing
and getting paid for it
in true American fashion--
the gorgeous remnants of a sad man's attempt
at scoring a mail-order bride, or a refugee turned
entrepreneur, or maybe a foreign exchange student
who never went home when her visa expired.
She's laughing through that wall of glass
knowing that she could have any Yankee fool
wrapped around her little Commie finger.
The irony of the limitations of her job description
eats me up inside as only I'd be eaten.
It's enough to drive a man...no, just
to drive him.

Oh, Natasha: rogue agent.
Relic of the Cold War.
Don't tell us you don't know your own strength.

If I were a lesser man--
well, a desperate man--
I'd try, but I'm not--
well, not anymore.

I'm a betting man, and I know when I'd lose--
well, shucks.

Have gun, won't travel.

You've learned that getting dressed
in front of a mirror
can be empowering
if the right song is playing.
I'm sorry
it's taken you
this long.

I heard your voice
in the background
when I called--
it's deeper now, more mature.
We got even drunker than usual that night
though for different reasons.

So look
I don't know how to ask this, but
One last time?

I've lost a few heroes in bar room fights.
You can read that any way you like.
You will anyway.

The sound of a dryer going still puts me to sleep;
my mom used to run the vacuum cleaner.
It means the world is at peace
or at least mine

but I really have to find the door.
My pillowcases can't take much more drool.

The truth is that I can't drive stick.
Like the rest
of this, you already knew that.

Books on Tape

I wish I could watch the Greats eat steak.
Then I'd know if they were the real deal
or not

because writers, as you well know
or should, are the greatest hypocrites--
give them an inch and they want a mile;
give them the mile and they want an inch.

Mine should live for the green or pink
haze before the tornado, should leave
fences to cattle, should understand the
importance of occasionally passing a car
on a quarter-mile straight-away with headlights
coming at you just to stay relevant, should
admit with a hint of sadness that in this
world of positives and negatives
blacks and reds
two crazies don't make a sane
like two wrongs don't make a right

and most importantly
should know the dangers associated
with men who frequent highway rest stops
and that they make for top-notch bar tales.

But that steak.
I'd really love to see them eat that steak.

I can't sleep, either.

There he sat
like a defeated Greek god
stuck in the photo forever:
the kid whose heart I broke
stroke and stroke again
weekend after weekend
without even knowing it
shining with sweat and red
in the face
sitting on the standard dorm room futon
that graced my first apartment
with my father's borrowed acoustic
in his lap and the remnants of a bottle
of Southern Comfort at his side
and if that's not enough to remind oneself
that there are stranger fates in this world
than those found in any book on one's shelf
than I'm a red-assed baboon with a keyboard.

The first nail in the coffin.

His name is Chris
and his partner's name is John
but by the looks of them
I always want to call them
by the opposite names.
They're the two masons
doing the concrete on the job.
The story they stick to is that they've known each other
since high school and are the same age
but Chris looks an easy five years older.
John says I'm not to first to say that.
More wrinkles around the eyes, less teeth
in the devilish smile, more red than white in the eyes--
the tell-tale signs of the man who's carried the load
for longer than his years admit.

Chris offered me a smoke in the down-time
during a big concrete pour yesterday
while waiting for the next truck
and I gratefully accepted.
The boss had waited until eight-fifteen that morning
to call me in, even though Chris had requested my presence
the day before and said that they could use my help.
I had been up late wrestling with angels, then demons
and was glad that I hadn't been drinking.
Still, I was tired and the hard labor on an empty stomach
wasn't lightening my lids any.
That cigarette looked damn good sticking out from the pack
as he waved it in my direction.

Something caught my eye as I reached for the hand-out
something white amongst the tan of the rest of the filters--
an upside-down cigarette.
This fifty-five year old man still kept a lucky one in his pack
still believed in junior high superstitions and their merit.
Is that what I have to look forward to when I have to sleep
with pillows between my sore knees at night like he does?

I wasn't sure whether to be thrilled or terrified, but let me tell you--
that smoke would've tasted just as glorious
whether or not it was mentholated, and it was.

No Nazis were harmed in the writing of this blog.

We get all types here at the house, and that's fine. Expected, accepted, appreciated even. But sometimes we stop, shake our heads, and force ourselves to wonder: Are our friends really that open-minded about their social screening process? Then, of course, we pat ourselves on our backs when we realize how marvelously unprejudiced we are through the Law of Syllogism. It's a mostly painless cycle.

A couple weeks ago we went through said scenario. One of our newer friends from across the mighty Hudson showed up at our humble abode with a few of his pals to join us in the evening's alcoholic merriment. I had just gotten out of the shower and was getting dressed up in my bedroom when they arrived. The night's lucky winner was selected from my rows and stacks of mildly ironic thrift store T-shirts. I pulled it over my enormous head, manipulated my mop of hair into the same general direction, and sauntered down the steps to play host to my new acquaintances.

There they stood: my one buddy, and four of his tragically hip friends. We get them around these parts from time to time, but it's an uncommon thing to find an indigenous member of that type. You know, the kids who you'd expect to see at shows featuring punk rock or similar music akin to its derivatives. Tight clothes, facial piercings, interesting hair, chest-piece tattoos. It's not that we don't tolerate that particular fashion statement here in the Dirty 'Burgh, it's that we just don't care enough to try in vain to attempt it. Our fine city provides far better threats than ridicule from the Fashion Police. There's nothing tougher than risking life and limb with the possibility of a drive-by just to get some Kennedy Fried Chicken at three in the morning. Take your scene points, quite frankly, and shove them. Gingerly, mind you. But as usual, I digress.

I shook hands. I made eye contact. I pretended to pay attention to names, though I'm terrible at that and tend to let them go right out the other ear in most group introductions. And then I established, for my own personal knowledge, the odd man out. Ripped clothes, huge plugs in his earlobes that were covered in fake diamonds, a mostly shaved head that revealed tattoos on his scalp, and that smirk that usually comes along with the persona. We'd had his type here before, it ended poorly. Mostly for him, mind you, but poorly none the less. I made a mental note to put myself on the defensive and watch for any signs of potential violence or petty larceny.

Neither of which occurred. Once again I was put in my place regarding the race and coerced into shredding the cynic card for a bit. This guy was alright, despite the fact that he resembled a poor man's version of the drummer of a popular punk band who is rumored to be reforming despite his third-degree burns via plane crash. He made the right comments at the TV screen, he laughed at the jokes and made some good ones at appropriate times, he was respectful of our home, and he even did a full shot of the 160-proof Austrian rum that has come to be a rite of passage amongst our group of friends without taking a trip to the bathroom to vomit. Eventually, however, he managed to make a bit of a fool of himself. We'll blame it on that shot.

See, someone mentioned Nazis. Not sure how it came up in conversation at a party, but it did. And well, his face lit up like a teacher had asked the class a question and he was the only one who knew the answer. I was almost waiting for him to raise his hand. Instead, he raised the leg of his shorts to reveal another one of his numerous tattoos. This one was unfinished, only an outline on his inner right thigh. Maybe the sensitivity of that spot had halted production, or maybe money was short and it didn't seem wise to pursue an expensive mural that only a few select people would see, or maybe it was just a stupid idea that was too late to erase. In my humble opinion it was a clear case of the latter. Let's go to the Not-So-Instant/Not-So-Verbatim Replay for further clarification. Charlie, take it away:

"Nazis, huh? I like Nazis."

"Oh yeah?"

"Here, check out one of my leg tattoos. It's not done yet."

"It's a plane."

"That's the Red Baron."

"Yes, it does indeed resemble a biplane from the turn of the last century."

"Look at the wing."

"There's a swastika."

"It's for my German heritage."

"Maybe you should've thought that one through first."

"What do you mean?"

"The Red Baron was an ace fighter pilot in the First World War."

"So?"

"So, the National Socialist German Workers Party was not even established until 1920."

"The who?"

"The Nazis."

"Oh..."

"Fail."

I took a sip of my cocktail and let the news sink in. Grins spread across the faces in earshot of our conversation, but no one had the heart to pursue the matter. Not even yours truly. Fortunately, the piece hadn't been completed yet so there's still time to cover up the swastika with something more clever. Something tells me that he won't go that route, though. We changed the subject quickly and efficiently and pretended as though nothing had ever happened, but it had--

Hitler, you've been bested yet again, sixty-some-odd years after your cowardly bunker suicide!

The German quarter of the blood coursing through my veins has been redeemed. Now if only the ignorance common to you and your supporters could be eradicated from the earth. But alas, I want ice cream, and can waste no more words on you or your uneducated scenester cohorts.

Goodnight, friends and Allies. And remember: fascist dictators come and go, but bad tattoos are forever.

Columbo, as you've never seen him.

"It wasn't homicide."

"But why the duct-taped eyes, detective?"

"He didn't wanna see."

"See what?"

"The room."

"But he lived in it."

"Not spattered like this."

"If he didn't wanna see, why not the head?"

"Because the heart made more sense."

"How so?"

"They'd already taken it. Read the walls."

"They're blank."

"Exactly."

"Look, statistics show that in cases like this..."

"Statistics don't apply here, sergeant."

"Then what does?"

"The facts, the motives."

"To make Open Casket optional? He wasn't so selfless."

"His mind...he didn't wanna waste his mind."

"I'm afraid he already had, detective."

"I'll agree with that...for the record."

"So what next?"

"Let's get some lunch."

"You can't be serious."

"A cop is never cold, wet, or hungry."

"And the report?"

"It can wait."

"Sometimes I wonder how you out-rank me."

"Ask the man on the floor. He'll tell you."

Honest Abe and Famous Men with Wooden Teeth

There's a big red plastic bowl
next to my bed where I throw
all of my loose pocket change
at the end of the day.
It's one of my less detrimental habits
since a penny saved is
well, a penny saved.

The sources vary: coffee break
orders, both mine and otherwise;
depressing gas station encounters;
bars, restaurants, Italian delicatessens--
but the essence is always the same:
a bunch of shiny discs that make
a sad world hobble 'round.

My coin bowl comes in handy
on those "Oh Shit!" Mornings
as I like to call them--
you know, the ones where you wake up
still drunk, then rummage through your pockets
uncrinkling bills and hoping to find at least
a five, if not a twenty, but always seem
to only muster singles.
Or maybe that's just me.

This has been an "Oh Shit!" Month
since I haven't worked much
due to the feast-or-famine nature of construction.
Fortunately, and with a touch of pride
I can say with an unusually clear conscience
that the coin bowl's remain intact
the entire time, a hymen waiting for the right time.
I like to be the one to tell time.
Did I mention? Is it obvious?

And every week that I avoid taking the shameful ride
to the coin-counting machine at the local supermarket
to cash in the chips in an hour of desperation
is another week that I have beaten the odds, the system.
Bill collectors, gas tanks, and bottomless guts be damned--
I am immortal, and you can't shake that red and round
and plastic source of hope from my hands unless I'm ready.

It won't be for awhile.

It won't.
Before.

When I hit the hay too gone to talk
the last thing I see tends to be
that hopeful gold mine
sitting there comfortably alone.
More often than not
in that unique state
the silver faces frowning back
don't belong to Founding Fathers.
It's You.
It's always You.

Awhile?
I meant 'me to know'...



Currently reading:
"Point Counter Point" by Aldous Huxley.

Showerthirst

Oh
he's a Con, alright
though I can't say for sure
if only in his poetry
since some sorry broad buried
his sorrier ass
decades before
I was a gleam in my
donor's eye.

Sometimes his tips hit the head
for a line at a time
(the one about the root hitting the rock)
but more often than not
he got lost in High Romanticisim
(leave the candles out of it)
or rather: his fruitless search
for it.

But there is no Romance left, Prof. Aiken.

You'd think that someone
who found the murdered body
of his mother
and suicided body of his father
in a long since loveless bedroom
at age seven
would've known that.

Just another one that's let me down
like a bittersweet song interrupted by the phone.

The list.
The Goddamn
growing
list--

"For that which goes forth comes back changed or dead."

What some men've found out the hard way.

"Wasn't Jenny Morgan on the swim team, too?"

"Yeah. She was one of the girls with the stories."

"Jenny? Get outta here. She was so quiet."

"The quiet ones are the freaks."

"True. Not that I'd know or anything..."

"She told us that she had to use two tampons."

"No way. She's tiny. And innocent. And..."

"And a four-finger whore."

"Jesus. Tell me how you really feel, Babe."

"I feel like eating brownies."

"OK."

"OK."

Cut him some slack, he does all his own stunts.

I'm not Laid Off, I'm a Gentleman of Leisure.
Yes, there's a difference.
Look it up.

Greasy everything and bedhead
and two novellas in as many days.
Yes, it's as glamorous as it sounds.

I'm not sure how much more
of this rolling around in dirty sheets
I can take before I climb a clocktower.

I'm not sure how much longer
I can manage to be my own
best friend.

Sometimes it's so close to home
that the words won't come
without sounding forced.
Any self-respecting slob
would've waited 'til the next day
for the real money-shot.

That's why I'm firing my agent.
"Bunny, I'm sorry, but ya' gotta go..."
She just kept licking herself on the bed.
It's a good thing I can't.

Sometimes I thank God for the talents I don't have
and curse Him for the ones I do.
Can I get on with my night now?
There's a bottle I know I'll be good at emptying.


Currently reading:
"Seymour-- an Introduction" by J.D. Salinger.

A guiltless jilt (in Technicolor).

"Here," he said as he came
down from the altar and dropped the ring carelessly
into the shaking, sweaty palm of his arbitrary successor.
"It's not for anything that you did right
but something that I did wrong."

Confusion swept across all but one set of eyes.
'Lohengrin' played in the background, unparenthetically
as the audience pretended to clean their nails in the pews.

A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders when
he remembered all the things he'd yet to accomplish
and suddenly had the alacrity to pursue.
The pen in his pocket twitched against his thigh
as three collective pounds of mascara in the room
tried it's hardest not to follow suit and run.
All he had left to fear was an unbreakable date
with a really hot barbecue at some undetermined time
and even that didn't seem as bad as the alternative
since there would be no rehearsals.

She fainted as the door closed silently behind him.
The priest tried reviving her with holy water.
The organist told her father that he'd still receive a bill.

"Taxi!" he yelled as he raised his right hand sincerely
and for the first time ever it worked.

His suit, of course, was blue.



Currently reading:
"Raise High the Roof Beam" by J.D. Salinger.

Further proof that there's no God.

There was this kid Matt Davis
who lived a few houses down from me
when I was eight and nine.
He was four years older than I was
and his armpits stunk up his bedroom.
Matt was what they used to call
'a disturbed child', though I'm sure
there's a pretty new term for it now.
I saw my first pornographic magazines
in his filthy little house, and was morbidly confused.
Everyone blamed his ways on the parents
but that wasn't fair either.
Matt was simply Matt, and probably still is.

My mom and I felt bad for him
so we'd invite him over for dinner once in awhile.
I made sure to play with him at least twice a week
even though my other friends wouldn't join us.
I still thought I could save people back then.

When I got a rabbit, he got a rabbit.
Mine lived thirteen years: double
its life expectancy;
his only lasted a month or two
probably due to lack of proper care.
Neither of us were surprised.

Sometimes I think about him late at night.

And then I think about the bastard who let him die
alone in that dirty little cage.

...with 'just' as a limiter, as always, too often.

that kid who chased his dog in the snowy darkness
between his front yard and the street
holding up his schoolbus and a line of traffic
for ten minutes monday morning:
the bravest man ever to traverse route 94
and he's too young for a driver's license...

a swift kick to the shin.
a night-stick behind the knee.
bam.
you're done
for the nth time now.

gepetto was bounding across the road
as she approached through cigarette smoke
until a redneck snapped me out of it.
later on i almost bought a bumper
with a white neck-craner
realizing we're ours forever.
i've been scared to say that, but it's true.

stop it
we were kids
we were only kids
so stop it.
it only makes sense
if you imagine saying it
to someone or something
bigger than yourself.
no.
it only makes sense
to me
and
that's just dandy
just fine
alright?

all those poor souls
who used to watch me shave at night...

see, that kid chasing the dog--
i envy him.

I hope he blows the tranny.

One of three unfortunate things are more likely
to happen in the last couple miles of your drive home:
you get into an accident, as statistics show;
nature calls harder, as if your body knows it's close;
or some sword-swallower in front of you rides the brake.

Tonight, as I'm sure you've guessed, the third one occurred.

I was on my way home from welding class at eight o'clock.
Only one more traffic light separated me from my driveway.
The home-stretch was about to be victorious.
Then said expletive pulled out in front of me.

What's with people? Why cut someone off
if you plan on going slower than them?
And I'm talking a good ten miles-an-hour slower.
This particular roadblock with wheels
happened to be the same make as my vehicle.
That's another peculiar phenomenon--
I tend to get even more perturbed with a bad driver
who's behind the wheel of a car made by the same
company as mine, as if they're breaking some
silent fraternal code by killing the mojo
of a fellow rice-burner-owning motorist.

Anyway, it was painful to be stuck behind
this brake-riding so-and-so all of a sudden.
The gap between our vehicles closed gradually
until I was finally only one car-length away
from his puny little bumper.
I swore I noticed him slow down even more
to a mere twenty-three miles-per-hour.
I decided to find out if my assessment was correct
by turning on my high-beams, which must've
been designed for hunting kangaroo at night
in the vast plains of the Australian outback
because the damn things are so bright
that I can practically see through
the backs of people's skulls
when using them as a weapon
in a case such as the one encountered tonight.
Sure enough, when I turned them puppies on
Captain Party-Pooper in front of me
stepped on his brake pedal and brought
things to a damn-near screeching hault.
Hook, line, and sadly unoriginal sinker!
We had a game on our hands.

I turned the brights off.
He sped back up to only ten miles under the limit.
I turned them back on.
He slowed back down again.
I flashed them a few times.
He turned his rear-view mirror down so it didn't bother him.
I turned them off.
He sped back up a little.
This went on for a mile or two, much to the chagrin
of the line of traffic growing behind me.
I didn't care, though.
Neither did he.
I was having a good time.
Maybe he was, too.
Not once did I lean on the horn.
Believe it or not I was laughing.
Hey, the guy in front of me
was responding in exactly the same way
that I would if I were him.
It was hard to hate the man for that.
Hell, I had a borderline genius on my hands!

When we finally crawled through that last traffic light
and I knew that he couldn't brake-check me anymore
I let him have it one last time, just to get the last word.
He tried to impede my acceleration again, but it was too late
since I'd already turned onto my nice, empty road.

It was good to be home.
It still is, an hour-and-a-half later as I sit rehashing this
mildly amusing story that really had no consequence
or point, though I hope that somewhere further
up Route 52 there's a man smiling as he tells
someone a story about this jerk he had behind him tonight...

A little subconscious B-and-E.

"You almost blew my cover, man.
Just like Donnie Brasco said
if you ever call me Joe again
I'll slice you ear to ear."

"What do you mean?" asked Satan.
"We've got all the time in the world left
to get to know each other."

I'd say he laughed when he finished speaking
but that would be too predictable.

And did I say Satan?
It may have been Dostoevsky.

Do I get a 1099 for this?

The list, as prophesied, went on:
table salt to melt the ice
sidelong glances at Marilyn
and other acts of desperation.
The bigger they were
the faster they poured the shots
and joined the shiny footprints.

"I thought I told her..."
"It's nothing I haven't seen before,"
and he knocked him on his ass
with the rum, where he belonged.

The farce of introducing people;
it's easier to forget your manners at home
but when you're already...
"Come on, babe. I barely know myself
let alone the two of you...but now you know
each other's first names."
Trail off, drift away.
Enter Frank, stage left.
It's always seemed such a charade.
Spare us, Common Courtesy.

"Fine, then you'll learn on your own like I did,"
before stomping out of the spinning room.

"If my ass goes numb then I know
it's time to quit for the night.
If I feel any physical pain then it's forced."
Scary rules to live by, so similar to a strumpet's
and doesn't that sound like a cake eaten with tea?
"My ass only hurts 'cause I've outgrown this chair
that I've had for fifteen years. The cushion was made
for little kids."
Sure, pal.
Whatever you have to tell yourself.

"It's gotten really good," they'll lie.
"No, no, No, NO,"
vehement "no!
The microphone's just moved closer
for a more accurate recording."

They still won't get it, the unsung song--
a waste, like taking a shit while still wet from a shower.

"I thought she was a strong swimmer."
"Me too."

Typical Sunday afternoon, sans Super- anything.

...so I marked my page with the ancient green wristband
tossed Mr. Thurber onto my nightstand with a thud
and pulled the blanket over my head
to enjoy the sweet stench of Failure in the form of liquor
and the morning's baked beans.

Anyone who claims not to secretly savor the aroma
of his own intestines' noxious fumes is a damn liar.

My mom had called on the previous night
ten-thirty on a rip-roarin' Saturday with me good-n-drunk
to suggest that I invest in a new mattress soon--
something about dust mites and a potentially bad back.

I distinctly remember her mentioning the option
of paying on The Installment Plan, but don't recall
how I blew it off. I'm sure it was far less witty
than it could have been without the Canadian Club
running its familiar comforting course through my veins.

Alas, one can't win them all
or one would have little
to write about afterwards

and you, voyeur, would have to find a real hobby...

Associamated Press

The newspaper was sitting on the table in the break room so I flipped it open to the section with the country's latest ridiculous occurrences. You know, the short little blurbs about truths far stranger than fiction that serve as good work-time conversation starters to pass the time weather-discussion-free. My eyes skimmed down to the headline with 'feces' in bold print, naturally. Something about a man on trial for murder or rape or maybe both who flung human feces at his attorney and the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It didn't say if it was his own feces, which to me makes a big difference in terms of his statement and the depth of his psychosis and/or desperation. None of the jury members were hit, but his lawyer took a full load to the face. The irony there, of course, is that his lawyer's the one who snuck the excrement into the courtroom in a plastic bag concealed in his briefcase. That tactic must be a new one being taught at law schools around the globe, or maybe just the mail-order ones. Stool-tossing, the onside kick of legal defensive strategy. I'm assuming they were going for an insanity plea, but they got a mistrial instead. A jury can't remain unbiased if the man in question has flung feces in their general direction, that's just common knowledge. The defense attorney was peeved because the prosecutor was not banned from the next trial, though Mr. Poop-smuggler was prohibited from defending his client again. Right, as if that comes as a surprise. Give an inch and they want a mile. They pass the bar and think they're allowed to resort to circus acts recorded by a court stenographer. "If the glove don't fit, acquit," may have worked, but you'll never see anyone whole-heartedly preaching a mantra of "If the crime's legit, fling sh..." I'll keep this one PG-13 for the sake of the nation's already tarnished reputation. Let's just hope there are no copycats this time.

"The Dude abides."

I'm not sure if I told you this already, but I'm going to go ahead and say it anyway so such an important event in my life won't fall through the cracks: I once met Stephen Baldwin.

Yes, it's true. Stephen. The goofiest of the Brothers Bald(win), not to be confused with Newburgh's beloved Mahoneys. Not quite as presitgious as Alec, not quite as obscure as William, and wasn't there another one in there somewhere? I won't lie, though-- Steve (Stephe?) and I really didn't say too much to each other. It happened in passing, as most celebrity encounters do. I was working on the addition for the Nyack Library last summer and Mr. B. happened to have an office in the building nextdoor. Not quite sure what the office was for, though the secretary that he sent out for coffee and such was rather attractive in an alternative lifestyle kind of way: red streaks in her hair, piercings, an arm tattoo. Pretty sure that was all another cover-up not quite tabloid-worthy, but whatever. Can't deny a man the finer things in life, especially if he has the financial means to afford having them at his beck and call. But, as usual, I digress.

So I'm sitting on a stone wall next to the sidewalk eating my lunch one day. Roast beef and yellow American on a roll, lettuce tomato mayonnaise, salt and pepper. The guy at the deli had slathered way too much mayo on there so everything was sliding all around and trying to escape from the bread's clutches. It was tough to eat and my foreman was making fun of me as I tackled the sandwich laboriously. I was half-way done with it when the big moment came. The front door of Stephen's building opened, but this time it wasn't his secretary-- it was the 'Bio-Dome' legend himself! His dirty blonde hair was long but neatly kept, the tan appeared to be real which just meant he paid more for it, the tattoos on his arms and neck stated once and for all that he was not afraid to mar his body despite his acting career. And those baby blues. His eyes met mine in a foibled moment of fate as I was trying to force down a bite of the sandwich. I don't remember ever trying to swallow so hard, not even on those nights where that last shot didn't agree with my stomach and the saliva kept coming in preparation for the puke. His epic strides were leading him in our direction. He'd be passing us on the sidewalk in a few brief seconds. It could not be avoided. We'd have to converse, or forever hold our respective peaces. Or is it pieces? I guess they're interchangeable if you really think about it.

I gave him the head-nod to stall as I made sure my mouth was empty.
"How's it goin'?" he asked, and seemed to mean it.
"Pretty good."
Christ, was I really star-struck? I don't even watch TV and stick to miserable movies far out of his agent's realm. This man should've meant nothing to me, but for some reason I was nervous.
"Enjoying some lunch in the shade, huh?"
If it were anyone else I would've chimed in with "No shit, Captain Obvious," but this was STEPHEN BALDWIN, famed Hollywood acteur, and he had stopped mid-step to talk with the lowly likes of me, a mere union pipe-fitter.
So, I responded with the predictable "Yeah."
"Well, have a good one," and then he smiled, maybe even winked.
"You too," I replied with a quiver. How bad could his day really be?
And then he walked out of my life forever, at least in the physical sense.

"Dude, you're an asshole," said my foreman in his oh-so-sympathetic tone.
"Why's that?"
"You had mayo on your face the whole time."
I wiped my cheek. I checked my hand. I realized what the smile and wink were for.
"Fuck."

And that was it, the end of my celebrity encounter. I hope that yours have gone and/or will go better for you. Always tell them to go easy on the mayo just in case.

Got my drink and my goose-step.

It's always when you're running late
or in a rush in general
that something further foils your progress.
Today it came in the form of a schoolbus
pulling out in front of me
on my way home from work
during my Friday Commute 500
to a much needed shower and nap.

The bus slowed and turned on its yellow
blinkers to alert me to the fact
that small children could soon become
potential speedbumps if I did not pay attention.
I turned the stereo up a notch and tried
to sing along again, but my throat was too dry.
It took forever for the two kids to step down
from the bus. They must've been sitting in
the coveted back seat, where brats made faces
at cars through the rear emergency door
and cool kids flashed cigarette packs and shared
the facts of life with shocked peers.

These two boys were too young for that brand of corruption--
probably seven and eight, or six and seven.
I could tell that they were brothers by their faces
and the camouflage jackets that they both wore.
It brought me back to the days when I used to
dress up and play army in the woods.
For a second I smiled as I watched the older brother
raise his knees and lead the way
in an overly dramatic march towards his house.
He must not have heard his little brother's footsteps
as loudly as he would've liked to, though;
as if suddenly possessed by the soul of a drill instructor
he spun around on his heels and commanded
his assumed inferior to march harder, louder, with more feeling.
I saw crow's feet appear above his mouth and a vein
pop out in his neck. He'd instantly aged twenty years
shedding his naive innocence to become something ugly.
My stomach rolled inside itself, and it wasn't last night's rum.
The younger boy frowned and lifted his little feet higher.
Their mother opened the front door and told them
to hurry up and get inside already so the two of them
gave up their drills for the day and ran to their house
like children are supposed to.

World War III hasn't happened yet, but when it does
we'll be ready whether we want to or not.
I hope I'm dead and gone before I have to bury
any toy soldiers like the ones I saw today.

And in case you're wondering
I wasn't late for my shower and nap.
I was early.
I always am.

Dear Port Jefferson Station

There are some bands, songs, and albums that still need to be reclaimed. It seems no one left remembers the words, or ever knew them to begin with. Please give me my friend back for at least one whiskey-fueled night. He's the only one who fully understands that process, and won't be ashamed of huggy drunken singalongs. My right hand had to be restrained by my left hand in order to stop it from ejecting Alkaline Trio's "Goddamnit" from my truck's stereo and chucking it out the window at fifty-five miles-per-hour, which was pretty dangerous since no hands remained to hold the steering wheel. As you can see the matter is urgent. Name your price.

Sincerely,
MV